Never Too Rich (31 page)

It was—or at least it should have been.

Then dammit, why couldn’t she get on with it, finish
it?

She moaned dispiritedly. How could she, when she
felt so defeated and debilitated? Hell, under these circumstances
even Pollyanna would give up. It was time, really high time, she
mused as she plopped herself into her swivel chair, to take the
bull by the horns and look squarely into its fearsome face.
Because, why work like a dog to design clothes when there was no
way, absolutely no way on God’s earth, her collection would ever
become a reality, let alone see the inside of a store.

Sighing heavily, she swung herself from side to side
in the chair.
Money.
Why did everything always have to boil
down to something as creatively uninspiring—but necessary—as
money?

Damn my need to create!
she cursed silently,
and stared at the drawing on the easel one last time.

She drew a complete blank.

But she remained seated. Even getting up seemed too
much effort. Bleak depression, fueled by harsh reality, numbed her
entire being. What a fool she had been! Creating her own fashion
firm! What a foolish, childish indulgence.

You might as well admit it, Eds, old girl, she told
herself cruelly, it isn’t just a question of someone investing
money in you. What you’re aiming for is to break into one of the
most failure-ridden industries on earth! Think about it. For all
the media hoopla, exterior signs of success, and meteoric rise,
even the house of Christian Lacroix, for God’s sake, lost four and
a half million dollars during its first operating year alone. And
what about Stephen Sprouse? And David Cameron? Look what had
happened to them. And the list goes on and on. You, better than
almost anyone, should know that even the most gifted designer with
the most sensationally received collection can lose money hand over
fist.

Wake up, kid!
What makes you think the world
needs
another fashion designer?

Edwina sat statue-still, her blood suddenly running
cold.

And one more thing, her mind continued inexorably.
What makes you think you’re so great? Maybe you’re
not
good
enough! Isn’t it possible that you’ve been fooling yourself all
along and really don’t have what it takes?

She absolutely had to stop this negative line of
thinking. She rubbed her face wearily with her hands. What if she
approached all this more rationally? From a business point of view?
Maybe compared her designs with what was out there to see how her
work stacked up to the successful competition? Now,
there
was a positive idea. She could even take a little time and . . .
No, she should take a
lot
of time, and start back in the
seventies—the sixties, even—and trace the successes and, far more
important, the failures of various collections and designers,
seeing who and what had fallen by the wayside and, if possible,
figuring out
why.
At least that way she would stand a better
chance of not repeating others’ mistakes. Because for every
household name, every Krizia or Ralph Lauren or Valentino, there
were dozens of wunderkinder who had shot onto the scene, only to be
quickly weeded out by fashion’s own fierce Darwinism.

Without further ado, but sighing painfully all the
same, she went around the room pulling fashion magazines off the
built-in shelves, and deposited them in selective stacks all
around. When she finished, she had created a Manhattan in miniature
with precariously listing breast-high skyscrapers of paper. Maybe
placing them in a circle would help. With utmost caution she gently
shoved them around until Manhattan metamorphosed into Stonehenge.
There. Infinitely better. Then, like some high priestess, Edwina
sat cross-legged in the center of her daunting paper temple.
Reaching up, she grabbed the top magazines off each stack and
created a new, shorter stack composed entirely of April 1989
issues.

Now.

Now she was finally ready to begin.

She took the top magazine off this new pile, placed
it ceremoniously onto her lap, and stared down at it. It
would
have to be the ubiquitous
Vogue,
she thought;
what else had 564 intimidating pages to wade through?

Slowly she began to leaf through it, front to
back.

The Vogue was followed by Harper’s Bazaar.

Bazzar by Elle.

Slowly, picture by picture and page by page, the
coming season’s designs began to make a visual impact. And, deep
inside her, something began to stir, gently at first, like the
thrumming whir of a hummingbird’s wings, then more forcefully, like
the powerful flapping of a raven. If she wasn’t mistaken—and she
didn’t think she was—what she had believed all along
was
true.

“
You know, Eds old girl,” she
marveled aloud, “your own stuff isn’t half-bad.”

Within half an hour, she’d changed even that opinion
about her work. Her hunched-over posture abruptly straightened.
“Not bad, hell!” she said with awe. “I’m damn good!” Her voice
dropped to a whisper. “In fact, I’m
better
than most. Why,
I’m . . . I’m right up there beside the best of them—Bill! Oscar!
Antonio!
Wow!”

Cautiously Edwina forced her elation down. Could she
possibly be getting carried away? Was she really
that
good?
Or was her eye conceited?

She took a deep, perplexed breath and let it out
noisily. That was the trouble with creativity: it was a lonely
process, tailor-made for hermits instead of fun-loving, gregarious
humans. Constant doubts so easily jaundiced everything. Maybe that
was why even the most gifted designers needed some company, someone
to share ideas with. Didn’t Valentino have Giancarlo Giametti?
Didn’t Yves St. Laurent have Pierre Berge
and
Lou Lou
Klowsowski? And didn’t Oscar de la Renta have
somebody:
Well, dammit all to hell, she needed somebody too! Somebody with a
critical eye and a sympathetic ear, somebody who could offer a
friendly clap on the back, a word of encouragement. . .

She raised her head with a jerk, her eyes widening.
She
did
have that special someone of her own! Now, why
hadn’t she thought of him before? And to think she’d been avoiding
him! Why, he probably knew more about what sold in stores than she
did. At least, given his vast retailing experience, he should.

Suddenly something came to life deep inside her
mind.

Rack after rack of her clothes in one of the biggest
department-store chains in the country. . . .

The image was so real she had to blink to remind
herself where she was.

Even so, the small shelf-lined study seemed to
expand into a vast glittering space. She could almost see the
silvery steel escalators moving silently up and down, carrying
shoppers laden down with bags . . . could practically feel the
electrifying energy of acquisition, the sheer joy of
shopping!

As though in a dream, she watched eager hands
rippling through glorious garments—racks and racks of Technicolor
coats and skirts and dresses . . . each one more outrageously
beautiful than the last . . . each containing her own discreet
label.

Whispery gooseflesh danced up and down her arms.

Hadn’t R.L. offered to back her?

Yes, but that had been some time ago.

But hadn’t he offered it more than once?

I can’t, she told herself. It’s a matter of pride.
Of principle.

You can! You have to. All it takes is swallowing a
little of that unaffordable pride of yours. Don’t you
want
to design? Don’t you believe enough in yourself? Well then, for
God’s sake—take the plunge! Do it!

Taking a massive breath, she reached for the
telephone with trembling fingers, picked up the receiver, and
punched the eleven digits for R.L.’s office in Boston.

“
Mr. Shacklebury’s office, good
afternoon,” a clipped voice answered.

“
Hello. Is this Sally?”

“
Yes, ma’am,” R.L.’s secretary
said.

“
This is Edwina G. Robinson. Is he
in?”

“
I’m sorry, Ms. Robinson. He’s
out.”

Out? Edwina’s heart sank. “Oh,” she said. “I see.
You wouldn’t happen to know whether or not he’s expected back
today, would you?”

“
Sorry, but he didn’t
say.”

“
Well, thanks anyway. I might try
him at home.”

“
Ms. Robinson, I wouldn’t do
tha—”

But Edwina had already broken the connection, her
pencil speed-punching the number of R.L.’s mansion on Beacon
Hill.

“
Please
be
there,” she
prayed aloud, the prospect of talking to him and taking the career
initiative of her life electrifying her every nerve. Just by
calling him, she felt suddenly exhilarated, freed from all the
emotional and professional baggage that had weighed her down. It
was silly, of course, utter nonsense, but she actually felt—could
it be?—yes,
rejuvenated!

The sound of the first ring in her ear was like an
added shot of exquisite adrenaline.

Chapter 32

With her head held high and a towering white towel
with the blue monogram RLS wrapped around her head like a turban,
Catherine Gage came out of the shower dripping water. Another
monogrammed towel was tucked, Dorothy Lamour-style, around her like
a sarong. She made a production of loosening it in front of R.L.
and very slowly dabbing herself dry.

He watched her wordlessly. It seemed to take her
forever to dry off and sort through her clothes, which he had
collected from downstairs while she showered. Her every movement
suggested she had all the time in the world.

First she sat down on the bed and, eyeing him from
under lazy eyelids, lifted one shapely leg high and smoothed her
hose with slow, deliberate movements up her left calf.

R.L.’s chest tightened with a band of angry tension
as he watched her. Couldn’t she hurry up? Catherine didn’t belong
in his life. She was a lethal species, a man-eater as hungry for
sex as one of those grinning Pac Man heads happily gobbling up
everything in its path. It was a mistake to have brought her here;
a very bad mistake. Quite possibly, he considered, it might well be
one of his worst mistakes— but certainly not as bad as having let
Edwina break off their relationship fourteen years previously.
That, he now knew, had been the single worst mistake of his life.
He should have put up a fight; no way should he have let her slip
through his fingers.

Hands in his trouser pockets, he paced the room
impatiently, like a newly caged animal seeking escape.

“
I do wish you’d stop that restless
pacing, darling.” Catherine looped her brassiere straps over her
shoulders. “Why don’t you sit down and keep still?”

He ignored her and she busied herself with her
brassiere, reaching behind her back and fastening it before
adjusting it up front.

The bedside extension phone trilled softly.

R.L. automatically stopped pacing and glanced over
at it, but he made no move to cross the room and answer it. Not
with Catherine sitting right there beside it. Whoever was calling
would just have to try again. As far as he was concerned, until he
got Catherine out, the entire world could be put on hold.

Half-smiling, Catherine reached out with deliberate
mocking grace, her dangling fingers poised above the vibrating
receiver.

“
Let it ring,” he said
quietly.

Raising her eyebrows at him, she let her fingers
drop and pick up the receiver. “Shacklebury residence,” she
announced crisply. “Who is this?” She listened for a moment. “Who?
Oh, I’m
soooo
sorry, darling, but he’s . . . well ...” She
glanced across the room at R.L. and winked lewdly. “He’s
terribly
indisposed at the moment. Can’t it wait until I’m
gone? I’m nearly dressed now. I’ll tell him you called. Edwina, did
you say your name is?”

R.L. jerked as though he’d been scalded. “Give me
that!” he thundered, and lunged across the room to grab the
receiver out of her hand.

But Catherine ducked, evading his reach. “Got to go
now, darling, the tiger’s reawakened!” she said quickly into the
phone, and started to hang up.

R.L. managed to wrest the receiver out of her hand.
“Eds!” he bellowed desperately into it.
“Edssss!”

But it was like howling down an empty tunnel, and
with a chill, he knew that irrevocable damage had been done. He
could only hear a distant click, loud and final as a prison door
slamming closed.

First came anger.

“
Damn you, R. L. Shacklebury!”
Edwina slammed the receiver down. “Damn you to eternal
hell!”

The bastard! The two-timing, penis-led schmuck! Why
couldn’t men think with their brains? Why were their brains always
at the end of their dicks?

Then came hurt.

Deep inside her a sob formed, burst to the surface
like a racing bubble, and erupted, loud and plaintive. Tears stung
in her eyes, but she blinked them back valiantly. She wiped her
sniffling nose with her wrist. For a long time she just stood
there, shoulders bent and shuddering, breasts heaving convulsively.
She felt so empty inside, so drained. So hollow and used and
discarded.

“
I wish you’d reconsider and spend
the night.”

So he’d said that first night, after that awful
dinner at the de Riscals’.

“
Eds, baby. I love you. I need you
...”

So he’d whispered another time as he’d half-lifted
her for a kiss and they’d clung to each other like magnets.

“
You’re divorced, I’m divorced.
We’re free, Eds! Even our kids get along. Why don’t we take the big
plunge? God Almighty, if you only knew how I love you . .
.”