Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  “Not with us, anyway,” I said.

  “Martin got fired,” Nigel said.

  “What?” I said, outraged but not entirely surprised. “She made him do it, just like she made me do it.”

  “She told him auf Wiedersehen right there and then,” he said.

  “She fired a devout Jew in German?” I said. “That was cold.”

  “Tanya was trying to impress Heidi,” Elaina theorized. “I still can’t believe she cheated. I have to decide if I can continue working for someone like that. ‘I will step back and let Him lead the way.’”

  “A Course in Miracles?” I asked.

  Elaina nodded as she gently lifted the black dress off the mannequin.

  “Elaina, the basic trouble with you is you’re too honest,” Nigel said. “Anyway, the story’s in all the papers. Tanya looks like a fool.”

  “It was a blessing I got kicked out early,” I said. “Elaina, you’ve got to hide me today.”

  Elaina gestured at the enormous exhibit that needed to be inspected, dismantled, and packed. One thing about working in such a small museum was that everybody pitched in to help colleagues. “Your wish is my command.”

  I smiled at my friends, grateful for their support.

  “Sooooo,” Nigel said, “how did you make out with Alessandro?”

  “We broke up.” I told them how Alessandro had the nerve to dump me by text message (they were shocked and appalled), how a bus ran over my wardrobe, and how I was now homeless.

  “But otherwise, Mrs. Lincoln, how’d you enjoy the play?” Elaina said with a giggle. “Come, let’s do the Sabrina costumes. Those are already inspected, right, Nigel?”

  “Right-oh,” he said.

  My phone vibrated, but I didn’t answer it. Alessandro was cell phone stalking me, leaving message after message demanding his ring back. Plus, he kept asking if I’d canceled the wedding plans and gotten his deposits refunded. The calls were good therapy. His obnoxious behavior was softening the blow of being dumped.

  We wandered over to the dresses Hepburn wore for Sabrina.

  “You know what never ceases to amaze me?” Nigel said. “These are over fifty years old, but if you wore them tomorrow, you would be completely in fashion.”

  “That was the genius of Givenchy,” I said. “His style was timeless.”

  “Oh, bloody hell!” Nigel shrieked. He had caught a glimpse of the ethereal gown Audrey had worn to the embassy ball in My Fair Lady. The dress, designed by Cecil Beaton, was a cream silk organza overlay with a ballet neckline, empire waist, and a matching silk crepe de chine underslip. It was embroidered with thousands of tiny silver and gold beads, along with fiery Swarovski crystals. Somehow it had suffered a four-inch tear on the side seam. A smattering of beads lay on the floor near the gown. “How did this happen?”

  Elaina ran over and inspected the damage. “A visitor must have gotten too close,” she said. “Mrs. Weidermeyer can fix it.”

  Nigel gasped. “Have you lost your senses?” Mrs. Weidermeyer was a highly skilled seamstress who worked on modern garments the museum needed stabilized. But only a certified conservator could restore vintage couture. In this case, Nigel would first contact Warner Brothers’ costume archives to see if he could obtain thread from the spool that was used to sew the gown in the first place. Whoever repaired the gown would follow the original seam line, carefully placing his needle through the same holes left by Beaton’s tailors when the dress was first created. Each bead would have to be individually hand sewn and knotted back to its original position. This would all be done under intense magnification, without rush and with utter perfection. Sometimes Nigel repaired garments himself. Other times, he hired outside experts.

  “I’m kidding,” Elaina said. “I know Mrs. Weidermeyer can’t do this.”

  “She just wanted to give you a heart attack,” I said.

  “Puh-lease,” Nigel said, “we’ll send it to Jacques Doucet.”

  “Can he fix it in time for Rome?” Elaina asked.

  “Doubtful. We’ll ship it late if we have to,” Nigel said.

  I gently ran my hand over the silk lace. The craftsmanship in the gown was impeccable, the material exquisite.

  Nigel and Elaina gingerly removed the gown from the mannequin while I knelt on my hands and knees to gather up every bead I could find. We carefully folded the slip and lace overlay, wrapped it in tissue, and packed it into an oversize acid-free box. Then we set the tiara, Edwardian necklace, and earrings into custom cases that were placed in the container with the dress. For the movie, these pieces came from Cartier. However, we used copies made with cubic zirconia stones. For our upcoming Tiaras through Time show, only the real thing would do. But since the star of this exhibit was the clothing, costume jewels were acceptable. Even so, insurance required that each ensemble that was lent as a package stay together.

  “I’ll take the dress to Doucet tomorrow,” Nigel said.

  “Remember the Gina Lollobrigida bridal gown from the Hollywood Weddings show? All those seed pearls that fell off?” I said.

  “These costumes are fragile to begin with,” Nigel said, shaking his head sadly. “They can take only so much stress before they fall apart.”

  I sighed. “Like my heart.”

  “Don’t be daft,” Nigel said. “Your heart is mightier than you think. You’ll get through this and there will be something better waiting for you, I promise.”

  “Thanks,” I said weakly. “I hope you’re right.”

  After Nigel inspected each costume, Elaina and I would carefully pack it into boxes that were placed in special wardrobe trunks that would be shipped to Rome shortly. Tanya never came looking for me. I later found out that she had been so stressed by the events of yesterday afternoon that three of those hard boulder zits erupted on her face. She had to be rushed to the dermatologist to have them professionally popped.

  Don’t Get Around Much Anymore

  POPS’ HAIR HAD ARRANGED itself in seven different directions, his eyes were bloodshot, and his fly was open when I got home from work that evening, home being Muttropolis. He smelled like an ashtray. It was obvious he’d been drinking or crying, maybe both. He stood hunched over by the indoor doggie playground on the second floor where Irving the humping poodle was doing what he did best with Bartholomew the submissive bulldog.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, grabbing his hand. “It’s not Kitty? Did you find Kitty? Is he…?”

  “No.” He shook his bowed head. “It’s not Kitty. He’s still out there somewhere.”

  I sighed with disappointment. “Did you panhandle today? Was your money stolen?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, my God. You’re sick? You’re dying?” I cried. Oh, please, not that.

  “No,” Pops said, tossing an envelope toward me.

  Inside was a handwritten note, something you don’t see too often these days. “Can I read it?”

  Pops shrugged. I took that as a yes.

  Hey, Pops,

  It finally happened. I’m selling the Jazz Factory. I was offered six mill for the real estate—too much bread to refuse. They’re turning it into a bank. Can you believe it? And they say jazz doesn’t pay. Our last show is next Monday. A bunch of cats are coming to play. After that, I’m retiring to Paris. See you Sunday. Invite friends and family. It’ll be our final encore.

  Bongo

  The Jazz Factory was Pops’ only regular job. Having that gig made him feel like he was a pianist in a big band at one of Manhattan’s oldest jazz haunts. Losing it had to be a terrible blow.

  “Oh, Pops,” I said, “I’m so sorry. Maybe there’s another regular act you can find. What about Arturo O’Farrell? Doesn’t his band play at Birdland on Sunday nights?”

  Pops shook his head. “Arturo’s a pianist. There’s no place for me. Face it, Holly, your old man’s washed up. I’m a loser.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I implored. “You’re just going through the wringer so your happy ending will be t
hat much sweeter. At least we’re not eating out of trash cans anymore. That’s something.” After we moved to Queens, Pops would troll the garbage cans of the city’s finest restaurants after his cab shift ended. Bouley was his favorite. Their dishwashers eventually got to know him so they wrapped leftovers in foil and put them out for Pops every night. Once he found a retainer inside a piece of pie and returned it but refused the reward.

  “We ate damn well back then,” Pops said. “In those days, I could put food on our table, gourmet food.”

  It was crummy that our lives had come to this. Somehow, someway, I would turn it around. “Look, things have been tough for us both. But they’ll get better. I promise.” I just wished I knew how.

  I Still Get Jealous

  SAMMIE AND TANYA WERE becoming like Eng and Chang, the famous Siamese twins. You never saw one without the other. Maybe they’re lesbian lovers, I thought. That would explain why Tanya gave her such preferential treatment. That and the seven-figure donations her parents gave. I called them the Satan twins behind their backs—SAmmie and TANya—get it?

  “Is the presentation ready?” Tanya said.

  Sammie was peeking over Tanya’s shoulder. A man with a camera was filming our encounter, while another guy stuck a microphone boom in my face. “What’s going on?”

  “Just act natural,” Tanya said. “These guys are filming Sammie for a segment on Extra about top socialites. Her publicist set it up.”

  I turned to Sammie. “You have a publicist?”

  “Duh-uh,” she said in a guttural tone.

  I hoped they got that on tape, Sammie saying “duh-uh” from the bottom of her throat. It was extremely un-top-socialite-like.

  “Are you finished with the presentation?” Tanya said.

  “Sure, I was just about to proof it,” I said. “Do you want to do a run-through?”

  “No,” Tanya answered. “E-mail it to Sammie, would you? I’m letting her do the honors.”

  My heart sank. I was counting on making that presentation to show Tanya how impressive I could be. “But this is my show with Cosima. She said I could speak to the press.”

  “And I’m Cosima’s boss and I’m telling you that Sammie will do it. After the negative publicity over What’s My Line? this press conference has to be perfect.”

  “But I wrote it. Don’t you think it has a better chance to be perfect if I present it?”

  “No, I don’t. Sammie’s new and needs the visibility. Plus, this way we’ll get the press conference on Extra. And the girl reeks of good breeding. Who better to represent the museum?”

  Obviously not me, I thought.

  “Can you hurry?” Sammie added. “I need time to practice.”

  “Here,” I groused, getting up from my desk and offering her my chair. “It needs spell-check and then you can print it. Finish it yourself.”

  THAT AFTERNOON, I SLIPPED into Corny’s banquet hall, where the press had gathered to hear about the new exhibit we were launching at the end of September. The room was teeming with reporters from every important fashion publication, along with the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Newsweek, Forbes, the Financial Times—you name it, they were there. It helped that our press conferences were known for putting out spreads catered by the premier chefs of our time. Today it was bliss-enducing sushi from Masa, the most expensive restaurant in New York City, and obscenely luscious bonbons from South’n France, the finest chocolatier in the country. Reporters are vultures in more ways than one.

  I caught a flash of Cosima’s flame-colored hair across the room. She, Tanya, and Sammie were shaking hands with Denis King, our show’s benefactor, who had just arrived. The team from Extra was filming the meeting, focusing mainly on Sammie, the socialite in her natural habitat.

  Tanya, who made the policy that we could never, ever borrow a piece from any collection under penalty of death or worse, was wearing the diamond tiara of oak leaves and acorns that the fifteenth Duke of Norfolk gave to his bride, Gwendolen Maxwell, in 1904. It’s an insult to the little people when those in power think the rules don’t apply to them. That’s why I didn’t feel as guilty as I probably should have for borrowing Corny’s dresses. It was my way of taking a stand in the fight for human equality. Naturally, it was a political statement I preferred to make in secret so I wouldn’t get fired.

  Denis was nattily attired in a charcoal pin-striped Brioni suit, crisp white shirt, and red silk tie. Trustees who had retrospectives named for them typically arrived with entourages, but not Denis. He came with one person, a little girl, his daughter most likely. I hung back so he wouldn’t see me.

  It was completely unfair. Cosima and I had spent two years working on this exhibit. We had compiled the greatest collection of tiaras ever to be assembled in one place—over three hundred bejeweled head ornaments. Each was priceless and irreplaceable, which is why Lloyd’s of London installed its own safe and insisted on providing round-the-clock armed guards. With millions of dollars worth of diamond, emerald, sapphire, and ruby crowns on display, some from the personal collections of the royals, others from such renowned sources as Fabergé, Cartier, and Lalique, it would take more than our beloved Gus to keep the collection safe. Tanya had him stationed by the door to the banquet hall so he wouldn’t feel bad about being replaced.

  Cosima and I had worked side by side to track down the pieces we hoped to exhibit, obtain permission to borrow them, learn their unique history, and distill the wealth of information we uncovered for the show and for this very moment—when we would reveal to the world details of the mouth-dropping retrospective that would be unveiled in a few weeks. Cosima promised I could take center stage, mainly because she was deathly afraid to speak in public. This was supposed to be my moment. Instead, Sammie would get the glory.

  I might as well eat the designer food, I thought. It would save me having to buy lunch. Each piece of sushi was a work of miniature art. Chef Masayoshi Takayama himself had prepared everything. This was as close as I’d get to dining at his ungodly priced restaurant.

  I looked up and noticed Denis’ little girl shaking hands with Gus. Cosima was introducing them. She looked over and caught my eye. Next thing I knew, she was escorting Denis and the child over to me. Yikes! There was no place to hide.

  “Holly, have you met Denis King?” Cosima asked.

  Denis cocked his head. “I believe we’ve met, haven’t we?”

  The blood rushed to my face. “Yes, Holly Ross. We were introduced last time you were here.”

  Denis looked uncertain, but shook my hand. His grip was firm and his hand was dry. He smelled kind of musky with a touch of sweetness—very sexy and masculine.

  “This is my daughter, Annie,” he said with pride. “I wanted to show her what the old man’s been up to.”

  Annie reached over and shook my hand. She was a dainty little niblet, about ten, freckle-faced with thick chestnut brown hair. “Daddy, can I wear one of the crowns?” she asked.

  “I think it’s against the rules,” he said.

  “But that lady over there is wearing one,” she said, pointing at Tanya.

  I leaned down to Annie and whispered in her ear, “Why don’t you ask that lady if you can try on her tiara? Tell her you’re Denis King’s daughter and he said she should let you wear it for the rest of the press conference.”

  Annie giggled. “I’ll be right back.” She skipped off.

  “Say excuse me,” Denis called after her. When she didn’t, he shrugged apologetically.

  “Denis, Holly was my partner in putting this exhibit together,” Cosima explained. “She’s the brains behind it.”

  “And the beauty too, I see,” Denis said, flashing dimples that could disarm a small army.

  “Well, thank you. If you love the show, I accept tips,” I joked. Oh, that was lame. “No, really, I was kidding. I don’t accept tips. Although I do accept free vacations.” Someone, stop me. Please.

  Denis laughed. “And if I don’t love it, can I blame you?�
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  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy. With whatever you don’t love about the exhibit, I mean. That’s what I’ll make you happy about.”

  “Then I will come to you with any complaints I have,” Denis said. “Although I don’t expect to have any.”

  Cosima touched his sleeve. “There are more people I want to introduce you to.” She turned to me. “He wants to meet everyone who worked on the show.”

  “Yes, I want to thank them for their contribution. So thank you, Miss Ross.”

  “Call me Holly, please.”

  “Thank you, Holly. You did a brilliant job with the exhibit and I appreciate your hard work. You made me look good, and that means a lot, especially with my daughter here.”

  “Oh, go on,” I said modestly.

  “If you really want me to, I will.”

  I giggled like a schoolgirl. Cosima looked at me with an urgent expression. She wanted me to act more professional, at least that was my interpretation. I straightened up and cleared my throat.

  He leaned in to me. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “I was hoping you would,” I said in a flirty tone. Sorry, Cosima.

  “If you and Cosima are the brains behind my exhibit, why is Sammie Kittenplatt making the presentation?” he whispered. “I watched that girl grow up. She’s not the sharpest stiletto in the shoe box, if you know what I mean.”

  I tried to hide my smile. “Don’t worry,” I said, touching his arm. “Our boss, Tanya, has every confidence in Sammie.”

  “Ah, diplomatically put,” he said.

  We both looked over at Tanya, who had removed the 1904 Gwendolen Maxwell tiara from her head and had placed it on Annie’s. The invisibly set diamonds on the gold acorns reflected fiery points of light throughout the room.

  “Well, Holly, it was a pleasure,” Denis said, shaking my hand goodbye.

  “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” I murmured as they walked off toward Nigel.