by Julia Holden
These are odd thoughts to think about your grandma. At least, they were about mine. Because, except for her sophisticated taste in music, absolutely nothing about the Grandma I knew suggested she had ever done anything adventurous, much less reckless, much less dangerously passionate. But I knew she had to have. The dress and that old menu proved it. And she had given the dress to me. If Grandma could do and be all those things, maybe she thought I could, too.
After my clothes were stowed, I took a shower. And taking a shower in a Paris hotel, at least judging by this hotel, is highly overrated. First, there is no shower curtain, just a little glass panel that looks like somebody changed his mind midway about putting in a stall shower. The rest of the shower is wide open. Instead of a showerhead, there is a handheld spray-nozzle thing that you put in a bracket on the wall if you want to use it like a real showerhead. A word of advice: Put the nozzle thing in the bracket before you turn the water on. Because, what with there being no shower curtain, let me tell you, I sprayed water everywhere.
Needless to say, there was no bathrobe. There were towels, but not many, and I had to use most of them to mop all the water off the floor. I ended up drying myself with a hand towel and a wash-cloth. Which was not very satisfying. But at least I wasn’t wet.
So there I stood. I was totally, well, you know, naked. I looked around my hotel room. Sure, it was tiny. But it was a tiny hotel room in Paris, France. Which made the whole situation seem exciting. Dangerous. Sexy, even.
Then I got a crazy idea. Only standing there naked, in my Paris hotel room, feeling dangerous and sexy, it didn’t seem so crazy.
Very carefully, I took the white tissue paper off Grandma’s dress, and took the dress off its padded hanger. Then I held the dress right up against my bare skin. Which by the way is pretty much how you would wear this dress, with absolutely nothing between you and it, since there is no way to hide a bra in the bodice. Panties, yes, because as I have told you, the tulle skirt was almost transparent, and you would not want to get arrested or anything. But definitely just a thong. Like for example the teeny one I had just unpacked.
I will try to describe to you how the dress felt against my skin, although words really do not do it justice. If you have never worn silk, you must. If you have never worn old silk, which is hard to find, you should try. And if your skin has never felt a double layer of gorgeous old sheer silk satin cut on the bias to really hug your body, I feel sorry for you. I was right about the dress having magical powers: All at the same time, it made me feel hot and cold, strong and weak . . . careless, reckless, gorgeous, sexual. Dangerous.
And I hadn’t even put it on yet.
Do not ask me where I was going to go in that dress. Or what I was going to do when I got there.
But I was about to slip it on and find out.
12
Then the phone rang. Which, I am afraid, broke the mood.
It was a loud double ring, kind of a brrrr brrrr sound. Quite an obnoxious sound, actually. I picked it up quickly, before it could assault me again.
“We need you down in the breakfast room right now,” said a woman’s voice. Before I could say anything, she hung up.
It was not breakfast time. In fact, it was past four o’clock.
I pulled on a pair of jeans—black, of course—and a cute black T top that leaves just a little belly showing—not enough to be crass, just a little—and a pair of black Skechers. Then I put Grandma’s dress away, locked the door, and ran down a steep staircase to the lobby. Off the lobby I found the breakfast room.
Which, at least during nonbreakfast hours, had clearly been turned into The Movie Room. Among other things, that means it was full of Movie People. Not movie stars—I will tell you about them soon. You know how at the end of movies, the credits go on for about six miles? Every one of those names is an actual person. The room was full of them.
It was also full of smoke. As far as I can tell, all Movie People smoke. They are also very carefully careless about how they dress and how they look. Everybody looked as if they just pulled on the first thing their hands touched that morning, and had put styling gel in their hair three days ago and hadn’t shampooed since. Except if you looked closely, you got the feeling they’d actually spent a lot of time planning that morning, just so they would look so unplanned.
A tall thin pretty blonde girl whose clothes and hair looked extremely unplanned came up to me. “I’m Jamie,” she said. “I’m the PA. But you can just call me Jamie.”
Here is another thing you need to know about Movie People: As I quickly learned, they are very big on initials. Jamie explained that PA is short for production assistant. PAs appear to do everything on a movie production that nobody else wants to do. To me, it looks like a shitty job, although it seems like they all had to graduate magna from places like Brown and UCLA to get such a shitty job.
Jamie the PA said, “Now, this is very important.” She sat down. So I sat down. And I waited. But the instant I sat down she stopped looking at me. More precisely, she started looking at a spot somewhere just above and behind my right shoulder. I turned around and looked. There were other Movie People back there, but they all seemed to be busy doing other things, and none of them were looking at Jamie. “Uh-huh,” Jamie said. “Uh-huh.”
Then I noticed she was wearing one of those tiny little bug-in-your-ear, wire-in-front-of-your-mouth mobile phones. The kind that is so small, you can’t tell when somebody’s on the phone as opposed to, say, just talking to the voices in their head the old-fashioned schizophrenic way. You also can’t tell when somebody on one of those phones hangs up. Because all of a sudden Jamie was looking at me again.
“So you’re the dress girl,” she said. Then without waiting for me to respond, she said, “Uh-huh.” Not to me, though. She was looking over my shoulder again.
For what seemed like a long time, she said nothing at all. Finally I said, “So I’m the dress girl.”
Jamie was holding a clipboard. She looked down at it, then up at me. “Yes, you are,” she said. And with that, she got up and walked away. Leaving me sitting there. Without a clue about what I should do first.
Right about then was when this homeless man walked up to me. At least, he looked like a homeless man.
The man looked like he had not shaved or had a haircut in months. I do not just mean he had a beard. He had not shaved his cheeks, or his neck, or anything. Plus he was wearing a ratty old blazer that was way too big on him. The blazer had a big check pattern, which looked hideous against his pants, which were striped. Not to mention dirty. It was as if he picked his whole outfit at Goodwill. On a very bad day at Goodwill. Then worn those clothes a lot. And not washed them. Ever.
The homeless man came up and gave me a big hug. Honestly. The first thing I thought was, This cannot be happening. The second thing I thought was, At least he doesn’t smell. Then he kissed me on the cheeks. Right cheek, left cheek. The French really do that. That is not just in the movies.
Then he said the most unusual thing: “My daughter has told me the most wonderful things about you.” He stepped back and looked me up and down. “But she did not tell me how very attractive you are. Shame on her.”
He smiled. Even under all that hair on his face, I could see he had a very charming smile. And nice blue eyes. It occurred to me that if somebody cleaned him up, there might actually be a handsome man under there. I also noticed that there was something the littlest bit off about the angle of his smile. In fact, the angle of his whole face. Like somebody had given it a little twist, and it stuck. It seemed familiar. I was still trying to figure it out when he said,
“I am Gerard Duclos.”
Gerard Duclos. This homeless man was the director. The great director.
“By the way,” he said, “Celestine says to send you her love. She is in Barcelona for a few days, but she will come by and visit as soon as she is back.”
Ohmygod. This homeless man was Celestine’s father.
As I told you,
the only thing Celestine ever said about her father was that he was a cad. She certainly never said he was a big-shot movie director. Not to mention that Celestine’s last name is not Duclos. But between the resemblance and what this man had just said, I was convinced it was true.
I said, “It’s very nice to meet you.” I held out my hand to shake hands. He laughed when he saw that, and gave me another big hug. Actually, I thought he held that hug a little longer than you would expect from your best friend’s father. But that was probably my imagination. And if it wasn’t, I figured it must just be a cultural difference.
“It is destiny,” Gerard Duclos said, when he finally stopped hugging me.
“Destiny?”
“Your grandmère gives you the beautiful dress,” he said. “You write the magnificent paper, and send it to your best friend. My daughter. Years pass. Now I am making the movie. No matter what I do, I cannot find the dress. I weep, I moan, I complain to everyone. Celestine says to me, ‘You must read my friend’s paper.’ I do, and I say, ‘This is the girl. The girl who can bring me Catherine’s dress. The perfect dress.’ So you see, destiny has brought you to me.”
And I thought it was Google. Then again, here I was in Paris. I remembered my conversation with Celestine after she read my paper. Maybe it really was destiny.
Gerard Duclos led me around the room. He introduced me to the UPM (unit production manager) and the line producer, and the first AD and second AD, which in both cases stands for assistant director. Then he took me to a big table covered with fashion sketches, where a nice-looking middle-aged woman was sitting. Her hair was very gray, but she wore it long and straight. I thought that was actually quite impressive of her. Most women would have dyed it and cut it years and years ago, but it looked very nice on her. Even before I met her, I liked her.
“This is Irene Malraux,” said Gerard. He pronounced it ee-REN mahl-ROW, only with the r sounds way at the back of his throat. I can only make that sound when I have a bad cold, but then it’s not attractive. “She is our costume designer.”
Right away I was terrified. This woman was a professional, not to mention a real grown-up. And here I was, a total amateur, not to mention just twenty-five. I had never designed costumes for a movie. In fact, I had never designed anything for anything. I just wrote a college paper about my Grandma’s dress. I figured Irene probably hated me.
“I loved your paper,” Irene said, smiling. If she was lying, she should have been an actress instead of a costume designer. “I am very happy you are here to help us.” She actually looked happy. Oh thank you Irene. Thank you thank you. “Gerard and I have made many movies,” she said. “But in this period, I am not such an expert as you.” Which made me blush. “I have many ideas,” she said, and waved at the sketches. “But Gerard does not like.”
“We cannot make the new dress,” Gerard Duclos said. “We need the old dress. The perfect dress.” He smiled and nodded, as if he had said something profoundly wise. “So,” he finally said. “Give me the dress.”
“What?”
“The dress. Your grandmère’s dress. This is why I brought you here. Give it to me.”
Now wait just a second. I thought back to what Elliot Schiffter had said. He did not say I had to give them Grandma’s dress. He said I had to show it to them. But now Gerard most certainly wanted me to give it to him. And, forgive me if I state the obvious, but the difference is crucial.
I spoke without even thinking. “I didn’t bring it.”
Irene Malraux gasped, and her eyes got wide.
“What did you say?” In an instant, Gerard’s expression had turned to stone.
Which only made me more certain that I did not want to hand Grandma’s dress over to these people. Who knew what they would do with it? The way Gerard kept demanding it gave me a very bad feeling. So I said, “Elliot Schiffter didn’t say you wanted to use Grandma’s dress. He only said you wanted me to help you find a dress.” Which was what Elliot said. Sort of.
I guess that was not what the great director Gerard Duclos wanted to hear. “Send her away,” he instructed Irene, and turned to leave.
“No!”
Irene did not say that. I did. In fact I fairly shouted it. Anyway it worked. Gerard stopped and turned back to look at me. He still looked pretty stony.
“No,” I said more calmly. I straightened up as tall as I could. “I am an expert. I am the author of ‘A Dangerous Dress.’ ”
“She is,” Irene urged Gerard.
“I will find your dress,” I said to Gerard in my most expert-like tone. Then for good measure I added, “I will find you . . . the perfect dress.”
Gerard leaned close and looked in my eyes, as if he could see right inside my head. I held my breath. Irene held her breath.
I was probably starting to turn blue when Gerard turned to Irene and said, “She will know it. She will see it, and she will know. She will find it.”
And with that he strode away. Irene scurried after him.
“You’re going to need a lot of help from the French,” said a voice behind my back. I spun around to find PA Jamie scrutinizing her clipboard.
“What?”
She looked up. “The French. You’re going to need their help. So you need to know how to speak to them.”
Which right away got me worried about not speaking French.
“They all speak English now,” said Jamie. “Anybody who says they don’t, they’re just pretending to give you a hard time. But if they give you a hard time, you probably started the conversation wrong.”
“How do I start the conversation right?”
“Always start politely. After that you can be as rude and demanding as you want.”
“How do I start politely?”
“Always say ‘Bonjour.’ Unless it’s evening, then say ‘Bonsoir.’ Unless you’re interrupting somebody. Which could be even if they’re not doing anything or talking to anybody. If they think you’re interrupting them, you are. Then you say ‘Excusez-moi.’ ”
“How will I know if they think I’m interrupting?”
Jamie sighed and rolled her eyes. “You just have to figure it out. It’s very, very important.”
And with that she walked away. Leaving me there without a clue. Again.
“Why is she still here?” demanded a voice behind me.
I spun around again. As I spun, I wondered if Movie People always sneak up behind you.
Gerard Duclos was back. Irene, too. Gerard turned to Irene. “Well?”
Just then a tall thin pretty young blonde woman came up to the table. At least she didn’t sneak up behind us. I thought she was PA Jamie until I took a second look. In fact, she was somebody else. PA Allison, to be exact. Movies have lots of PAs. “Kathy doesn’t like her room,” said PA Allison.
“She will learn to love it,” Gerard Duclos said.
“She doesn’t even like it,” PA Allison said.
“All right,” he said, “she will only learn to like it. She must find the spirit.” And with that, he shooed the young woman away. I guess I looked curious. “Kathy Bates,” he said to me. “She is our Gertrude Stein. It is quite brilliant.”
So now you know. The Kathy who Elliot Schiffter was talking about is Kathy Bates.
I was trying to get my brain around the notion that Kathy Bates, who is a big movie star, was in this movie. My movie. And staying in this hotel. My hotel. Only then Irene spoke up.
“If she is going to find the dress,” Irene said to Gerard Duclos, “she must first see the body that will wear it.”
13
“The body that will wear it.” That is exactly what Irene said. Not “the person who will wear it.” It sounded odd to me. Like she was talking about a thing, not a woman. But I figured it was probably a translation glitch. Although both of them spoke English extremely well.
“Of course,” said Gerard. He stood up, Irene and I stood up, and I followed them out of the breakfast room, through the lobby, and up the stairs to th
e second floor, which in Paris they call the first floor. Do not ask me why.
We walked to room 111, and Gerard knocked. When he didn’t hear anybody inside say anything, he opened the door anyway. There was somebody inside. Boy, was there ever.
“This is our star,” Gerard Duclos said. “Nathalie Gauloise.”
I feel obligated to say something about Nathalie Gauloise, because I have been scrupulously honest about when something is only essentially true versus one hundred percent true. Gerard Duclos introduced her as Nathalie Gauloise. So that is true. But I am absolutely certain it is not her real name. First, because so many actors and actresses change their names. Like Winona Ryder is really Winona Horowitz, which is apparently not a movie-star name. And second, because of what Celestine later told me Gauloise means. In Roman times, France was called Gaul, so Gauloise kind of means “French.” It would be like an American actress whose last name was “American.” You wouldn’t think that was her real name, right?
Gauloise is also the name of a French brand of cigarettes—nasty-smelling unfiltered cigarettes. So personally, even though I suspect Nathalie changed her name to Gauloise so people will think Ooh, she is so French, I hope that people will see her name and think of the horrible cigarettes. Actually, I hope nobody will ever see her name, period.
Gerard gave Nathalie a big hug, which again I thought he held too long for a man his age. Because if anything, Nathalie was even younger than me. Maybe twenty-two. She was playing Catherine, the girl young Harold Klein falls madly in love with. The character is only eighteen. But I guess in the French movie business, just like in America, older actors and actresses play younger parts all the time. Whatever. Gerard was definitely past fifty, and the way he hugged her made me squirm.
She didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, when Gerard was finally through hugging her, Nathalie draped herself over him and rubbed, like a cat rubbing up against a scratching post.
