Lauren's Designs (17 page)

Then the lights went out and the curtains were drawn across the stage.

Lauren had been concentrating so hard on helping with costume changes that she had scarcely had time to listen to the audience’s reaction to the show. She did hear—after the first few startled moments when the audience was apparently shocked into silence by the unusual nature of the show—scattered applause, laughter, and the silence that denotes absorbed attention. When the final curtain came, there was a minute of absolute silence. Lauren clenched her hands so tightly that the nails cut into her palms. And then there was a crash, a barrage of clapping, and cries of “Bravo” and “Well done!” Lauren slumped against the wall, trembling. It was over and most of the audience evidently liked it.

Now she heard the well-bred, clear accents of Lady Winston-Bell. “What you have seen today, ladies and gentlemen, was the very courageous and successful attempt of a woman designer to give you a showing after two-thirds of her beautiful new collection had been deliberately ruined. By whom, it has not yet been determined, but investigations are being made.”

There was a buzz of comment and exclamation from the audience. This was far more exciting than the average fashion show. Quite like the movies, in fact. Artistic sabotage, spies, secret forays by night!

Lady Winston-bell resumed. “If you care to inspect the drawings that have been put up around the runway, you will see some of the lovely costumes Lauren Rose had hoped to please you with today. And now, a special tribute to a gallant lady, if you please.” And she led another round of applause.

The curtains swung back and Derek and Tony, in the evening dress of their dance scene, led Lauren out onto the stage, and presented her to the audience. The applause became louder. Lauren smiled, bowed, and then curtsied to the judges, spreading the full violet silk of her skirt into softly rippling wings. When she turned to leave the stage, Derek and Tony again made themselves her escorts. The curtain closed. Backstage, the team fell into one another’s arms, babbling with happiness and triumph.

“I think you might have a chance of winning,” Dani said slowly. “I really didn’t think so, until now. I just knew I had to help you, no matter how poor the show was. But it was great!” She looked at Tony soulfully. “Could you teach me some of those steps?” she asked, fluttering her long artificial eyelashes at him.

Back to her old tricks, thought Lauren. But she didn’t have the heart to hold such tricks against a loyal member of the team, not when they’d pulled a show from the very depths of disaster.

In the next few minutes, however, it began to appear that they had not. A flurry at the entrance, voices rising above the cheerful chattering of the crowd, and then, when people were turning to see what the excitement was about, Carlos de Sevile came pushing through the departing audience like a small bright tugboat breasting heavy seas. At his shoulder, two of his assistants followed grimly. Carlos came to stand before the three judges, who were quietly talking near the runway.

“I demand to be heard,” announced Carlos, very much aware of the numbers of guests who were watching him.

“What’s with you, Señor Carlos?” Rebel Crowell asked. “Some of
your
designs sabotaged?” His glance was frankly skeptical.

“My collection was properly protected. Not left unguarded while the designer spent her time in—”

“I think you had something to tell us, Mr. de Sevile?” interrupted Lady Winston-Bell in a voice whose cool authority could not be denied. “Do so, please, without irrelevant comments.”

Carlos glared at her, but his brash arrogance weakened before her calm, authoritative manner. “I wish to register a complaint,” he blustered. “Ms. Rose has broken the rules of this Fashion Cruise by putting on a theatrical performance instead of a legitimate fashion show.”

“Did you personally watch the alleged theatrical performance?” Reb gibed. “I seem to recall hearing that you were buying drinks last night and trying to dissuade people from attending.”

Lady Winston-Bell frowned at the designer. “Are you making a formal charge without having seen the performance?” she asked.

Carlos shrugged. “I sent one of my assistants. He had just brought me the information.”

“Then perhaps he should make the charge, since he has the information and you don’t,” suggested Reb, who was obviously enjoying baiting the pompous designer.

“Mr. Crowell,” Mrs. Dornelius warned, “this is not a joking matter. Serious charges are being made.” Since it was the first time the third judge had spoken, everyone looked at her. She was a handsome woman and her dark tan (hunting in the Shires, yachting in the Med and the Bahamas) contrasted effectively with the white linen suit she was wearing this afternoon. It was clear she didn’t like Carlos de Sevile, but it was also well-known that she never permitted personal feelings to influence her in any way.

“Very well,” Carlos said recklessly. In the brief conversation he had had with his almost hysterical assistant, he had gathered that Lauren’s show had been a greater success than Carlos’s own, that Michael Landrill had been there with a huge party, and that the destruction of most of her costumes had been used as a sympathy-getter. Something needed to be done. He said, “My assistant, Dicky Devon, will bring a written statement to the cruise director’s office within twenty minutes.”

Lady Winston-Bell spoke up. “I have read the rules quite carefully. I assure you there is nothing stated therein that denies the designer the right to present his or her work in any way he or she deems suitable.”

Reb Crowell glanced around. They had an audience, dozens of well-dressed men and women obviously enjoying the drama of this confrontation. The reporter suggested, “Why don’t we call a conference in the cruise director’s office? Request all the designers, including Mrs. Rose, to attend? Better to clear this up right away.”

Lady Winston-Bell and Mrs. Cornelius nodded. Carlos, neglecting to thank them for their consideration, hurried away to lobby with as many of the designers as he could reach before the meeting.

Lauren stood quietly backstage, surrounded by her appalled team. No one knew quite what to say. After a moment, Lauren broke the silence. “Well, at least I’m to be given a fair hearing, which is more than the wine-thrower gave me.”

Derek touched her shoulder lightly. “May I come with you? You might need some support.”

Lauren placed her hand lightly over his for a moment. “Thank you. But I have an idea this inquisition is to be limited to designers and judges.”

Violet nodded her head sharply once. “We’ll wait outside in the lobby, luv. Then you can shout for us if you want us.”

Lauren took time to check her appearance in a ladies lounge before she went to Maida’s office. When she got there, she glanced around the outer lobby hopefully. Just a glimpse of Mike’s big, comforting body would have given her support for the coming ordeal. Violet and Derek were there, seated in two leather armchairs, and they gave her encouraging smiles. Mike wasn’t there.

Inside the office, Maida was listening while Reb Crowell reviewed the situation. Mrs. Cornelius and Lady Winston-Bell were talking quietly at one side of the room. Stewards were bringing in extra chairs. Several of the designers were already present. Maida, looking harried, asked the stewards to bring tea. Lauren, feeling like a criminal, took a seat by herself near the door. Jan Haliday, the designer behind the Janus line, entered, noticed Lauren, and came to sit beside her.

“I caught your show,” he said, smiling. “It was awesome, when you consider what de Sevile did to your collection.”

“Thank you,” Lauren answered, more cheered than she realized by this friendly gesture. “Your show was, uh, awesome, too. Those leathers are wonderful. How—?”

Still smiling, Jan shook his head. “Trade secret, Mrs. Rose,” he murmured.

Lauren frowned. “You said de Sevile wrecked my costumes. Do you
know
that for a fact?”

Jan stopped smiling. “No, dear. I just took it for granted. He’s such a nasty little beast and that’s just the sort of thing he’d do. He’s been bad-mouthing you, both personally and as a designer, ever since he came on board. The rest of us can’t quite understand it.” His raised eyebrows were a request for information.

Lauren said slowly, “I think he may be worried because Landrill’s, to whom he’s under contract, has made me an offer. His contract is up next year and I’m informed they don’t intend to renew.”

Jan whistled softly. “That would do it. Have you any evidence. Carlos’s boys were near your stateroom?”

“No. And I’m not sure it was Carlos. There’s someone else who wants to manipulate my business and he had a better chance than anyone to get into my cabin.” She caught herself up and stared hard into the handsome face beside her. “You must have magic,” she said. “I can’t think why I’m telling you all my problems like this.”

“Maybe because we’re not rivals,” Jan suggested, smiling widely. “I make a rather good friend, in spite of what creatures like de Sevile have to say about me.” He stared at her worried face. “I’ll vote for you, dear.” He laughed. “Anything to frustrate our darling Carlos.”

Lauren felt comforted but her musings were cut short abruptly when several people entered the office at once. When they were seated, Maida took the floor. She explained briefly the reason for the meeting and told the designers that there would be a chance for each one to express an opinion, if so desired, and then a vote would be taken as to whether Lauren Rose’s presentation had in any way broken the letter or the spirit of the Fashion Cruise agreement.

Carlos was on his feet at once, spouting his objections.

Maida held up one hand. “Señor de Sevile,” she said quietly, “you are aware that you have only one chance to speak at this meeting? After that you may vote, but you must not speak again.”

“This is absurd,” he shrilled. “I am not obliged to conform to your ridiculous rules—” He stopped, made aware of what he had said by the quizzical smiles of the other designers and Reb Crowell’s wolfish grin.

The reporter made the too-obvious point. “You’re telling us,
Señor
Carlos, that Mrs. Rose has to abide by the rules and you don’t?”

Carlos sat down, for once aware that he was in hostile territory, not surrounded by his usual sycophants.

Maida went on as though the interruption had not occurred. “I’ll poll each designer. Then I’ll ask the judges for their opinion. Mrs. Rose, you won’t have a vote.”

Lauren smiled. “I understand.”

Briefly and succinctly, Maida outlined the problem. She began, however, with a brief description of the sabotage. As an unexpected bit of evidence, she pressed a bell and a steward wheeled in the rack of ruined garments. Everyone stared, appalled, at the reeking mess. Designers themselves, they knew all too well the endless hours that had gone into creating such a collection; anger and disgust were plain on most of the faces. Adah Shere presented her habitual serenely blank expression. Maartens was frowning slightly but not revealing his thoughts.

Carlos got up to speak, met Maida’s glance, and sat down. It was obvious, however, that he did not feel this display of sodden garments had much to do with Lauren’s performance.

Then, after the steward had wheeled the rack out, Maida continued, “Mrs. Rose’s presentation was dance—quite permissible and even rather universally accepted as routine by most designers—and some mime to illustrate the little story she devised to show her costumes to best effect.”

Carlos could no longer contain himself. “
Little story
! It was a half-hour show!”

“What would you have done, de Sevile,” drawled Maartens, “if someone had ruined all your costumes just hours before your show?”

“I wouldn’t permit such a stupid thing to happen to me,” Carlos scoffed. “I’m a professional, not some two-bit dressmaker!”

“That finishes your right to comment,” Maida said sternly. “I want to hear from the other designers. Have any of you a comment to make before we take the vote?”

“Since I didn’t see the show,” Telford said, “I really can’t make a fair comment.”

“I did see it,” Jan spoke up. “It was bright, effective in showing off the mobility of the dresses and the feminine styling, witty, and in good taste.” He grinned at de Sevile.

Maida passed out the slips of paper and pencils. “Please write yes if you wish to allow Mrs. Rose’s presentation to be admitted; no if you wish to disallow it.”

When they had written, Maida collected the slips. Of the six who voted, three were yes, the other three were no.

“Tie vote,” Maida announced formally. “This means the three judges will have to vote to break the tie.” She handed slips to the judges.

Lady Winston-Bell said firmly, “I’m going to vote
viva voce
. My decision is that Mrs. Rose’s innovative-through-dire-necessity presentation should be admitted to the contest.”

“I’m afraid I disagree,” Mrs. Cornelius said. “We really shouldn’t open the door to Hollywood-type performances in a fashion show. I vote no.”

Lauren’s heart fell. For a brief moment, she had felt a lifting of the heart at the firm support of Lady Winston-Bell. Now she was back where she started. Would Rebel Crowell want to spoil his story? Lauren could see the headline?
Noted designer kicked out of posh Fashion Show on board luxury liner Queen Elizabeth II
.