The Debutante Divorcee by Plum Sykes Read Free Book Online Page B

tonight? I quickly flicked through my diary: I had a meeting with Thack and the senior buyer from Neiman Marcus this afternoon. It would be heavy going—I was sure Neimans would barely order a thing from the new collection. Maybe it was a good thing Milton was coming over later, I thought. He would definitely cheer me up after that meeting. It didn’t mean I had to hire him.
     
    “We love the gowns,” said Bob Bulton, the Neiman Marcus buyer, wrapping up his order and flicking the elastic around his folder.
    Bob Bulton was one of the most influential fashion buyers at Neiman Marcus, though his appearance would not necessarily have led one to that conclusion. He was extremely large, nearing retirement, and clad in a bespoke Thom Browne suit, the most noticeable feature of which was the way the cuff of the pants stopped far enough above the ankle to reveal his lilac cashmere socks. Despite the fact that Thack’s Chrystie Street studio was crammed with stock, sewing machines, F.I.T.interns, and Chinese seamstresses, Bob hadn’t seemed to mind the chaos at all. He delicately eased his squishy behind off the dainty antique chair he had been sitting on.
    “But we can’t commit to more than fifteen looks until we start to see some press,” he added. Then he looked Thackeray in the eye and said, “You gotta get press.”
    “Absolutely not an issue,” said Thackeray coolly.
    Thack was smiling in an easy way, perched on the edge of the old French sofa at one end of the studio. He looked completely relaxed, dressed in a 1960s Saville Row suit and a sharp, white, handmade shirt. A diamond and pearl rose brooch, which had once belonged to his mother, was pinned to the lapel of his jacket. Suddenly he looked at me, saying, “Sylvie here is very connected in New York. She’s already got at least three really beautiful young girls who have signed on to wear gowns at…Alixe Carter’s New Year’s ball.”
    Like many fashion designers, Thackeray was more deserving of an Oscar than most actors. What an absolute, wretched lie, I thought, nodding and smiling and saying, “Isn’t that great news?”
    No doubt I would be punished for perjuring myself later.
    “Well, I have to congratulate you,” said Bob, looking impressed. “You’ve nailed those girls down very early. We’ll add two of each of the dresses that will beworn at the party for our pre-spring order.” He seemed to be opening his folder again. “If they’re photographed they’ll fly out of the store. Do you think Alixe herself will wear a dress?”
    “Her fitting’s in two weeks,” said Thackeray, in an inspired spurt of fibbing.
    “Well,” said Bob, “I will have to congratulate Alixe on her taste. She’s an extremely close friend of my wife’s, you know.”
    “How lovely,” I said, feeling slight chest pains. “So will you be at the ball then?”
    “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Congratulations, Thackeray,” said Bob warmly.
    Alas, I thought, alas .
    The minute Bob had gone, I dragged Thackeray into the very humble restroom. It was the only place we could speak in private. It was so grotty we lit it only with candles so clients couldn’t see how utterly hovel-like it was in there.
    “My God, Thackeray! What was that?” I blurted in the dark.
    “You can get me those girls, can’t you?” he said. “We’ve doubled the order based on those girls wearing my gowns at Alixe Carter’s party—”
    “Thackeray. Can I remind you of something? No one is wearing your dresses at Alixe’s party. You made that up.”
    “Sylvie, this is serious. You can carry it off.”
    This was typical Thackeray. He promised his buyers the earth and then always somehow persuaded me to deliver it. Much as I didn’t want to spend my time squeezing thin women into sample-size dresses that made even the size zeros feel obese, Thackeray was right about business. He had just sold another six gowns. We had to dress as many girls as possible at Alixe’s fancy New