Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  “Here you go, luv.” Nigel handed me the framed photograph of Pops and me that I’d kept at my desk.

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping it into my bag. We were tucked into a booth in Jackson Hole (the restaurant, not the ski resort). Nigel and I were back on good terms. He’d agreed to share the blame with me over the Roman Holiday gown, not that we’d come clean about it yet, but soon we would have to. I promised Nigel a job at my new museum. How could I start such a project without him, Elaina, and Cosima by my side? I couldn’t. It was still very hush-hush, but all three had agreed to join me as soon as I found a building to house the Tex and Carleen Panthollow Institute of Fashion. I wondered what Tanya would say when her staff did a mass exodus. At least she’d still have Sammie. That would be a comfort (to me).

  “Thanks for the stuff,” I said. “It would have been tough to go back for it.” Nigel had cleaned off my desk and brought me my Rolodex and a few personal items.

  “I hate to tell you, luv, but you’re going back,” Nigel said, “at least for one night.”

  “Methinks you’re mistaken,” I said. “Tanya would call the police if I showed up.”

  “Au contraire. Apparently Denis King pitched a fit when he found out you weren’t coming to his opening tomorrow.”

  “What? I’ve been trying to reach him for days. He won’t return my calls. Now he wants me at his opening. Why?”

  “You know your little mistake at the press conference?” Nigel said. “It was the typo heard round the world. The film from Extra was posted on YouTube. It’s been played a couple of million times. His company has gotten more attention in the past two weeks than it got in the past two years. The stock’s up ten percent from all the publicity. Where have you been?”

  “On a cruise, remember?” I said. “With Denis King, I might add.” I wondered why he hadn’t told me what a boon my little mistake had been to his business. How dare he let me feel awful about it and grovel for forgiveness!

  “Hot plate,” the waiter said, putting my hamburger and fries in front of me. Nigel was having a salad, as usual. Me? I needed to put on weight.

  “Mr. King has you to thank for his sudden increase in fortune. I’m sure that’s why he asked Phinnaeus to invite you. Phinn called me personally to make sure you’d be there.” Phinnaeus Milch was the chairman of the Fashion Museum’s board. I’d spoken to his secretary before, but never to the man himself.

  “What did you say?”

  “Well,” he said conspiratorially, “I told him you wouldn’t come because you had absolutely nothing to wear. Then I asked for special permission to let you borrow something from the museum.”

  “And?”

  Nigel shrugged. “He said fine, borrow anything you like just as long as you come.”

  My stomach was filled with butterflies at the thought of seeing Denis again. I wanted to say I was sorry, but not to his face. Why had I made that stupid bet? Of course he went back to Sydney. Her motives may not have been pure, but they were out in the open.

  “So? Will you come?” Nigel said. “Everyone who’ll be there is a potential donor to your new museum.”

  “Tanya won’t like it,” I mumbled, sucking the salt off a hot French fry.

  “What choice does she have? Phinn’s her boss,” Nigel said. “I’d stay out of her way, though. Here’s the best part. Denis is making a big announcement at the party, but nobody knows what it is. Cosima thinks he’s giving a huge gift to the institute in appreciation of your fortuitous error.”

  “Oh, that’s rich. Sydney gets Denis. Tanya gets a big donation. I get fired, not that I care because I don’t. French fry?”

  “I’m sorry for what happened between you and Denis,” Nigel said, taking a handful of fries. “What was he like, anyway?”

  I considered the question. “He was like no billionaire I’ve ever known.”

  “How many have you known?”

  “Do you mean personally?”

  Nigel nodded.

  “Two. Him and Carleen. But trust me, Denis is unusual. He was kind, handsome like a teddy bear, generous, fun, loyal to his family, a good father. But as soon as he thought he couldn’t trust me, he put up this wall. Polite but unforgiving, you know?” I shook my head sadly. “He was falling in love with me, but I blew it. It doesn’t matter. I deserved it.”

  “Don’t say that,” Nigel said. “You were going to tell him the truth.”

  “Of course. Eventually,” I said. “Don’t you think he should have forgiven me? Princess Ann forgave Joe Bradley when she found out he was a journalist trying to get a story in Roman Holiday.”

  “Life isn’t like the movies, luv.”

  I sighed. “I know. But I wish it was. For a while, I was hoping Denis would be my prince—you know, rescue me from my godforsaken life. At least now I know there’s only one person I can depend on when I need to be rescued.”

  “Me, right?” Nigel said.

  “No! You are the antithesis of dependable. It’s me. I’m the only safety net I have.”

  “Well, I’m glad I helped you realize that,” Nigel said. “But I’m sorry I let you down.”

  “And well you should be.”

  “Let me make it up to you. Tell me you’ll be my date to the opening tomorrow night.”

  “But what would I wear?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Nigel said. “Look what I just picked up from Jacques Doucet.” He reached into the shopping bag he had set in the booth and unwrapped the tissue paper covering a cream embroidered and beaded silk organza sheath that was—“WHAT! That’s the ball gown from My Fair Lady. Are you kidding me? I’m not wearing that, not after…”

  “Not after what?” Nigel said. “After all you went through, you deserve to wear a real Hepburn costume. What’s Tanya going to do? Fire you? Phinn said you could borrow anything as long as you came.”

  “He must not know it’s against the rules.”

  “Take advantage of his ignorance. I’m not the only one who wants to see you in it. Cosima and Elaina do too. In fact, we insist.” Nigel was shaking his finger at me to make his point when he hit his glass and knocked it over.

  I watched, as though it were in slow motion, as the liquid began cascading over the rim, sloshing on the table, and flowing toward the unprotected priceless gown. At the last second, Nigel whipped the garment out of the path of the oncoming vegetable juice. It was a brilliant save.

  I patted the spill with my napkin and grabbed several more from the empty table next to us.

  “The dress is unharmed,” Nigel said, his voice shaking. “You see; it’s a sign. This is something you must do because…you must do it.”

  “Okay, fine, I’ll come and I’ll wear the gown,” I said, after cleaning up the spill. “There are things I want to say to Mr. Penis King.”

  “You’re not going to embarrass yourself, are you?” Nigel asked. “Or the Fashion Museum?”

  I gave Nigel a sly look. “Have you ever known me to do anything like that?”

  Let’s Face the Music and Dance

  “Tiaras through Time at the National Fashion Museum is a magnificent exhibit, epitomizing majesty, romance, and glamour, while showing that all that glitters is indeed gold, and diamonds, and rubies, and sapphires…”

  —VOGUE

  THE OPENING GALA FOR Denis King Presents: Tiaras through Time was the hottest invitation in town. Everyone was dying to see the stunning creations that had decorated the heads of the most celebrated women ever to walk the face of the earth. The Fashion Museum had invited all their major donors and board members, along with the socialite A-list as determined by the blue-haired old guard—those self-appointed society Nazis who have taken on the vital task of determining who matters in the worlds of fashion, philanthropy, arts, and the social whirl. Of course, there were the newer, younger “celebutants,” including Sydney and her privileged posse.

  The exhibit had been set up in our ballroom, which always felt to me like a royal palace, with its gilded mirrors, lo
oming faux masterpieces, and over-the-top crystal chandeliers. Glass cases with special lights designed to make gems sparkle at their brightest intensity lined the walls. Each display contained priceless tiaras—a gold-wreath crown from ancient Greece, a ruby garland of roses adorned with diamonds and emeralds from Rome, a crystal-engraved crown decorated with rows of brilliant-cut diamonds made by Cartier, a Russian tiara comb set with emeralds and sapphires with matching necklace and earrings—each piece more breathtaking than the last. This show was a jewelry lover’s wet dream. Okay, that was crass. But it was true.

  I was proud of the understated elegance of our event. Too often, society fetes resembled over-the-top vomitzvahs as a result of party planners run amuck. We had avoided that pitfall by allowing the elegant venue and majestic treasures of our exhibit to speak for themselves.

  Arriving fashionably late, I entered the room slowly, holding my head high. The gown I had borrowed, a cream embroidered and beaded silk organza sheath covering a matching crepe de chine slip, fit as though it were tailor made. The scoop neckline with its cap sleeves sparkled with crystal and gold beads that had been featured throughout the dress, most generously around the shoulders, sleeves, neck, and hemline. The empire silhouette did wonders for my bustline, which had been pushed up and amplified with the help of a new high-tech patented Victoria’s Secret bra. Wearing fabric that had once adorned Audrey Hepburn was everything I could have ever imagined and more—the exquisite detail of the embroidery, the sensual sheen of the organza sheath, the bright sparkle of the tiny crystals. What intoxicating bliss! In this gown, nothing bad could happen to you.

  The replica starburst tiara from the movie graced my head. Diamond waterfalls spilled from my earlobes. The Edwardian choker that Edith Head had designed to hide Hepburn’s prominent collarbones and gazelle-like neck worked its magic on mine. I felt like Eliza Doolittle entering the embassy ball, having just been transformed from a Cockney flower girl to a duchess. Heads turned when I floated in, and I imagined guests asking, “Who is that spellbinding creature?”

  Who is she indeed!

  A waiter in tails offered me a crystal flute of champagne, which I downed in three gulps.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Sammie, who was having an impassioned conversation with Sydney. Even from here, I could see Sammie was engaged in some serious sucking-up.

  “There you are, luv. Mwaa-mwaa.” Nigel said, air-kissing me. He stood back and gave me the once-over. “You are radiant tonight. That dress is positively sublime.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  Cosima with her cloud of flame-colored curls was right behind him with more air kisses. “Look at you! You’re dazzling.”

  “I feel like a princess,” I admitted. “And you look amazing too.” Cosima was wearing a black Behnaz Sarafpour lingerie-inspired cocktail slip dress that she must have borrowed from the designer.

  “It’s so lonely without you here,” Cosima whispered. “We can’t wait until we’re working together again.”

  “It won’t be long. You’ve done a wonderful job with the room.”

  “Do you like it?” Cosima asked. “You should. You arranged it and it’s perfect.”

  I smiled modestly and took another glass of champagne from a waitress. Glancing over Cosima’s shoulder, I saw Denis standing with Lucille. He was watching me from across the room.

  “Would you excuse me?” I said, starting to make my way to the Kings. I was not going to hide from them. Plus, I looked très magnifique and wanted Denis to see what he had foolishly cast aside.

  By the time I reached them, Lucille had moved over to the sushi station and was deep in conversation with Muffie Rockefeller.

  Denis lit up when he saw me. If I didn’t know he was married, I would have thought he wanted to kiss me. Considering whom he married, it made perfect sense that he would want to kiss me, but that was not in the cards.

  “You are stunning,” he marveled.

  “It’s the dress,” I demurred.

  “What dress?” Denis said. “The only thing I see is you. There’s a magnificence that comes out in your eyes and voice, in the way you stand, in the way you walk. It’s like you’re lit from within, Holly.”

  “Stop, you’re making me self-conscious.”

  “Will you forgive me for not saying goodbye on the ship?”

  I held up my hand to stop him. “I’m the one who is sorry. I should have been honest with you from the beginning. Did you get the message that I called?”

  “Yes, I…I did, but I didn’t have a chance—”

  “It doesn’t matter. Here,” I said, reaching into my evening bag and handing him a note and a personal check.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Read it,” I said, as he opened the letter.

  Dear Mr. King,

  Enclosed is an itemized statement of all expenses incurred by you on my behalf. This includes the use of your private jet, hotel meals, clothing, Vespa rental, and tips, which comes to a total of $10,411.35. It is only an estimate. If your figure amount differs, please let me know. Enclosed is a check covering such amount.

  With best wishes for your continued success,

  Holly J. Ross

  “Ten thousand, four hundred eleven dollars and thirty-five cents? How did you figure that?” Denis suppressed a smile.

  “It was my best guess.”

  Denis tore the check in half. “I can’t accept this.”

  A feeling of relief washed over me. My ship was in the harbor, but it hadn’t quite come in. Carleen’s lawyer couldn’t meet with me until next week. Kitty and I were still sleeping on the AeroBed in the basement of Muttropolis. If Denis had cashed the darn thing, it would have bounced. But at least now he could see I was an honorable person who paid her debts rather than the despicable schemer he thought I was. Not that giving someone a hot check was honorable. I was doing the best I could with what little I had.

  “Well, then I thank you for—” I said.

  “Excuse me,” Tanya said, interrupting our conversation. “Oh, hello, Holly. Borrowed another dress, I see. We’re starting the presentation, Denis. I can’t wait to find out what all the mystery is about.” Tanya took Denis’ elbow and guided him toward the dais.

  Denis glanced back at me. “Stay, please,” he said.

  It Had to Be You

  NIGEL APPEARED AS IF by magic. “Is everything all right, luv?”

  Cosima was behind him. “Ignore Tanya. Someday she’ll get hers.”

  Phinnaeus Milch took the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is a most auspicious occasion. This party marks the opening of Denis King Presents: Tiaras through Time, which we at the Fashion Museum are honored to present. It is also a very special night because of the exciting announcement we are about to make. As you know, when our patron, Cornelia Von Aston LeClaire Peabody, died, she bequeathed twenty million dollars, this elegant mansion, and a stunning collection of her own couture wardrobe to be used to establish our museum. But no one knew better than Corny that it takes much more than that to endow an organization such as this in perpetuity. It was Corny’s express wish that we not name the museum for her, but that we wait for an even bigger gift, a gift of at least one hundred million dollars, and that we allow that donor to name our museum. Ladies and gentlemen, we have received such a gift tonight.”

  The room buzzed with excitement. A one-hundred-million-dollar donation was gasp-worthy, even for this jaded crowd. It would take “the Little Fashion Museum That Could” into a whole new league.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Denis King,” Phinnaeus said, gesturing toward the biggest man in town.

  Denis approached the microphone, grinning like a kid who just found a train set under his Christmas tree. “Fashion Museum, friends, my chest swells with pride as I stand before you tonight. This exhibit is spectacular, don’t you agree?”

  Everyone clapped and a few less civilized guests hooted. Lucille stood near the front, beaming at her son like he just won
the Academy Award. Annie, who must have gone back to her mother, wasn’t there. That was too bad. It would have meant a lot to Denis to share the moment.

  “New York City is one of the world’s most important cultural capitals,” Denis said. “We have the best in art museums, theaters, dance companies—you name it. And while this city hosts spectacular costume museums that are affiliated with larger institutions like the Met and the Fashion Institute of Technology, there is enough interest in the subject to warrant a stand-alone, equally important museum. So I have decided to make a gift of ten million dollars a year over the next ten years to the National Museum of Fashion; that’s one hundred million dollars in total.”

  There was gasping, applause, and squealing from the crowd. I glanced at Tanya, whose mouth was agape. How would she spend one hundred million dollars? I wondered for a nanosecond. Oh, let me count the ways. This was going to get interesting, I thought. Our two museums would be on equal footing. Let the games begin.

  Tanya rushed the dais. “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. King,” she said. Shaking Denis’ hand and grabbing the mike, she went on. “You have no idea what this will mean to us. There is so much work to be done and now, with my leadership and your capital, we can make this the finest fashion institute in all the world!”

  Denis touched Tanya’s shoulder and whispered in her ear.

  “Oh, sorry. Mr. King has more to say.” She stepped away from the mike, but stood on the dais.

  Denis gave Tanya an annoyed look; at least that was my interpretation. “Thank you,” he said. “As is customary with donors of large gifts, the board of directors has allowed me to have a limited hand in the direction the museum will take in the future. And our first order of business was to name the institute for a woman I care deeply about.” Denis gestured to a large sign on an easel that had been covered with black velvet draping.