'I work for a popular magazine called
Hi Life
, Mrs Hooper-Jones,' Will said,
using his considerable charm. 'I'm here to report this event.
Anything you can tell me about Mr Blake and his work will be of
enormous value.'
'Have we got a couple of weeks?' she gushed again, her
bouffant hair, her extravagant but passé gold brocade two-piece
more suitable for a wedding than a late afternoon fashion show.
Without awaiting Will's reply she rushed on. 'Why yes, honey, he's
been designing my clothes for several years,' she willingly
disclosed. 'And this collection...
my
, but he's excelled himself! So new,
so daring. I can't wait to take some of the things home and show
them off to my girlfriends. They'll just die! But hush now, here
they come again.'
She adjusted
her pink-framed spectacles and looked at her programme. As the
music beat out a rhythm the applause swelled and three more models
stalked and turned and trod the catwalk.
Arlene stared,
half expecting this but stupefied when it actually happened. She
thought she'd spotted several of her designs earlier, but these
were blatantly, undeniably hers. Evening or party wear, when she
had given full rein to her imagination. She'd used synthetics, PVC,
and Lycra to create slinky, daring outfits, vaguely Egyptian in
concept, certainly space age fantasy gear. Will leaned forward with
his camera and clicked away at a bodice like a cellophane-wrapped
bouquet of carnivorous flowers.
'Get all
these,' Arlene hissed under her breath. 'They're mine. Marty Blake
is a thieving, conniving bastard!'
The girls retired and the lights dimmed. There was a hush, an
expectant pause as the commentator announced, 'And now, just before
our final item which is the traditional wedding scene, we have
great pleasure in presenting Marty's latest and greatest, which he
has called
Queen of The
Night
.'
Someone had changed the music tape. Now the mighty chords from
the
Space Odyssey
blared forth, the lights went up and the audience gasped and
started to clap and cheer. Arlene stared and stared, her emotions
in turmoil; hatred of Marty Blake, pride in this piece of her own
work, and a blazing fury forming a combustible volcano within
her.
Cressida
posed, allowing the furore to die down before moving. Tall Cressida
rendered seven foot tall by the addition of a towering jewelled
headdress and stack-heeled silver boots laced to the thigh. Her
make-up was barbaric, and she looked like a sexy, alien warrior
queen. The gown scintillated, a diaphanous skirt slit front and
back, the flaps dangling from the heavily encrusted belt drawing
attention to, rather than hiding, her shaven mound and shapely taut
buttocks. Tooled metal armbands stretched from wrists to elbow.
Arabesque bra cups that left the top half bare upheld her firm
breasts, and a jewelled collar drew the eye to her stiff
nipples.
Cameras flashed all over the long, high-ceilinged banqueting
room, and the distinguished guests, drawn from among the
aristocracy, the world of entertainment and
haute couture
, leaned forward on their
seats.
'
Don't!
'
Eugene warned in urgent, hushed tones, grabbing Arlene's arm and
preventing her from leaping up onto the catwalk.
'But it's mine!' she gasped, tears of rage smudging on her
cheeks. '
Mine!
'
'I know, I
believe you, but there are other ways of tackling this,' Eugene
insisted, glancing anxiously around to see if anyone had noticed
the intensity of Arlene's reaction. 'Pay Blake a visit after the
show. Will and me'll come with you.'
'Oh, my word!' Mrs Hooper-Jones exclaimed, unaware of anything
except her pent-up emotion and frustrated desire centred on Marty.
'Will you look at
that?
I must have it for the Ladies of Louisiana Charity Ball at
Thanksgiving!'
The atmosphere
backstage was one of nerve-jangling tension. Roberta and Grace were
possessed of an extraordinary, unnatural calm, far removed from
their frantic behaviour at the rehearsals. It was as if, now too
late to do anything to avert disaster, they had reached a stage of
stoical acceptance.
Julia had only appeared in the beach outfit. It had been
decided to keep her for the grand finale, the wedding sequence that
always ended any show worth its salt. She had been selected as the
bride. Roberta had made her practice until she was giddy, having
nightmares of going down the aisle, or in this case, the catwalk,
hearing Mendelssohn's
Wedding March
ringing in her ears, her arm linked with that of
Lee, Marty Blake's houseboy. He had been chosen to act as her
bridegroom. He was an exotic figure in a colourful cotton kanga, a
frilled white shirt and a dinner jacket. This, coupled with thonged
sandals, fuchsia-pink toenail varnish and camp gestures, made him a
very odd choice indeed. Apparently he was popular with the punters;
the older women wanted to mother him.
Julia's single
foray into the public eye had been enough, and she was shaking like
an aspen leaf as Grace settled ten thousand pounds' worth of
wedding dress round her. She was in awe of it, yet knew it to be
bottom of the range; it would have to be a very well heeled daddy
indeed to lead his million-dollar princess to the altar wearing one
from the top end.
Julia was in
the lap of luxury. The hotel the girls were staying in was
extremely grand and very expensive. All gilt and mirrors and cut
glass and crimson plush.
'More like
your traditional whorehouse,' Gina had commented acerbically. 'And
I expect there's a fair bit of whoring goes on inside it, too.
Can't fool me with all this pomp and circumstance. It's a load of
old cobblers.'
They had been
permitted one run-through in the banqueting room consigned to them.
The hotel manager let it be known in no uncertain terms that only
because the event was to be patronised by certain members of the
royal family had he allowed such a rabble of riffraff and
mountebanks to enter its sacred precinct.
'Fuck right
off,' Roberta had commented under his breath, sticking up a stiff
forefinger at the pompous little man's retreating back. 'Swivel on
that, baby! Charity my arse; the hotel's costing a fortune to hire.
The good cause, and I'm not sure which one it is, will get the
leftovers after every one's had a slice of the pie.'
Cressida returned, flushed with success.
Queen of the Night
had brought the
house down. Foreign buyers already besieged Blake, though the show
was not yet over.
'Keep it on,
darling, keep it on!' Roberta squealed with barely controlled
hysteria. 'You know you'll be poncing about out there again, as
soon as the wedding thing is over, to let them have another look.'
His voice rose shrilly. 'No, don't sit down!'
'Stuff off!'
Cressida spat, her feline eyes elongated by black liner, her full
red lips parted in a snarl. 'I need to have a piss.'
'Then I'll
come with you,' he insisted. 'To hold up your skirt and make sure
you don't piddle on it.'
Julia surveyed
herself in the full-length mirror. She was almost unrecognisable in
this gorgeous, fairytale gown fashioned of silk faille, and
decorated with seed pearls and lace. Vincent Gabor had called in a
favour from Armand, a famous stylist with a salon in the West End.
He had come to attend to the models' hair. He attached the wreath
of orange-blossom and stephanotis to Julia, and was now fussing
round her, adding the finishing touches.
'Beautiful,
beautiful,' he murmured, a distinguished man with silvery wings of
hair sweeping back from his temples. His manicured hands fluttered
around her, adjusting the veil that drifted to the floor like a
gossamer cloud.
She wondered
uneasily what she would have to do at the late night gathering
Vincent Gabor had planned, and if she would wind up with him when
it was over. Longing welled up in her, sex-juice dampening the
gusset of her white panties.
'Are you
ready, darlings?' Roberta carolled and, as the fanfare began, Julia
walked up the stairs leading to the stage.
She was aware
of little, concentrating on managing the trailing bouquet whilst
lifting her skirt so that she didn't trip over it. Two models were
dressed as bridesmaids and, as she reached the top and came out
into the blaze of spotlights, Lee was there, his arm extended so
she could take it and pace down the narrow walk with him. Blinded
by the flashing of cameras, it took a second for her eyes to focus,
but then she saw Will, and with him was Eugene and a dowdy looking,
fair-haired person wearing an unbecoming hat and horn-rimmed
glasses, who she knew to be Arlene in disguise.
At last the ordeal was over and Julia gratefully retired from
the limelight, almost catching her heel in the billowing gown's hem
in her haste to reach the dressing room and get into her own
clothes. She passed Gina on the way, and Vesta, Katie and several
other girls, lining up for the parade. She could hear the deafening
applause as each one took a bow, then the cheers as Cressida
stalked on in her
Queen of the Night
attire.
Marty Blake
was with her, and the storm of clapping increased. He took the
microphone from the commentator and addressed the audience.
'Thank you so
very much,' he said clearly and loudly. 'I'm quite overwhelmed.
You've received my collection so kindly and I thank you again from
the bottom of my heart. Of course, such an event could not have
taken place without the untiring work and support of my team. And
none of it would have been possible had I not had such beautiful
and accomplished models.
'And last but
by no means least, I'd like to thank my advertising wizard and
general factotum, Kevin Dean, and my sponsor, Vincent Gabor. I hope
very much to be speaking with you personally at the cocktail party
in the ballroom to which you are all invited.'
More cheers.
More speeches, this time from Gabor and a representative from a
fashion magazine, and by the time it was all over the wedding gown
had been replaced on its hanger and Julia was wearing her new
dress, a black sequinned number.
The slinky
skirt reached her ankles, and bootlace straps held up the low
bodice. She fluffed out her hair and decided to keep on the
make-up, which had been applied more generously than usual. Beneath
the dress she wore nothing but a pair of hold-up stockings, and
this lack of underwear showed. Her nipples raised the spangled
chiffon, and the fabric clung to her posterior making any viewer
aware of an absence of knicker-line. She slipped her feet into
strappy black sandals with high, pointed heels. She felt wanton and
confident and brazen, now wanting to do the show all over again.
Had Vincent been watching her with special interest? She rather
thought he had, and her excitement mounted in anticipation of the
evening to come. It was filled with promise, and she had high hopes
of ending up in his bed.
Lost in a
daydream in which he was at first masterful, binding and whipping
her, and then tender, using his considerable skill as a lover, she
was rudely awakened by a rumpus in the corridor outside. The door
crashed inwards and Cressida came flying through, pursued by
Arlene.
'Take if off!'
Arlene was screaming. 'Give me back my dress, you bitch!'
'Hey!' Roberta
shouted, standing foursquare between the two women. 'What's going
on? No unauthorised persons are allowed in here.'
'I'll bet
they're bloody not!' Arlene screeched. 'That cheating piece of
lowlife wouldn't want anyone knowing he's stolen my designs. Marty
Blake's a fraud and a liar!'
'Who the fuck
are you?' Marty Blake snapped, striding into the melée.
Arlene dragged
off the hat, wig and glasses, her own gypsy ringlets tumbling down.
'Now d'you recognise me, bastard?' Her voice was ice pick sharp,
and Julia shuddered, sure that if Arlene had one in her hand Blake
would be a dead man.
The colour
drained from his face, but he managed to keep his calm admirably.
'I think I've seen you around somewhere,' he said condescendingly,
lifting his nose with arrogance.
'Bloody right you have, you snake!' Arlene continued to fume.
'At the Cloth Show, remember? And before that you'd seen my designs
on display - not these perhaps, but others. What's the
matter,
Marty?
Are
you running out of inspiration? Have to steal my work, do you, and
pretend it's yours?'
He had
recovered swiftly, backed up by the formidable Roberta, Grace and
the mannequins, all of whom would support him even if they
suspected that Arlene was telling the truth. It was more than their
jobs were worth to question his professional integrity.
Julia froze,
and Will, right behind Arlene, gave her a silent signal of warning.
If she wanted to remain on the investigation she must hold her
peace and pretend she didn't know them. She was glad to see Eugene
edging forward, and that he was alert enough to have fallen into a
fighter's stance, fists bunched.
'What's going
on?' Vincent Gabor demanded as he pushed his way in amongst the
seething throng. 'Marty, who is this woman?'
'A nobody,'
Blake replied dismissively. 'An unsuccessful designer who's jealous
of my fame.'
'We can't
afford any trouble,' Gabor said. 'Get her out of here. Marty,
you've to put in an appearance at the party. Now, Marty, they're
waiting for you.'