by Karen Quinn
Onstage, Sammie had hit the bell before the Met team.
“Yes, Fashion Museum,” Valentina said.
Tanya tilted her head so she could hear better and fixed her eyes on me as I said, “Chanel, 1927,” over and over into the phone.
“Fashion Museum, we need your answer,” Valentina said.
I put the phone aside and mouthed “Chanel” in an exaggerated but (hopefully) subtle way.
“Holly, what are you doing?” Elaina said, looking at me with the expression of a woman in the direct path of a speeding subway train.
“Edith Head, 1940,” Sammie cried out.
Edith Head? I thought. That girl is a blooming idiot (Sammie, that is; not Edith).
Nichole Cannon hit her bell. “Chanel, 1927.”
“That is correct,” Valentina said.
The crowd applauded furiously.
Tanya made her shrew face, but then smiled and pulled her public self together.
The soundtrack switched to the Andrews Sisters singing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”
He was a famous trumpet man from old Chicago way…
The music didn’t seem as loud this time. An impossibly slim blonde emerged in a dramatic tailored black suit with three bold sequined mint-green leaves emblazoned across the jacket front, and an inverted velveteen shoe worn as a hat in her hair. She vamped across the stage and down the runway while the crowd clapped enthusiastically.
I was sure Tanya would know this one since we’d had a Schiaparelli exhibit less than a year ago. While we hadn’t shown this particular piece, her style was unmistakable. She was known for overlaying sequined insects and other decontextualized designs on sharp-tailored suits. “Elsa Schiaparelli, 1934,” I said into the phone. But from the puzzled expression on Tanya’s face, she wasn’t reading. Think, dammit, think, I psychically begged my boss. You know this one.
Candice Broom slammed the bell. “Schiaparelli, 1930,” she declared.
“That is incorrect,” Valentina said. “Fashion Museum?”
Tanya and Sammie scrutinized me. With my left hand, I scratched my head with three fingers, and with my right hand, I wiggled four fingers by my ear.
“Holly,” Elaina stage-whispered, “stop. You’re cheating. Wait. Only the self-accused condemn. That’s from A Course in Miracles.” She shook her head. “I’m confused.”
“I’m following orders,” I told her.
“That’s what the Nazis said.”
“Schiaparelli, 1925,” Sammie said.
Oh, come on, I thought. Schiaparelli didn’t do her first collection until twenty-nine, the year of the Great Depression. Everyone in fashion knows that. Except, perhaps, heiresses who secure their curator positions through nepotism.
I gestured for Martin to come over.
“They can’t hear me above the music,” I whispered. “Can you increase the volume?”
“I’d need the earrings to do that,” Martin said. “Just talk louder.”
“No, I’ll get caught,” I said. By then Bobby Darin was singing “Mack the Knife” and a bag of bones with translucent skin and red hair glided down the catwalk swathed in a luminous navy cocktail dress. Its soft-shouldered, round-bosomed top was cinched at the waist in corsetlike fashion, topping a skirt of blue taffeta that poufed into a round hemline, giving the artful gown the shape of an upside-down wineglass. Any student of fashion would know this iconic piece. The designer’s excessive use of rich, sumptuous fabric was the giveaway that it came from Christian Dior (about whom Coco Chanel famously said, “Dior? He doesn’t dress women; he upholsters them”).
Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear…
“Christian Dior, 1947,” I said in as loud a voice as I could muster without calling attention to myself. “Christian Dior.”
Sammie’s blank stare told me she either hadn’t paid attention in class or was a complete flibbertigibbet.
Tanya’s nostrils flared like a bull about to charge. I could feel her glare from behind those sunglasses. She should have been glaring at Martin Goldenblatt, who’d invented the cockamamie device without considering the fact that every fashion show on the planet plays loud music.
Just end it now, I thought, because the most vicious shark in the room is going to have me for lunch when this is over.
Nichole Cannon slapped her bell. “Christian Dior, 1949.”
“That is not correct,” Valentina said. “Fashion Museum, it’s your turn.”
“Dior, ’47, Dior, ’47, Dior, ’47,” I repeated over and over again into the phone.
The blue vein in Tanya’s neck was pulsating so hard it looked like it might pop. But sadly for me, it didn’t. Sammie slammed down the bell. “Yves Saint Laurent, 1950?”
“That is incorrect,” Valentina said. “The correct answer is Christian Dior, 1947.”
Gwen Stefani’s “Rich Girl” blasted from the sound system. Out floated a willowy blond angel wearing a sensational sleeveless yellow silk evening dress with a hem of black-and-white beaded flowers.
Sammie hit the bell.
Aha, I thought. This was the trick piece. Ever since the Met canceled their first planned Chanel show over Karl Lagerfeld’s objection that the exhibit wasn’t going to include contemporary pieces, the Fashion Council always slipped a new design into their contest.
“Oscar de la Renta, 2006,” I mouthed, having given up completely on Martin’s nifty but useless invention.
Sammie cocked her head and I could see that she was attempting to catch my drift.
“Oscar de la Renta, 2006. Oscar de la Renta, 2006,” I mouthed.
Sammie’s eyes bulged like a goldfish’s; that’s how hard she was trying to read me.
“Oscar de la Renta, 2006,” exploded from my lips. “Yoinks!” I said, slapping my hand to my mouth. “Sorry. Accident.”
Seemingly at once, the entire audience turned and gaped at me (except for the model, who stayed in character, as models do). Hands clapped mouths, heads cocked, jaws dropped, gasps sounded. Holy mother of pearl, I thought, what do I do? RUN! My inner voice shouted. LIKE THE WIND! But I didn’t. I stood paralyzed, unable to act. I always choke in emergencies. It’s a character flaw.
Gently, a security guard took my elbow and escorted me to the exit without even stopping at the goody bag table. I tossed the mike/phone to Martin, who was too busy sniffing his hand to make the catch. I prayed that Martin could pull a rabbit out of his yarmulke.
Isn’t It a Pity
IT WAS FOUR P.M. when I was booted out of the What’s My Line? tent. Tomorrow, Tanya would make me pay.
Feeling light-headed and lousy, I dragged myself home to Alessandro. What kind of jerk breaks off a serious relationship by text message? That’s worse than a Dear John e-mail, which is harsh enough. I’m well rid of the bum, I thought. But where will I live? What will I do? Dear God, I hope he paid the orthodontist in full.
“Did you get my text message?” Alessandro asked as I trudged inside. He was lying on the couch in his yoga pants, shirtless, watching Dr. Phil. The air smelled of burned popcorn. There were silver Hershey’s Kisses wrappers everywhere.
“Child molester,” I muttered, tromping to the bedroom, throwing on a pair of sweats. “What, no theater tonight?” I said when I emerged, clicking off the television. I felt like hurting Alessandro.
“They put me on indefinite leave,” he said. “Because of the headlines. My lawyer is going to fight it.”
“Good luck with that.” I rolled my eyes and sank into the sofa next to his feet, which reeked of toe jam, so I did a flying leap to the other side of the room.
Alessandro sat up. “It’s an illness, you know. I need help.”
“And I might have been willing to help you if you’d given me half a chance.”
Alessandro nodded. “Dr. Blumstein be…she believes I was unconsciously sabotaging our relationship because I didn’t want to get married.”
My stomach dropped like a glass elevator in a Hyatt atrium. He was really breaking up
with me. Right here. Right now. It was happening.
“Blumstein gets me,” Alessandro said, not much louder than a whisper. He looked at me with those (formerly) irresistible eyes. “That’s why I text messaged you.”
“Classy, Alessandro, really classy.”
“I was trying to show you mercy,” he explained. “Blumstein said you’d need time to process the blow.”
“But…but what about your nightmare? What about my mother’s message?” I pleaded, not knowing why I was trying to save us. Alessandro had done me a favor. It’s what I should have done the moment I found out he was cheating. But I’d been afraid to let go. I’d been counting on Alessandro to be my happily ever after.
“My nightmare? I lied,” Alessandro admitted. “Last night I was so freaked out, I wanted to hang on to you no matter what. Dr. Blumstein helped me see that I need to be on my own, to take time to get to know the real Alessandro Vercelli, whoever he may be.”
“But we have a cat together,” I implored, pacing. “What did Blumstein say about that?”
“Kitty is the least of my problems. Right now, I’m all about getting into detox,” Alessandro said. “Blumstein’s working on it.”
“You’re not an alcoholic.”
“It’s part of our legal strategy,” Alessandro explained. “Break the law; go to detox; beg forgiveness: Mel Gibson, Kate Moss, the black dude from Grey’s Anatomy, blah blah blah.”
I plunked myself into a chair and looked around the apartment where I’d hoped to build a home for us. My eyes began to fill and an errant tear escaped. “Yesterday I thought I’d be getting married in a month,” I said, wiping my face with my sleeve. “Now you’re telling me it’s over. This is not how my life is supposed to go.”
Alessandro waxed philosophical. “Life isn’t always what you like, you know.”
How dare he tell me that! As if I didn’t already know. “You are such an ass. First you cheat on me. Then it turns out to be with a minor…”
“Good, Blumstein says anger is good,” Alessandro started.
“Then we get our pictures in the paper. Our friends saw that picture. My boss saw that picture. She refuses to be seen with me anymore…”
“Whoa there, Nelly! Is that all you can think about—yourself? How do you think I feel? I’m looking at jail time.” Alessandro seemed incredulous that I could be so selfish.
I growled and wagged my finger at him. “Whoa, Nelly? What am I, a horse? You listen to me, Alessandro. You do not get to do the breaking up. If anyone gets broken up with, it’s you.”
“Fine,” Alessandro said. “If it’s that important to assuage your ego, we’ll tell everyone you did the breaking up.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine,” Alessandro answered.
“Fine,” I said.
“But you and I will always know I’m the one who called it off.”
Why did Alessandro always have to have the last word? Why?
“I need the ring back so I can sell it to pay for Suzy Hendrix and detox. Lawyers cost a fortune these days. And Promises in Malibu is eighteen hundred dollars a day.”
I flashed him a look of disdain. “So go somewhere cheaper.”
“All A-list actors go there,” he said. “Suzy says if I don’t do the right kind of damage control, I could spend the rest of my career in regional theater or reality TV. No, it has to be Promises. Besides, the contacts I’ll make there will be invaluable for my future.”
I glanced at the rock on my finger. It was a two-karat round cut that, if sold, could pay my rent for months to come. I marched over and stuck the ring in his face. “Can you not think of anyone besides yourself? You’re putting me out on the street. Do you know how expensive it is to get an apartment in New York City? Selling this will be invaluable for my future.”
Alessandro lunged for my finger. I jumped back, stuck my hand up my shirt, and slipped the diamond into my bra. Alessandro grabbed for it, but I pushed him away. “Don’t you dare,” I said in my take-no-prisoners snarl that scared even me. He backed off.
I knew I was supposed to return the ring. But he cheated on me and he broke the engagement. Right then I didn’t want to give it back. I may never want to give it back. I may throw it in the East River rather than give it back. Alessandro deserved to suffer.
I plunged forward toward our bedroom, dizzy with rage, and pulled the roller suitcase out from under the bed. As I threw my clothes inside, Alessandro sat on the edge of the rocking chair we bought at the old Sixth Avenue flea market. He babbled on, asking why I didn’t want him to have the best defense possible, and wouldn’t it be tragic if he had to do reality TV, and what if he had to go to jail, and what kind of bitch doesn’t return the engagement ring when her fiancé is facing prison, and then the capper—if he had to, he’d sue me for the ring.
The nerve! I looked him in the eye. “If you sue me, I’m calling the owner of the building and telling him you’re here illegally. You can kiss your rent-controlled apartment goodbye.” Was that me talking, the girl that Nigel had just yesterday compared to Doris Day? Would I sink that low? I wondered. Yes, I believe I would. A painful lump was forming in my throat, so I packed faster. If I didn’t get out of there quickly, I would explode in tears.
I zipped my suitcase, which wasn’t easy because it contained most of my wardrobe. Sidling over to the nightstand, I glimpsed our wedding binder under a stack of bridal magazines. I’d been so hopeful making plans for what I thought would be our dream day. The only blessing was that everything had been charged to Alessandro’s American Express card. “Here, take this. It has all the contracts for our…” I choked. “The hotel, the band, the caterer, the florist, the photographer, anyone else we committed to. Right now I don’t remember. I made the arrangements. You undo them.”
Alessandro trailed me toward the front door. “Why should it fall into my lap?” he argued. “It was your wedding too.”
I turned and faced my ex–significant other. “If it was our wedding, then why did you let me make all the arrangements?”
“I thought you wanted to.”
“No, I wanted us to pick the band together, choose the food together, find the—”
“Yeah, whatever. Here, don’t forget your headgear.” He threw it at me. “It’s so sexy,” he spat. My canines meant nothing to him anymore.
I stuck the appliance in my pocket. “Where’s Kitty? There you are, baby.” He was asleep, curled up in his little bed. I picked him up. He was like a warm pillow. “You’re coming with me.”
“He’s my cat too,” Alessandro declared. “You can’t just take him.”
“Oh, really? I thought he was the least of your problems.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Forget it. Kitty’s mine. The dress, the veil, the tiara, they’re in the hall closet, all paid for. I don’t know if they’ll take them back, but you can try.”
“Holly, I refuse to do all this,” Alessandro said, stamping his foot like a petulant child. “I’m going to be too busy mounting my defense.”
At that moment I saw Alessandro, really saw him. He was appearing in the movie of his life and it was about to bomb. Why would I want to costar with such a loser? Was I that afraid to be alone? Well, not anymore, sister.
I grabbed the binder and stuck it in my purse. Opening the closet, I removed the Kleinfeld bag with my dress and veil, unzipped my already overpacked suitcase, and attempted to cram it inside. That wasn’t going to happen. I pulled everything out, including the tiara, which I stuck on my head, and tried stuffing the dress and veil inside again. This time, I made it work. “Okay, Alessandro, I’ll cancel what I can. Enjoy getting to know the real Alessandro Vercelli. If you ask me, he’s an unconscionable trout.”
Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry
THE SUN WAS SETTING as I made my way up Fourteenth Street. With my right arm, I lugged my bursting-at-the-seams suitcase. My bloated purse kept slipping down my shoulder, and I was using my left arm to restra
in Kitty, who was squirming like a greased piglet. It was a delicate balancing act made all the more tenuous by the cars whizzing by. Where was Denis King and his fancy white Maybach when I really needed him?
Stop whining, I thought. You can do this. You have to do this. I imagined I was starring in the movie of my life and this was my dramatic flight from a shattered relationship that I was no longer willing to endure. Oh, the pain, the heartache of it all. But I am strong. Wait, I don’t feel strong. Shut up. I will make it…at least as far as Muttropolis. BL will lend me a cat-carrying bag. Or better yet, maybe she’ll board Kitty until I find a place to live.
Crossing Fourteenth Street, my right arm cramped so sharply from pulling the heavy case that I stopped to switch sides. That’s when Kitty bolted.
“Kitty, STOP!” I screamed. Dropping the suitcase, I sprinted after him. He moved like a ball of tumbleweed, swift but rough because he was missing a leg. As he whizzed past Pops, who was playing chess near his stoop with Mr. Lim, the Korean flower guy, I yelled, “Grab the cat!”
Pops jumped up and tried to tackle him, but Kitty was too quick. He slipped right through his hands. Mr. Lim took off after the cat, but he wasn’t even close. My heart pounded furiously. Please, God, don’t let Kitty get run over.
A loud bam! sounded. I turned. “Nooooooo,” I shrieked. A city bus had plowed into the suitcase I had momentarily abandoned in the middle of Fourteenth Street, causing it to explode (the suitcase, not the bus). My clothes and makeup and shoes were raining from the sky, only to get smashed by moving taxis, cars, and minivans. The suitcase was demolished on impact.
It seemed surreal, as though it were a dream. Everything was happening in slow motion. I watched my wedding gown float through the air like an errant plastic grocery bag until it hit the ground just as the street cleaner rolled by. “Hhhhhhh,” I gasped. In a matter of seconds, my exquisite Carolina Herrera discount wedding dress was reduced to a wet, muddy blob of netting, satin, and lace. There was no way Kleinfeld would take it back now.
