Letter from Paris (17 page)

“Okay.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Reprise.
Faux Fashion
will be released in hardback two weeks before the show. India, you also have a copy there of Luella’s book signing events and media interviews to date. We’ve created some serious media buzz and that’s before we add the celeb factor for the show. Time is getting tight. India, we need to take stock of where we’re up to.”

India sat up startled. He’s not going to fire me in front of Luella is he? she thought, adjusting the collar of her shirt.

“Thank you for your report on the New York visits. I’ll need the breakdown and timings from LIFT by the end of the week. Is that doable with everything else you’ve got going on?”

“Yes,” she said. “There are a few loose ends they still had to sign off on, but I’ll chase them.” Phew. Looks like I still have a job, she thought.

“Did you reach out to your sister to see if she’s available to be a presenter with Jean-Luc? I don’t mean to pressure you, but if she’s not up for it we need to get back to the drawing board and lock down an alternative.”

Reach out?’ Sounds like she needs some kind of rescuing, India thought, unavoidably catching Henry’s eye and looking away quickly. You’re locking up, reaching out and getting out of that gate fast this morning Henry, she thought.

“Er. No, not yet,” she said. “I will. She’s been on vacation in Hawaii, coming back at the weekend.”

“Great. Great, India. So now Lu, are you happy with how things are developing so far?”

“Yes,” Luella said. “The percentage deal with the publishers looks good. Not that I can get my head around all the mechanics of the online build out, but I understand that the students will get to promote and sell their designs online by linking to their own websites. That’s great.”

“I’m still not sure how it all works exactly,” India said. Shit, she thought, I should have pretended I understand what’s going on.

“In principle it’s straightforward,” Luella said, “By ‘mechanics,’ I mean how it will work technically. All you really need to understand is that for each copy of the book that’s bought through the online college websites, a percentage of the profit goes to the college. The students can maximize the connections for their own work by linking to their own websites and connecting to each other to market their work internationally.”

“Great. And isn’t it exciting that the student with the best, I mean of course, ‘most innovative’ designs, will get to intern with Jean-Luc for a whole month in Paris?”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of that,” Luella said. “How wonderful. What a great opportunity.” She beamed, turning to Henry. “You didn’t tell me you’d persuaded him to do that on top of everything else. Well done.”

Henry pulled at the neck of his sweater looking decidedly uncomfortable and then quickly recovered his equilibrium. “Have you pinned it down, India?”

“Sorry?” India said.

“Will Jean-Luc pay for the flights and accommodation and basic living expenses? When will we get that in the contract, do you know? Will the student have ownership of their intellectual property if they produce work in Paris or will that go to Jean-Luc? Did you tie up all the loose ends?”

“I didn’t actually think to ask him the details; I got rather caught up in the excitement of the moment,” she said. “He was really charged.”

“It’ll be perfect,” Luella chimed in. “I’m sure you’ll be able to firm up the details with him, Henry. Well done you.”

“I’m going to Paris tomorrow,” Henry said. “Probably talk it through with him when I’m there.”

“He’s not going to be in Paris. He left for Provence,” India volunteered.

“Whatever. I’ll call him,” Henry said, pushing back his chair.

“When are you back from France?” Luella asked, gathering her papers from the desk.

“Thursday.”

She stood up. “Have a good trip. I’ll be in touch India,” she said. “Let me know how you get on at the LIFT meeting.”

“India. A word before you leave?” Henry was standing in the doorway. He closed the door and lowered his voice.

“In future I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me informed of all developments before sharing them with the client. Okay?”

“Sure,” India mumbled. “I had planned to tell you first thing this morning, but Luella was here ahead of you.”

“No big deal. Let’s move on shall we?” he said, running his hands through his hair and looking at her intensely. “New rules, hey? Professional protocol and all that…you understand I am not only talking about Jean-Luc. About Friday…too much drink on the job, water under the bridge?”

“Of course,” India said. “Absolutely. New rules. Water under the bridge.”

Henry opened the door for her and India caught her breath as she walked past him. He’s still going to be hard to resist, she thought. Damn his pheromones.

India’s skirt flew up as the wind from the river whipped around the corner of The Embankment. Holding it down with one hand, she struggled to read directions with the other. The London Institute of Fashion and Technology was inconveniently spread out across the city on several separate campuses. Finding each one this week had presented her with something of a challenge. The Technology and Manufacturing Center had been all the way out at Shoreditch and it had taken her hours to get to the Footwear and Accessories Department meeting that morning in Hackney. Eventually using Google maps, she located an ugly building incongruously squashed between two red brick edifices. In the absence of an elevator, she climbed several flights of stone stairs to the fourth floor and pushed open a steel door.

Who says the fashion industry is glamorous? she thought, catching her breath and looking for signs for the reception area.

“You must be India.”

India spun around. The voice was coming from a girl in her early twenties with spiked purple hair, a selection of predictable piercings and arms festooned with vibrant tattoos. “Victoria asked me to find you.”

How come ‘creatives’ aren’t more creative? India wondered. They all look so alike. “Yes.” She smiled before following her down a bleak corridor to a room with a single window overlooking the scaffolding of a nearby building site.

“Come on in. I’m Victoria. Lovely to meet you, India.”

An exceptionally thin woman stood up from behind a white melamine desk. India noticed that she bore an uncanny resemblance to Tilda Swinton. Her blonde hair had been chopped into a severely masculine cut and she was wearing an asymmetrical sheath dress split wide at the neck. An arm shot out from some mysterious side opening as she went to shake India’s hand.

“Here, grab a seat next to that console. I’ll be able to talk you through the images more easily from there. Would you like a drink? I can offer you green tea, mint tea or water.”

“Thanks,” India said, sitting down on the steel chair beside her. “Just water.”

“So you’re the educational consultant to this project. What does that mean exactly?”

Good question, India thought. I ask myself that quite a lot. “I’m working as a consultant with Lichtenstein and Cowen to maximize the education outreach.” She hesitated and then added, “They consult me a lot…about all sorts of things.”

“Fascinating. Well, may I just say that as a vegan, I am personally happier than you can possibly imagine to be part of this project,” Victoria said, sitting down in front of the computer screen and tucking one improbably long leg behind her ankle. “Many of the garments you are going to see here have been designed using organic cotton and recycled fibers. We aim to leave a low carbon footprint. No wool, sheepskin, silk or fur of course, but I think the students have even pushed the boundaries beyond the usual limitations.”

India nodded and watched as Victoria set up the slideshow on her flat screen and they waited for the images to download.

“We have stayed away from slogans and propaganda. This project is about education, not alienation. We want people to see that being cruelty free doesn’t mean fashion can’t be fun or sexy.”

“Are all of the students vegan?”

“Of course not.” Victoria laughed, looking at her curiously. “When we took the theme of desolation last year we didn’t expect the students to all be depressives.”

“Of course. How silly of me,” India said. She concentrated hard as Victoria talked her through the montage on the screen and then pulled out specific designs by way of more detailed explanation.

“Oh! Look, it’s hard to believe those trousers aren’t leather,” India exclaimed, spotting a pair of skinny jeans similar to the ones she had coveted from a Kate Moss advert recently. “Does the fabric breathe like leather or does it smell a bit off?”

“Vegan ‘leather’ can be made from many materials. These trousers, as you can see from the notes, are made from acrylic and polyamide felt fibers.”

“Isn’t acrylic made from petrochemicals?” India asked, confused.

“Well observed, India. Yes, it’s the perpetual dilemma. The environment versus the animal rights issue. The line we have taken with this project is to use only recycled materials. The fabric for these pants comes from man-made fibers that are damaging to the environment, both in the dying as well as in the manufacturing process. In this case, the ‘pleather,’ as it is sometimes known, has been recycled and refashioned to make the garment, thus being both ethically sound, animal-free and still protective of the environment.”

India shuddered. The idea of wearing recycled plastic trousers was altogether gross. “Tell me more about the shirt,” she said, attempting to switch Victoria’s focus. “It looks exactly like silk.”

“It’s called ‘Soysilk.’ As the name suggests it’s made from soybean residue and is fully biodegradable.”

“Who knew?” India murmured. “I thought soy was just tofu and milk.”

“I have a particular issue around silk garments,” Victoria continued. “The idea of all those mulberry worms being bred and harvested for human vanity breaks my heart. The thought of pupae or caterpillars being tortured knocks me sick. The cocoons are dropped into boiling water, as I’m sure you know. It makes me shudder. It’s criminal. Brutal.”

“Horrible,” India agreed, adjusting the buttons on her cotton blouse. I wonder if old Joe’s still pickin’ cotton, she thought, remembering the line from a Leonard Cohen song.

“If they lived as nature intended,” Victoria continued, “the worms would turn into moths and chew their way out of their cocoons to escape.”

And then go on to chew great big holes in my cashmere sweaters in karmic revenge, India thought.

Victoria, still glassy-eyed with emotion, took India through the remainder of the presentation, finally hitting the ‘off’ button and turning to her with a deep sigh. “So what do you think of our attempts to change the world through fashion?”

“I’ve learned so much. The collection is wonderful and you and the students are to be congratulated. As an ex-teacher, I know only too well how hard you must have worked to produce this.”

“Thank you.” Victoria smiled. “I very much appreciate you saying that, although this is a labor of love as I’m sure it is for you. Let me give you the stills, and I understand you’re coming to our main campus to meet the students next week.”

“That’s right. We have some exciting news to share with them, but I can’t tell you right now. Mr. Cowan wants to tell them himself. He’ll be coming with me next Tuesday.”

“How exciting. I look forward to it.”

Victoria stood up and strode over to her desk. India noticed her ‘pleather’ Birkenstocks. Every bit as ugly as the regular kind, she thought.

“Here’s the schedule. Sorry you had to wait for it. I’ll call Tara now and she’ll show you out. This place is a maze. I don’t want you to get lost.”

17

Luella threw down a tea towel on the kitchen worktop and checked her hair in the hall mirror before going to open her front door. Peter was framed in the archway wearing his weekend uniform of beige khakis and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt. He handed her the mail. She took the envelopes from him and walked briskly down the hallway into the kitchen.

“It’s such a lovely day I thought we’d eat in the garden,” she said, gesturing to the wrought iron circular table on the patio set out with two places.

“Good idea,” he said as he stepped outside onto the verandah. “The wisteria’s doing well.”

“Kind of,” Luella answered. “It still hasn’t flowered even after all this time. It must be at least ten years old, don’t you think?”

She handed him a serving dish piled with olives, heirloom tomatoes and mozzarella. “Can you manage the arugula too?”

“Sure,” he said, taking the salad bowl from her. “We planted it the year we went to Cyprus. I remember because that’s when we bought the olive trees.”

“They didn’t survive long did they? Too much rain here I suppose,” she shouted opening the fridge. “Would you like a glass of Prosecco?”

“Yes. Please,” he said, stepping back indoors and taking the bottle from her. “Anything else to carry out?”

“Over there,” she said, pulling warm ciabatta from the Aga. “Grab the olive oil and the balsamic and we’re good to go.”

Taking off her oven gloves, Luella untied her apron and joined him under the shade of a beech tree as he pried open the cork.