Lipstick Jungle

  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.”

  Victory smiled, ignoring the sexual innuendo behind this remark. Pierre was charming in that way only Frenchmen can be—he made every woman think he found her sexually attractive and would, if given half the chance, take her to bed—and yet he managed to convey this in a way that was flattering as opposed to sleazy. This, however, was not his main attraction, Victory thought. His biggest appeal was that he was just on the brink of making her rich.

  “You’re not inviting her to your drafty old chalet in Megève, are you?” Muffie Williams whispered, coming up behind them. “It’s terrible. There’s no heating.”

  “It’s healthier that way,” Pierre countered. Victory sensed a frisson of annoyance in his look at he bent over to kiss Muffie on both cheeks. “Is very cozy at night. If you . . . how you say . . . cuddle up?” Pierre said pointedly.

  Muffie looked from Pierre to Victory and narrowed her eyes. “Let’s cuddle up to this meeting, shall we?”

  They went into the conference room, which exuded a muted green glow from recessed lighting in the ceiling. In the center was a long rectangular table of thick green glass; spaced evenly along its surface were small green topiary bushes in black boxes. On a side table was a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. This wasn’t unusual—Pierre began every meeting with “un verre du Champagne,” which made Victory wonder how he managed to stay sober all day.

  But maybe he didn’t.

  Two more people came into the conference room—the heads of advertising and of sales and distribution. They were followed by a young woman, dressed all in black, who poured the champagne and passed it around on a silver tray. A toast was made by Pierre, and then a screen that was somehow worked invisibly into the far wall flashed to life, revealing an image of a woman dressed in one of Victory’s outfits from the spring line. Victory gasped and put down her glass of champagne. Oh no, she thought wildly. It was wrong, all wrong. The woman was too thin and too haughty and too young and too French-looking. The headline read: “Victory Ford: Desire It,” and that seemed wrong too.

  For a second, she was consumed with a kind of juvenile anger that made her want to get up and walk out of the room, the way she would have done in frustration when she was just starting out in business. But she’d come a long way since then, and this was big business. Big, big business with millions of dollars at stake.

  She remained in her seat, staring at the image.

  “Is very nice, yes?” Pierre said.

  Goddammit, she thought. Why couldn’t anything just be right for a change? But that would be too easy. The image was only a mock-up anyway of what a possible ad might be. But it was a reminder that if they made an offer and she took it, she’d be working with all kinds of people who might see her image differently from how she envisioned it. And she was going to have to be open to those kinds of suggestions.

  She took a sip of her champagne. The trick right now was to make Pierre think she was enthusiastic, while trying to gently steer him in the direction she wanted him to go. “It’s very interesting, yes,” she said. “I like it . . .”

  She hated herself for lying. But then she happened to catch sight of the rings on Muffie’s fingers. Muffie Williams was staring at the image, her fingers delicately holding the stem of the champagne glass, and in that green, recessed lighting, the rings on her fingers sparkled like stars. You could have rings like that, a voice in her head reminded her. Rings like that, and much much more. You could be rich . . .

  And she heard herself saying, more enthusiastically this time, “Yes, Pierre, I do like it. I like it very much.”

  * * *

  AN HOUR AND A half later, Victory was staring down into the glittering depths of a rare six-carat teardrop-shaped blue diamond. “Property of a Gentleman,” the card next to it read. “Estimate: $1,200,000-$1,500,000.”

  Who was the gentleman, she wondered, and why was he selling his diamond? How had he come to have it in the first place? And she pictured some crotchety old bachelor who had never married and now needed money. Perhaps he kept the diamond for years and years, using it to lure women into bed. “Come to my apartment,” she imagined him saying. “I want to show you something.” And then he would take the diamond out of the safe, and the women would fall into bed with him, thinking that if they played their cards right, someday he’d give them the diamond.

  Christ, she was cynical! she thought, rubbing her forehead with her hand. The story was probably much more romantic—the man had given the diamond to his wife and she had died suddenly, and he’d kept it for as long as he could in her memory. She tried to move on, but the diamond seemed to be exerting a mysterious pull on her, and she couldn’t turn away. It was pale bluish-green in color—blue ice, she thought—with a neon cast like the glowing green interior of the B et C conference room.

  Who could afford such a diamond? The Lyne Bennetts of the world . . . and movie stars. But why shouldn’t she have that diamond? she thought suddenly. I want that diamond, she thought. I’m going to have it someday.

  She really was losing her mind. Even if she could spend over a million dollars on a diamond, would she? No. It seemed disgustingly frivolous. But it was easy to criticize that kind of behavior if you never had the money or opportunity to indulge in it yourself. She might thi
nk differently if she got the deal and suddenly had millions of dollars. Would it change her? What kind of woman would she become?

  It was warm on the seventh floor of the Sotheby’s viewing area, and she took her coat off. Nico was late, and it wasn’t like her. Nico was a time Nazi—she always stuck precisely to her schedule, claiming it was the only way she could get everything done. She wrenched herself away from the diamond and moved on to the next case, which contained several cocktail rings of the type worn by Muffie Williams.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular, Ms. Ford?” a woman asked, coming forward. She was dressed in a gray shift over a brown-and-white-striped shirt. A small name tag announced her as “Ms. Smith.”

  “Just looking for the moment, thanks,” Victory said.

  “We have some wonderful pieces in this sale,” Ms. Smith said, causing Victory to think that “sale” probably wasn’t quite the right word for it. “If you’d like to try anything on, I’d be happy to help you.”

  Victory nodded. It really was pretty cool to be recognized by the Sotheby’s staff, and especially to be treated as if it were perfectly natural that she was there and could afford to buy herself something. Even if she didn’t actually buy anything, Nico was right. There was something so gratifying about knowing that you were a successful woman and you could afford to buy your own jewelry. You had worked hard, and now you deserved to indulge yourself . . .

  And she suddenly felt elated again.

  What the hell was she so worried about? she thought, eyeing a 12-millimeter strand of perfectly matched natural pearls for $25,000. She should have been jumping up and down for joy. Even Muffie Williams had said that the meeting had gone great, and afterward, Pierre Berteuil had shaken her hand and kissed her on both cheeks and said, “Now we go to the lawyers, yes? We let them get into the dirty business while we keep our hands clean.” Which meant only one thing: Pierre’s lawyers and her lawyers would now try to hammer out a deal. And she would be crazy not to take it. Besides the millions of dollars they would have to pay her to buy her company and her name, they were offering her all kinds of things she couldn’t have afforded on her own, like a huge advertising budget of over a million dollars a year. “The industry takes you much more seriously if you advertise, yes?” Pierre had said. “Is sad but is life. We play zee game.”

  “That’s one thing we know how to do really well here,” Muffie had whispered. “We know how to play the game and win.”

  “You will be zee new darling of fashion, darling,” Pierre said, raising his glass of champagne. And she had allowed herself to float along on this bubble of amazing possibility. She would have to move to Paris, because most of their business contacts were there, and she’d be working closely with Pierre for the next two years. But she would keep her apartment in New York and spend about a week a month here, and who could have ever imagined that her life would turn out to be so glamorous?

  Paris! It was just as exciting as New York, and more beautiful—or that was what everyone said, anyway. When she’d been there a week ago, she had stayed in a suite at the Plaza Athénée, in a room with a small balcony that overlooked the Eiffel Tower. Then she walked in the Tuileries, looking at tulips, and she’d eaten a jambon sandwich and crossed over the river to the Left Bank, where she’d sat in a café drinking coffee. It was all a bit of a cliché, and she’d realized, sadly, that she was at a point in her life where a view of the Eiffel Tower just wasn’t enough to do it for her anymore. But then there had been all those other hours when she was jizzing around the city in taxis and speaking poor French and running down the sidewalks in her high heels and new, loose boy-cut trousers covered with sequins, and she’d kept thinking, “I’m going to live in Paris! And I’m going to be rich!”

  There was really only one thing that bothered her: that image they’d presented at the meeting today. But she could change that. Of course it wasn’t all perfect, yet. Having some doubts was bound to be part of the business process, just as it was an integral part of the creative process. The important thing was to make a decision and to go for it. Decisions could be changed. Indecision couldn’t . . .

  “Ten-carat yellow sapphire ring set in platinum with two-carat certified diamonds. Estimate $30,000-$35,000,” the card read.

  “Excuse me,” Victory said to Ms. Smith. “Could I try this on?”

  “Of course,” Ms. Smith said. She unlocked the case and took out the ring, placing it on a small black suede pad.

  Victory slipped it onto her finger. The stone was so big it looked like a walnut.

  Her phone rang. “What’cha doin’?” Lyne purred.

  “Buying jewelry at Sotheby’s,” she said, liking the way that sounded.

  “So I guess you signed on the dotted line,” he said, following this statement with a low chuckle.

  Victory stiffened. “Not quite yet,” she said primly, picking at a piece of fluff on her sweater. “But they’re drawing up the contracts. They’re sending them to the lawyers.”

  “Then I still have time to save you.”

  “No, you haven’t,” Victory said, wondering why she continued to see this man. There was something so irritating about him, but she just couldn’t let him go—at least not quite yet. “I’m going to sign as soon as I get the contract.”

  “That’s right. ‘As soon as,’ ” Lyne said. “Kiddo, how many times do I have to tell you? Never do business with the Frogs. I promise you, they have a different way of doing things.”

  “Lyne,” she sighed. “You’re just jealous!”

  Lyne burst out laughing. “Oh yeah? Of what?”

  Well, that was a good question, she thought. What was she going to say now? That Lyne was jealous of Pierre? That would sound silly—New York men like Lyne couldn’t conceive of being jealous of anybody, especially a man like Pierre Berteuil, whom Lyne considered “poncy” just because he was better-looking. Nor could she say that Lyne was jealous of the fact that she was in the middle of a big deal—Lyne was in the middle of big deals all the time. “I just don’t want to get into it. Again,” she said carelessly.

  “Why?” Lyne said tauntingly. “Because you know I’m right?”

  “Because I don’t want to prove to you that you’re wrong—again,” she said.

  Silence. Lyne seemed to be considering this. “I like it when you prove that I’m wrong. But I don’t think I will be when it comes to the Frogs!” Then he got another call and hung up, after promising to call her back in a few minutes. She sighed, half-wishing he wouldn’t. Lyne would do that for hours—calling her back repeatedly in between his more important business calls, as if she had nothing better to do than to sit around waiting to hear back from him . . .

  She handed the ring back to Ms. Smith and moved on, staring down at a pair of antique diamond clip earrings. Lyne was annoying, but their conversation reminded her of how ironic and satisfying it had been to get that first phone call from Muffie Williams shortly after she’d had that fight with Lyne over making money. The fight had taken place in his apartment, a few days after she’d had her show and had gotten those good reviews. She was feeling cocky, feeling as if she could accomplish anything she’d ever dreamed of doing, but suddenly, entering Lyne’s enormous town house, she became irked. Every room in Lyne’s residence was a decorator showpiece that screamed money and taste, but it wasn’t just the furniture or the rugs or the window treatments, it was the endless number of bibelots and objets d’art, each one always perfectly in its place, dusted and polished and shined, so that all a visitor could think about was how much it must have cost and how much time it would have taken to collect it and get it right. Even Nico’s town house didn’t begin to approach this level of detail. It was the kind of detail that could only be accomplished with millions and millions of dollars. And it suddenly struck her that no matter how successful she might become, she’d probably never have the kind of money Lyne did—and it wasn’t fair. She knew plenty of women who were successful, who made “real” money, b
ut none who had the wealth of a Lyne Bennett or a George Paxton. Why was it always men and not women? And following Lyne into the screening room, she suddenly asked, “Just how do you make a billion dollars, Lyne?”

  Lyne, of course, didn’t take the question seriously. He picked up the phone and barked to the butler to bring them two vodka tonics, and then sat down on a beige silk couch that consisted of one long semicircular piece that was obviously custom-made. The screening room was Lyne’s favorite room in the house; located on the top floor, it had a view of Central Park, and looking east, one could see a sliver of the river. The room had a contemporary Asian-fusion feel, with brownish-red window treatments edged in a tasteful fringe, and silk cushions, and Tang dynasty horses and warriors arranged on a shelf across one wall. The room opened out onto an enormous terrace with perfectly trimmed topiary in huge terra-cotta pots, and more Asian statuary.

  “I mean it, Lyne,” she insisted, looking out at the park. The trees were bare, and she could see the reflecting pond where children raced remote-control sailboats on good days. “I really want to know how you do it.”

  “How I did it, or how people do it in general?” he asked.

  “In general,” she said.

  “Well, that’s easy. You can’t.”

  “You can’t?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You can’t what? Tell me!” The butler brought in the drinks on a red-lacquered tray—the tray that Lyne insisted had to be used in this room and this room only.

  “Do it,” he said, picking up his glass and taking a large swig of his drink.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because, Vic,” he said pompously, crossing one leg over the other and hitting a button located on the side of the coffee table that caused the room to be filled with music. “It’s like a club. The billionaires club. You work for years and years and years, and at some point, the other billionaires decide to make you a member.”