The Dressmaker (45 page)

“Whoever got that indictment quashed knew what they were doing,” he said, breaking into her recounting. “Maybe somebody worried about what Tess would do. Lucile’s sister, the Hollywood gal?”

“Elinor? I don’t think so. She’s in a different kind of world.”

“Who did Tess dump the sailor for?”

She started. He must have heard Jim telling her what happened. “I don’t know.”

“Has to be someone connected with the hearings or the dress shop. She hasn’t been here long enough to meet anyone else.”

She sighed, and put the bowl of cold soup down on the table next to her father’s bed. “I don’t know why I care,” she said.

“Work and your feelings are getting all mixed up, aren’t they, kid?”

She nodded numbly.

“Well, it’s not a crime to lose objectivity, even in our business. Who matters more to you, Sarah? Jim or Tess? It sounds complicated, and you may have to choose.”

His voice was stronger than she expected—and so was her answer. “They’re both my friends,” she said.

He knew when to stop talking. The two of them sat in silence until Pinky groped for a handkerchief in her skirt pocket and blew her nose with vigor.

“You’re shaking the bed,” he said, and chuckled.

She flashed him a grin and tucked the handkerchief back into her pocket. “I’ll go fix us both a decent dinner,” she said, getting up.

“You know what I think?” he said as she started to leave the room. “I think I see your future, Sarah. It’s a good one. A happy one.”

“What do you see?”

“You’re going to put on your hat and travel the world. You’re going to dance across the moon. I’ll bet on it.” His face crinkled into a smile.

“I don’t want you gone,” she whispered.

“I know, kid. I love you, too.” His smile broadened. “By the way, I have a hunch about who killed that indictment.”

“You do?” Startled, Pinky almost dropped the bowl of soup. “Who?”

“You’re a good reporter. You figure it out.”

J
ess paced the floor of her flat, counting the steps back and forth. Anything to pass the time. Lucile’s show would begin with high tea at two in the afternoon, a little early for teatime, but in America it apparently didn’t matter. She would show up just before the show began, and who knew how Lucile would react? Was she crazy to have agreed to this?

She stopped pacing and briefly closed her eyes, thinking of what was now going on in that magical loft. The lighting was being adjusted, the curtains arranged, the programs—she had seen the design, and it was quite striking—were being arranged at the door. The music stands—for Lucile’s favorite string quartet—were being set up next to the catwalk. All of this, now, today, farther away from her than ever before.

Slowly she looked around her small room, memorizing its contours. Goodbye to all this, and don’t waste time feeling sorry for yourself—ups and downs and all that. And there would be work; she would design and stitch and do what she did best. She would be afraid, but she could do it. She sat down on that thought and stared out the window, willing herself to look beyond the obvious: to see what was hidden in the trees, behind the buildings; the small markers of what came next, discreetly etched. Look for them.

“Move, move, everybody move!” Lucile clapped her hands, surveying the frenetic activity in her loft, now magically transformed to the House of Lucile, caught up in the last-minute frenzy of preparation, giddy with pleasure.

“The gowns are
spectacular
,” Elinor murmured as her eye took in the scene.

“Indeed, they are. The mannequins, of course, are American—not quite up to British standards but reasonably sophisticated all the same,” Lucile said. “If they only had the discipline to walk for two hours each morning with books balanced on their heads, they would have decent posture, but no, Americans like to slouch.” She rolled her eyes, then clapped her hands. At her order, each model obediently strolled the runway, taking a practice turn for Lucile’s inspection. Good, lips were rouged properly, hair arranged the way she wanted—then she frowned.

“What happened to the boutonniere I wanted on that girdle?” she demanded of one of the mannequins.

“The flowers were soiled, Madame,” the girl answered nervously. “I took them off.”

Lucile impaled her on an icy stare. “Then why didn’t you speak up so new flowers could be made? I fear you have no brains in your head. Just feathers.”

Elinor tapped her sister on the arm. “Not worth a scene,” she said. “You don’t want a mannequin crying.”

Lucile turned away with a dismissive exclamation, stalking over to the tea tray and picking up each cup for inspection. “These are not clean,” she announced loudly.

“They are, Madame. I think you’re seeing a slight discoloration,” said James quickly. “But we’ll have them rewashed immediately.”

Lucile returned to her sister, pulling her to a corner of the room. “Is Mary Pickford coming?” she asked in a low voice.

“She promised, for what that’s worth,” Elinor replied. “She might want something modern—”

“
Why
, for heaven’s sake? What is wrong with these actresses? Don’t they understand that they look sensual and beautiful in my
gowns? Hollywood is so vulgar. Really, Elinor, I don’t know how you can live and work there.”

Elinor smiled a bit tightly. “It pays, dear sister. And a vulgar movie star who doesn’t bother reading the newspapers is just what you need today.”

Lucile deflated instantly, as limp and flat as a punctured balloon.

“I know, I know—I’m just being cruel.” Even Elinor couldn’t bring up the absence of Cosmo’s comforting, supportive presence.

“Is it going to be a disaster?” Lucile asked.

“Not with a little bit of luck.” There was no use telling Lucile of the dozens of last-minute invitations hand-delivered last night to second-tier members of New York society. Lucile would scorn many of them, but that was a problem for later. All she needed to do was fill the damn room.

Lucile lifted her chin high. “I will see it through with dignity.”

Elinor patted her arm. “Said with a minimum of drama, dear. I’ll be here, whatever happens. Remember, no tears. You can’t risk swollen eyes today. Not pretty.”

The sun was high when Tess left her room and walked out to the street to make her way to 160 Fifth Avenue. She would walk slowly and wait within a few yards of Lucile’s studio until the clients had arrived. Recognition was not a problem; she was just a name in the papers, no more than that.

“Tess? What are you doing here?”

She turned to see Pinky’s astonished face. “Showing up one last time,” she said as calmly as she could.

Pinky’s eyes widened. “After quitting? You’re backing out of that?”

“No.” How to explain? “I’m not going to stomp on her. She has too much at stake today.”

Pinky looked genuinely baffled. “This is a cruel woman who was ready to ruin Jim. And you’re going to support her today?”

“She wasn’t the one doing that; it was Cosmo. I’m not here to defend her.” Tess wanted Pinky to understand. “I’m paying back a debt, in the only way I can. She brought me here.”

“Pretty expensive passage, I’d say.”

Tess tried to smile. “I agree. But remember what Jean Darling said? Pinky, don’t always be a reporter.”

“I’m not, that’s part of my trouble,” Pinky said with a sudden wistful smile. “Tess, I’ve got news, too. The
World
offered me a job. More money.”

“That’s wonderful. Aren’t you happy?”

“Not really. It’s a rag. Well, at least compared to the
Times
.”

“But—”

“I know. I don’t have much choice.”

“Are you sure?”

Pinky was too surprised to answer. They stood together in silence, watching as the first black town car rolled up in front of the House of Lucile. It was half past one o’clock.

“How many? Maybe I’ve miscounted.” Tess hoped she had.

“Ten cars, fifteen women. Plus a few reporters I know, all ready to write about the death of the House of Lucile. How many was she expecting?”

“Over fifty. Please don’t rub your hands in glee.”

“Look, I hate her pretensions, but I saw how defeated she looked yesterday. I’m not completely hardened, you know.”

“Who is that?” Tess pointed at a woman emerging from one of the automobiles. “She’s beautiful.”

Pinky followed her gaze to a carefully dressed woman wrapped in a feathery silk coat. “That’s Jack Bremerton’s
first
ex-wife—big scandal when he divorced her,” she said. The statuesque Mrs. Bremerton stood, immobile and queenly, waiting for the doorman to open the door of the building.

Pinky turned and saw the bright flush spreading across Tess’s face as she stared at the woman. “Tess?”

Slowly, Tess transferred her gaze back to Pinky. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she said.

More cars were drawing to the curb. A sudden flurry of aides tumbled from them, bowing and murmuring obsequiously, holding out their hands to assist the brightly lipsticked women emerging like gauzy puffs of color from their limousines.

“The stars have arrived,” Pinky said, pulling out her notebook. “I’ve got to get over there. See you inside.”

“Who is it?”

“First one is Pickford. Second one is Duncan, the one with the scarf.”

“I didn’t think they would come.”

Pinky gave her a slightly exasperated look. “With all these reporters here, why wouldn’t they show up? What actress wouldn’t?” And she was gone, hurrying toward the door as the silver heels of a tiny Mary Pickford disappeared inside.

Tess prepared to enter herself as three more cars drew up and stopped. Several women emerged from each car, straightening hats and tugging at their wraps, then stood somewhat awkwardly on the sidewalk as if awaiting orders.

Just then Elinor emerged from the building, nodded briskly, and ushered them in, whispering instructions. She glanced up, saw Tess, and nodded in the direction of the women.

“Shopgirls hired to fill the room. Are you coming?” she asked with a smile.

Tess nodded, marveling at Elinor’s resourcefulness. She would do anything to get her sister through this. And if agreeing to show up was some sort of trap for Tess, it was too late to back out now.

The loft was transformed. Even though she had been part of the preparations, Tess felt swept away by the elegant results. The chiffon-draped stage was lit from beneath by hidden spotlights that cast a glow as soft as candlelight. It was all dazzling and magical, just as she had known it would be. To the side, partly hidden, Lucile’s musicians were playing something beautiful. She wished she knew what it was. There was so much to learn.

James and a couple of aides were quietly removing the two back rows of chairs, the noise masked by the music. Servants in black
dresses and crisp, white linen aprons were serving tea, while reporters, including Pinky, stood along the walls, relegated to the sidelines.

Lucile, dressed in a plum-colored Grecian tunic, her brilliant red hair piled high and a queenly smile on her face, was greeting each guest with just the right combination of warmth and hauteur. Watching her, Tess realized that she was seeing the full magical creation of “Madame Lucile” for the first time.

James spied her, his eyes widening in shock. It occurred to Tess that he might think she was here to cause a disruption. And she might, without intending to, if Lucile, the ever-mercurial Lucile, spotted her and ordered her to leave. She could only hope Elinor was right—that the one thing Lucile craved today was to avoid humiliation.

The musicians paused as Lucile mounted the stage, a spotlight on her determinedly calm face. “My dear friends, you are about to see an
extraordinary
collection; I would venture that it is the best of my career. I am sure you will all agree.” She nodded slightly to a secretary holding the all-important order book. Tess knew the message: the secretary was to watch reactions to each gown. After the show, she would quietly approach clients whose interest seemed most likely to translate into a purchase. Very discreetly, of course.

Elinor, sitting near the front, glanced back at Tess, raising a questioning eyebrow. But Tess couldn’t get her legs to move.