French Silk(77)

Claire liked them and hoped that no one on the crew would take advantage of their hospitality or na?veté. "We'll try to keep to your schedule," she told them. "However, if we get behind, I'll appreciate a little flexibility."

"Of course, dear. You're our first 'working' guests. We've been beside ourselves with excitement. The only thing better would be having a movie filmed here," Agnes gushed.

"And we love your catalog," Grace said. "When it arrives in the mail, we fight over who gets to look through it first."

"I'm glad to hear that." Claire was glad that a smile was called for. She couldn't have kept a straight face under punishment of death. "From what I've seen so far, your home will make a beautiful backdrop for our photos."

She'd been impressed since leaving the highway and following the tree-lined, gravel road to Rosesharon. Although the growing season was waning, the lawn and flower gardens surrounding the house were still green and lush. White lawn furniture was grouped in the shade of sprawling trees.

The house itself looked like a wedding cake. The bricks had been painted a pale, creamy pink. The six fluted Corinthian columns and all other trim were white. There was a deep, wrap-around veranda shaded by a second-floor balcony. Claire was very pleased with Yasmine's choice.

"We want to make your stay enjoyable," Grace told her. "Remember, this is our home. As our guests, you have the run of the place."

A commotion out on the veranda drew their attention to the front door. A short, wiry young man in a white linen suit and yellow Polo shirt flung open the screen door and made a grand entrance.

"Claire!" he gasped when he saw her. "My God, this is positively fab, Darling!" He kissed her cheeks in turn, then held the light meter, which was suspended from his neck by a black cord, up to her face and checked the reading. "Oh, this is going to be so sweet. I can't wait to begin, if I don't expire from the freaking heat first. How do you natives stand it? But the house is fab, really it is. Yasmine said as much, but you know how that bitch is prone to exaggerate."

Leon was one of the most sought-after fashion photographers in New York. His flamboyance was championed only by his talent with lighting and lens. When he wasn't pitching temper tantrums or gossiping bitchily, he could be quite amusing.

Leon hadn't yet stopped talking. "The staircase is to die for. We must have one of the girls languishing on it as though in a swoon." He struck a pose. "Eyes at half-mast, you know. I'll shoot it from above. Perhaps in the late afternoon with sunlight striking just the right spots. Yes, yes," he said clapping his hands. "Someone with lots of hair fanning out behind her head. Moist tendrils clinging to her cheeks. Oh, God, I'm getting chills just thinking about it."

The rest of the entourage trailed in, dropping onto pieces of furniture like wounded soldiers. "Jesus, it's hot," one of the models said as she lifted a mane of streaked blond hair off her neck.

There were four female models and two males. Yasmine had used them in the catalog before. It was a convivial group, and they were all on a first-name basis—Felicia, Dana, Liz, and Alison. They were young, nubile, and gorgeous. Kurt, the dark, brooding male model, wore his luxuriant black hair shoulder length. He could look either sleek and European or dangerous and untamed. The other man, Paul, was blond and blue-eyed. His "types" were the boy next door and the buttoned-down yuppie.

The stylist, in charge of wardrobe, was known throughout the fashion industry simply as Rue. She was a middle-aged crone who had coarse features and a voice like a cement mixer. She was never without a black, acrid cigarette dangling from her lips.

The makeup artist was a quiet Asian woman with porcelain-like skin and expressive doe eyes. The hair stylist, paradoxically, had virtually no hair. It had been cut very close to her scalp. She compensated by wearing earrings that dangled to her chest.

Leon's assistant, as pudgy and pink as a newborn, was a self-effacing young man who rarely spoke and constantly remained in Leon's shadow.

"Perhaps we should all get settled into our rooms," Claire said. "As soon as you're unpacked, I'd like to have a meeting with Leon and Yasmine to review the shot list."

The Monteiths summoned two valets to help with the luggage. Before everyone scattered, Claire spoke above the noise: "Models, before dinner, I'd like you all to go to the Winnebago for a fitting. Rue has already tagged the garments with your names."

The models divided themselves up two, two, and two. Claire didn't know who was sleeping with whom and made a point not to find out. Too much gossip could jeopardize the camaraderie on a location shoot. If there were any minidramas played out during the course of their stay, she'd rather not know about them.

Mary Catherine was sharing a room with Harry. Leon and his assistant had a room. Claire and Yasmine were doubling in another. Rue, the hair stylist, and the makeup artist had opted to sleep in the Winnebago. Claire was glad. Otherwise there might not have been a vacancy for her mother and Harry.

Thankfully, she could concentrate on her work, without having to worry about Cassidy questioning her mother. That had been her main reason for hustling Mary Catherine out of New Orleans.





* * *



Chapter 15

? ^ ?

Claire was up early and, over coffee, consulted with Leon, Rue, and Yasmine about the shots they had scheduled for that day. "What would you think of using that old-fashioned vanity table in our bedroom for one of the interior shots?" she asked Yasmine.