‘I do have one idea,’ said Molly, going to Marcus’s chair and sitting on the floor, her chin on his knee. ‘I know how much this means to you – to us – so I am going to stop drinking and I know of a fabulous way to start.’
‘Molly, this is more serious than—’
Molly ignored Marcus’ protests and pressed on regardless. ‘My friend Donna runs a detox retreat at Delemere Manor. I know it’s nothing official like rehab,’ she said, trying to look as penitent as possible. ‘But it’s pretty much the same thing. Really rigorous, totally healthy. Organic menu, meditation and yoga, emphasis on spiritual and mental wellbeing …’ She smiled up at him hopefully, creeping her fingers up to his crotch for good measure.
‘It sounds more like a holiday,’ said Marcus.
‘It will be bloody hard work,’ said Molly indignantly.
Marcus looked at her, seeming to weigh it up. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘It’s a start, at least.’
‘Wonderful. I’ll phone Donna and tell her to squeeze me in and then I think I’ll pop into London to buy some new gym kit. And maybe get that pedicure. Can’t have shiatsu with hangnails, can you?’
44
Couture. The very word made the hairs on the back of Karin’s neck stand up. Couture reeked of class and exclusivity, excepting all but the very thinnest slice of society, and it was exactly where Karin wanted to be. She took her place on a dainty gilt chair on the front row of the catwalk and looked around. De Bouvier was one of the oldest ateliers in Paris, a small fusty, dusty brand heading for fashion obscurity until it had been bought by luxury goods conglomerate Raine-Laurent five years ago. Raine-Laurent promptly hired Coln Lindemann, one of the world’s most exciting new designers, who had caused a sensation by breathing life into De Bouvier’s ready-to-wear collection three seasons ago. Now Lindemann was poised to do the same for the couture division of the brand. The show was certainly playing up its old school heritage by showing in the Salle Imperiale at the Hotel Westin right by the Tuilieries rather than some marquee in the Bois de Bologne like some of the other big fashion houses. This was an old-fashioned gilded salon, with high painted ceilings, long crimson drapes and huge gold chandeliers with hundreds of bulbs, like teardrops, casting a flattering glow. Handsome assistants with fine bone structure and even finer sharp suits ushered the world’s most powerful magazine editors, of American Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, WWD, celebrities and, most importantly, the atelier’s clients to their seats.
‘Isn’t that Vivienne Delemere?’ hissed Christina into Karin’s ear. ‘How does she manage to look so chic? She must be seventy if she’s a day.’
Christina was dressed immaculately in a Balmain short skirt and silk ruffled shirt. She had told Karin she was in the mood to spend, spend, spend, and who could blame her? Her divorce from Ariel was looking as if it was about to settle out of court. Fifty million pounds, said her lawyers, and that was before they started carving up the property.
Karin looked down at the show’s running order on Christina’s lap: her shopping list, she thought enviously. One sweep of the pen beside number twelve and that was £100,000 gone; £100K on one dress that would be worn once and then archived. Karin was beginning to wish she’d never agreed to come. But then how could she refuse when her boyfriend was encouraging her to spend, spend, spend too?
‘Of course you should go,’ Adam had said after she had told him of Christina’s invitation. ‘And I hope you will order something for yourself while you are there. Get them to invoice it directly to me. I know the directrice very well.’ It was exactly the sort of gesture Karin was hoping for. Ever since the Capri trip on board The Pledge, she had been nursing a nagging suspicion about Adam’s behaviour. Not that anyone else would have spotted anything; on the yacht Adam had been loving and attentive, in fact it had been quite the perfect weekend. Then, on the final evening, Karin had been tidying in their stateroom and found a matchbook from the Porto Ercole hotel Il Pellicano next to Adam’s cigars. It looked new, unused. Hadn’t Adam said he’d had lunch at the Splendido in Portofino? It was a tiny thing, but it had unnerved her.
The audience at the Salle was divided into three very distinct parts. The fashion editors who were lacking in millions but bristling with power, the celebrities who added a sprinkle of youth and glamour and then, finally, the actual customers. The haute-couture circuit had traditionally been a very small, very incestuous club of super-rich old-money women. The discovery of oil in Texas and the Middle East had added a dash of the exotic – the waste of those Arab women who bought couture to go under their burkas! thought Karin with a shudder; but it had been the post-glasnost explosion of Russian money which had almost single-handedly revived the art of couture. Still, it wasn’t a young sport, thought Karin: most of the front row were over forty; couture dressing was as much an essential part of their look as a face-lift.
Loud classical music suddenly filled the Salle and a cone of light hit the runway as the first of the reed-thin models skated past them with the grace of a swan. Karin spotted a fabulous taupe dress made of the finest tulle with a train of ostrich feathers. It was beautiful, thought Karin, but …
Her critical eye was sizing it up, making mental adjustments. The beauty of couture, of course, was that the designer could adapt it whichever way the client desired. Karin would want the neck more scooped, the train of feathers less lavish. She knew her vision would be better than that of the designer himself.
‘What do you like?’ whispered Karin to Christina, who was busy scribbling notes on her running order. ‘I want everything,’ she purred. After the show Christina rushed off to an appointment at Chanel while Karin, never missing a business opportunity, remained behind to make small talk with the magazine editors.
‘Karin, my darling. How on earth are you?’
Karin turned to face Lysette Parker, one of couture’s
highest-spending clients. Her husband Sidney was head of Jolie Cosmetics, which made him, with the likes of Leonard Lauder, one of the most powerful men in the cosmetics industry. Only Lysette’s heavily lined hands gave away that she was nearer to fifty-five than forty. An ash-blonde bob bounced around her tight Portofino-tanned face, her sharp grey tailored trouser suit, a georgette blouse and a string of creamy pearls were the epitome of timeless style. Lysette was so elegant and refined and such a powerful player on the international social circuit that no one dared mention her roots, although everyone with an ear to the ground knew them. In the 1970s, Lysette had been working as a cocktail waitress in a Mayfair casino when she had met the young Sidney who, with family money, had taken over fading cosmetics company Jolie. Over the next thirty years, with Lysette as his hostess and trusted advisor, he had transformed Jolie into a vast empire.
‘Karin, it’s such a delight to see you in Paris.’
Lysette was far too elegant to mention that she had never before seen Karin at couture and that her presence was something of a surprise.
‘It can get a little tedious, don’t you find?’
Karin wondered if Lysette was being ironic or whether the allure of having the finest fashion artists create bespoke gowns had actually lost its charge.
‘What are you doing now? How’s the business?’ gushed Lysette. ‘I’ve so many questions; I insist you come to the house for tea.’
Accepting gladly, Karin followed Lysette into her Bentley waiting on the Rue de Rivoli, which sped them to an elegant townhouse on Ile St-Louis. Lysette led Karin into a drawing room with a huge window that overlooked the Seine, dazzling in the summer sun. A maid in a grey uniform served them tea and sugar-dusted madeleines.
‘So how are you getting along?’ asked Lysette. ‘Do you have a man in your life?’
Straight to the point as usual, thought Karin with a wry smile. Lysette was not a close friend, but ever since they had met at Ascot almost ten years ago, the older woman had treated Karin like a favourite niece, always encouraging her to eat more and to get herself married off to a nice billionaire.
‘I was so sorry to hear about Sebastian – you did get my card? – it must have been such a blow.’
Karin was momentarily thrown by the mention of her late husband and she stared out at the river. Lysette put her hand on Karin’s knee. ‘Sebastian was an angel, my dear, and we shall all miss him, but life goes on. A woman simply cannot stand still.’