Veiled Revenge (29 page)

Lacey Smithsonian’s

FASHION BITES

When Fashion Disaster Strikes, Strike Back!

A fashion disaster can strike at any time. It is the stuff of which nightmares are made. But you don’t have time to worry about that. When a clothing catastrophe leaves you wailing, don’t wallow in your misery! Dry your tears and take action.

An outfit kerfuffle can range from the minor—say, spilling coffee on your snow-white blouse on your way to an important job interview—to the apocalyptic—say, the destruction of the perfect gown you planned to wear to that very formal ball at the embassy. Some women can overcome these upsetting events. They are survivors in style, and you can draw on them for inspiration.

The ever-resourceful former U.S. Secretary of State Madeline Albright once spilled salad dressing on her skirt at an event with other world dignitaries. Commence a sensitive summit conference wearing a skirt full of blue cheese? Unthinkable! With no time for a wardrobe change, she turned the skirt around so her jacket hid the stain, and she carried on. Diplomacy and style savvy won the day.

Actress Sharon Stone once wore to the Oscars her husband’s crisp white dress shirt tucked into a long satin skirt, reportedly after something went disastrously wrong with the big-name designer dress she’d planned to wear. And hers was one of the most photographed and talked-about outfits of the evening. What the husband wore is not remembered, because after all, a guy wearing his spare dress shirt to the Oscars is hardly newsworthy. But a famous woman making a clever save out of a fashion disaster? Pictures at eleven.

And let us not forget everybody’s heroine Scarlett O’Hara, in the midst of poverty and scarcity, tearing down the velvet drapes to make herself a stunning new dress to impress Rhett Butler. Another fashion disaster averted (and movie history made) by a quick-thinking woman.

What can you do when fashion disaster strikes?

• Girl Scouts come prepared to deal with minor problems before they become major disasters. For an important event, carry a purse-able little sewing kit with needle and thread, safety pins, some sticky tape, and an extra button or two. Also, a small stain-removing stick comes in handy to attack sudden enemy spots.
  
• If your hem falls out, masking tape is a good temporary fix. A desk stapler can be used in an emergency to staple a hem, or even a burst seam. But remember, staples are not a permanent repair! People will talk if you routinely walk around wearing visible staples; you’ll look like a Raggedy Ann doll come to life.
  
• A lost button on a jacket or blouse can be secured with a decorative pin if a safety pin isn’t handy. Pretend you
  always
  wear it that way.
  

However, when the very worst happens and your ball gown is shredded by vengeful stepsisters on the eve of Prince Charming’s ball, you might not have a fairy godmother of your own to fall back on. But you’ve got ingenuity that won’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight. Necessity is the fairy godmother of invention.

• Go to your closet. That’s right, venture all the way into the deep, dark, hidden recesses of your closet. If your closet is anything like most women’s closets, there are things in there you have long since forgotten. One of them might just be perfect for the event at hand. As well as a complete surprise.
  
• Call your best fashionable friend.
  She’ll understand your dilemma and she might have the perfect dress to borrow. If you don’t wear the same size, she at least can offer you an unemotional, or less emotional, response to the crisis at hand, and she can probably point out a stylish solution to your woes. If she can’t, keep calling friends till you find one who can.
  
• Go shopping!
  I know, it’s a crisis, you need it
  now
  , there’s no time to shop. But there’s always time to shop, if you have an hour or two and a store with an open door. Not much money in the budget? Try consignment stores, often heavy on evening wear, lightly used formal dresses that have only been worn once, by someone you don’t know, to an event full of strangers who will not recognize that gown on
  you
  . And don’t forget vintage stores, costume shops, and thrift shops. Even Goodwill has been known to have a few wedding gowns and other formal attire on hand.
  

This is no time to wallow in your misery. A crisis can unlock your creativity, and what better time to get creative? People love moxie. When you come up with the right solution to your fashion dilemma, they will applaud your grace under pressure.
If
you tell them. (If you want to keep it a secret, my lips are sealed.)

And remember, just like Scarlett tearing down the velvet drapes, overcoming your fashion disaster will make a great story—a much better story than simply wearing what you’d planned and having everything go like clockwork.

So turn that fashion disaster into a well-tailored tale—and a triumph of
style
.

Chapter 33

“This is worse than a monkey suit,” Vic complained, tugging at the pink-and-silver-gray ascot Lacey was tying around his neck. “This has to be the most ridiculous piece of apparel ever created.”

“Not true, Vic,” Lacey pointed out. “Bustles, leg warmers, and platform sneakers, just to name three. Your ascot isn’t even in the running.”

Vic snorted. “All right, the most ridiculous piece of apparel
I’ve
ever had on.”

“You look adorable,” Lacey protested. “And very distinguished.”

Vic wore a classic English morning suit with striped charcoal gray pants, a pale gray waistcoat, and dark gray cutaway coat. “I never planned to be in this damned wedding in the first place. I have no business in it. And I will never forgive Nigel and Stella for this hat!”

It was a tall top hat, in a soft dove gray. He held it in his hands, refusing to put it on until absolutely necessary.

“Brits love their hats, sweetheart. The hat is to die for. You look like Mr. Darcy, straight out of
Pride and Prejudice
. If you get any sexier, I will die right here on this spot.”

She took a picture of him with her little digital camera. Lacey’s dislike for gray dissolved utterly when a man was wearing it like
this
. And the snowy white shirt against Vic’s tanned olive skin with the ridiculous ascot heightened the green of his eyes. They almost glowed when he looked at her.
Swoon.

“I look like an extra in a road show of
My Fair Lady
.”

“Vic, dear, you’ll always be the leading man for
this
fair lady.”

He relented and smiled at her. “You look gorgeous, Lacey. You know that?”

“Thank you. Sadly, this is the last thing Alma will ever make for me.”

“She’ll change her mind,” Vic said. “You saved her life.”

“And ruined her shop. She won’t forgive me anytime soon.”

“See how much trouble this wedding business has caused everyone?” Vic said. “I can’t imagine
anyone
could ever
possibly
want to get
married
after all
this
—”

“Me neither.”

“Wait, I do want to marry you! But not like this.”

“Me too. How about we elope and I make all this up to you later?” Lacey winked at him and he laughed. He mock-glowered at his handsome visage staring back at him in the mirror.

“Stupid English wedding traditions. Why couldn’t
they
just elope and leave us out of it? And Nigel! I don’t even like Nigel! It figures that thoroughbred twit would make us all wear something so wussy on his wedding day.”

“Wussy? Vic, you look like a Bengal Lancer on holiday. All you need is a lance. And I think the morning suits were more Lady Gwendolyn’s idea.”

They strolled toward the wedding party waiting on the west lawn of the Jefferson Memorial. It was a perfect spring day, in spite of Vic’s grumbling. The Tidal Basin was a pool of blue beneath the April sky, ringed by Washington’s famous cherry trees, still miraculously in bloom. The cherry blossoms and the bridesmaids’ dresses were a blizzard of pink on the green lawn. Lacey thanked God that it was a beautiful day, as Marie had predicted. And that she had picked up her own dress before Natalija performed her Jack the Ripper act on Stella’s wedding dress.

“Lacey, this whole thing is ridiculous, you know. Why me?”

“You know why,” she said, straightening his ascot. “You’re the best man.”

Best man.
Vic had been pressed into service at the last minute when Bryan Culpeper suddenly backed out. In fact, Culpeper had left town, on something described vaguely as “urgent family business.” Lacey didn’t know whether Lady Gwendolyn was to be congratulated for this, or perhaps Stella had a hand in it, or if Nigel had finally taken the rest of Lacey’s advice. His so-called best man had been his worst asset in his wedding portfolio, and whoever it was who sent Bryan Culpeper packing had her heartfelt thanks. No one needed a poisonous best man. This wedding had already had too many brushes with poison.

However, when Nigel begged Vic to stand up with him as his best man, Lacey was more than a little surprised. So was Vic. He was still trying to find a replacement, even as they strolled toward the wedding party.

“What about Kepelov?” Vic complained. “They’re buddies. Partners. Sort of. Even though Kepelov was going to kill him at one point. But then, I’ve threatened to do that too.”

“Gregor is out,” Lacey replied. “He’s already one of the groomsmen, his broken ribs are still taped up, and besides, Nigel says he’s too scary.”

Vic growled. “I’ll show him scary. It’s a fine cosmic irony when I wind up as Nigel Griffin’s best man.”

Lacey stopped and made him face her. “You are the best possible man. Nigel is lucky to have you, and you saying
yes
, and saying
yes
to the morning suit, made everyone very happy. It makes
me
happy. And remember, this is a corporal work of mercy. Major celestial brownie points.” She stretched up on the tiptoes of her pink high-heeled sandals and kissed him. She started to giggle and he finally gave in and laughed.

I wonder if I can convince him to wear something like this at our wedding?

They were nearly at the knot of pink-clad ladies and elegant gray-morning-suited men, when Nigel, taking very long strides, caught up with them and pumped Vic’s hand. Nigel looked nervous but happy, in his own gray morning suit and top hat. His ascot, unlike the best man’s and the groomsmen’s, was not striped, but a solid pale cherry blossom pink.

“Hello, Vic. Well done! Can’t thank you enough for stepping in. Last minute and all that. Old school ties. Saved the day. Cavalry to the rescue. And so on.”

“Yes, well . . .” Vic straightened his silver-gray ascot and donned his top hat. He seemed to make a small but momentous decision. “My pleasure, Griffin. Glad to do it. All my best wishes for you and Stella. And so on.”

“Here.” Nigel handed him the rings. “These will be safer with you than with me, old man, believe me. And Smithsonian, smashing dress. Simply smashing. Wouldn’t be here at all without your usual gung ho, savoir faire, derring-do, bashing, slashing, and thrashing about with nefarious Natalija. Jolly impressive. As usual. And so on.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Lacey said.

“You saved the day with the wedding dress too. I mean the
real
dress, the pink New Orleans dress, well, you know what I mean. I’m perfectly thrilled we’re all here in one piece. Well, not
all
of us, but the ones who count, the wedding party, well, you and Vic most of all, well, no, I don’t mean
most
of all, that would be my Stella of course, but—”

“Shut up, Nigel. We’re glad too.” Nigel’s nervous stammering was interrupted by the junior bridesmaids, who came running to hug Lacey in their rose-colored finery and pink and blue cowboy boots. Lacey smoothed the pink ribbon covering her left forearm to hide the stitches, where she had been slashed by Natalija’s knife.

“Miss Lacey, you look so pretty,” Jasmine said.

“Jasmine and Lily Rose! So do you two. You look fabulous!”

“Do you like our dresses?” Lily Rose asked, jumping up and down as if her boots had springs in them. “I can’t wait to see Miss Stella’s wedding dress.”

“You’re as pretty as a picture, both of you. Prettier.” Lacey admired their pink polished cotton dresses and took a photograph of the grinning girls. Kim and Mac arrived to round up their children. “Your parents look pretty nice too.”

“I picked out our dad’s tie,” Jasmine said proudly.

“And I picked out his shirt,” Lily Rose added, not to be outdone by her big sister.

Lacey was startled to see her editor looking positively spiffy, in a Brooks Brothers navy blazer, gray slacks, a pale pink shirt, and a pink-and-white-striped silk tie. And his cowboy boots.

“Mac, is that you? Or an alternate universe you?”

Kim beamed and looked very proud of him too, in her smart raspberry-colored sheath. Mac looked abashed. “It’s me, Smithsonian. In the pink. Gotta keep up with my ladies. I seem to be outnumbered these days.” But he was clearly pleased and proud, in spite of his unfamiliar new outfit.

Kim took her daughters’ hands. “It’s time we took our places, girls.”

Across the lawn, Nadine Donovan waved at Lacey and winked broadly, holding hands with Vic’s dad.

Nigel and Vic stood side by side beneath an arbor of cherry blossoms, as a chamber trio played Pachelbel’s
Canon
and the crowd grew still in anticipation. The mothers-in-law nearly stole the show. Lady Gwendolyn Griffin, in her glory and on the arm of her husband, the former British ambassador, smiled broadly in her violet dress, proudly piloting a hat so large it might have been the prow of a sailing ship.

And Retta Lake Sloan was looking at least fifteen years younger, in a pale blue knee-length dress. Her frizzy gray hair finally had been tamed and dyed (by Stella) into a halo of sparkling nut brown locks that curled softly around her shoulders. She looked resigned. She actually smiled.

Wonders never cease
, Lacey thought.
The salon must have been a madhouse this morning.

She almost failed to recognize Stella’s cousin Rosalie, whose makeup had been expertly applied and whose free-range frizz had, at last, been wrangled into shape by Michelle at Stylettos. Rosalie looked quite pretty and didn’t seem to hold a grudge against Stella for giving her name to the police as a possible murder suspect. Saving the wedding seemed to have healed all wounds.

Brooke was lovely in her azalea pink frock, with her beautiful blond hair worn down in Pre-Raphaelite ringlets. Michelle, Stella’s right-hand woman at Stylettos, was elegant in her pale pink dress. And Marie, even in her abundant bridesmaid’s dress, had the air of a Gypsy fortune-teller. She carried her storied Russian shawl draped over one arm, in the event the bride might require its warmth and protection.

And those must be Nigel’s female cousins, all in pink and all wearing their “fascinators.”
Fascinating doesn’t begin to describe them
,
Lacey thought.

Miguel, most dashing in his morning suit, directed traffic and took his place with the other gray-clad, morning-suited groomsmen, standing next to Gregor Kepelov and Damon Newhouse. Lacey thought she had never seen such a mismatched trio, all dressed so splendidly alike.

And then came Stella. The bride was a vision of rosy glory, from her pink crystal tiara and pink-tipped hair, to the top of her (freshly dyed) pink high-heeled Victorian boots. The delicate pink New Orleans gown was far better suited to her than a big fluffy white wedding dress could ever have been. Stella never cried, she glowed.

Nigel, however, wept like a baby.

From her position next to the bride, Lacey surveyed the crowd. She spotted Turtledove standing by his friend Rene Thibodeaux. Turtledove smiled and gave Lacey a nod, but Rene’s rugged features betrayed nothing but grief. He hung back at the edge of the crowd and slipped away right after the vows. Off to the side of the Jefferson Memorial, Lacey caught a glimpse of the bright pink fins of a vintage Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz, just waiting to carry the happy couple in style to the Arts Club for the reception. From afar, Olga Kepelova was keeping a cool eye on the nuptials—and the shawl.

Vic caught Lacey’s eye and inclined his head toward a couple standing outside the circle of invited guests, in a knot of curious tourists wearing cameras, who had lingered to watch.

Lacey couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a chubby little cupid of a man and his china-doll lady love. Was it Harlan Wiedemeyer and Felicity Pickles, conducting a little pre-wedding reconnaissance of their own? Or a mysterious pair of Washington’s famous spies? Whoever they were, as the services began she saw the little man take the woman’s hand and gaze into her eyes.

Love in all its many guises had saved the day. And then a breeze caught the cherry blossoms, and the musicians began to play the Wedding March.