Fashionably Late

by Olivia Goldsmith

  ‘First of all, I would like to say that I’m sorry Jeffrey isn’t here to share this news with you, but as you all know, he’s in Paris getting things organized. He was the one responsible for making this happen.’ Was that true, she wondered, but didn’t have time to consider it. She took a deep breath. ‘So, anyway, listen,’ she said, and then self-consciously thought: God, I sound so Brooklyn. Oh, well. I yam what I yam. ‘I know many of you have heard rumors, but I wanted to wait to talk to you until I knew for sure what was happening. We have been tendered an offer by NormCo to buy us out.’ She paused. There was a murmur from the back, where the sewing staff sat. ‘It doesn’t mean that they would step in and manage our business or change it. What it means is that we’d have a chance to expand our business in a lot of ways we never could before. For me, it means that things could be very exciting: I can do a lot of lower-priced clothes and a line of active sportswear that I’ve been dying to do. For you it will mean some extra money. Depending on how long you’ve worked here, it could mean a lot of extra money.’ There was another murmur, but this time a higher-pitched one. Karen saw Mercedes break into a rare smile. ‘And as far as your jobs are concerned, we would continue as we always have. I know that I couldn’t have gotten where I am today without the help of all of you, and I hope that all of you like where we have gotten today.’ She paused to let that sink in. ‘I’m going to let Robert and Lenny explain the rest of this stuff, but I’m going to sit right here, and if anyone has any questions, feel free to ask.’

  Robert-the-lawyer stood up and walked to the lectern. A slide appeared on the unfurled screen behind him. He told the group a little about NormCo and a little about their offer. He explained the choice between cashing in and holding NormCo stock. He sounded competent and friendly. If he still harbored resentment over Karen’s plan to give some of the money back to the staff, he certainly didn’t show it. In fact, he almost made it seem as if it were his idea. There was enthusiastic applause when he finished. Then the packets were distributed with the formula for each employee. Lenny stood up amid the rustling of paper. Karen heard the gasps as people began to look through the packets and understood the only number that mattered to them in all of that photocopied, collated pile: their bottom line. By doing it this way she would be giving away millions of dollars, but wasn’t that proportionately correct? After all, she and Jeffrey would become really wealthy. And, as she explained to Jeffrey and Robert-the-lawyer, she’d have to go on working with this staff. She couldn’t bear to spend the next dozen years with resentful, unhappy people. Bill Wolper had said the same thing to her. And wasn’t this the only thing that Arnold’s daughter could do?

  The rest of the meeting was brief. Lenny droned on about capital gains and tax liabilities for a little while. But once people had seen their package, the murmur among the staff couldn’t be quieted. When Lenny finished, Karen stood up.

  ‘So that’s about it,’ she said. ‘Of course, it makes me a little nervous to try anything new, but I know most of you won’t believe that.’ There was scattered laughter, especially from the women in the sample room, who had been forced to try new things over and over again. ‘Anyway, part of the deal is that I have to stay on for the next twelve years. So if you’re sick of me now, it’s a good time to bail out.’ There were more laughs and then Mrs Cruz stood up. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Karen,’ she said, and she began to clap. The applause grew until the whole room was filled with it. One by one the other staff members stood up until everybody was standing, applauding Karen. She felt herself blush, and tears filmed her own eyes. Boy, she sure seemed to be doing a lot of crying lately, for a woman who never cried. So, maybe all of this was working out the way it should be. These people had depended on her and she’d come through for them. She thought of all the money she was keeping and hung her head in gratitude and shame.

  Karen’s announcement put everyone in a kind of hyper mood. People were happy, but their minds seemed to be elsewhere. It didn’t help the work load. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong in the final prep for the Paris show.

  Karen’s only hope at the run-through was that the old show biz superstition about dress rehearsals was true for fashion shows: when dress rehearsals were fiascoes they guaranteed the success of the actual production. Now Karen stood amid the chaos ‘backstage’ and was ready to pull her hair out. Or else she would pull out Tangela’s hair. Or maybe Maria Lopez’s. Defina had managed to book the extra girls they would need for the two shows. It had been last-minute, and they would take extra work to get into shape, but they’d be fresh and they looked right. Final alterations were being made on their ensembles. Ironically (or maybe predictably) it was the two most experienced models who were doing nothing but complaining: about the difficulty of the schedule, the music choice, about everything, and it was lousing up the timing as well as bringing down the spirits of everyone. Backstage was a shambles. The new clothes were strewn everywhere. Mrs Cruz would have a fit. Defina was actually in charge of the show itself, but Karen always liked to be there to give the final adjustments to the way something draped and to add or – more often – remove an accessory or piece of jewelry. Now, though, after close to three hours of it, Defina had blood in her eye and told Karen to go sit out front.

  ‘I’m only trying to help,’ Karen told her. ‘The show is running thirty-eight minutes too long already. I’m trying to help. You know what they say: designers solve other people’s problems.’

  ‘Girlfriend, you’re an artist. Artists create problems. And right now you’re one of my problems. Get your ass out front and see what it looks like from the house.’

  Karen knew when it was best not to mess with Defina and this was clearly one of those times. Both of them were frazzled to the max and Karen decided not to push the envelope. She walked out in front of the makeshift wings that Casey had rigged and sat down beside her mother, Lisa, and Stephanie. Carl, who had come in to do hair, sat a few rows back, gossiping with Casey. There were another couple of dozen people watching the run-through, some of them taking notes and – at this point – most of them yawning from exhaustion. Many had been up all the night before, resewing hems and tearing out seams. Karen had insisted that they run the black and the white shows simultaneously, to make sure the models would mirror one another during the actual separate events. But she hadn’t realized the difficulty in getting one girl to change her style to match another’s. Tangela and Maria, who opened and closed the shows, seemed to insist on doing the opposite of one another. If one swooped, the other robot-walked. If one boogied, the other sashayed. An icy wind seemed to have surrounded the two of them and it was hard to see the fashion through the breeze.

  Karen sat in silence beside her mother and sister. Tiff had refused to come. Arnold was resting easy and would be released tomorrow. He’d been quiet when Karen called him. She just wished her mother and sister would be as still. Since Lisa and Belle had heard about the deal and gotten their portfolios, both had developed an instant new interest in the business. Now they watched as three different numbers were modeled, each in both black and white. Squinting her eyes, moving her head, Karen actually liked what she saw, but the presentation was lackluster at best. Goddamnit! When she’d finally gotten the clothes right, the models and production were wrong. And the production had to be as good as the product. Because buyers and the fashion press were exhausted and overwhelmed by the dozens of shows they crammed in during fashion week. Most of them would have already spent a week in Milano, seeing Armani, Versace, and the other Italian giants. Paris had to be spectacular. The great shows were ones that created an excitement, a fairyland that even the most jaded of journalists, the most difficult of buyers, could not resist. This show was far from irresistible.

  Vivienne Westwood’s shows were magic. So were John Galliano’s and sometimes Jean-Paul Gaultier’s. That the clothes were often unwearable wasn’t really the point. They were original, exciting, witty and fun. Afterward, after
the press had gone wild, the buyers usually found a very different collection in the showroom, clothes that their clientele would actually buy and wear. But at the shows it was attitude and choreography and some exaggeration that were so important. A mediocre collection could get rave reviews if the energy was high enough and the models pulled it together. To get the best from each girl, Karen never asked them to model anything they didn’t like – somehow they would ruin the outfit otherwise. In the same way, she knew Mrs Cruz distributed sewing the designs according to the seamstresses’ strengths – some preferred the simple lines, others pleats. Watching the collection now, Karen was sure that it worked – it might even be her best show ever – but no one would ever notice unless these girls got their shit together. Karen sighed.

  Defina came out from the mayhem backstage to grab a glimpse of what the show looked like up front. She stood beside Karen’s chair and watched glumly. Carl came up and sat behind them. One of the models appeared in the empire drawstring dress. The girl had a suburban teenage delinquent look on her face. It was a good dress, and she was built for it, but she stared down at her own feet, both sulky and awkward.

  ‘Isn’t she a bit much?’ Carl asked the back of their heads. ‘You haven’t decided to design for Amy Fisher have you?’

  ‘Better than designing for Mary Jo Buttafuocco,’ Defina snapped. She pursed her mouth. ‘The amazing thing is that she was in love with Joey before she was shot in the head!’ She turned toward Carl and lowered her voice. ‘Someone else may get shot in the head if they don’t shut up. I don’t think Karen needs any criticism right now.’

  ‘Who was criticizing?’

  ‘I must be mistaken, because I thought it was you.’ She smiled at him, as if all had been forgiven. Then she turned back to the end of the sluggish parade of models. Her eyes never left them, but she spoke to break the tension. ‘Hey, Carl, speaking of Amy Fisher, what do you get when you cross Joey Buttafuocco with a Harvard graduate?’ He shrugged innocently. ‘Ted Kennedy,’ Defina told him and got up and began to walk across the showroom to the stage. Carl paled.

  ‘Hey, that’s really unfair,’ he called out. ‘The Kennedys have been through enough tragedy without

  ‘Spare me,’ Defina said, waving her arm and continuing to walk back to the girls.

  Belle turned to Karen and patted her hand. ‘Well,’ Belle said, ‘it was the best you could do.’ Karen felt ready to explode.

  Just what she needed right now: a critical pan from her mother. Why had Lisa brought Belle? Why had Karen invited Lisa? Because she felt sorry for her after the bat mitzvah fiasco. Why does everything go wrong for me? Karen asked herself. ‘Thanks, Mom.’ Karen choked on her own sarcasm. The sarcasm, of course, went right over Belle’s head.

  ‘Not much to it,’ Belle added.

  ‘Sometimes, Mother, less is more.’

  ‘And sometimes less is less. Well, at least you picked pretty girls.’

  Karen’s exasperation showed in her voice. The problem isn’t the clothes. It’s the girls. I mean the models,’ Karen told Belle, although why she was bothering to explain or defend herself was beyond her. The last number, the closing of the show, was due: the bridal gowns. And Maria and Tangela entered, Tangela in a gleaming white, Maris in the sister black gown. Both were as simple as monastic garb, done in the finest alpaca, but Karen had yards of tulle with an almost religious headdress on each of them. The tulle formed a halo around not only their heads but the entire outfits. The cost of it all had been worth it. It was a spectacular effect and, of course, the black wedding gown was a shocker, especially against Maria’s pale skin and raven hair. Even Casey and Mercedes, fashion burnouts, let out a gasp when they saw the two models, and for once the two girls seemed to cooperate. They knew they were ravishing and they walked the makeshift runway together with verve. Defina could make the other models perform like this. She’d have to. Yes, Karen thought, it would all come together! Now, if they could only get all of these schmates sorted, packed, shipped, cleared through customs, pressed, and sorted again properly for the show, Karen knew she could manage to triumph.

  ‘Is that it?’ Belle asked. Karen looked at her but said nothing. ‘I thought you ended with bridal gowns?’

  ‘Mother, those were bridal gowns,’ Lisa explained.

  ‘Black? Black for a bride?’

  ‘Truffaut did it years ago,’ Defina said.

  ‘And who buys his clothes?’ Belle asked.

  Karen was about to answer, about to tell her mother that Truffaut was a director, not a designer, and Defina was talking about a movie, but she gave up. What was the use? Out of nowhere she remembered an incident from twenty years before: Belle had come back from a shopping trip bearing two blouses for Karen. That night at dinner, Karen wore one. When she sat down at the table, Belle had looked up and said ‘What’s the matter? Didn’t you like the other one?’

  Just then screaming erupted from behind the wings. Half of it sounded like Tangela’s shrieking and the rest was Maria’s machine-gun Spanish. In a heartbeat, Casey, Karen, and Mercedes were all up and running backstage, but it was too late. The two girls were actually slapping one another and, as Karen watched, Tangela tore the tulle headdress off Maria, shredding it. It looked as if some of Maria’s hair came with it. The screams escalated to shrieks until Defina’s bulk stepped between the two girls. Like some female Wrestlemaniac, Defina got each model into a hammerlock, their arms twisted like pretzels behind them. Karen thought she heard a seam rip. At least she hoped it was only a seam. At ninety-two bucks a yard, she didn’t want any torn-up alpaca. Or torn-up models, for that matter. Defina had managed to hold their bodies in check, but neither girl would hold her tongue.

  ‘Puta! Diabla!’ Maria was screaming. ‘You got three more passages than me! Because of your mother! Coke whore! And I don’t tape my own shoes. I’m no department store mannequin.’ Apparently Maria objected to Tangela modeling more outfits; and Tangela obviously hassled Maria for not taping the bottoms of the borrowed shoes like the others so that they could be returned fresh to stock. Karen couldn’t understand the rest of it but she could certainly understand Tangela’s epithets.

  ‘Spic cunt! You keep away from my man or I’ll cut you! Filthy “ho.” Mother-fucking-bitch!’

  Defina let go of Maria, then slapped Tangela’s face. Maria pulled what was left of the headdress from her hair, threw it on the floor, stepped on it, and spun away from the group. ‘You can forget about this,’ she said. ‘I’m out of here!’ She looked at Tangela with disgust. ‘Like I want that coke hound of yours! I can’t help it if you can’t hold on to your dogs. And you’ll be lucky if I don’t sue you!’ She turned to face Karen. ‘You can get yourself some other girl to do Paris for you. I don’t work with trash.’ She flounced down the hall.

  Shit! Karen looked at the yards of torn tulle, at the ruination. And Maria was the only runway model with Paris experience that they had! Mercedes ran after Maria, while Casey helped Defina restrain Tangela. It took the two of them to hold her. She was screaming at Maria at the top of her lungs. She was scary. She was a wild woman. Karen put her hands to her head. She remembered that it was rumored each year that Yves Saint Laurent had a nervous breakdown before his show. It seemed a perfectly sensible plan to Karen.

  She looked at the mess of veils on the floor. She was almost ready to scream herself. How would she replace the black tulle? It had all been specially ordered. And where would she get another model now? It wasn’t the eleventh hour, it was eleven fifty-five. There were absolutely no decent experienced models available now. KInc was already overbudget and out of time.

  Just then Mercedes came walking back. ‘I lost her,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll make sure she never works in this town again. But I have more bad news. Look what just came in.’ She handed Karen a copy of the Chicago paper.

  Well, Mindy Trawler had stuck the knife in deep and hard, PUSHING CLOTHES AND PUSHY BROADS; KAREN KAHN’S TRUNK SHOW. The article twisted everything: it depicte
d Karen as a shameless saleswoman, forcing women to buy things they didn’t want. Then, on top of it, Trawler showed how Karen was forcing her own niece, against her will, to model and push sales. Karen looked over at Mercedes, who rolled her eyes, ‘I knew I should have come to Chicago,’ Mercedes said. She sounded as if Karen had betrayed her on purpose. Karen decided not to bother to tell her about the little run-in with Trawler over the champagne. What difference did it make?

  Karen wouldn’t take it seriously. ‘Oh, come on. This is what happens. After you’re the good news for a while you aren’t news at all, not unless you become bad news. She had to have an angle, that’s all.’ Karen shrugged. ‘It’s not the end of the world. No one reads the fashion pieces. They look at the picture. And that’s a good picture of Stephanie. The dress looks great.’

  ‘Let me see,’ Belle said, and grabbed the paper. Oh God, Karen thought, I don’t need this now! But it was too late. Mercedes handed the copy over. Belle pored over the article, tsking and shaking her head.

  Lisa and Stephanie read it too, standing silent beside Belle. Belle’s mouth was pursed with disapproval, but what else was new? Karen looked over at Stephanie. Her eyes were big with excitement or shock. Even in the midst of this madness, Karen couldn’t help but notice how very pretty her niece was. In the last few weeks she seemed to have matured somehow. Her cheekbones showed more and her face seemed better defined.

  Karen thought of it at that moment. If Lisa came as a chaperone, could Stephanie fill in for Maria Lopez? The coverage in the Chicago paper had been bad but the photo had been great. Stephanie could do the black collection. With her dark hair, she’d look as good as Maria had. Still, Karen paused. She was worried about Stephanie. Karen had told Lisa about running into Stephie and rescuing her from the Norris Cleveland party, but Lisa had not seemed to react. Just as now she didn’t seem worried about Tiff. Karen wasn’t sure if Lisa’s attitude was the right one or not, but she was certain that she would not have left Tiff at home alone right now or trusted Stephanie alone at a party like Norris’s. There was another option, however, and it would help cheer up Lisa while Karen could get over some of that guilt she always felt when she looked at her sister.