The Pink Suit: A Novel (12 page)

In lush times, back in Cobh, if there wasn't a wake, the old coffin table would be carried outside and covered with food. There'd be a rump of lamb from one of the farms on the other side of the island, and bowls of roasted turnips and carrots, mashed potatoes and wild ramps. And, of course, a sticky toffee or a sweet summer pudding covered in a tart mash of crushed blackberries and strawberries that had been gathered in the forest on the way home from the convent church. Whatever wild mushrooms they had found would be browned in pork fat until crisp. There would be warm brown bread with sweet cream butter served with all manner of cheese and smoked wild salmon; and, because it was Cobh, whatever the Old Man and Kate had caught that morning in the harbor aboard the
Bébhinn,
that tiny boat of his, would fill out the feast. It was usually pollock but sometimes bream or skate—whatever could be caught, skinned, and poached would fill the ticket. Even eel would not be thrown back but smoked and served cold. And there would be music. And dancing.

If there was a wake, however, the body would be on the table, and the food would be lined up on assorted blankets strewn upon the thick, green grass.

Patrick stopped at a red light. Rose's engine idled. “You don't have to answer right away,” he said.

“That girl the other night at the pub—”

“Just a girl, I told you.”

“The poem you left, the Yeats—”

“I meant it.”

Kate had seen the way other women looked at him at the shop, but before she could say another word, Patrick stopped her. “The truth is, I could drive all night with you, Kate. I can't say that about many.”

That was as close to a confession of love as Kate had ever expected from him or from anyone. She spent her days imagining other people's lives, stitch by stitch. The ivory silk of romance was not for a woman such as Kate.

“I don't know if I'll be good at marriage,” she said.

“I don't know anyone who is.”

The Wife,
Kate thought, and picked the last bit of pink whorl from her skirt and let it fly out the window and into the cold night.

Maggie Quinn and Big Mike might have seen Patrick park the car in front of the building and put the top up. They might have seen him walk up the stairway with Kate—but they didn't come out of their apartment. They might have even heard when Patrick, out of nervousness, dropped Kate's keys in the hallway, and then the jingle that they made when he unlocked her door. It didn't matter. At that moment, the entire world seemed asleep except for Patrick and Kate.

“Don't turn on the lights,” she said, and so he didn't.

Kate took Patrick's hand and walked him past the Chanel toile, folded neatly on her cutting table and now gathering dust, past the slight kitchen, packed with Maggie's boxes, all those little coffins filled with the shadows of the First Lady, arranged in alphabetical order, and into her bedroom. Kate's single bed was pushed up against the bank of windows. Her bathrobe was a puddle on the floor. The moon was indifferent. Instead of stars, streetlights huddled around each window. Incandescent voyeurs, they shone though the lace curtains that had taken Kate nearly the summer to make.

Her coat.

Her hat.

One shoe.

Then the next.

Another rule broken,
Kate thought as she undid the buttons of her dress and let it slip to the ground. Patrick brushed his hand against her cheek, as if by accident. His eyes were the kind of blue that sailors fear—a blue so calm that the possibility of danger is forgotten. They were the kind of blue that invites recklessness. With his lips against hers—there was heat. Again. It surprised her.

One stocking was unrolled, and then the next.

Each kiss was a question that they lingered on, until finally Patrick said, “Kate, are you sure you want to do this?”

The answer was no. She wasn't sure at all. But he knew that. Patrick picked up her bathrobe from the floor and wrapped it around her as if he'd done it all his life. “Sit,” he said, although his voice cracked a bit. He slipped her feet into the pair of thick cotton socks that she'd laid on top of her dresser.

“You need some sleep.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

He pulled back the blankets, and she slid between them. She was tired. She hadn't noticed before. Patrick appeared not to listen as she said her evening prayer, but when she finished, Patrick said, “Amen.” He had prayed too.

“I should go,” he said.

“No.”

Kate moved over slightly. The bed was so narrow, there wasn't much room.

“Can you just hold me?” she asked.

“I can.”

Patrick lay down on top of the blanket: afraid to crush her, afraid to breathe. Kate closed her eyes. He slipped his arm around her as if he were a giant who had hoped that the story would end with the words
ever after
—or maybe never end at all. He kissed her hands gently, as if they were made of china. After she fell asleep and was safely deep in dreams, he left quietly, quickly. He was careful not to wake her. When Patrick closed the door behind him, he made sure the lock caught.

O
n Monday morning, Mr. Charles was waiting for Kate in the workroom, wearing his best suit, the black pinstripe with the dove-gray vest, and the soft Italian loafers he only wore for important clients. The silver of his hair looked newly minted. There'd been a change in plans. He now had a backer for his shop. He was going to make the announcement that day. Mr. Charles needed an answer. Kate needed to work.

“Just hear me out,” he said, and sat down in Kate's chair in what Maeve called his “Rat Pack pose,” with a cigarette in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, talking at her, not to her. Kate leaned across the large layout table and began to carefully pin the delicate navy lining to the pink bouclé so that she could quilt the two pieces together. She was tired of steaming the fabric, tired of trying to block it. Clearly, it did not intend to stop shedding. So she decided that she would just quilt and try to tame the bouclé that way. Kate was trying to concentrate, while Mr. Charles was trying to make a point.

“You have to say yes, Kitty,” he said. “Not just for me, but yourself. You were born to it. Like Vreeland was born to it.”

Kate understood. A desire for perfection had led Mrs. Vreeland to open her own lingerie shop in Mayfair, and that began her career all those years ago, and that desire was just like Kate's. Mr. Charles did have a point.

“She had her nightgowns fitted at least three times. Did I tell you this?”

He had. Twice. Mr. Charles was getting as bad as the Ladies.

“Her kippers were cloistered nuns,” he said. “Their finishing work was so beautiful, customers would weep.”

Kate had to wonder what the nuns embroidered on negligees that would made grown women cry, or why the sisters even agreed to do that sort of work. Handkerchiefs were usually the only accessories within their purview. There had to be some sort of commandment that forbade nuns from embellishing knickers, although Kate couldn't think of one.
God leaves too many loopholes,
she thought, and made a note to speak with Father John about that at a later date.

By now, the other girls had arrived for the day and were working around them. The mice of Ready-to-Wear were laughing, gossiping, and zipping through seams at their usual breakneck pace. Maeve was basting the marks she'd made on a white Dior gown that had to be let out because some nameless debutante had had too much French pastry, pâté, and cheese on a recent sojourn. “Kate, are you listening to me?” Mr. Charles said.

“Shouldn't you keep your voice down?”

“No one cares,” he said, but he began to whisper anyway. “The point I am trying to make is that when Wallis Simpson bought three nightgowns prior to her weekend with the Duke of Windsor, it was quite clear that Mrs. Vreeland's tiny shop had work brilliant enough to bring down an empire. That made it famous. That's what we'll do. That's what we can do together, if you trust me. We could make the clothes that change the world.”

Kate grimaced. The American divorcée and the duke—everyone knew that story. But the idea of Mrs. Simpson buying naughty knickers for their tryst seemed to make the fairy-tale romance disappointingly tawdry.

Mr. Charles took a long sip of coffee and a drag from his cigarette. He was planning to announce the new venture at closing time. “Right before everyone goes home, so there's no time for extended, tearful good-byes.”

Maybe this was a good idea—exciting, even—but Kate couldn't leave Chez Ninon now.

“What about this suit?”

“Are you in, Kate?”

Mr. Charles seemed to avoid looking at her. He was looking at his manicure instead. It was disconcerting. He clearly didn't understand what was at stake. This was the first line-by-line Chanel that the Ladies had ever done. And it was certainly a first for Kate, and maybe the last.

“I have to finish it.”

Mr. Charles fingered a corner of the bouclé until it began to unravel again. “Kitty, it's just day wear. Unimportant. The Ladies will find someone else. The Wife will soon be coming to us directly.”

The idea seemed impossible for Kate to believe unless this new mystery backer was Mrs. Vreeland herself. The editor had, after all, helped with the design of the inauguration gown, and quite a few other things, too. She was very close to the Wife.

“Kitty. Trust me. This suit is insignificant,” he said. “It's not like the India dress.”

“It's a Chanel.”

“No, it's not. It's a Kitty,” Mr. Charles said as he walked away, trailing blue smoke behind him. “See you at six.”

Kate looked at the Wife's drawing again. The wrap-over skirt, the unfitted jacket, the gold buttons—all offset by that brilliant chameleon-like pink. She imagined the First Lady in it, waving and smiling. Tilting her extraordinary head just so as she announced how sad she was that Camp David was not suitable for her children, because her children were remarkable, and you do not send the children of destiny to a backwater camp with bears and mud—or whatever she'd say.
No matter what she says, it won't matter. The entire time that the Wife will be speaking, the perfect pink bouclé will catch the light in so many ways and give her skin such a sweet, childlike glow that no one will remember exactly what she says. Cotton candy, climbing roses, the blush of brides—that is what will be remembered. Not the excuse.

“I can't leave the suit,” Kate said, but Mr. Charles was gone.

Twist your thread, wax your thread—Kate repeated this over and over again. The needle was so very small. The silk thread was slippery and too delicate to use. It was slow going. The bouclé needed to be quilted to the silk with the smallest of stitches, in tiny, straight rows, one inch apart, before anything could be cut or sewn together. And each stitch had to be perfect. The notes from Chanel demanded it.

The wax smoked and made Kate cough. The thin silk thread broke with alarming regularity. The eye of the needle seemed to grow smaller each time she had to thread it. This wasn't just any sort of lining for any sort of jacket—the quilting of lining to the bouclé was what made this jacket extraordinary. There was no way to explain it—it went against reason—but each minute stitch provided not only structure and support but an incredible softness.

Every now and then, Kate would pick the fabric up and rub it against her cheek quickly. She was careful not to stain it with the oil of her skin. She just wanted to commit the feeling of it to memory. How could something that looked so practical feel so luxurious? That quality, the “poverty de luxe,” or “luxe cachet,” as the Ladies called it, that “hidden luxury,” was what made Chanel remarkable.

Twist. Wax. Twist. Lunch came and went without her. Kate's tea turned cold. Her hands became so cramped that she could barely rub them together to warm them. But she had to keep going. She needed to get as much work done as possible so she could leave early—preferably before Mr. Charles's announcement—and go to mass at St. Patrick's. And, after last weekend, to confession, too.

I have lost my mind,
Kate thought, and yet she could not stop thinking about the scent of Patrick's skin, the rhythm of his breath, and of falling into a soft sleep in his arms. Of course, she was too embarrassed to tell any of this to Father John. At St. Patrick's, no one knew her. Or Patrick Harris. If Kate got off a few minutes early and ran all the way there, it would not be communion yet, and, technically, if you arrived before the Liturgy of the Eucharist, you'd have legally attended—at least, that was what Maeve always said. And she would know. Maeve made it a practice to slide into the Good Shepherd just before the host was raised, as if she were blocking a kick full bore between the crossbars.

“Maeve, could you cover for me tonight? Just ten minutes?” Kate said. Maeve grunted, which probably meant yes. She was still struggling with the white Dior. Its beaded bodice needed some sort of insert, which would ruin the dress completely.

“Can I count on you to clock me out at six, then?”

“Sure,” Maeve said. She didn't even look up, which was odd. In fact, now that Kate thought about it, no one had actually looked at her directly all day long. Something was wrong. Kate went into the loo to look in the mirror. Her white cotton shirt needed ironing; the back of it looked like an accordion. And she'd forgotten to put on nylons and makeup. She'd been so busy worrying about Patrick Harris and her immortal soul that she'd come to work looking a sight.

Kate wished that someone would have said something earlier, but no one had. Maybe they didn't even notice. Maybe they never noticed her. Even Schwinn, who came to ask Kate about the schedule, never even met her eye.

Invisible,
she thought.

Kate wondered how many days in the past six years she'd come to work and gone completely unnoticed. Even when Miss Sophie stopped by after lunch to examine the quilting, she said only, “Good job.” Then walked away. Maybe Mr. Charles was right. Mrs. Vreeland was an exceedingly plain woman: horse faced, an ugly child even by her mother's own account. Yet she grew to be someone so unblinkingly brave that she lived in an apartment, which was entirely beet red, and instructed women to do and wear all manner of absolutely outrageous things: “Why don't you wash your blond child's hair in dead champagne, as they do in France? Or wear violet velvet mittens with everything? Or turn your old ermine coat into a bathrobe?” And who on earth wants to have huge spots of red on their ears? Mrs. Vreeland. And if she does, then everyone else does, too.

I could do that,
Kate thought.
I really could.

But the pink suit was still on Kate's table.

At five-thirty, Kate knew she had to leave before Mr. Charles got back from wherever he was. He'd been gone all day. She leaned in to Maeve and quietly said, “If I leave now, I can catch the reading of the Gospel. I always like the opening salvo. You still okay to cover for me?”

Maeve had torn the entire beaded bodice out of the white Dior gown and was piecing in an insert that would not match. “Right,” she said.

That was a good-enough answer for Kate. She covered the quilted pink bouclé with a length of cotton and gently rolled it. She then tied it with a white satin ribbon. She placed it on her desk, out of the way. No one seemed to notice that she'd stopped working.
Of course not,
she thought,
because I'm invisible.

When she put on her kid gloves, which were now at least a size too small, and also the somewhat wilted Lilly Daché hat, the din of the sewing machines and the gossip only seemed to grow louder.

“I'm leaving,” Kate said again.

Maeve looked at her directly. “Another convertible ride at midnight? Maybe you should fix your hair first.”

“What?”

Before Maeve could say more, Miss Sophie walked into the room. “Yes. Do fix your hair,” she said. “You have a gentleman caller, and he's bearing meat.”

In the blue sea of the Ladies' office, Patrick Harris had pulled up a side chair and was sitting at the nearly French desk, with the Ladies. They were radiant. It was as if it were Christmas morning: tape and shreds of butcher paper littered the faux Louis XIV table. Patrick Harris really had brought meat. That was probably why they'd let him in the front door.

The three of them were sitting around the delicate gilt desk, chatting away as if it were perfectly natural to be in a fashionable ladies' shop in Manhattan looking at raw pork. For Miss Sophie, Patrick had brought a huge slab of pork belly, skin on. It was ready for the roaster. For Miss Nona, there was a package of both white and black puddings, with the sausages wrapped together in a braid. Patrick was quite famous in Inwood for his sausages. He was very particular about what kind of pig the blood came from and how the oatmeal was cut.

Kate now knew what part of the pig Patrick Harris thought of the Ladies as—the cheap yet tasty bits.
Cheeky,
Kate thought.

“Good meat is one of life's sublime pleasures, Ladies,” Patrick said in his charming butcher voice. The Ladies giggled like schoolgirls.

“Patrick, we should go. The Ladies are very busy,” Kate said. It was getting very close to six p.m., and Mr. Charles would show up any minute. It didn't seem like such a good time for the two men to meet.

Miss Nona said, “We were just having a nice chat about the local cafés.”

Miss Sophie leaned in to Miss Nona. “I told you that Kate and Mrs. Harris's boy were sweethearts.”

“That's not true—I told you.”

The Ladies went on bickering as if Kate and Patrick weren't even there. Kate looked at her watch. “We really should be going.” She wondered where Mr. Charles was. Probably having a martini or two for courage. The thought of him leaning over a bar rail made her feel sad. Kate knew how nervous he could be about things. She'd seen his hands shake, but she'd always looked the other way. She didn't want to embarrass him. None of the girls did. At times like that, they wouldn't look at him at all.

It is as if he is invisible,
Kate thought, and had to smile. If that was true, then maybe Kate wasn't invisible at all. Maybe back-room logic was kinder than she'd thought.

The Ladies stood. “You're a good boy,” they said, as if Patrick were six years old. He blushed.

Miss Nona leaned in and kissed both his cheeks. “You know we miss our Peg. Your mother was invaluable to us. She ran the Ready-to-Wear Department with a kind but fiscally aware heart.”

“Peg was like our daughter,” Miss Sophie said, and kissed him too. Then the two women embraced him, overcome with emotion, crushing Patrick in their wobbly arms.