An Original Design
Penny Bradford was in the stockroom, putting away a shipment of blouses that had arrived earlier that morning when her coworker, Winona Feldman, burst through the door.
"You'll never guess who's coming to the shop today!" Winona cried excitedly.
"I haven't a clue. Who?"
"Armand Araignée—that's who."
"The great man himself?" Penny asked with disbelief.
She had worked for the exclusive Araignée Salon on Park Avenue for three years and had never once met the owner.
"In the flesh. Simone from the Paris salon just phoned and said he planned on stopping in New York before heading out to the shop on Rodeo Drive."
"I guess we better make sure everything is ship-shape around here."
"Trying to make a good impression on the boss?" Winona laughed.
"No. I just want to avoid making a bad impression on him. After all, I need this job. Unlike you, I don't have a husband to support me."
For the next few hours, between waiting on customers, the two shop associates straightened the items on the shelves, cleaned the glass display cases and swept the showroom floor. All the garments were removed from the dressing rooms and hung back on the racks. While Penny was scouring the sinks in the restrooms, Winona was on the showroom floor to greet the owner.
"Mr. Araignée," she said, shaking the designer's hand, "I am delighted to meet you, sir."
Armand Araignée wore a loosely fitting, white turtleneck sweater and a black leather coat casually draped over his shoulders.
"The pleasure is all mine, my dear," he said graciously, his French accent making the salesgirl's heart flutter.
"To what do we owe this honor?" Winona asked, dying of curiosity.
"I think of my staff as family, so I like to personally meet all my employees. Unfortunately, I have more than a hundred salons around the world, so it sometimes takes a while before I have that opportunity."
The Frenchman looked with unconcealed pride around the shop.
"It must be close to four years since I've been here in New York."
At that moment, Penny, unaware of the owner's arrival, walked out of the men's bathroom, wearing yellow Playtex gloves and carrying a wet toilet bowl brush in her hand. When she saw Armand, her mouth fell open with surprise, and her cheeks blushed red with embarrassment.
"Mr. Araignée," Winona announced, "this is Penny Bradford, the manager of the salon."
Armand tried to hide his amused grin as the plain, awkward young woman fumbled with the Playtex gloves to shake his hand.
"Well, I can see you ladies are busy right now, but if you don't have any plans for this evening, perhaps you would both like to join me for dinner. Your shift ends at five, does it not? I'll be back then to pick you up."
As soon as Araignée left the salon, Winona went to the back room to phone her husband. When she returned to the showroom, her face clearly revealed her disappointment.
"What's wrong? Did someone die?" Penny joked.
"No. I forgot that Steve and I are supposed to have dinner with his new client tonight. Shit! I have the opportunity to dine with Armand Araignée, and instead, I'll have to spend the evening with some retired banker from Saddle Brook, New Jersey."
Penny, whose plans for the evening had been to rent a DVD and microwave a Lean Cuisine frozen entree, hoped that Armand would not change his mind about dinner when he learned that Winona could not make it.
* * *
Armand took his salon's manager to an elegant restaurant in the Village. Penny, who had grown up in a small town in northern New Jersey, was worried that she would have little to discuss with a wealthy Parisian fashion designer who had traveled the world. Penny's fears were unfounded, however. Armand was a man of many interests, and the two of them found several topics for discussion.
After they finished the main course and were waiting for dessert and coffee, the designer shifted the conversation to his employee's personal life.
"I noticed in your personnel file that you have no family."
"That's right. My parents died in a car accident when I was a child."
"What about sisters and brothers?"
"I was an only child. After my folks died, I went to live with my grandmother, but she passed away two years ago. Now I have no one."
"Well, perhaps you'll start a family sof your own soon. Is there a special man in your life?" he asked nonchalantly.
"No, not at the moment."
"I find that hard to believe," Armand told the mousy-looking young woman. "I would think that men would be swarming around you."
"I was always on the timid side. Consequently, I find it difficult to make friends."
"So, you stay home most nights, right?"
"Yes," she admitted shyly. "I guess it's hard for a man like you to understand."
"A man like me?"
"I only meant that you're rich, famous, handsome. You probably never spend a night at home alone."
"You'd be surprised," he laughed. "I rarely get to go out and enjoy myself. I spend most of my time working. When I'm not busy designing my latest collection or opening a new salon, I travel around the world checking on the ones already in operation. And I don't have any family or friends either, Miss Bradford, only business associates."
* * *
Two weeks after Penny had dinner with Armand, she received a phone call from the human resources director of Araignée Design, Inc.
"What did he want?" Winona asked after her coworker hung up the phone.
"I've been given a promotion," her coworker replied. "There's only one catch. The new job is in the Paris salon."
Winona raised her eyebrows.
"That must have been some dinner!" she said, feeling more than a twinge of jealousy. "Why the long face? This is the opportunity of a lifetime."
"I know it is, but frankly I'm more than a little frightened."
"Why? If I were single and offered a job in Paris, I'd accept it in a heartbeat."
"I've never been out of the country, never flown in an airplane and, most importantly, I don't speak French."
"Well, don't worry. Most Europeans are bilingual, so you'll be able to get along just fine speaking English."
Their conversation was cut short by the ringing phone. Once again, it was the human resources director. This time, however, he asked to speak with Winona.
"Guess what," she said with a smile of satisfaction after hanging up the receiver. "I'm the new manager here."
Penny sighed with resignation.
"I guess I now have no choice but to accept the job in Paris."
* * *
Penny was surprised to find Armand Araignée himself waiting for her at Orly Airport. He got her bags from the luggage claim area, and after going through customs, he led her to his Porsche.
As Armand opened the trunk and leaned over to put her suitcases inside, she glimpsed an unusual mark on his neck, one almost covered by his shirt collar. Was it a scar? A birthmark? A tattoo? Penny was curious but thought it would be rude to come out and ask him about it.
Once the trunk was closed, they got in the car and headed for the outskirts of Paris.
"I thought you wouldn't mind staying at my chateau for a few days," Armand said. "That will give you some time to find a place of your own."
A wave of apprehension swept over the timid young woman. She had often heard of women having to perform sexual favors in exchange for career advancement, but she never dreamed she would find herself in such a situation. Besides, weren't fashion designers usually gay?
Armand noticed her uneasiness.
"I hope I didn't give you the wrong idea," he said. "My chateau has more than a hundred rooms and three separate wings. I live in the east wing. The guest rooms, where you'll be staying, are in the west wing. Also, I have twelve live-in domestics, so we won't be living there alone."
Reassured of the designer's honorable intentions, Penny relaxed and enjoyed the sights that Armand pointed out en route to his home. When they arrived at the Chateau Araignée, the American was awed by its beauty and size.
"You actually live here?" she asked. Then she quickly added, "I guess I sound like a backwoods schoolgirl, but I've never met anyone who lived in a castle."
"Don't be too impressed. Even a castle has its disadvantages. It's damp, drafty and extremely high maintenance. Centuries ago, a medieval fortress stood on this land to protect my ancestors from their enemies. The chateau was later built in stages around that fortress. Of course, nearly the entire place has been modernized through the years, but there are still portions of the original structure that remain as they were in the past."
When Armand got her suitcases out of the Porsche's trunk, Penny again spotted the strange mark on his neck. Perhaps before she left the chateau, she would discover what it was.
Once inside, the owner of the castle introduced his employee to his housekeeper, a middle-aged woman who spoke an odd mixture of French and English.
"Yvette will show you to your room," he announced. "When you've had a chance to settle in and freshen up, we'll have dinner in the small dining room. Just ask one of the servants where it is. They'll be glad to show you."
That evening, as they dined on a delicious boeuf bourguignon prepared by Armand's personal chef, Penny asked about her new position.
"Will I be working in the salon itself or in the main office?"
"Neither, actually," her host replied. "Like many of the big names in the fashion world, I employ a talented staff of young designers to handle the off-the-rack line. I have one who does jeans, one who does blouses, another men's suits and so on. That way I can devote my time to the couturier line."
Penny saw the logic in that.
"I often wondered how you managed to design so many outfits every season," she said. "But I don't see where I fit in. I studied merchandising in school, not fashion design."
"I'll do the designing. You, my dear Miss Bradford, are going to be the model."
"Me? A model? You must be joking."
"No. You see, like an artist, I am sometimes inspired to do an original creation. On the flight to Los Angeles the day after our dinner in New York, I had a vision of you in white silk. Since then, I've spent all my free time on your dress."
"I'm deeply flattered, but where would I go to wear an original Armand Araignée—even if I could afford to buy one?"
"Well, the dress wouldn't actually be yours to own. I'll design it with you here to act as a sort of highly paid dressmaker's dummy," he laughed. "You'll then be photographed in the finished gown and, hopefully, I'll sell it to a movie star or an heiress at the spring fashion show. You'll be paid well for your time, I promise you."
"But what will I do when the dress is completed? Winona has been given my old job in the New York salon."
"I'll leave that up to you. We can find a position for you here in Paris, or, if you prefer, you can have your pick of any salon in the States."
Penny could think of no reason why she should not accept the job. It was, after all, the opportunity of a lifetime.
* * *
In the weeks that followed, Armand took detailed measurements of practically every inch of Penny's body. Hours upon end, he labored over hundreds of sketches, trying various combinations of sleeves, necklines, waistlines and hems. One day he would design a dress with a high empire waist. The next day he would drop the waist down and include a full skirt, only to eliminate the waistline entirely the following day. Likewise, the sleeves went through an amazing metamorphosis: sleeveless, short, three-quarter and long; fitted here, loosely flowing, there. The high neck dropped and was replaced by a scoop neck, which was in turn replaced first by a deeply plunging V-neck and then by a more modest bateau neckline.
Penny was kept so busy with sightseeing and sittings during which the designer pinned pieces of paper dress patterns to her form that she never got the chance to find a place of her own. That did not bother her though because she loved living at the chateau. Her room was both elegant and comfortable. The servants not only saw to the housecleaning, but they also did her laundry and cooked her meals. For the first time in her life, the girl from New Jersey felt like a pampered princess, and it was a feeling she liked.
Her only disappointment—and it was a minor one, at that—was that she still had not been able to ascertain what the strange mark on Armand's neck was, not that she had not tried. But he always wore clothing that concealed it. Perhaps this was no accident; maybe the designer was self-conscious about the mark, hence the high collars and the bulky turtleneck sweaters. Fortunately, her dress was still in the design stage. There would be plenty of time yet to observe her employer's mysterious birthmark, tattoo or scar.
One morning as Penny sat across from her employer at breakfast, she noticed that he looked pale and exhausted and had lost a considerable amount of weight since she had arrived in Paris. Yet despite his unhealthy appearance, his spirits were high.
"You know," she said, speaking informally, a testament as to how far their relationship had progressed since she arrived in France, "you don't look too well. Are you feeling all right?"
"I feel great!" he replied jubilantly. "Even though I was up all night working on the dress." He called to the cook, "Marie. More coffee, please. In fact, bring out the whole pot."
"Your hard work is commendable, but you need your sleep."
"Don't worry about me, Mother Hen. I'll sleep like a baby tonight. I'm finished with the design."
"What?" she cried with excitement. "Where is it? Let me see."
"Oh, no. Not yet. You'll see it when it's all done."
"Oh, come on, Armand. I'm dying of curiosity."
"No," he said firmly. "You'll see the dress when it's ready to be worn and not before!"
After breakfast, Penny headed for Armand's studio as was her established routine. She waited there for close to an hour, but he never showed up. After waiting another fifteen minutes, she left a note on his drawing board and returned to her room.
When Armand still had not shone up by dinnertime, she began to worry. After finishing her meal, she walked down the large hall toward the east wing. She passed several open doors and peeked inside each of them, but there was no sign of the designer. Penny also came upon a few doors that were closed. She knocked tentatively on each one, but there was no answer.
At the end of the east wing's main hallway, there was a heavy wooden door with a grated opening. It reminded her of ancient drawbridges and gates to subterranean dungeons.
This must be one of the older parts of the chateau, she assumed, for no modern structure would have such an entry or exit.
With great effort, the young American woman opened the heavy door and found herself in the chateau's turret. The stone staircase spiraled up to the tower, and at the top was another door similar to the one below. A dim light shown through its grate, and she could hear faint sounds coming from above.
Curiosity led Penny up the stairs of the tower. As she climbed higher, the sounds grew louder. Whatever or whoever was in the tower room was making a strange clicking sound, one that reminded her of the sound her grandmother's steel needles made when the old woman knitted.
She reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the heavy door. The room was dimly lit, but she could see her employer, wearing a loosely fitting bathrobe, working over what appeared to be folds of white fabric. When Penny took a closer look, however, she could see that it was not a length of cloth, but rather a pile of silky string or twine. With each clicking sound, the length of thread grew longer. It seemed as though Armand was weaving the fabric himself.
"How unusual!" Penny said as she reached out to touch the delicate threads.
The designer spun around as if he had been attacked. His face was distorted with rage, and the young woman stepped back with fright. Suddenly, the Frenchman grabbed hold of her wrist, and she felt a sharp prick of pain, and then—nothing.
* * *
Penny woke from her drug-induced sleep with difficulty. Her heavy eyelids slowly fluttered open, and it was several minutes before she realized she was in the tower room. A thin, sticky film covered her mouth. When she tried to brush it away, however, she could not move her hands. The same stickiness seemed to engulf her arms and legs.
The odd clicking noise was now coming from behind her and seemed to be moving closer. In her peripheral vision, she spied Armand Araignée methodically draping the silky white thread around her arms.
"Are you working on the dress?" she asked groggily, her mind still confused by the drug he had given her.
The designer said nothing but continued at his task. As Penny's eyes grew accustomed to the dim light of the tower, she saw the network of white silk that stretched horizontally from wall to wall, vertically from ceiling to floor and diagonally from corner to corner. Finally, the fog lifted from her brain, and with a numbing terror, she realized that she was in the center of a giant spider web that Armand was weaving about her.
When the Frenchman's efforts brought him directly in front of her, she realized why he had worn all those high-necked shirts and loose sweaters. They had been designed by Armand himself to hide the eight vestigial hair-covered legs that protruded from his chest and conceal the mysterious mark on his neck. Now that it was clearly visible, she could see that it was not a scar, and despite its distinctly recognizable shape, it did not appear to be a tattoo either. It looked more like a birthmark, one in the image of a spider.
Penny closed her eyes, trying to blot out the horror that surrounded her. In her mind, she imagined herself back home in New Jersey, far away from Chateau Araignée. The steady clicking sound lulled her into a light sleep. Eventually, though, it stopped and left an eerie silence in its wake.
Armand had completed his design. Penny was covered from head to toe in his sticky white silk. There she would remain, imprisoned in his web and kept sedated by his venom, until the deadly man-spider drank his fill and drained every drop of blood from her body.
That design is original, all right. But don't you think it's a little gaudy, Salem?
