A Dangerous Dress

by Julia Holden

  And do you know what he did? He smiled.

  “Now,” he croaked. “Now you are fired.”

  26

  So. I had just been fired from this amazing movie job because I wouldn’t let them hack my Grandma’s dress to shreds so some oversexed nicotine-stained French movie slut could show off her tits. I had just kicked my best friend’s father, who also happened to be a famous French film director, in the balls. I was wondering how on earth I was going to get to the airport, and if I got there, whether I’d find that my return plane ticket was no good because they cashed it in so the crew could eat Snickers bars. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there, waiting for them to break down the door of my hotel room and drag me out.

  I was terribly upset. And broke, and afraid. So in spite of the whole thing with her father, I decided to call Celestine. The cell phone they gave me had already been disconnected. But when I picked up the phone in my room, there was a dial tone. So I called her.

  She answered the phone. “Allo?” Then she listened while I told her everything. I might have left out a couple of bits about Gerard, but I told her enough. “Pile everything in a cab and come stay with me,” she said when I was finished.

  “I don’t think I can afford a cab.”

  “It’s not very expensive. I’m sure you have enough.” When I didn’t say anything, she asked, “How much do you have?”

  All I had was the change from that muffin. The only paper money was a five-euro note. The rest was coins. A two-euro coin. A one-euro coin. Four coins with 20 on them—20 I don’t know what you call them, euro-cents? A copper-colored coin with a 5 on it, and two littler coppers marked with 1s. Eight euros and eighty-seven whatevers.

  Before I could even tell Celestine how much—or rather how little—I had, I think she knew I was really in trouble. Maybe she heard the jingle and figured out I was counting change. “Never mind,” she said. “It’s not far. You can walk.”

  “My suitcase doesn’t have wheels.”

  “Oh,” Celestine said. “All right. Just put what you need right now into a little bag you can carry, and check everything else with the desk clerk. We can pick it up later.”

  “If they don’t throw it away.”

  “They wouldn’t do that.” She chuckled.

  I didn’t know how long I had before I got evicted from my room. Deciding what to put in my little duffel bag is the sort of process that ordinarily might take me ten or twenty minutes. Or an hour. But I thought I might not even have ten minutes. I unlocked the suitcase, unzipped it, and grabbed my clean panties, Miracle Bra, a T-shirt, fresh socks, and a dry pair of sneakers. Oh, and a box of tampons. I put those things in my duffel baggy. I also took Josh’s note. And the rose. I had to break the stem, but that was the only way it would fit in my little bag.

  I looked at Grandma’s dress. There was no way it would fit. And Gerard probably told the hotel staff to be on the lookout for the dress girl, so I couldn’t escape detection if I walked out carrying the dress. I had to leave it. Which scared me. The dress was the only reason anybody had flown me to Paris. The dress was my passport. And you can’t walk around in a strange country without your passport.

  But then I thought, It will be okay. They can’t do anything to my luggage. That would be illegal. Anyway, I had no choice. So I zipped the suitcase up and carried it to the lobby. I did not tell the man at the front desk that I was checking out. In fact I told him I was not checking out. I also might have made a mistake about what room I was in. I figured Gerard Duclos would tell them to throw the girl in 302 out into the street. If I said I was in 309, maybe they wouldn’t make the connection. I guess they didn’t. The clerk gave me a claim ticket. He carried my mom’s suitcase to a storage room, and said just be sure to pick it up by seven P.M.

  When I got outside I could see it was going to be a beautiful day. Thank goodness.

  I walked toward the river and didn’t stop until I was halfway across the Pont Neuf. Which by the way means “New Bridge.” Even though Celestine told me the Pont Neuf is the oldest bridge in Paris. I simply do not understand the French.

  I sat down on a semicircular stone bench and took out the map Irene gave me. I figured out that Celestine lived in the Fourth, probably only four or five blocks from where I had been desperately searching through vintage clothing shops yesterday. At least I knew the way there.

  I got to Celestine’s building at about a quarter to eight. She had said she needed to run a few early errands, then go straight to work, so she wouldn’t be there to let me in, but she gave me the buzzer number for her landlady, who she said would give me the key.

  I found the address and buzzed apartment number one. There was a little intercom speaker next to the buzzer, and I expected a voice to come out of it. Instead, a window opened right over my head, from which an old lady leaned out and looked down. She was quite round, and bore a strong resemblance to Françoise. Do not ask me why so many young Frenchwomen are tall and slender, while so many old Frenchwomen are short and round.

  Celestine’s landlady leaned so far out her window, I was genuinely afraid she would fall out and land on me, but she didn’t. She just said “Aaaahhh.” Then she disappeared back inside.

  After a few seconds I heard a click. The door swung open.

  Doors in Paris are quite different from doors in the United States. They are enormous, probably eight feet high and four feet wide. They must weigh a ton, and you wonder how on earth you are going to open them, since the huge doorknobs, which by the way are stuck right smack in the middle of the doors, don’t even turn. But the secret is, the doors are mechanical. You punch an access code, or somebody buzzes you in, and the door swings open for you. Do not ask me how they opened their doors before electricity.

  I walked through the doorway, into a passage paved with old cobblestones that led to a courtyard. On the far side of the courtyard was a short flight of steps leading to another door, which was made of glass panes and had a real handle. That door opened into a hallway, where I found the door to apartment one. Actually I found the old lady standing in front of the door to apartment one. I later learned her name is Madame Cluny, although she did not introduce herself then. She handed me a key and pointed up the sweeping curve of a stairway.

  I walked up the stairs and found apartment seven. I let myself in, put down my little duffel baggy, and looked around.

  The apartment was on about six different levels. When you walked in, immediately in front of you, three steps led up to a landing. At that landing, if you turned left, you were in a tiny kitchenette. If you turned right, there were four more steps to the bathroom. If you didn’t turn left or right, just went straight, there was a short hall, then two steps down to the living room. It had an enormous arched window that took up the whole far wall. On the left side of the room was a wall of closets. On the right, a stepladder climbed up to a sleeping loft. The ceilings in the kitchenette and bathroom were quite low, but the living room must have been twenty feet high.

  I walked into the living room and looked at the huge arched window. It must have been thirty feet across and twelve feet high, and it was really quite dramatic. I guess Celestine must know from experience that people always look at that window. Because right in the middle of it, she had Scotch-taped a note. I took it down and read it.

  J,

  I am so sorry G behaved so badly. Food in fridge if you are brave.

  Fresh towels in the bathroom. Shampoo you like is in the pink bottle.

  Come see me at work. Armani, 41 Ave. George V, 8e. Take the Vespa—key on hook by door. Wear anything you want.

  C

  Since breakfast the day before, I had only eaten that one little muffin, so the first thing I did was raid the refrigerator. I probably would have eaten anything in there as long as it didn’t come running out when I opened the door. Do not ask me how Celestine stays a perfect size six consuming all that milk and yogurt and all those amazing cheeses. I probably maxed out my saturated fats for th
e week in ten minutes. At least when I was finished, I wasn’t starving anymore.

  Then I took a shower. A really long hot shower. Although the hot water was a little indecisive. About whether or not it was hot. I should also mention that Celestine has a shower curtain. Her bathroom was not designed for one, but her year at Purdue must have opened her eyes to the joy of shower curtains. Celestine is none too handy, and she had tacked her curtain up in an extremely amateurish way. Still, an amateurish shower curtain is much better than none.

  After the shower I put on a white robe Celestine had left hanging for me. I’d almost swear it was linen, not cotton, although why anybody would make a bathrobe out of linen I don’t know. Plus it didn’t wrinkle like linen. In any event it was lovely.

  I felt like a human being again. Even better—being in my best friend’s apartment, enjoying the things she left for me, I felt like at least somebody loved me. Even if I had broken my promise to myself. Even if I had not saved Josh’s lost cause. Even if I had ruined the movie.

  27

  Deciding what to wear may not sound important or challenging to you. But it’s both.

  I have already told you how powerful I think clothes can be. Grandma’s dress is the ultimate example, but clothes in general are powerful things. And here is a concrete example.

  At that moment, my self-esteem was more than a little wobbly. What with me having totally failed both myself and Josh Thomas. At such times, making the right decision about what to wear is crucial. If you don’t believe me, try this: The next time you are feeling really down and worthless, put on the ugliest, least fashionable thing you own—probably something you got from an immediate family member. Now look at yourself in the mirror, and tell me you don’t feel even worse. Of course you do.

  Now rip off those awful clothes and, fast as you can, put on the thing you own that you would be most likely to see in a photo spread in Elle. If you don’t own anything like that, I recommend you go buy such an outfit. But do it before trying this experiment.

  Look in the mirror again. If you don’t feel glamorous, gorgeous, and like an entirely different being from the toad in the JC Penney jumper your brother gave you for your birthday, you’re hopeless.

  So I knew I was about to revitalize myself. But I also knew I faced a serious challenge, because Celestine had instructed me, Wear anything you want.

  That would be a kind offer coming from anybody. Coming from Celestine, though, it was incredibly generous. Celestine does not have just any old wardrobe.

  Let us put aside for a moment that Gerard Duclos is a sexual predator. He is also a big important French film director, and he is a celebrity. He gets invited to all the right parties, given by all the right people. Who, in Paris, just happen to include people like Thierry Mugler and Karl Lagerfeld and Jean Paul Gaultier.

  All these people give clothes to Celestine. Which is perfectly understandable. She is sweet and beautiful, and if I were a fashion designer I’d give her clothes too. The fact that her father is who he is probably doesn’t hurt either. Maybe the designers figure that if they’re nice to Celestine her father will use their clothes in his movies.

  Anyway. Celestine’s closet looks like somebody died and went to Vogue heaven.

  Wear anything you want.

  You might think that being turned loose in Vogue heaven would be every girl’s dream. Especially a girl from Bumfuck—a girl who, I quickly ascertained, was still the same clothing size as Celestine.

  Instead, standing there looking at all those amazing clothes, I felt anxious. Some of my anxiety was probably left over from the grand finale of my glamorous career in the movie business. But some of it had to do with going to see Celestine at work. Celestine does not work at just any old place. She works at Armani. Armani is the perfect place for her to work, but it only made me more anxious. I couldn’t walk into Giorgio Armani wearing any old thing, now could I?

  Then I spotted two identical navy-blue pantsuits right next to each other. It was a little warm out to be wearing a jacket, but they were made of a lightweight tropical wool. The deciding factor was that there were two of them. Even if for instance I perspired all over the first one, Celestine would have another one to wear while she got the first one cleaned.

  Next to the suits were two perfect little white scoop-necked short-sleeve tops. I picked one of the suits, one of the tops, and a simple pair of flats. As soon as I had decided about the clothes I started feeling less anxious. I did get a little twinge when I saw that the labels on the suits and the tops said ARMANI COLLEZIONI. Then I realized, nobody could possibly fault me for walking into Giorgio Armani wearing, well, Giorgio Armani.

  Now I just had to figure out how to get to Giorgio Armani.

  I was so focused on the Wear whatever you want part of Celestine’s note that I had glossed over the rest. I went back and reread the part that said 41 Ave. George V, 8e and Take the Vespa—key on hook by door.

  I started to get anxious again.

  Finding Avenue George V on the map was easy. The Vespa was the problem. A Vespa is not a motorcycle. With all due respect to Vespas, which are perfectly cute, they are hardly even scooters. They are very Audrey Hepburn, and if you don’t know what I mean, then stop right here, run out and rent Roman Holiday.

  But getting back to my point, there is nothing whatsoever intimidating about Vespas. Which is exactly what I found so intimidating. I had just spent the last two days walking around Paris, and I had observed several things about the traffic.

  First, there are so many cars. And even more motorcycles and scooters.

  Second, people drive very fast.

  Third, the cars are very small, so people zip into the tiniest openings in moving traffic, regardless of the size of the opening, the speed of the traffic, or the color of the light.

  Fourth, there are the lane lines, which for the most part do not exist. Why Parisians think lane lines are a bad idea, I don’t know.

  Finally, there are the street signs. Which do exist, on every corner. It is just impossible to read them. Because in Paris they do not mount street signs on poles like everyplace else. They attach blue plaques with the street names printed in white letters to whatever building is on the corner. The longer the street name, the more letters they squeeze in. It’s easy to read RUE DE BAC. But you try to read BOULEVARD BEAUMARCHAIS, stuck on a little sign twenty feet up the side of a building, while you’re whizzing by on a Vespa, with six thousand cars and ten thousand motorcycles racing past you at hundreds of kilometers an hour, without lane lines. That is why I was anxious.

  Then again, everybody else seemed to survive out there, so I guessed I would too. I didn’t even let myself get hung up on whether my Indiana driver’s license would let me drive legally in Paris. Nobody else seems to worry about driving legally in Paris.

  I checked my map, figured out the route, picked up the key to the Vespa, and studied the bright cobalt-blue helmet, which I decided not to wear. Who wants to make a grand entrance at Giorgio Armani with helmet hair? Then I thought again about the traffic. Maybe a little helmet hair wouldn’t be so bad. I took it with me.

  Down in the courtyard I found a shiny, gorgeous, perfectly adorable cobalt-blue Vespa parked among several other scooters. It had to be Celestine’s. It was perfect, the gorgeous color matched the helmet, and it was the only Vespa there.

  I had never driven any kind of motorcycle or scooter before, but driving the Vespa was easy. Even if I did miss the first turn I was supposed to make. Then almost turned the wrong way down a one-way street. Many Parisians will ride scooters the wrong way down one-way streets, but I am not brave enough to do that. At least not intentionally.

  I finally got headed the right way, and turned onto a big street called Rue de Rivoli, which I got to stay on for three kilometers, which is about two miles. Now all I had to do was sort of curve around the Place de la Concorde and turn right onto the Champs-Elysées.

  The Place de la Concorde has beautiful fountains, green and b
right gold, and in the middle is an Egyptian obelisk called Cleopatra’s Needle, which looks like the Washington Monument, only covered with hieroglyphics. I learned those things from picture postcards. Although I drove through the Place de la Concorde, I did not get a very good look at it. To be precise, I drove around it. And around and around. Like in National Lampoon’s European Vacation, where Chevy Chase gets stuck driving around a traffic circle. It was funny in the movie.

  Ha ha.

  I made the mistake of approaching the Place de la Concorde in the left lane, which becomes the inside lane of a huge traffic circle. Actually more like a traffic oval. You will recall that I am from Indiana, the home of the Indianapolis 500, which some people call “eight hundred left turns.” That was what I felt like, going around and around the Place de la Concorde, stuck in the inside lane.

  There are no lane lines at the Indy 500, either.

  Finally—finally—I scooted to the right lane without injuring myself or others. I turned onto the wide Boulevard des Champs-Elysées and went straight for a while. When I had to turn left onto Avenue George V, I couldn’t bring myself to cut across all those lanes. I wimped out, waited for the pedestrian green light, then waddled the Vespa across the crosswalk and turned onto George V. Finally, ahead of me, I saw the Armani store. All I had to do was park.

  The rules about parking in Paris, if there are any rules at all, are different from anyplace else I’ve ever been. People park cars with two of the wheels on the sidewalk, or even all four on the sidewalk. They just ride up over the curb and park scooters and motorcycles right in the middle of busy sidewalks. So in theory, my choice of parking spaces was unlimited.

  Parking on the sidewalk looked easy enough. I now suspect there is a trick to it. Like slowing down first, and using your foot to ease the scooter up over the curb. At the time, though, I didn’t give it much thought. When the front tire hit the curb, I bounced about two feet up in the air, then landed on the seat, hard. I looked up, and the Armani store window was getting awfully close in a hurry. So I braked kind of suddenly, and almost but not quite got thrown over the handlebars. I did stop. With at least an inch between my front tire and the store window.