Fashionably Late

by Olivia Goldsmith

Oh Jesus! Karen didn’t need this! But she smiled. ‘Well, someone asked Chanel the exact same question,’ Karen said. ‘I’m no Chanel, but I’ll tell you what she said. “I like the ones who pay their bills. Keep your princesses and comtesses and pretenders to the throne. Such women are so impressed by their own nobility, to send a check is beneath them. Give me the chic, second wife of a rich businessman who cheats a little on his government contracts. Such a woman is too insecure to posture; such a woman pays her dressmaker.”’

  ‘So, you like insecure women?’

  Oh God. It was going to be one of these. ‘Not at all. I like all my clients,’ Karen said. She looked at her watch. ‘Do you have a lot more questions for the interview?’

  ‘Well, actually, I didn’t want to do an interview as much as follow you through the trunk show. Would that be all right?’ Mindy smiled. ‘You know, a kind of backstage view for our readers.’

  Oh fuck, Karen thought. Just what she needed! A snoop behind the scenes catching every catty remark and each fumbled sale. Plus, she couldn’t afford to have the press report on the Paris stuff beforehand. She could just imagine Defina’s reaction. Here in the Midwest a trunk show was a way for the fashion addict to stay ahead of the curve. But that didn’t mean Karen had to tip her hand to the press. Still, Karen smiled. This girl didn’t look experienced enough to know what she was really looking at. ‘What a great idea,’ she said. ‘We’d just love it.’ And she considered the bullshit shoveling for the day officially begun.

  Mrs Montand stood in front of the three-way mirror looking at herself in one of the long silk dresses that Defina had brought in to her. ‘I can’t, Karen. The dress is great, but it’s not for me. I have no waist.’

  Karen looked at her critically. Mrs Montand was a good customer, one who had been buying Karen’s clothing almost from the beginning, but she was conservative and she knew what she wanted.

  ‘She’s right,’ Karen said quietly to Defina. ‘She has no waist.’

  Defina nodded. ‘But you’ve got great legs. Stick with the short skirts and the blazer jackets.’

  ‘Or how about the knit dresses?’ Karen asked, hoping for a market test.

  ‘With this ass?’ Mrs Montand raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ Karen turned around and displayed her own behind. ‘It works for me.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll give one a try,’ Mrs Montand agreed.

  Karen had watched women trying on clothes all her life. It was funny; to wear clothes well you didn’t have to be thin but you did have to have good shoulders and be long-waisted. Mrs Montand’s problem wasn’t really her waistline – it was her short-waistedness. She’d look best in a tunic that disguised it.

  It was amazing what clothes concealed as well as revealed. A tall thin-appearing woman took off her tunic and it was clear that she was actually rather heavy. She was what the French called fausse maigre and could keep the illusion going with the help of the right clothing. Other women actually looked better when they took their clothes off. Those were the ones that needed help in selecting the right line.

  Karen strode down the dressing room hallway and back out to the selling floor. It was funny that they called it that when most of the selling went on in the changing rooms. Not that Karen needed to push. Sometimes it actually frightened her to see how much and how compulsively these women spent their money. Karen often felt that lurking under the excitement of the purchase, under the thrill of the new, was a dark and lonely place. When women clients asked for one of everything, or for a particular design in every color, Karen felt their desperation. What kind of lives did they have? Did her clothes actually give them some comfort or was she nothing more than a Band-Aid, a Norris Cleveland on a hanger? Karen knew that some of the more extreme women didn’t bother to unpack their purchases when they got home. They’d stick them in the closet like an alcoholic hiding an emergency bottle. It made her very sad. But she didn’t like to question their motivation because she might have to examine her own.

  As she worked the floor Karen kept hearing pops, like the sound of flashbulbs or corks being opened. What the hell was it? She didn’t have time to find out. More than two dozen women were already milling around going through the racks that KInc had imported for the day. Defina kept her eye on the Paris numbers.

  ‘Oh, God, I just love this jacket! And gray is the color this season,’ a big blonde matron told Karen. The jacket was a gray boucle wool. It would look like shit on her.

  ‘It is great,’ Karen agreed. ‘But did you see this one?’ She held up one of the navy double-breasted ones she’d done. ‘Navy isn’t really a neutral, you know. Women think it is, but it’s murder on most of them. You could wear it, though,’ she said, truthfully.

  ‘Well, what’s the best color this year?’

  ‘The one that most becomes you,’ Karen told her, with a smile.

  ‘Well,’ the woman admitted, ‘I don’t really know so I mostly stick with black. Except you don’t do it, so I get confused.’

  ‘Black is an unforgiving color for most blondes,’ Karen said.

  Then she saw the woman register recognition. It was the old ‘Karen Kahn is talking to me’ syndrome. Karen still wasn’t used to it. The woman took the jacket and held it up. ‘I love the buttons,’ she said. Instead of the usual door knobs, Karen had done the jacket with self-covered buttons. It updated the look. She smiled at the big blonde.

  ‘You might also want to try one of the long dresses. They’d be great on you.’ She took a size twelve off the rack and handed it to the woman. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t usually wear dresses, but it is nice.’ Then she looked at the size. ‘I’m a ten though.’

  Shit. If she was a ten, Karen was the tooth fairy. ‘They’re running a little small,’ she said diplomatically. ‘Why don’t you try both?’

  Doubtfully, the woman took the two hangers and began to head toward the changing room. ‘I’m sure I’m a ten,’ she called back. Karen smiled and nodded, but she was ready to spit nickels. It was all that goddamned downsizing. Years ago, Albert Nipon had found that a lot of size-ten women would buy his dresses – if they could fit into a size six. So he just cut everything bigger. Loads had followed his lead. Most designers wouldn’t admit they did it. It still amazed Karen that some women absolutely refused to buy clothing that fit them perfectly and looked great if it wasn’t labeled with the size they wanted it to be. And so the industry had all begun downsizing. Of course, the very best couture houses kept true to size, but then their customers were the ones who were most figure-conscious and had the time and money to maintain their bodies. For the sportswear lines, downsizing had become just another marketing trick. Put a size-twelve butt into a size-twelve jean that was labeled a size eight and you racked up a sale. But where would it stop? Jeffrey, Casey, and even Defina had nagged her to do it, but somehow, up till now, she’d resisted. For one thing, it would give Mrs Cruz a heart attack. Karen kept the smile plastered on her face and caught Defina’s eye. ‘Get the blonde into the size-twelve dress,’ she said with clenched teeth. ‘Cut the size label out. It will look great on her.’ Defina nodded. She had a tiny, razor-sharp pocketknife on hand for just such operations. Karen looked up.

  Mindy Trawler had her eye on the two of them. Karen smiled brightly, looking only at the girl’s face and avoiding Mindy’s bulging belly. She was immediately besieged by another two customers. They had to try the boucle. Karen had been at it for almost three hours now and it seemed to be the best show they’d done yet. Despite Mrs Montand and her nonexistent waist, despite the blonde and her fixation with numbers, the dresses were a big hit and some of the other Paris designs were moving nicely. Karen felt justified but exhausted. Round little Mr Crosby was almost dancing in the aisle. It was then that he turned and, with a flourish, announced that tea and champagne were about to be served.

  Three carts were rolled up from a service elevator. The napery was a wonderful damask in one of Karen’s sig
nature wheat colors, with a vase of lilies in just the same shade. There was a huge silver tea service, gold-rimmed china cups and saucers, and a three-tiered silver server with wonderful minuscule cucumber sandwiches and tiny scones. They had really gone all out, and Karen was touched to see that the champagne in the silver coolers was Dom Perignon, not some domestic crap. It wasn’t vintage, but it would do.

  Dozens of the women customers, Tangela, Defina, and of course Mindy Trawler descended on the tables. But Karen needed a break from them more than she needed a drink.

  She retired to their staging area and took a moment to glance at herself in the mirror. Jesus, she looked like shit! There were dark circles under her eyes that almost perfectly matched the mauve of her silk shirt. Well, at least she was color coordinated. She hadn’t needed that 2 A.M. wakeup call last night. Despite the press of fans and customers, she’d have to take a break. She turned around and made her way back to the screened part of the staging area that Tangela and the other girls had been using as a dressing room. As she walked past the divider, Tangela strode in behind her, still wearing one of the brown farm wife dresses, nibbling on a sandwich. She looked spectacular. ‘Don’t get anything on the dress,’ Karen warned her. Tangela scowled but nodded, turned, and left the room. It was only then that Karen saw Stephanie huddled in the corner, by a mirror, her back to the pipe rack of clothes and the rest of the room. Her back was bare and from where Karen stood it seemed as if her shoulders were shaking with sobs. Karen moved quickly to her side. Her niece was crying, her face running with the black tide of her eyeliner and mascara. She looked like a very young raccoon. Karen pulled a seat up next to her and put her hand on the girl’s bare shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ Stephanie said.

  ‘What do you mean? You’re doing great.’

  ‘No. I know I’m not. I don’t know what to say when the women talk to me, and nobody buys the things that I model.’

  ‘How would you know that?’ Karen asked.

  ‘Tangela told me.’

  Karen shook her head. Even she didn’t know exactly what was selling – except for the French stuff – and wouldn’t until there was a final count at the end of the day. This must just be a case of novice nerves. And Tangela’s bitchiness. Well, Stephanie was entitled to be anxious. She had never really been exposed to anything like this before. Maybe it was too much for her. Karen felt guilty. She’d thought this would be fun, a sort of makeup for busting Stephie at the boat party. It hadn’t occurred to Karen that it might be traumatic for her niece. She’d been too wrapped up in the adoption and NormCo and her marriage to give any more time or thought to poor Stephanie, and here the kid was feeling like a failure when she’d done a great job. Karen took a deep breath. How could she think about being a mother when she didn’t even have time to be a good aunt?

  ‘Stephanie, you’re really doing great. You look fabulous in those slacks, and after you modeled the double-ply knit, three women tried it on. Don’t worry. This is just new for you. Of course you’re not used to it yet. But you will be.’

  ‘You’re just saying that because you’re my aunt,’ Stephanie cried, but after a few moments she did stop crying. She wiped her eyes and sniffed, leaving a ghastly smear of black across her face, her hand, and down her wrist. Lucky she was only wearing her underwear. ‘You’re just saying it,’ Stephanie repeated.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Karen told her. ‘I couldn’t afford to take the chance of losing sales right now. Business is business, Stephanie. I could have left you back at the showroom today.’

  ‘Really? I’m really doing okay?’

  ‘You’re gorgeous! And you’re doing a great job. Just don’t get that shit on your face all over the cashmere or I’ll kill you.’ Karen gave the girl a hug and reached over her for some Kleenex. God, Stephie’s shoulders were bony! ‘So clean yourself up and get out there. I’ll even let you have a glass of champagne.’ Karen smiled at her niece in the mirror and then saw Mindy Trawler reflected behind them. Shit. Just what she needed! How much of this little scene had the journalist witnessed? And how much would show up in print?

  ‘The photographer is here,’ Mindy Trawler said coolly. ‘Is this a good time for you?’ She was holding a champagne flute in one hand and a tea sandwich in the other. She wasn’t drinking, was she? It must just be club soda, Karen told herself. ‘You could do a few pictures now?’ Mindy asked. ‘Maybe the two of you?’

  ‘Want to be in the newspaper?’ Karen asked Stephie.

  ‘Sure.’

  Karen smiled into the mirror. ‘Just give us a minute.’ She told Stephanie to wash up and meanwhile Karen reached into her schlep bag, pulled out some concealer, and blended it under her eyes. Then she took out the big travel blusher brush she carried and covered her whole face with a powdering of Guerlain’s terra-cotta. It gave the impression of a tan without any of the UVA violence to her skin. She put on a noncolor lipstick, but added a quick layer of gloss. Gloss reflected well in photos. Never a beauty, she looked in the mirror without much vanity. Well, it would have to do. She stood up. The fabulous Japanese fabric trousers she had on were worth every penny: there wasn’t a wrinkle in them! Karen hated how most slacks got ICW – instant crotch wrinkle. No one appreciated fabrics like the Japanese.

  She heard another of those popping noises. Was someone being shot downstairs? That would be an extreme response to a makeover. She took a look at her own makeover. Not too bad.

  But she’d managed to smear some of the bronzer powder onto her jacket shoulder. Well, that was easy to remedy. She pulled off the jacket and threw it onto the counter, grabbing another one off the rack. She gave herself a quick final glance in the mirror. Her stuff worked. She walked out of the dressing room and onto the selling floor just in time to see Mindy Trawler pouring herself another glass of Dom Perignon. The stupid little bitch was drinking! Karen couldn’t remember whether fetal alcohol syndrome was more likely in the first or last trimester. Without thinking she walked up to the girl.

  ‘You don’t really want that, do you?’ she asked. ‘We have fresh orange juice and I think there’s herbal tea.’

  ‘No, thanks. This is great.’

  ‘But it’s not really a good idea. I could send out for some other fresh fruit juice, if you like.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Mindy Trawler said, and there was an edge to her voice that should have warned Karen to lay off. But she wasn’t in a lay-off mode.

  ‘I’m not thinking of you, I’m thinking of your baby.’

  By now, several of the women clustered around the table had turned and were watching the confrontation. ‘I’ll take care of my own baby, thank you very much,’ Mindy said icily.

  Mr Crosby stepped forward and cleared his throat. He knew things had gone too far. ‘The photographer thought maybe you could stand over here, where we have your logo. It might be a good place for a shot,’ he said, and took Karen by the arm. Stephanie joined her. Defina, her eyebrows raised, followed the two of them.

  ‘We gonna have to give her more than a two-thousand-dollar jacket if we want good press now,’ Defina warned Karen.

  ‘Fuck her,’ Karen said, and hoped her voice was loud enough to carry. ‘Don’t give her anything. She doesn’t deserve to have a baby.’

  ‘Guess that isn’t your call to make,’ Defina told her. ‘Anyway, what do you expect when a sick bitch whelps? Babies full of rabies. So what?’ She patted Karen’s arm. ‘Smile nice for the boys with the camera,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the fire department together, go back to the Trawler, and try to put out that little blaze.’

  Karen spent an agonizing twenty minutes pretending to pin the hem on a dress that Stephanie modeled while the photographer and his assistant fiddled endlessly with the lights. She kept wanting to tell them that this wasn’t some kind of Avedon art shot but just a crappy black and white for the newspapers. She was just getting up from her knees when she looked across the floor and saw Bill Wolper step off the esca
lator. She could hardly believe her eyes. What the hell was he doing here? He turned toward the show activity and she watched as his eyes perused the crowd. Then he saw her and smiled. She lifted her hand in greeting. It was funny, but at the same time she felt her heart flutter. But maybe it was only her stomach. After all, she’d skipped lunch. She walked toward him.

  ‘I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by,’ he said with a grin. His teeth weren’t great, but she liked the fact that he’d resisted caps and that he had a dimple on one side of his mouth when he smiled. It was cute, just the one dimple. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘It was going fine before I pissed off the reporter who’s covering us. She’ll probably pan me.’

  ‘The press,’ Bill said with a dismissive shrug. ‘One of my business associates came to me for advice: he couldn’t decide if he should buy into a Nevada whorehouse or a newspaper. I told him I didn’t know the difference.’

  Karen laughed. Bill smiled and showed that single dimple. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘now my day hasn’t been completely wasted. At least I’ve made you laugh.’

  They stood there for a moment together. Karen was tired, but this was the best she had felt all day. ‘So,’ Bill said, ‘when do you knock off? Even you can’t work all the time. Can I take you to dinner?’

  Karen looked down at her watch. It was a quarter to five. They had at least an hour of packing up to do, then the schlep out to O’Hare for the flight back. But she could knock off right after the wrap, have dinner, and take a later flight. ‘The last O’Hare flight I can catch is at nine,’ she told Bill.

  ‘Let’s kill two birds with one stone. My 727 is at Midtown Airport. It’s a shorter commute and the food isn’t bad. What do you say?’

  Karen blinked. ‘Yes. I say yes,’ Karen said, and turned back to make the new arrangements.

  When Karen told Defina how she was getting home, Dee had raised her brows again. Then, out of nowhere, she asked, ‘When’s the last time you and Jeffrey did the thang?’