Fashionably Late (49 page)

“Hey, that’s really unfair,” he called out. “The Kennedys have been through enough tragedy without…”

“Spare me,” Defina said, waving her arm and continuing to walk back to the girls.

Belle turned to Karen and patted her hand. “Well,” Belle said, “it was the best you could do.” Karen felt ready to explode.

Just what she needed right now: a critical pan from her mother. Why had Lisa brought Belle? Why had Karen invited Lisa? Because she felt sorry for her after the bat mitzvah fiasco. Why does everything go wrong for me? Karen asked herself. “Thanks, Mom.” Karen choked on her own sarcasm.

The sarcasm, of course, went right over Belle’s head.

“Not much to it,” Belle added.

“Sometimes, Mother, less is more.”

“And sometimes less is less. Well, at least you picked pretty girls.”

Karen’s exasperation showed in her voice. “The problem isn’t the clothes. It’s the girls. I mean the models,” Karen told Belle, although why she was bothering to explain or defend herself was beyond her. The last number, the closing of the show, was due: the bridal gowns. And Maria and Tangela entered, Tangela in a gleaming white, Maria in the sister black gown. Both were as simple as monastic garb, done in the finest alpaca, but Karen had yards of tulle with an almost religious head dress on each of them. The tulle formed a halo around not only their heads but the entire outfits. The cost of it all had been worth it. It was a spectacular effect and, of course, the black wedding gown was a shocker, especially against Maria’s pale skin and raven hair. Even Casey and Mercedes, fashion burnouts, let out a gasp when they saw the two models, and for once the two girls seemed to cooperate. They knew they were ravishing and they walked the makeshift runway together with verve.

Defina could make the other models perform like this. She’d have to.

Yes, Karen thought, it would all come together! Now, if they could only get all of these schmates sorted, packed, shipped, cleared through customs, pressed, and sorted again properly for the show, Karen knew she could manage to triumph.

“Is that it?” Belle asked. Karen looked at her but said nothing. “I thought you ended with bridal gowns?”

“Mother, those were bridal gowns,” Lisa explained.

“Black? Black for a bride?”

“Truffaut did it years ago,” Defina said.

“And who buys his clothes?” Belle asked.

Karen was about to answer, about to tell her mother that Truffaut was a director, not a designer, and Defina was talking about a movie, but she gave up. What was the use? Out of nowhere she remembered an incident from twenty years before: Belle had come back from a shopping trip bearing two blouses for Karen. That night at dinner, Karen wore one.

When she sat down at the table, Belle had looked up and said, “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like the other one?”

Just then screaming erupted from behind the wings. Half of it sounded like Tangela’s shrieking and the rest was Maria’s machine-gun Spanish.

In a heartbeat, Casey, Karen, and Mercedes were all up and running backstage, but it was too late. The two girls were actually slapping one another and, as Karen watched, Tangela tore the tulle headdress off Maria, shredding it. It looked as if some of Maria’s hair came with it.

The screams escalated to shrieks until Defina’s bulk stepped between the two girls. Like some female Wrestlemaniac, Defina got each model into a hammerlock, their arms twisted like pretzels behind them. Karen thought she heard a seam rip. At least she hoped it was only a seam.

At ninety-two bucks a yard, she didn’t want any torn-up alpaca. Or torn-up models, for that matter. Defina had managed to hold their bodies in check, but neither girl would hold her tongue.

“Put! Diabla!” Maria was screaming. “You got three more passages than me! Because of your mother! Coke whore! And I don’t tape my own shoes.

I’m no department store mannequin.” Apparently Maria objected to Tangela modeling more outfits, and Tangela obviously hassled Maria for not taping the bottoms of the borrowed shoes like the others so that they could be returned fresh to stock. Karen couldn’t understand the rest of it but she could certainly understand Tangela’s epithets.

“Spic cunt! You keep away from my man or I’ll cut you! Filthy ho.”

Mother-fucking-bitch!”

Defina let go of Maria, then slapped Tangela’s face. Maria pulled what was left of the headdress from her hair, threw it on the floor, stepped on it, and spun away from the group. “You can forget about this,” she said. “I’m out of here!” She looked at Tangela with disgust. “Like I want that coke hound of yours! I can’t help it if you can’t hold on to your dogs. And you’ll be lucky if I don’t sue you!” She turned to face Karen. “You can get yourself some other girl to do Paris for you.

I don’t work with trash.” She flounced down the hall.

Shit! Karen looked at the yards of torn tulle, at the ruination. And Maria was the only runway model with Paris experience that they had!

Mercedes ran after Maria, while Casey helped Defina restrain Tangela.

It took the two of them to hold her. She was screaming at Maria at the top of her lungs. She was scary. She was a wild woman. Karen put her hands to her head. She remembered that it was rumored each year that Yves Saint Laurent had a nervous breakdown before his show. It seemed a perfectly sensible plan to Karen.

She looked at the mess of veils on the floor. She was almost ready to scream herself. How would she replace the black tulle? It had all been special ordered. And where would she get another model now? It wasn’t the eleventh hour, it was eleven fifty-five. There were absolutely no decent experienced models available now. VIKInc was already overbudget and out of time.

Just then Mercedes came walking back. “I lost her,” she admitted.

“I’ll make sure she never works in this town again. But I have more bad news.

Look what just came in.” She handed Karen a copy of the Chicago paper.

Well, Mindy Trawler had stuck the knife in deep and hard. PUSHING CLOTHES AND PUSHY BROADS: KAREN KAHN”S TRUNK SHOW. The article twisted everything: it depicted Karen as a shameless saleswoman, forcing women to buy things they didn’t want. Then, on top of it, Trawler showed how Karen was forcing her own niece, against her will, to model and push sales. Karen looked over at Mercedes, who rolled her eyes. “I knew I should have come to Chicago,” Mercedes said. She sounded as if Karen had betrayed her on purpose. Karen decided not to bother to tell her about the little run-in with Trawler over the champagne. What difference did it make?

Karen wouldn’t take it seriously. “Oh, come on. This is what happens.

After you’re the good news for a while you aren’t news at all, not unless you become bad news. She had to have an angle, that’s all.”

Karen shrugged. “It’s not the end of the world. No one reads the fashion pieces. They look at the picture. And that’s a good picture of Stephanie. The dress looks great.”

“Let me see,” Belle said, and grabbed the paper. Oh God, Karen thought, I don’t need this now! But it was too late. Mercedes handed the copy over. Belle poured over the article, tisking and shaking her head.

Lisa and Stephanie read it too, standing silent beside Belle. Belle’s mouth was pursed with disapproval, but what else was new? Karen looked over at Stephanie. Her eyes were big with excitement or shock. Even in the midst of this madness, Karen couldn’t help but notice how very pretty her niece was. In the last few weeks she seemed to have matured somehow. Her cheekbones showed more and her face seemed better defined.

Karen thought of it at that moment. If Lisa came as a chaperone, could Stephanie fill in for Maria Loper? The coverage in the Chicago paper had been bad but the photo had been great. Stephanie could do the black collection. With her dark hair, she’d look as good as Maria had.

Still, Karen paused. She was worried about Stephanie. Karen had told Lisa about running into Stephie and rescuing her from the Norris Cleveland party, but Lisa had not seemed to react. Just as now she didn’t seem worried about Tiff. Karen wasn’t sure if Lisa’s attitude was the right one or not, but she was certain that she would not have left Tiff at home alone right now or trust Stephanie alone at a party like Norris’s. There was another option, however, and it would help cheer up Lisa while Karen could get over some of that guilt she always felt when she looked at her sister.

She walked over to the little family group. Her mother looked up at her. “You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas,” Belle said.

Once a bitch, always a bitch, Karen thought back, but restrained herself from saying anything. Instead she looked at her sister. “Have I got a deal for you,” she said.

The arrangements were worked out. Stephanie would come to Paris to model, Lisa would chaperone, and Defina would work into the night with all the girls to give them some tips and more confidence. Finally Karen had time to sit down on one of the folding chairs at the back of the showroom. It was only then that she noticed Perry Silverman sitting quietly in the corner next to a pipe rack of discarded samples.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Long enough. So now I know what you do. And you actually say that you like this line of work.”

“I don’t say that today,” Karen sighed. He was drinking something from a Styrofoam cup. “Why do I suspect that isn’t coffee?”

“Because you have the instinct of a private investigator,” Perry told her, and extended the cup. “It’s a martini, my own recipe. Hold the vermouth, hold the olive.”

She took a swig of the straight gin and shivered. It was awful-tasting.

“And you actually say that you like this?” she asked.

“I don’t say that today,” he smiled. “You know Karen, that was an extraordinary show you put on. I don’t mean the cat fight. I mean the clothes. I’m l no fashion mavin, but there is a sculptural quality to them. They’re a kind of art…”

“Fashion isn’t an art. Not really. It’s a craft, but it’s a very poetic craft.”

“Nice work,” Perry said.

“Thanks,” she paused. “Hey, how did you get in, Perry? This is supposed to be top secret.”

“I told them I was your lover,” Perry said. Wishful thinking.”

“So much for my expensive security service. I wonder how many sketchers and competitors sat in. Heads will roll.” She was actually too tired to yell at security. She’d let Casey or Janet do that. She reached out for another sip of the disgusting drink. There was only a little left. She raised her eyebrows, asking permission to finish it.

“Sure, go ahead. It’s my last one anyway. I’m leaving New York for a little while, Karen. Twentyeight days to be exact. I came to say goodbye.”

“Rehab?” she asked.

“You’re a regular Rhodes scholar. Minnesota, here I come. You figure the state had to become the alcoholism dryout capital of the world.

The weather is so bad everyone there has to drink, and they certainly wouldn’ t make it on any other tourist business.” He stopped smiling.

“I never was that much of a drinker. Just since Lottie. I guess it crept up on me. So, I’m done with my selfpitying, selfmedicating phase.” He paused and his voice sank. “One night I caught myself thinking that if Lottie hadn’t died, then I wouldn’t have started drinking.” He paused.

“I probably would have been taller and have more hair, too.” He tried for a little smile. It didn’t quite come off. “I disgusted myself. I don’t know who I’ll be when I come back. Or where I’ll live. Or what I’ll do. I don’t know if I’ll be able to paint anymore, but since I can’t paint now I guess it’s not a key issue. I’ll probably just be reduced to the three B’s: bereaved, balding, and boring. But I’m not getting my hopes up. I might not even be that good sober.”

Karen stood, moved toward him, and he rose from his chair. She put her arms around him. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“This is good for starters. Want to try it lying down?”

“Men!” she said with mock horror. “They just want to have sex and kill things.”

“The only one I’ve ever wanted to kill was myself,” Perry said softly.

Karen hugged him again. “I’m glad you’re doing this. I love you.”

He looked down at his rumpled self. “Alcoholic artists who wear denim and the women who love them. Next on Oprah,” he intoned. He fished keys out of his pocket. “To the loft,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for you and Jeffrey, I couldn’t have afforded rehab.”

Karen took the keys and said nothing. Jeffrey must have lent Perry money without telling her. Of course, she was glad that he had. “I’ll be away too,” she said. “But we’ll take care of the place until you come back.”

“Hey, mi casa, su casa,” Perry said. “In this case, literally,” he laughed reached over, and kissed her once on the mouth. “The show is going to be great. You’ve got talent up the gazoo. Break a leg,” he said, and he walked to the elevator, waved once before he stepped into it, and was gone.

Fashion Week in Paris had become impossible more than a decade ago.

Because France took pride, as well as an investment position, in the business, much of the cost of putting on dozens of shows for buyers from all over the world was underwritten by the government, and everything was overseen by the Chambre Syndicale du Pre^t-a-Porter des Couturiers et des Createurs de Mode. However, French bureaucracy being what it was, it was no guarantee that things ran smoothly.

The majority of shows had long been centralized in a complex in the gardens of the Louvre. Security and telecommunications were provided by the state, but that didn’t mean a ticket secured your entry, or that those without tickets didn’t get in. Seats were scalped, tickets were counterfeited, and at least a couple of shows a year were near-riots when the doors were closed. Fashion here was more than business, it was national pride and a way of life.

The paparazzi too were more violent and extreme here than they were in the States, but here there was a lot more at stake. For over a hundred years, Paris had ruled the world as the fashion center, and the first photos of any major French collection sold to all the wire services and major newspapers and magazines. Photographers would literally trample anyone in their way to get a picture, and more than one buyer or hapless journalist had been injured this year already.