Read Online Spring Collection by Judith Krantz - Free Book Online Page A

Ifdresses were still given names, as they used to be, I would baptize my first dress ‘Elsa’ in your honor. Now, I leave you to hold back the barbarians as they pound on the gates.”
    “But what if Monsieur Necker calls again?” she asked in alarm. “Or Madame Wilcox?”
    “Ah, Madame Elsa, how can you ask? You, a woman of imagination as well as charm? Make up something … I count entirely on your tact. After all, even Monsieur Necker doesn’t expect me to be shut in here all day like a schoolboy when inspiration is everywhere. Tell Madame Wilcox nothing. I’ve disappeared, that’s all you know. A
domani, cara
Madame Elsa.”
    Marco escaped his secretary, that superior, righteous and vigilant woman Necker had installed in his office to make sure that he was kept in order at all times. It had taken a few days of observation before he’d discovered her areas of weakness: her still youthful complexion, her well-shaped ears, her slender ankles and her first name. She’d never be of any use to Necker again, for now she took her orders only from him. He could bring a blush to her cheeks anytime he cared to.
    Marco’s workrooms and studio were installed in a building on the Rue Clément-Marot, around the corner from GN’s headquarters. As he headed for the street, he suddenly remembered a dress that he had ripped apart yesterday after seeing it on his fitting model. He ran up a flight of stairs to the atelier in which the dress was being resewn by his most experienced hand, the redoubtable Madame Ginette, who had worked at Lanvin before World War II and after the war at Dior, until she’d been lured away to Saint-Laurent. Now, a decade and a half after her well-earned retirement, Necker had persuaded her to come back to work for this particular collection. Marco found her bending over a seam and he took her shoulders gently in his hands as she paused to look up at him, putting down the work.
    “So,
ma toute belle
, do we make progress?”
    “You know as well as I do that working these layers of chiffon on the bias is slow work,” sheanswered, wearily, taking off her glasses with a sigh. “I’m exhausted.”
    “You don’t want me to look at the miracle you have wrought?” He ran his finger up her chin and tugged lightly at her ear.
    “All you want is to see if I can save this dress,” she grumbled. “When you took it apart yesterday, you might have been more careful, you tore a seam in several places.”
    “You’re absolutely right. If I’d given it to you from the beginning it would never have happened. But the seams are a disgrace, admit it,
chérie
. Half of these young girls don’t know their craft. I’m afraid I lost my temper.”
    “You’re a wild, crazy Italian,” she reprimanded him, crooningly. “Monsieur Dior would never lose his temper, like a lamb he was, poor man.”
    “And Monsieur Saint-Laurent?” he asked, taking her worn hand and inspecting her fingertips.
    “Never a cross word. A true gentleman.” And even when Saint-Laurent had been young and the toast of Paris, even when she’d still been susceptible to charm, he’d never been able to sweet talk her like Monsieur Marco, she thought. Oh, these Italians, they should be barred from entering France at the borders. They were irresistible with their eyes, their smiles. Particularly this one.
    “You have beautiful hands, Madame Ginette,” Marco said reflectively. “They show why your work is perfect.”
    “They are just hands,” she said, flurried. “An old woman’s hands,” she added, trying to draw away. He held them firmly.
    “No, you don’t realize—when you’ve worked with beauty, year after year, the hand reveals it.” He released her hands slowly, touching each fingertip in turn, and brushing it with a light kiss. “Now, may I see that seam?
Bravissimo!
Exactly what I’d hoped for—you’ve rescued it. This dress will be the hit of the collection.”
    She straightened up with melting pride and smiled at