“I can sell a genuine Chanel copy for far more than I can sell anything by an unknown,” Mr. Greenberg said.
A genuine Chanel copy. Estella just managed to stop herself expressing her scorn at the oxymoron. Instead she sketched, thinking only of the $10.50 she’d just earned, enough to pay for her room for the week. It had been different, somehow, when the sketches she drew were shipped over to America and she remained in Paris, far from the scene of the crime. But now she was so far in the thick of it that it felt like a blackout curtain had been drawn around her, shutting out all the light she’d felt that morning on the streets.
Half an hour later, Mr. Greenberg interrupted her sketching, scurrying in accompanied by a tall, blond woman. She was young like Estella and appeared completely at ease in her sensationally curved body.
“We need her dressed and in the showroom in ten minutes,” Mr. Greenberg said to Estella, as if this was a part of her job they’d already discussed. “Buyer from Macy’s is here. Pity we haven’t got the models for those made up yet,” he said, pointing at Estella’s sketches, “but we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.” He left the room and Estella heard the sound of him greeting someone in the small reception room.
“I’m Janie,” the woman said cheerfully in an accent Estella couldn’t place. “House model. Only started last week but it’s long enough to know I don’t want to work here forever. You?”
Estella started laughing. “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” she said, “and I only started this morning. This,” she said, pulling one of the models off the rack, a siren suit she knew she’d copied for Greenberg back in April, “is brought to you by Ms. Schiaparelli herself. Complete with kangaroo pockets, so you can escape into your bomb shelter and take the kitchen sink with you, should an acorn chance to fall on us from the sky.”
Janie giggled. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“It’s mad,” Estella said. “Surely nobody would buy a siren suit in a city where there are no air raid sirens or shelters?”
“You’d be surprised,” Janie said. “All you need to do is help me get each outfit on and off quickly or else there’ll be trouble. He’s been gracious enough to set up a curtain over there to protect my modesty.”
Behind the curtain they went, Estella helping Janie into a dress, one she couldn’t place. Then she realized it was another Maggy Rouff copy but whoever had cut it had made the skirt an inch too short and so the fullness wilted against Janie’s legs as if she’d been playing out in the rain.
“The original swept the floor,” Estella said. “I never liked it; too much faux-Victorian nostalgia, but at least it had purpose. Now it doesn’t know what it wants to be.” She stepped back and stared critically at Janie, thinking; this wasn’t why her mother had sent her to America—to copy dresses. This wouldn’t make Jeanne proud. Her mother, trapped in Paris by the Germans, deserved for Estella to make more of the chance she’d been given.
“Just a minute,” Estella said, grabbing a handful of pins and deftly taking the hem up about five inches, keeping the fall of the skirt, and when she’d finished it looked jaunty, fun, as if it might just skip off by itself and take a turn on the dance floor.
“Gosh, it’s like a different piece,” Janie said admiringly.
“We’re waiting,” Mr. Greenberg’s voice snapped.
Janie grinned. “Here we go.”
As Janie walked toward the showroom, Estella could tell she was good at her job. That she had an innate self-assurance that would give any dress a shot of confidence. She peeped into the showroom and watched Mr. Greenberg jump from his chair as if Estella had stuck her pins into him rather than into the dress.
“Excuse me,” he said to the buyer, only just achieving politeness, as he grabbed Janie’s arm and walked her out the door. “What’s this?” he barked.
“A dress,” Janie said, innocent as a lamb.
“I fixed it,” Estella said. “I don’t know who copied it for you but they need a pair of spectacles at the very least.”
“Skirts are not this short. Haven’t been for years,” Mr. Greenberg hissed.
“But they’re moving that way,” Estella said. “If you look at the lengths from the April shows and compare them to October, you’ll see—”
“Skirts are not this short right here, right now, in America. Fix it!”
“No,” Estella said, finding courage for the first time that day, unwilling to butcher what had once been something a designer had made with love and care.
“Then you’re fired!”
“You owe me $10.50,” Estella shot back. “Unless you want me to let the Macy’s buyer in there know how you get your models.”
He had no choice but to pay her, seething, hand shaking as he dropped dollar bills into her palm. “You ought to be careful, young lady,” he said as his parting shot, “or you’ll find it very hard to get another job on Seventh Avenue.”
“In six months’ time, all you’ll be selling is dresses as short as this one and you’ll wonder how you could have let me go,” Estella retaliated as she picked up her purse and marched off, taking out her fury on the elevator button, trying not to think about what she’d just done. The elevator delivered her into the lobby and she paused there, wondering what to do next.
“Wait!” Janie called, stepping out of the elevator beside Estella.
As soon as Estella saw her, she couldn’t help laughing. “Did you see his face!” she said. “You’d think I’d sent you out in your underwear.”
“I think he’d have preferred that,” Janie said wickedly.
They both dissolved into giggles and Janie slipped her arm through Estella’s as they stepped onto the street.
If Estella had thought the streets were loud and busy before, nothing prepared her for Manhattan’s Garment District at noon. Workers on their lunch breaks hurried along the sidewalk to take up every last seat at every café, men wheeled racks of garments back and forth across the street as if it were a subway track and, on the sidewalk, crammed into every available piece of curb space, trucks disgorged rolls of fabric, and boxes of buttons, zips, trims, and ribbons. Finished clothes paraded out of factories and into vans ready to be delivered to stores. Traffic was at a standstill: with all the parked delivery trucks blocking the way, nothing wider than a pedestrian could move along the street. Horns blasted ceaselessly, a Manhattan lullaby belting out its impatient chorus, accompanied by the rumbling of truck engines, the clatter of trolley wheels, the shouts of greeting from one delivery driver to another.
“I’m famished,” Janie declared, leading Estella into a nearby café, where she proceeded to order a burger and coffee.
Estella craved the filling stews she was used to eating at the atelier at lunchtime but everything on the menu seemed made for speed rather than a leisurely repast. Another thing to get used to; that lunch wasn’t to be the main meal of the day as it was in Paris. She ordered the cheapest thing she could find, given her now unemployed state—soup that came with a flimsy white piece of something that was supposed to be bread. One look at Janie’s coffee told her not to bother.
“Where are you from?” Estella asked.
“Australia,” Janie proclaimed. “I stole the money for my passage from my parents and ran away before I turned into an apple left on the tree too long. Brown and wrinkly and bitter as all hell, like everyone else in Wagga Wagga.”
“That’s a real place?” Estella asked uncertainly.
“You’re a riot. Wagga’s as real as I am. You’re looking at the draper’s daughter. I’ve been parading around in fabric since I could walk. A friend of mine decided to sail to England to work as a nurse. I skipped out to the port with her but I took the ship bound for New York instead. I’ve been here nearly a year. Long enough to know that place,” she pointed at Mr. Greenberg’s across the street, “is not for you or me.”
“But what is the right place?” Estella mused. “I need money. I need a job.”
“Me too. I
’ve gotta pay the rent at the Barbizon, even though I almost have less freedom there than I did at my parents’.”
“Well, I’m staying at the Jeanne d’Arc, which is the closest thing to a nunnery.”
Janie grinned through a mouthful of burger. “Look at us both. Down on our luck. In a city that thrives on freedom but as far as you can get from it.”
“I know. I keep thinking of Chanel and how she had to rely on a man’s money to get her start. That’s not what I want to do. And I definitely don’t want to make any more money copying dresses for Mr. Greenberg.”
“Everyone does it,” Janie said cheerfully. “Scruples are as out of fashion as cloche hats. One of the girls from the Barbizon has a job where she’s given money to buy dresses from the swanky made-to-measure fashion houses, which fellas with more cash than Greenberg copy. She gets to keep the dress as her pay. Models like me can earn a bit extra for passing on information about the clothes we’ve been fitted in at the manufacturer on the next floor down. I’ve even heard of delivery boys wheeling racks down Seventh Avenue being stopped and paid for a peek at their wares before they reach the stores.”
“It’s worse than Paris,” Estella groaned.
“Tell you what,” Janie said. “You can let a friend stay with you at the Barbizon in a cot that takes up half the floor space and it’ll only cost you a dollar a night. You need three references and an interview for your own room, but to share for a while, we should be able to swing it.”
“Three references? Is it a finishing school?”
Janie grinned. “The Barbizon Hotel for Women would like to think of itself as a finishing school. No men allowed, only the best women the city has to offer. And you’re looking at Miss Sydney 1938. Winner of the biggest beauty pageant in the country. I brought with me three impeccably forged references from Australia and no one’s gonna telephone down there to check, so I got a room.”
“You steal money from your parents, you forge letters; anything else I should know about?” Estella asked with a smile.
“Just that you and me are gonna have some fun in this city.”
“I know!” Estella said, standing up. “Let’s go shopping.”
“With what money?” Janie asked dubiously.
“We’re not buying, we’re looking. I want to know who to work for so we don’t end up at another place like Greenberg’s. There must be someone in America who actually designs their own clothes.”
Into and out of Forsyths, B. Altman, Lord & Taylor, and Bloomingdale’s they went, Janie attracting everyone’s notice because she was so tall and so blond, like a giraffe that had metamorphosed into something as beautiful as its long eyelashes promised it could be.
Among the racks of dresses, many as bland and unoriginal and clearly copied straight from the Paris fashion shows as Estella had expected, were some with flair. “I think there are four categories,” Estella said after a time. “Paris knockoffs, Hollywood imitations, made-to-measure, and sportswear. I like these ones.” She held up two simple wrap dresses. Townley Frocks, the label read. “They don’t look like much on the hanger, but I can see that the style means they’ll adjust to most kinds of figures, and they’re not knockoffs. Or this one—Clare Potter. Maybe we could work for either of them?”
“If they’ll have us,” Janie said.
“They’ll have you,” Estella said with certainty. “You’re made for this. But I know someone who can help. And luckily we’re due there for dinner tonight.”
“We’re due for dinner?”
“They’re the kind of people who won’t mind me bringing a friend.”
As they walked across to Lexington and then up to 63rd, Estella told Janie about Sam. “I’m sure he’ll be very happy if you come too,” Estella said with a grin, nodding at Janie’s beautiful face.
“Pfft,” Janie scoffed. “I might be blond and leggy but you’re as striking as the Chrysler at sunset. If he’s already met you, I won’t stand a chance, no matter how much flirting I do.”
“We’re just friends,” Estella said. “So, believe me, you can flirt all you like.”
The Barbizon Hotel for Women on the corner of Lexington Avenue and East 63rd Street was a beautiful building of salmon and rose-pink brick, flecked with emerald and black. Part Gothic, part Renaissance, it towered over its neighbors and Estella stared up in amazement at its crown. “I’m used to six-story apartment buildings,” she said by way of explanation. “I can’t imagine living up so high.”
“You get used to it,” Janie said cheerily as she led the way to the front doors. “In Australia, everything is single story but now I stand out on the terrace on the eighteenth floor and I barely notice I’m surrounded by sky.”
As they stepped inside, Janie waved her hand at the wooden railings above them. “The lounge is up there; there’s a stage and a pipe organ for concerts. They like to attract an artistic clientele—drama students, musicians, artists, models, as well as secretaries. There’s a swimming pool, Turkish baths, a solarium, a gymnasium; more things than anyone could ever use. You need to get a pass to admit guests, so we’ll do that now and I’ll sweet-talk them into letting you share with me. If I say you’re a refugee from Paris, they’ll take pity on you.”
Janie did just that, spinning a story about her friend who’d fled the Germans, experiencing unimaginable horrors, and who could not be left on the streets to suffer further. As Janie cajoled the matron, Estella watched young women like herself cross back and forth through the lobby with musical instruments, armfuls of books, even an easel. Everyone had something to do, everyone was purposeful and, what’s more, they all needed clothes in which to be purposeful. If the clientele were largely artistic as Janie had said, they might just appreciate clothes that were designed, rather than copied. Which would mean making them to fit a working woman’s budget. Estella’s mind raced with a sudden sense of possibility.
Of course Janie succeeded in persuading the matron. And so, after they’d collected Estella’s things and then freshened up, they caught the subway to Sam’s parents’ home. Clarice welcomed Estella with a hug and waved off all Estella’s apologies about bringing an unexpected guest. Sam and his father both had to pick their jaws up off the floor when they saw Janie.
“You’ll be pleased to know she’s planning to flirt with you,” she whispered to Sam, sotto voce, as his parents ushered them through to the drawing room.
“At least one of you will. I’ve given up on you.” He grinned and turned his full attention to Janie.
Dinner was delicious and the evening passed quickly by. Clarice told Estella and Janie to go right ahead and quiz Sam about the New York fashion industry—such as it was—and not to stand on ceremony and feel they must stick to polite but useless conversation.
“What about Tina Leser?” Janie asked. “I saw one of her playsuits at Lord & Taylor and I’d sell off my own mother to buy something like that.”
“Tina Leser lives and works in Hawaii, so unless you’re planning an island vacation, you can’t model for her,” Sam said.
“I wouldn’t mind Hawaii,” Janie said.
“You’d fit right in,” Sam said, eyeing her body appreciatively.
Estella groaned. “Cut it out, you two.”
Clarice shook her head. “My dear, I sometimes have to remind myself that you’re French. Your Americanness is impeccable.”
“My father was American,” Estella said, testing out the words on her tongue rather than offering up the usual explanation of her English tutoring by an American. But the phrase sounded wrong, as if she really was fumbling with language. So she returned to her conversation with Sam. “You can flirt as much as you like with Janie when we’ve finished with the business.”
“Where’s your sense of romance?” Sam teased.
“I left it in Paris,” Estella said, only half-joking.
“Sorry,” he said, contrite. “Did you see the papers today?”
“No.”
Clarice stood up and came bac
k with the New York Times. On the cover was a picture of the Eiffel Tower, a swastika fluttering from the lacework of steel. “France signed an armistice agreement with Germany. They’ve divided the country into two zones. The free zone, below here.” Clarice pointed at a map. “And the Occupied Zone, which includes Paris.”
“Maman is in Paris,” Estella said quietly.
“I’m so sorry.” Clarice touched her arm.
Estella stared at the pictures in the newspaper: a swastika laid over the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe, four cannons pointing down each of the main roads into the Place d’Étoile. She pushed the newspaper away. She tried to imagine her mother working in the atelier with Nannette and Marie but without Monsieur Aumont, making flowers to adorn the dresses of German women. Then realization hit her. Marie was Jewish. Given the stories Estella had heard, her heart twisted at the thought of what might happen to the women she used to work with. What might happen to her mother if she continued to help people the Germans didn’t want her to help? “Do you think everyone will be all right?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Clarice said.
Hope. That word again. How much hope existed in the world these days? Less than was needed? Or was there enough?
“Where should I start?” she asked, tearing the conversation away from things that hurt, away from the past and onto the future, to things that she had to do to make anything of the life her mother had given her. “With work, I mean,” she added, in case she’d jumped too quickly from one subject to another.
“It doesn’t matter where you start. It matters where you end up,” Sam said.
“That’s true,” Estella said. And then it came out, the thoughts that had begun at the Barbizon, barely formed, ridiculous, yet also not. “Couture is all about clothes for someone. Whereas copies are made for no one; it’s just the way things have always been done. What if I made clothes for everyone, for women like me. And you.” She turned to Janie. “And the designs would make us feel like someone because they wouldn’t be imitations. We could all work together. The three of us. For ourselves.”
The Paris Seamstress Page 6
