Legacy of Lies

“Well, ever since I watched Susan Hayward in Back Street. That’s an old American movie,” Alex explained at his questioning glance. “She plays a designer. The first time I saw it I fell head over heels in love.”

“With Susan Hayward?” He frowned.

“Oh, no.” Alex laughed as she followed his train of thought. “Not the actress. I fell in love with the glamour of the business. It became an all-encompassing passion.” Her grin was quick and appealing. “Some of my friends would tell you that designing is all I think about.”

“Really?” Debord’s eyes, so like his sister’s, but much warmer, moved slowly over her face. “I find that difficult to believe. A beautiful young woman such as yourself must have some other interests—parties, dances...men. Perhaps one particular man?”

He was watching her carefully now, the blue of his eyes almost obscured by the ebony pupils. Alex swallowed.

“Let me show you my designs.” The portfolio was lying across her knees. She began to untie the brown string with fingers that had turned to stone. “I should probably tell you right off that most of the teachers at the institute didn’t really like my style,” she admitted. “But since I believe this is my best work, I’d really appreciate a master’s opinion.” Her words tumbled out, as if she were eager to get them behind her.

“I do not understand why Marie Hélène did not tell me about your talent,” Debord said as Alex continued to struggle with the thin brown fastener.

Personally, Alex had her own ideas about that, but knowing how close Debord was to his sister, she kept them to herself.

“She’s very busy.” Finally! Cool relief flooded through Alex when the maddening knot gave way.

Yves Debord took her sketches and placed them facedown on the desk. Before looking at them, he pulled a gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket. After lighting a Gauloises, he turned his attention toward the colorful presentations.

Alex was more anxious than she’d ever been in her life. She kept waiting for him to say something—anything!—but he continued to flip through the sketches, front to back, back to front, over and over again.

Did he like them? Hate them? Were her designs as exciting and modern as she perceived them to be? Or were they, as one of her instructors had scathingly proclaimed, clothes for tarts?

Time slowed to a snail’s pace. Perspiration began to slip down her sides.

“You are extraordinarily talented,” Debord said finally.

“Do you really like them?”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “They are the most innovative designs I’ve seen in years.”

Alex beamed.

“They are also entirely unmarketable.”

The words hit like a blow from behind, striking her momentarily mute. “You have flown in the face of tradition,” he said in a brusque no-nonsense tone that didn’t spare her feelings. “This is costuming for the theater. Not the real world.”

She’d heard that accusation before. But never had it stung so badly. “I was trying to be innovative. Like Chanel in the twenties with her tweed suits. And Dior’s postwar New Look. The sixties’ revolution, when Yves Saint Laurent introduced the pantsuit. And of course, Courreges’s minidress.”

She took a deep breath. “You just said that couture was about risk. All the great designers—Norell, Beene, you yourself—have gained fame by insisting on having a spirit of their own.”

“You have talent, but you do not understand couture,” he countered. “A designer must see women as they want to be seen.”

“That’s true,” Alex conceded, even as it crossed her mind that, instead of telling women what they want, designers should ask them what they want.

Patience, she could hear her mother warning her.

“This design, for example.” He held up a sketch that happened to be one of her favorites. An evening gown of tiered gold lace over black chiffon, cut like a Flamenco dancer’s dress. “This gown would make a woman look as if she were dressing for an American Halloween party.”

That hurt. “I can’t see what’s wrong with thinking of life as a party.” Patience. “Besides, I thought it was sexy.”

“The first thing you must learn, Alexandra, is that husbands want their women to look like ladies. Especially American husbands, who have a habit of marrying younger and younger brides without really knowing their pedigree.”

He ignored Alex’s sharp intake of breath. “Since the husbands are the ones paying the bills, a wise couturier designs with them in mind.”

“That’s incredibly chauvinistic.”

“Perhaps. It is also true. The British have a saying,” Debord continued. “Mutton dressed as lamb. Never forget, Mademoiselle Lyons, that is precisely what we are paid to do.”

“But what about celebrating the female form—” Alex couldn’t help argue “—instead of focusing on androgynous, sexless women?” When he physically bristled, Alex realized she’d hit uncomfortably close to home with that one. After all, Debord’s disastrous new line had carried androgyny to new extremes.

His stony expression would have encouraged a prudent woman to back away. Unfortunately caution had never been Alex’s forte.

“You say we must design for the husbands,” she said, leaning forward. “I can’t believe any man really wants his woman looking like a malnourished twelve-year-old boy.”

“Not all men do,” Debord acknowledged, his steady gaze taking in the softly feminine curves her stark black dress and scarlet jacket could not entirely conceal. “But the fact remains, Alexandra, wives should look like ladies. Not sirens.”

In Alex’s mind, there was absolutely nothing wrong with looking like a lady in the daytime and a siren at night. After all, this was a new age. Having proven they could do men’s work, Alex believed it was time women started looking like women again.

“May I ask a question?” she said quietly.

“Certainement.”

“How can you consider me talented when you hate everything about my designs?”

“On the contrary, I don’t hate everything about them. I love the energy, the verve. I think your use of color, while overdone, is magnifique.”

“Well,” Alex decided on a rippling little sigh, “I suppose that’s something.”

“It’s important.” He stood and smiled down at her. “It is time we found a proper outlet for your talents.”

“Do you mean—”

“I’m promoting you to assistant designer,” Debord confirmed. “I shall inform Marie Hélène that you will be moving upstairs. Immediately.”

Joy bubbled up in Alex. It was all she could do to keep from jumping up and flinging her arms around Debord’s neck. She knew the broad grin splitting her face must look horrendously gauche, but couldn’t keep herself from smiling.

“I don’t know how to thank you, monsieur.”

“Just do your best. That is all I expect.” Debord walked her to the door.

Feigning indifference to Marie Hélène’s cold stare, Alex moved her colored pencils and sketch pads into the design office located above the showroom floor.

She was hard at work at her slanted drawing table later that afternoon when Debord entered the office. He made his way slowly around the room, offering a comment on each designer’s work. Some were less than flattering, but all were encouraging. Until he got to Alex.

“A zipper is inappropriate,” he declared loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. His finger jabbed at the back of her evening gown design. “This gown lacks spirit.”

He plucked the slate pencil from her suddenly damp hand and with a few deft flourishes, sketched in a row of satin-covered buttons. “There. Now we have passion.”