âMELISANDEâS hereâand you should see the man sheâs got with her!â Jennifer Knowles announced, walking into her employerâs work-room and rolling her eyes expressively. âGorgeousâand rich too, by the looks of him. Well, if heâs Melisandeâs latest, heâll need to be, wonât he?â she added forthrightly. âI didnât realise we had anything in hand for her. What is it, thereâs nothing in the book.â She frowned a little as she studied the leather-bound book India used to book in and chart the progress of her orders. âWe finished the black silk last week.â
âUmm,â India Lawson agreed, removing half a dozen pins from her mouth and studying the pink silk blouse she was working on. âSheâs been invited to a Charity Ballâshe rang me yesterday and asked if we could make something for her in a hurry.â
âProvided you let her have it at next to no cost,â Jennifer added caustically. âHonestly, sheâs the limit! She must be earning a fortune from that part she landed in Evergreen. Itâs been running for six months now, and thereâs no sign of bookings droppingâI know, I tried to get seats for my mother and sister for next weekend.â
India smiled. âWell, donât forget that simply by wearing our clothes Melisande is doing an excellent public relations job for us.â
âYouâre far too easygoing,â Jennifer scolded. âI donât know how you do it, and you with auburn hair as well.â
India laughed. âTell Melisande Iâll be with her in five minutes, would you Jenâoh, and offer herâ¦â She had been about to say a âcup of coffeeâ, but changed her mind, remembering her secretaryâs description of the actressâs companion. âOffer them a glass of sherry,â she corrected. âI canât leave this blouse until I get these tucks right. I promised Lady Danvers that Iâd have it ready for the weekend.â
The expressive line of Jenniferâs departing back said what she thought of the way India, as she put it, âpanderedâ to her clientsâ wishes, but then she did not have the responsibility of a business resting on her shoulders, India reflected.
Of course she enjoyed being her own boss, it had been her ambition since the Fifth Form at school when she had spent her Saturday mornings studying the shoppers in their often drab and ill-fitting clothes mentally re-clothing them in her own designs.
Not that it had been easy, but then those things really worth having rarely were, she decided. She had spent three years at art college, followed by another three in Paris working in a very lowly capacity for one of the well-known couturiers. After that there had been a spell on the buying side, learning about merchandising, stocking control, and a whole host of other vitally important things which sometimes got overlookedâto their costâby those who thought âartisticâ genius enough to guarantee them success.
And it had all paid off. A small legacy from a great-uncle had provided her with enough capital to risk going it alone. To her delight her first very limited range of skirts and blouses had sold, enabling her to take the risk of leasing more expensive premises close enough to the heart of London to be called âexclusiveâ, and now she numbered among her clientele enough socially-conscious women for her designs to be becoming featured in glossy magazines and society columns.
Even so, it paid to keep oneâs feet on the ground, which was why India made no demur when women such as Melisande Blake, a well-known actress, insisted on being given a âdiscountâ on clothes which they were going to wear in public.
India smiled wryly as she put the blouse aside and stood up, studying her reflection in the small mirror behind her desk. So Jennifer thought she didnât have a temper. If only she knew! It was not so much that she didnât have one; more that over the years she had learned for her own sake to keep it strictly under control, although even now there were occasions when it suddenly and unexpectedly flared into all-consuming life.
Having checked that there were no threads clinging to her grey flannel skirt, India gave her reflection a final cursory glance before walking towards the door.
A short corridor linked the workrooms to the salon proper and when she opened the connecting door the first person she saw was the man whom her secretary had described as âgorgeousâ. She hadnât lied, India acknowledged, schooling her features into a professional smile, while inwardly noting the expensive cut of the pearl grey suit, the toning silk shirt and tie, the well manicured but entirely masculine hands, deeply tanned even though it was March, thick dark hair curling over his collar, his eyes a disturbing, hard grey.