Legacy of Lies. JoAnn Ross

for some Hollywood bag lady.” Sophie grinned with wicked spite. “Although, you know, the changes you made on that evening dress made a helluva difference,” she allowed. “I think I’ll keep that one.”

      She chewed thoughtfully. “What would you think of having it made up in red?”

      Alex, who adored bright primary colors, grinned. “Red would be marvelous. Coco Chanel always said that red—not blue—was the color for blue eyes.”

      Sophie nodded, clearly satisfied. “Red it is.”

      The woman appeared in no hurry to leave the restaurant. Finally, after a third cup of espresso that left her nerves jangling, Alex reminded the client of her afternoon fitting.

      “First, I want to see your designs,” Sophie declared.

      “My designs?”

      “You do have some examples of your own work, don’t you?”

      “Well, yes, but...”

      Ambition warred with caution in Alex’s head. Part of her knew that Marie Hélène was waiting for them to return. Another part of her was anxious to receive someone’s—anyone’s—opinion on her work.

      She had given Marie Hélène her sketches, hoping they might find their way to Debord. For weeks she’d been waiting for a single word of encouragement from the master. Undaunted, she’d begun a new series of designs.

      Giving in to her new friend’s request, Alex took Sophie to her apartment. It was located two floors above a bakery in a building that boasted the ubiquitous but charming Parisian iron grillwork, dormer windows, a mansard roof and red clay chimneys. She’d sublet the apartment from an assistant to an assistant editor of Les Temps Modernes, who’d taken a year’s sabbatical and gone to Greece to write a novel.

      The first time Alex had stood at the bedroom window and stared, enchanted, at the Jardin du Luxembourg across the street, she’d decided that the view more than made up for the building’s temperamental old-fashioned cage elevator that more often than not required occupants to rely on the stairs.

      Alex could have cursed a blue streak when the unpredictable elevator chose this day not to run. But Sophie proved to be a remarkable sport, though she was huffing and puffing by the time they reached Alex’s floor.

      “Oh!” she exclaimed, looking around the apartment. “This is absolutely delightful.”

      “I was lucky to find it.” Viewing the apartment through the older woman’s eyes, Alex saw not its shabbiness, but its charm.

      Near the window overlooking the gardens, a chintz chair was surrounded by scraps of bright fabric samples; atop the table beside it was a box of rainbow-bright Caran D’Ache colored pencils and a portfolio. The Swiss pencils, the very same type Picasso had favored, had been an extravagant birthday gift from her mother. Two days later Irene Lyons had died.

      But her memory lived on, just as she’d intended; Alex never sat down to sketch without thinking of her.

      Drawn as if by radar, Sophie picked up the portfolio and began leafing through the sketches.

      “These are wonderful.” The fluid lines were draped to emphasize the waist or hips, the asymmetrical hemlines designed to flatter every woman’s legs.

      Alex glowed. It had been a long time since anything she’d done received recognition.

      Sophie paused at the sketch of a long, slip-style evening gown of ebony silk mousseline with midnight lace and a low, plunging back. “This would be perfect for Angeline.”

      “Angeline?”

      “She’s a character on The Edge of Tomorrow,” Sophie revealed absently, her attention captured by a clinging silver gown reminiscent of films of the thirties and forties. “A former hooker turned movie star turned romance writer.”

      “Oh, I remember her. I watched that show all the time when I was going to fashion school.”

      “You must watch a lot of old films, too,” Sophie guessed.

      “I love old movies.”

      “I figured that. Your artistic vision definitely has a cinematic scope. So, although television admittedly isn’t the big screen, how would you like to come to work for me?”

      “For you?”

      “I’ve currently got three soaps in production. Since my shows are famous for their glamour, we keep three costumers shopping overtime to supply outfits for each one-hour drama. The after-six wear and lingerie is the toughest to find, so I’ve been considering hiring someone to design specifically for us. From what I see here, you’d be perfect.”

      The idea was tempting. Especially after all the months trying to land a job, then these past weeks laboring away in obscurity. But Alex was not yet prepared to let go of her dream.

      “It’s not that I’m not flattered,” she began slowly, choosing her words with extreme caution. “Because I am....”

      “But you’re hoping that one of these days, that idiot Debord will open his eyes and realize what a talented designer is toiling right beneath his nose.”

      Alex felt herself blush. “That’s pretty much it.”

      Sophie shrugged her padded shoulders. “Well, if that scenario doesn’t happen, just remember, you’ve always got a job with me.” She opened her bag, pulled out a business card and a pen and scribbled a number on the back.

      “Here’re the phone numbers for my office at the studio, my car, my home and my pager. Give me a call sometime, even if it’s just to talk, okay?”

      Alex took the card and stuck it away in a desk drawer. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

      When Alex cast another significant glance at her watch, Sophie sighed with ill-concealed resignation. “All right, I suppose we’d better get back before Marie Hélène sends the fashion police looking for us.”

      When Alex and Sophie returned to the salon, they found Debord waiting in the cabine. Clad in his smock, his sable hair pulled back into a ponytail to display his Gallic cheekbones to advantage, he looked every inch the temperamental artist.

      Dior and Balenciaga had started the tradition of the white smock; Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy continued it. Debord, always pushing against the boundaries of tradition, had altered it to an anthracite gray. Brightening the breast of the gray smock was the red ribbon of the Chevalier de la Légion d’honneur. Although he was not tall, beneath the smock, Debord possessed the broad chest and shoulders of a Picasso etching of a bull.

      “Ah, Madame Friedman,” he said, greeting her Continental style with an air kiss beside each cheek, “it is a pleasure to meet such a discerning woman.”

      “I like your stuff,” Sophie lied adroitly, “although I have to admit, it was a toss-up between you and Gianni Sardella.”

      The room went suddenly, deathly still. The only sound was the soft strains of Vivaldi playing in the back-ground. Marie Hélène, normally a paragon of composure, blanched.

      Alex’s dark eyes widened. Surely Mrs. Friedman knew of the antipathy between the two designers! Stories of their mutual loathing were legion. Not only did Debord not permit his rival’s name to be spoken in his presence, last spring he allegedly pushed a client down the grand staircase of the Paris Opera for wearing one of Sardella’s beaded evening gowns.

      All eyes were on Debord. The back-and-forth motion of his jaw suggested that he was grinding his teeth. His eyes had narrowed to hard, dark stones; a vein pulsed dangerously at his temple. Just when Alex thought he was going to explode, he forced a flat smile.

      “I am honored you chose me,” he said between clenched teeth.

      That, more than anything, displayed to Alex how far her employer had fallen. Before this season’s showing, he would have shouted something about philistines and demanded Mrs.