Lipstick Jungle

“So you move to Paris,” Nico said dismissively. “You can always come back.” Nico was in Victory’s dusky pink showroom, ordering her clothes for fall, and she’d walked out of the small dressing room in one of the navy boy-cut pantsuits.

“That’s fabulous,” Victory said.

“Is everyone going to be wearing this?”

“Probably,” Victory said. “The stores went crazy . . .”

“See?” Nico said, putting her hands in the front pockets and strolling to the mirror. “We’re modern women. If we have to up and move to Paris for our careers, we do it. It’s exciting. How many people get these kinds of opportunities? I mean . . .”

Nico had seemed just on the verge of revealing something important, but then appeared to change her mind, and began fiddling with the ruffle on the front of the shirt instead.

“Would you move?” Victory asked.

“In a heartbeat.”

“And leave Seymour?”

“In two seconds,” Nico said, turning. Her expression, Victory thought, was only half-joking. “Of course, I’d take Katrina with me . . . The point is, Vic, you have to take the chance . . .”

And then Nico had gotten this idea in her head that if Victory did get the offer, she was to go to Sotheby’s and buy an “important” piece of jewelry, for at least $25,000, to mark the occasion. Hence, the reference to the jewels.

The taxi careened around the corner on Fifty-seventh Street, and Victory pressed her toes harder into the back of the seat to keep from losing her balance. Nico had been so funny lately, but Victory guessed it was only because of Nico’s own top-secret work situation. It would be incredible, she thought, if, in the next few weeks, both she and Nico suddenly became a whole lot richer and more successful. Nico was on the verge of taking over Mike Harness’s position at Splatch-Verner, which would mean not only a bigger salary (probably $2 million!), but stock options and bonuses that could potentially add up to several million. Of course, Nico’s state of affairs was totally hush-hush, while her own seemed to be known all over town. Just that morning, in Women’s Wear Daily, there had been another item about how Victory Ford was in secret negotiations with B et C for the purchase of her company, and the story had been picked up by the Post and the Daily News as well. Victory hadn’t said a word to anyone—besides, of course, Nico and Wendy and a few other key people, like her accountant, Marcia—but somehow the fashion press had gotten hold of the story, down to the last detail. Including the fact that she’d been in talks with B et C for two weeks, and had even flown to Paris twice for meetings.

Well, there were no secrets in the fashion business, and it didn’t matter anyway. The industry thrived on buzz, and up to a certain point, perception really was more important than reality. As far as the fashion industry was concerned, Victory Ford was “hot” again. First there had been a story in Women’s Wear Daily about how her accessories line—those umbrellas and rainboots—had been flying off the shelves. Then her show had been declared a success, deemed a fresh new direction for fall. And right after that, there had been a frenzied series of meetings with B et C, arranged by Muffie Williams. Thank God for Muffie—and especially for Nico! There weren’t many people with whom you could discuss the possibility of making millions of dollars, and Lyne hadn’t been any use at all. “I hate the fucking frogs!” he kept grumbling.

“

That’s not really helpful,” she’d replied.

“Well, you’ve got to make your own decision, kiddo.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“In these situations, you get the offer first, and then decide,” Nico had said calmly. And Victory was reminded of the fact that when it came to the important things in life, like sex and business, it was really only your girlfriends who could understand.

The taxi pulled up in front of the gleaming B et C tower, looking like a contemporary fairy castle in the snow, and Victory got out, carrying a portfolio filled with drawings for the next two seasons under her arm. The honchos had wanted to see some possibilities for upcoming seasons, and she’d been working like a dog to complete them in the past few weeks, in between jetting off to Paris and running her usual business. It was an axiom of life that the more successful you became, the harder you had to work, and she’d been working twelve- to sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. But if B et C made the offer and she took it, her life might get easier—she’d have more employees, and wouldn’t have to worry about moving money around to cover her manufacturing costs. As it was, with the big orders the stores were putting in for her fall collection, she’d need every penny of extra capital to cover production.

And what a relief it would be not to have to constantly worry about money! That was the real luxury in life.

She passed through the revolving door and stopped at the guard’s desk. B et C didn’t fool around—the uniformed guard had a gun strapped to a holster under his jacket. “Pierre Berteuil, please,” she said, giving him the name of the CEO of the company. She was buzzed into a small foyer with three elevators. She pressed the button; one of the doors opened and she got in. She stood firmly in the middle of the elevator, which was chic and black with chrome accents, tilting her head back to watch the floors tick by. Would this be her new home? she wondered. It was so sparse and elegant and cold . . .

But no matter what happened, already her association with B et C had helped her enormously. Pierre Berteuil’s assistant had set her up with three of the most exclusive fabric companies in Italy, companies that made fabrics so expensive and fine, they would only consider working with designers who had deep pockets—in other words, backers who could guarantee payments of over half a million dollars for fabric alone! The reps had come to her showroom, and what a different experience it was than tromping around to all the stalls at Première Vision in Paris. It was like the difference between fighting with other shoppers in a bargain basement sale, and shopping at an exclusive department store. And the whole time she’d been touching the fabrics, ensconced in the sanctity of her own showroom, she kept thinking that for the first time, she was actually making it in the big leagues.

The elevator door opened and she nearly ran right into Pierre Berteuil himself.

“Bonjour, Victory,” he said warmly, in a cultured French accent. He leaned forward, kissing her noisily and wetly on both cheeks, and then took her arm, escorting her through yet another set of locked doors. He squeezed her arm playfully as if he were more of a boyfriend than a business associate, which would have been considered outrageous behavior in an American, but was par for the course with the French, who were, on the surface anyway, much more intime with businesspeople.

“You are ready for the big meeting? Yes?” he purred.

“I’m excited,” she said.

“It is all very exciting, no?” he said, looking at Victory as though he found the prospect of doing business together sexually titillating, and once again Victory was struck by how different European businessmen were from Americans. Pierre Berteuil was the kind of man who would have been called “devastatingly handsome” in his youth; at fifty years old, he was still clearly a man who was used to being attractive to women and couldn’t help seducing every woman he met.

“You are enjoying zee snow?” Pierre asked.

“Oh, I’m sick of it,” Victory said honestly, her voice sounding, even to her, tinny and grating compared to Pierre’s creamy accent. If she moved to Paris, she thought, she’d have to improve her manner of speaking.

Pierre didn’t seem to notice, however. “Me? I love zee snow,” Pierre said passionately. “It makes me think of zee skiing. You know, zee French, we love to ski. You know Megève, yes? My family ’ave the most beautiful chalet there. When we are in France, we go there every weekend. It is huge,” he explained, spreading his hands apart for emphasis. “Several wings, otherwise we kill each other, right?” He put his hands over his heart and looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, but it is zo beautiful. The next time you come to Paris, I take you there on the weekend.”