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Debord was not the right designer for this middle-aged woman. The designer believed women came in two categories: polo ponies—those who were short and round—and Thoroughbreds—tall and slender. He prided himself on designing for the Thoroughbreds.

      Using Debord’s criteria, Alex decided he would probably consider the tall, robust Mrs. Friedman to be a Clydesdale.

      “I’ve always had big bones,” Sophie agreed. “But I still think this dress makes me look fat.”

      Alex’s innate sense of honesty warred with her common sense. As she’d feared, honesty won out.

      “Perhaps,” she suggested, ignoring Marie Hélène’s sharp look, “if we were to use a softer material than satin, perhaps a matte jersey. And draped it, like this.” With a few quick changes she concealed the woman’s short waist and broad hips and emphasized her firm, uplifted bustline.

      Sophie Friedman’s eyes lit with approval. “That’s just what it needed.” She turned to the directress. “Would Monsieur Debord be willing to make the changes?”

      “Of course.” Marie Hélène’s words were tinged with ice, but her tone remained properly subservient. “It is Madame’s prerogative to alter anything she wishes.”

      “Then Madame wishes.” That settled, Sophie looked down at her diamond-studded watch. “Madame is also starving.”

      “We will take a break,” Marie Hélène murmured on cue. “It will be my pleasure to bring you lunch, Madame Friedman.”

      “No offense, Marie Hélène,” Sophie said, “but I could use something more substantial than the rabbit food you serve around this place.” She looked down at Alex. “How about you?”

      “Me?”

      Startled, Alex dropped the box of pins, scattering them over the plush gray carpeting. Marie Hélène immediately knelt and threw three handfuls of pins over her shoulder. Alex had grown accustomed to the superstitions accompanying the business. Baste with green thread and you kill a season. Neglect to toss spilled pins over your shoulder and you’ve guaranteed a dispute. Lily Dache, legendary hat designer, would show on the thirteenth or not at all. Coco Chanel would wait for Antonia Castillo’s numerologist to schedule Mr. Castillo’s shows, then schedule her own at the same time. The irate designer was rumored to have used a Coco doll and pins for retaliation. Debord himself was famous for not shaving before a show.

      “I could use some company, Alexandra,” Sophie announced. “It is Alexandra, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, Madame Friedman,” Alex answered from her place on the floor as she gathered up the scattered pins.

      “Well, then,” Sophie said with the no-nonsense air of a woman accustomed to getting her way, “since I hate to eat alone and you need to eat, why don’t you let me buy you lunch?”

      Alex could feel the irritation radiating from Marie Hélène’s erect body. “Thank you, Mrs. Friedman, but I’m afraid—”

      “If you’re worried about your boss, I’m sure Monsieur Debord wouldn’t mind.” Sophie gave Marie Hélène a significant look. “Considering the dough I’ve dropped in his coffers this week.”

      Marie Hélène got the message. Loud and clear. “Alexandra,” she suggested, as if the idea had been her own, “why don’t you accompany Madame to déjeuner. Monsieur Debord has an account at the Caviar Kaspia, if Russian food meets with Madame’s approval,” she said to Sophie.

      “Caviar Kaspia it is,” Sophie agreed robustly.

      Ten minutes later Alex found herself sitting in a banquette at the legendary Caviar Kaspia. The Franco-Russian restaurant, located above a caviar shop, had long been a favorite of couture customers with time to kill between fittings.

      Across the room, Paloma Picasso, wearing a scarlet suit that matched her lipstick, was engrossed in conversation with Yves Saint Laurent. Nearby, Givenchy’s attaché de presse was doing his best to charm a buyer from Saks Fifth Avenue. Renowned for her no-nonsense, hard-as-nails approach to the business, the buyer had walked out midway through Debord’s showing.

      “You’re an American, aren’t you?” Sophie asked as she piled her warm blini with beluga caviar.

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “So what the hell are you doing here in Paris, pinning overpriced dresses on women with more money than sense?”

      Not knowing how to address the last part of that question, Alex opted to focus on her purpose for coming to Paris. “I’ve wanted to be a designer for as long as I can remember.

      “My mother had her own dressmaking business for a time, but she was a single mother—my father left before my twin brother and I were born—and since taking care of two children took up too much time to allow her to continue designing, she ended up doing alterations for department stores and dry cleaners.”

      Alex frowned as she fiddled with her cutlery. “I’ve always felt guilty about that.”

      “Oh, I’m sure your mother never considered it a sacrifice,” Sophie said quickly, waving away Alex’s concerns with a plump hand laden down with very good diamonds.

      “That’s what she always insisted whenever I brought it up,” Alex agreed. “Anyway, she taught me everything I know about sewing. When I was little, I designed clothes for my dolls. Eventually I worked my way up to creating clothes for her.”

      “Lucky lady,” Sophie said. “What does she think of you working for Debord?”

      “She died before I came to Paris.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “She was ill for a long time. In a way, her death was a blessing. After leaving school, I worked on Seventh Avenue for a few years.” Alex continued her story, briefly describing her work at the design firm.

      “I’ll bet you didn’t come clear to France to be a draper,” Sophie said as she topped the glistening black caviar with a dollop of sour cream.

      Alex shrugged, unwilling to admit to her own impatience. Her mother had always cautioned her that destiny wasn’t immediate. But Alex couldn’t help being in a hurry.

      “All my life I’ve wanted to work in couture. Paris is couture.” In Paris, entering a house of couture was taken as seriously as entering a convent; indeed, in French, the expression to enter une maison was applied to both cases. “And Debord is the best.”

      When she was in high school, Alex had pinned pictures of Debord cut out of fashion magazines on her bedroom wall, idolizing him in the way other girls had swooned over rock stars.

      Although the photographs had come down years ago, she still harbored a secret crush on the designer.

      “He was the best,” Sophie corrected. “This season his stuff stinks to high heaven. In fact, I’d rather suck mud from the La Brea tar pits than wear one of that man’s dresses in public.”

      Secretly appalled by the direction her idol had taken, Alex found herself unable to defend his current collection. “If you feel that way, why are you buying so many pieces?”

      “My soon-to-be ex-husband is buying those clothes,” Sophie corrected. “And since your boss is the most expensive designer in the business, he was the obvious choice. Even before last week’s disastrous show.”

      Alex realized that Sophie Friedman had come to Paris to buy “fuck-you clothes.” Although haute couture’s clientele traditionally consisted of wealthy clients linked together in a solid-gold chain that stretched across continents, mistresses and angry discarded wives made up a remarkable percentage of Debord’s customers.

      American women were infamous for borrowing couture. The always thrifty French purchased modèles—samples. Only the Japanese, along with shadowy South American drug baronesses and Arab brides paid full price. In fact, a recent Saudi wedding was all

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