Designer Knockoff (3 page)
Clinging to Aaron’s side was the pseudosociety spokesmodel Cordelia Westgate, who provided the youthful glamour that the Bentleys might lack. It was for a glimpse of Cordelia that the entertainment media were on hand. Cordelia was all legs, collagen-enhanced lips, and fluffy blond hair. She wore a jet-black Bentley trench coat, which Lacey found a puzzling choice, especially in the stifling hearing room.
In his opening salvo, Senator John Dashwood snarled over the forty-million-dollar funding snafu. Seated beneath a huge bronze eagle, he held the appropriations bill in his hand and shook it, looking dignified and rather like an eagle himself. “It was understood that this project was to receive no more grants, and yet millions more for this flimsy excuse for cultural edification were somehow surreptitiously stuffed into the budget like a Thanksgiving turkey, and no one is fessing up.” He paused to cast his beady eye over the room. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I will get to the bottom of this mess. I want our witnesses to tell me how we can justify asking the American people at a time like this to support a fashion museum, at a time when we face terrorist threats from far-flung corners of the earth, at a time when our very souls shake from the responsibilities before us.”
The tone of the chairman made it clear he expected to be quoted and he wasn’t about to waste the photo opportunity that a little glamour had brought to his hearing room. “Now we can strike this money from the budget or we can approve it. Frankly my vote is no.”
The ranking minority member, Senator Demetrius Van Drizzen, offered measured support for the museum, but pledged that continuing oversight of funding would be strict. His statement was brief, just long enough to get camera time. Finally, Hugh the B had his chance to speak. His remarks were unexpectedly concise.
“Mr. Chairman, these are dark days indeed, but we have seen darker and we have triumphed. But we cannot succeed by denying everything that edifies our culture, and fashion has a unique and esteemed place in American life. And to speak to that issue, Mr. Chairman, with your permission, I will yield my time to Miss Cordelia Westgate, who has a message for us—from the First Lady of the United States.”
There was a low buzz among the press and the spectators—this development hadn’t been revealed in the preprinted statements. All eyes—and cameras—focused on Cordelia, who slipped off the black trench coat and stood up. She wore a uniform of olive drab, a four-button wool jacket and skirt, a tan cotton shirt with a matching mohair tie. On her feet were brown low-heeled service shoes. There was a muted murmur of interest from the crowd. She looked every inch the part of a Women’s Army Corps officer from World War II. The cameras closed in on her.
“What the heck is she wearing?” Kenyon asked Lacey. The whole tableful of reporters looked to her expectantly for an answer. “And why?”
“I believe it’s a WAC uniform, circa 1943,” Lacey whispered back. “However, it’s been tailored within an inch of its life. As to why ...” She shrugged.
Cordelia, with her beautiful, seen-it-all face, was putting her all into her role as a world-weary soldier. She saluted the chairman, pulled a letter from a leather case as if she were a courier from the front, and read.
“From the White House.“DearChairman Dashwood and Respected Members of the Committee:“Today, you must determine whether to continue funding for the Bentley Museum of American Fashion. I ask you to consider this question with the gravity it deserves and to vote in the affirmative.“There are those who say that fashion is meaningless and that we should not honor it with continuing grantsfor the future of our new national museum, particularly now. They say it is not the right time or the right place. They say that there are other groups more deserving, and their arguments may have some merit. Yet the American clothing industry brings billions of dollars into our economy each year and at the same time expresses our spirit, our mood, our freedom.“The American fashion industry came of age during World War II, another time of great peril for our nation. In addition to doing its part to boost morale at home, the American garment industry clothed our men and women in the armed forces and sent a firm message that the Yanks were coming
—
andthey were coming in style! American industry tooled up to supply uniforms, just as it had to supply our forces with food and ammunition. On the home front
—
cutoff from the traditional fashion leaders in France, Italy, and even in Britain—our designers came up with a new, completely American sensibility in clothes, a sensibility that was flattering, functional, and reflected American freedom, from high fashion to sportswear. Images of American life, the way we dressed and lived our lives, became ambassadors to the world, spread in movies and magazines.“Consider, please, that one of our most basic needs after food and shelter is for clothing that expresses who we are. Fashion can reflect oppression. But in America it reflects freedom. Please continue to support the Bentley Museum of American Fashion so that it can express the best that America has to offer.“I look forward to seeing you all at the opening of the museum in two weeks’ time. Thank you. ”
Cordelia ended with another salute to the senators and the famous beguiling smile that moved Bentley merchandise by the millions. Appreciative chatter rolled through the crowd.
“I wonder if Dashwood’s vote is still no,” Lacey whispered to Kenyon. “He doesn’t look too happy.”
“Wearing the uniform must have been Esme’s idea,” Kenyon told her. “Something patriotic for the cameras. She said she proposed something dramatic.”
“So if it bombs,” Lacey said, “Cordelia looks foolish, and if it goes well, Esme’s a genius. Either way, I bet that wool suit itches.”
Their conversation was cut short. Chairman Dashwood squirmed in his seat and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Miss, um, Miss Westgate, would you care to explain what you are wearing?”
“With pleasure, Senator Dashwood.” Cordelia smiled disarmingly. “This uniform belonged to my grandmother, who was a second lieutenant in the Women’s Army Corps during World War Two. She has donated it to the Bentley Museum for a special exhibit on American military uniforms. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that it was made in America by women who were members of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union.” At the mention of the ILGWU, there was a cheer from the union members in the audience, their modern-day counterparts who belonged to UNITE, the Union of Needletrades, Industrial, and Textile Employees.
“What do you think of that stunt?” Kenyon asked Lacey. The
Post
reporter looked her way and jotted notes.
Post
reporter looked her way and jotted notes.
“It’s great. I only wish her grandmother had been in the Navy. The WAVES uniforms were designed by Mainbocher. Pure class.”
“Who designed the Army’s uniforms?”
“I heard it was a committee. How democratic.”
At the sound of the gavel, Aaron Bentley took his turn as a witness, smoothly clicking off figures that made the fashion industry sound like the engine of the American economy, calculated to warm the hearts of Republicans on the Senate panel. But handsome and glib though he was, he didn’t add any sizzle to the proceedings.
Not like a pretty spokesmodel wearing something unexpected,
Lacey thought.
Not like a pretty spokesmodel wearing something unexpected,
Lacey thought.
Following his remarks, the Bentleys were on their feet and moving out of the hearing room, and so were half the reporters. They didn’t wait for the union witnesses to begin their statements. The glamour was wherever the Bentleys were.
Aaron slid past Lacey’s table with Cordelia on his arm and Lacey heard her complain
sotto voce,
“I’ve got to get out of this thing, darling. You have no idea how hot it is.”
sotto voce,
“I’ve got to get out of this thing, darling. You have no idea how hot it is.”
“Just be glad we didn’t make you wear the khaki rayon panties, the girdle, the rayon stockings, and the jersey slip,” Aaron whispered as he squeezed her elbow. “Now smile pretty, Cordy; this is your big moment. Maybe you could salute.” Cordelia jabbed him quickly in the ribs before returning to her role and smiling for the cameras.
Khaki panties.
It was a lovely tidbit; Lacey wrote it down. The media swarm closed around Aaron Bentley and Cordelia Westgate, and Lacey tried to figure out how best to approach Hugh the B, who was also being swallowed up by a smaller circle of reporters. She was trying to elbow her way in as unobtrusively as possible when she suddenly caught his eye.
It was a lovely tidbit; Lacey wrote it down. The media swarm closed around Aaron Bentley and Cordelia Westgate, and Lacey tried to figure out how best to approach Hugh the B, who was also being swallowed up by a smaller circle of reporters. She was trying to elbow her way in as unobtrusively as possible when she suddenly caught his eye.
For a moment Hugh stared at Lacey; then he drew up his silver-handled walking stick and waved it around like a rapier to carve out some room. He motioned for Lacey to come closer. The crowd grudgingly parted for her.
“Young woman, young woman, is that an original Bentley suit you’re wearing, or just a copy? Let me take a look at you—my God, it is my suit! And it’s in beautiful shape. I’d know that suit anywhere.” He lifted his eyes from her to the crowd and addressed them like a circus barker. “That suit, ladies and gentlemen, was from my very first collection, the one that made my reputation, at least in a small way. Fall of 1944,” Hugh said. “And this lovely young lady has brought it back to life. My dear, my dear, come tell me your name. You and I must talk.”
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
Experienced Washington observers will have taken note of the predominant Washington look. You see it everywhere—in the halls of Congress, walking down K Street, or just squeezing the oranges at Safeway. The look that says, “We are serious.”
Washington style is serious with a capital S, serious as in we-are-messing-with-your-lives serious, we are writing your laws, we are collecting your taxes, and we are spending your money. (It’s for your own good.) And when we say serious, we mean
Serious!
Serious!
White this is the accepted look for the gray and graying federal workforce, it seems unnaturally somber in the young. Unfortunately, Washington is positively drenched in the look of the tragically drab Young Fogey. Test yourself to see if you are among the Prematurely Serious:
• You put on your photo ID tag before you leave your home. You wear it everywhere, even to go to the video store. Or perhaps you never take it off. You feel naked without it. You have a serious identity—you need serious identification.
• Casual Fridays make you tense. Casual is not Serious. If you wanted to be casual, you’d live in California, for pity’s sake. So you wear a tie anyway, or heels and hose, and a smart navy blazer. “Oh, is it Friday already?” you say. “I’ve been so busy, I lost track of time. The weekend? Oh, I’ll be working all weekend.”
• Your wardrobe consists entirely of black, navy, taupe, gray, and white. You think of the taupe outfit as your reckless, devil-may-care look.
• Color makes you nervous, and bright shades of pink, yellow, and purple cause you to break out in a sweat. In fact, those are colors you’d only wear in a sweatshirt, and only at the gym, where exercise is Serious Business.
• Makeup? Contacts? A makeover, a great new haircut, a dress you couldn’t possibly wear to the office? Fine for other people, people who don’t have Serious Jobs. But when
you
need a new look, there’s always your impressive collection of Serious Spectacles, including horn-rims, wire frames, aviators, frameless frames, and those little tiny frames that make you look like Ben Franklin’s bookkeeper.
• Hair can be sporty, seductive, creative, carefree, or Serious. Like yours. “Hair? What’s wrong with my hair? I don’t have time to fuss with my hair. I’m late, I have a meeting, I have Serious Work to do!”
Think about it, Oh ye who are Prematurely Serious. There must be some way to fit into Washington, D.C., without blending into its bland wallpaper. When a thousand identical khaki trench coats march down K Street, it looks like some kind of conspiracy, a convention of federal agents, a conference of the Brotherhood (or Sisterhood) of the Serious. But, hear me, Oh Serious ones, you don’t have to be part of the conspiracy of the dull and drab. There is help for the Prematurely Serious, even here in our Nation’s Capital. Stick with me, and help is on the way.
Chapter 2
Lacey was surprised to find herself seated at Hugh Bentley’s side at lunch at SeaWorthy, the exclusive new seafood restaurant on K Street, but she didn’t question her good fortune. Hugh had insisted on sweeping her up in the Bentley entourage, ostensibly to discuss her vintage Bentley suit, and Lacey was perfectly wiling to let herself be flattered by the old rake.
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