Fine things Read Online Free PDF

not taken in by the casual tone of his voice. She felt her heart sink as she looked at her. She couldn't have been a day over twenty-one and she was a beautiful girl.
    “She free-lances for us from time to time. She's French.” But she didn't need to say more. The girl wandered right over to them, and held up the wedding dress as she glanced first at Bernard, and then at Marianne. She asked her in French what to do with it, as she was afraid to set it down, and Marianne told her who to give it to, as Bernie stood almost gaping at her. And then the department manager knew what her duty was.
    She introduced Bernie to her, title and all, and even explained that the new concept was all his plan. She hated to put them together like that but she had no choice. She watched Bernie's eyes as he looked at the girl. It amused her somehow, he was always so aloof. It was obvious that he liked girls, but he never got deeply involved with anyone, from what people said. And unlike the merchandise he selected for Wolffs, in women he preferred quantity to quality every time …“volume” as they said in the trade …but maybe not this time….
    Her name was Isabelle Martin and she was twenty-four years old. She had grown up in the south of France and gone to Paris at eighteen to work for Saint Laurent and then Givenchy She was absolutely tops, and she had been a huge success in Paris. It was no surprise when she had been asked to come to the States and had done extremely well in New York for the past four years. He couldn't imagine why they hadn't met before.
    “Usually I do only photography, Monsieur Fine.” She had an accent that enchanted him. “But for your show …” She smiled in a way that melted the seat of his pants and he would have done anything for her. And suddenly he remembered her. He had seen her on the cover of Vogue more than once, and Bazaar and Women's Wear …she just looked very different in real life, more beautiful actually. It was rare for models to cross over between runway modeling and photography, but she was skilled at both, and she had done beautifully in their show and he congratulated her lavishly.
    “You were marvelous, Miss …uh …” His mind suddenly went blank and she smiled at him again.
    “Isabelle.” He thought he would die just looking at her, and he took her to dinner that night at La Caravelle. Everyone in the room turned to look at her. And they went dancing afterwards at “Raffles” and Bernie never wanted to go home again. He never wanted to give her up, to let her out of his arms. He had never met anyone like her before, he had never been as swept off his feet by anyone. And the armor he had built after Sheila walked out of his life melted at her hands. Her hair was so blond it was almost white, and more extraordinary, it was natural. He thought her the most beautiful creature on earth, and it would have been difficult for anyone to disagree with him.
    They had an enchanted summer in East Hampton that year. He had rented a small house, and she spent every weekend with him. When she had arrived in the U.S. she had immediately become involved with a well-known fashion photographer and after two years she had left him for a real-estate mogul. But all men seemed to fade from her life when Bernie appeared. It seemed like a magical time to him as he took her with him everywhere, showing her off, being photographed, dancing till dawn. It all seemed very jet set, and he laughed when he took his mother to lunch, and she leveled her most motherly gaze at him.
    “Don't you think she's a little rich for your blood?”
    “What's that supposed to mean?”
    “It means that she reeks of 'jet set,' and when all is said and done, how do you fit in, Bernie?”
    “You're never a hero in your own home town, isn't that what they say? I can't say it's very flattering though.” He was admiring his mother's navy blue Dior suit. He had bought it for her the last time he was abroad and it looked lovely on