I sat next to him, saying nothing, but took stock of his profile.
He was nothing much to look at. As with many Vietnamese, he was smaller than I, but held an air of ruthlessness and command, which, judging by the way the men around him leaped whenever he spoke, he knew how to use power. He seemed insignificant to Western eyes, with old-fashioned spectacles, he looked like a clerk or minor civil servant. His suit was plain and dark, not locally made, if I judged correctly, but fitted immaculately. However, the Rolex on his wrist was another sign that he was no clerk or minor official.
I glanced at the three women in his group. None appeared to be his wife, as they were all too young and dressed slightly too provocatively to be married to a middle-aged ex-military commander. One was nearer his age, but did not behave as if she enjoyed an intimate relationship with the man. Neither did the others appear to 'belong' to any of the entourage. I was left with the impression that the younger girls had a function if ever Pho decided he needed anything done, and I mean anything!
He pointed at a ghastly dress that seemed to be a collection of holes tied up with string.
“How about that?” he asked.
“I wouldn't bother putting it out if it was on fire,” I said.
This made Pho laugh, so he repeated my comments in Vietnamese, which made the others laugh. I caught some nasty looks from a hatchet-faced woman opposite and her companions, so I guessed that either she was the designer or had something to do with it.
“What you have to ask yourself, will this sell to an overweight consumer who has neither the figure nor the bank balance to support it? If not, then don't touch it,” I said.
“I do not fully appreciate why these people seem to make so much money, for their designs never seem to hit the shops in significant numbers,” he said to me.
“It's all a matter of profile. If they persuade sufficient persons of suitable standing to buy and wear their designs, then the fashionable elite, a small but wealthy minority, will buy their designs. If one of their designs is worn and seen on the red carpet at a Hollywood premier or at a European Royal Wedding, then it’s made it. What they don't fully appreciate is that outside, in the real world, few people have heard of them, and those who have, can't afford the unrealistic prices their pieces fetch. That's why the copycat market is so lucrative.”
“What is the view of officialdom of the copies?” he asked, genuinely interested.
“There are two types of copy. The first are counterfeit goods, labelled and pretending to be the real thing. Usually, these can be seen for what they are with ease, but there are some very good copies that fool all but the most careful scrutiny. The owners of the genuine labels create such a fuss that the authorities are duty bound to enforce the laws and prosecutions are common all across Europe and North America, although only the tip of the iceberg ever comes to light.
“The second type makes no pretence of being the genuine article. They use inferior materials and can often be poorly finished. Some, however, are good products, and can be found in respectable outlets, such as Marks & Spencers in London. They resemble the originals in general appearance and cut, but often the patterns and detail are subtly different. These are the ones that make the money, as people who want the real thing but can't afford it, simply want to look fashionable without paying silly money for a label.”
Pho's expression was unreadable. I did catch a glint of humour in his eye.
“I will tell you a secret, mademoiselle. I happen to have an interest in some factory outlets that produce this last type of copy. It is for that reason I am here, to see the latest fashions and to prejudge the next seasons fashions.” He waved at the eldest of the three women. “This lady runs my design team, so she is here to get an idea what the western women will want to buy nest year. Her name is Ha'ng.”
Ha'ng smiled thinly at me, so I nodded in return.
“You will come and work for me, yes?” Pho' asked.
Shaking my head, I grinned at him.
“No thanks, I already have a job.”
He did not seem at all put out, smiling and looking away, as a new model started down the walk.
“No matter, now, what about this one?”
The model was very tall, I mean not far off six feet, but very slender, so she looked even taller in her high heels. She was African, but her features were finer than many of the Africans one sees in the West, but without looking anorexic. She was stunning, walking with a rhythm that seemed to encompass her race.
The colours of her dress were russet-red and brown, with some yellow for contrast. The style was out of this world. I'd never seen anything like her dress. I say dress, as I hadn't the words to describe it. She showed most of her lovely long legs, accentuated by high-heeled boots that came to just below her knees. They had studs on them all the way up, looking fantastic and futuristic.
The dress itself clung to her shape, accentuating what figure and curves she possessed, clearly designed to flatter the female form. It was vibrant in colour and appeared to be almost a living, breathing organism.
The sharp intake of breath by many in the audience meant that others felt as I did.
“Now that is wonderful, but I can't see it in the high street,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the girl.
She reached the furthest point of the catwalk, turned and started to walk back. As she drew level with us, her eyes caught mine and we locked stares for the briefest of moments.
She was utterly gorgeous.
I saw her lips twitch from the frozen smile into a smile of genuine warmth for a microsecond, and then she was gone.
“That would be very difficult to produce cheaply,” Ha'ng said, watching the tall girl disappear.
I'm not sure what I was actually thinking, but for a moment, all I could think about was the girl. It was the first time that someone managed to take my breath away, so I felt confused and slightly ashamed. I also became aware that it wasn’t an overtly sexual attraction, as I experienced no feeling like that. I simply found the girl amazingly stunning and, as I analysed my feelings, my shame became deeper as it dawned on me that I felt faintly jealous.
I admired her and wanted to emulate her. I actually desired to look as good as she did, and the discovery made me feel slightly nauseous.
What the hell was happening to me?
I looked around the large room. Most of the attention was on the models on the catwalk, but on the fringes, people were conversing and there was almost a party atmosphere. I caught my reflection in the long mirror that ran almost the length of one of the walls.
I stared at the girl who stared back at me with a small smile on her face. It wasn’t me; everything inside me told me it wasn’t so, but that thought seemed to make her smile a little more. Nothing about her told the truth, and nothing about her appeared to be the man who had suffered in the hellish jail that was a short distance from this very room.
“Are you all right?” a voice jerked me back to reality.
Or was it?
What was real?
I didn’t know any more.
Turning to Pho’, I simply smiled and nodded, unwilling to speak, as I feared my voice may give away my uncertainty.
Concentrating on the models and the creations they modelled, I succeeded in carrying on with my charade. By the end of the day’s proceedings, Pho’ seemed more than satisfied with my assessments of the different garments, and after a brief consultation with Ha’ng, I sat back, feeling relieved it the show was over.
The models and various designers were all doing their final bit for the crowd, receiving much applause, but Pho’s interest was over. He was on his cell phone talking Vietnamese at ninety-nine to the dozen. His aides were collecting their bits and pieces ready for the off.