by Lee Strauss
Ginger waved as she spun away, suddenly knocking into the soft body of Blake Brown, a reporter at The Daily News.
“Ah, Mrs. Reed,” he said. “Just the lady I was hoping to run into.”
Ginger eyed the man suspiciously. A short pencil was tucked behind one ear, shaded by his hat, he held another over an opened notebook. Her path had crossed with Mr. Brown’s on a couple of other occasions, and she wondered if he’d actually run into her on purpose.
“I’d be happy to answer your questions regarding the fashion show, but you’ll have to walk with me. I’m due on stage in a few minutes and must let the band know it’s time to draw it to a close.”
“You’ve got a rather impressive line of designers.”
“I wouldn’t call that surprising, Mr. Brown. London’s fashions have always been forward-thinking.”
“Surely not ahead of Paris.”
Ginger couldn’t deny that Paris was the pinnacle of the fashion world. “We’re happy to have France and Italy represented, as well.” Ginger slowed long enough to gesture to the filled chairs and the skies. “I’m pleased with the designers’ interest, the turnout, and the fine weather.”
Keeping pace with Ginger, Mr. Brown continued. “I’ve confirmed the attendance of Reily, Schiaparelli, and Patou, but Chanel is nowhere to be seen. Could she be avoiding the affair to evade further controversy?”
Ginger highly doubted that. From what she knew of Coco, the lady thrived on controversy.
“You’ll have to take that up with her, Mr. Brown.”
Ginger reached the stage, pointed at her watch, and signalled to the band leader it was time to stop. The man nodded, and when the piece they were playing ended, the band stepped quietly into the shadows and off the stage.
Ginger picked up the funnel-shaped megaphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to London’s Summer Fashion Show!”
Ginger saw Basil beaming with pride. Ambrosia, however, looked as if she were about to have a stroke. Following her grandmother’s line of sight, Ginger immediately saw the cause of her consternation: directly on the opposite side of the runway was Deborah, Duchess of Worthington, a wide-brimmed hat on her head with an impossibly large feather jutting heavenward from the satin ribbon. She stared across the runway to where Ambrosia sat, a wry smile forming on her face. Whatever was going on between those two ladies had Ginger’s curiosity percolating.
Holding the megaphone to her lips, Ginger announced, “Please, take your seats and get comfortable. We are about to begin, and I can tell you that you are going to be very pleased with the show.”
The crowd had settled as the designers took to the empty seats reserved for them in the front row.
“Please allow me to introduce to you our designers,” Ginger continued. “Monsieur Jean Patou from Paris.” Jean Patou had the distinction of employing male models for his men’s line and, in particular, his designer tie and cubist cardigan. A handsome man, he removed his bowler hat as he stood, offering a small bow. Polite applause followed.
“Signorina Schiaparelli from Italy.”
Elsa Schiaparelli, with her large round eyes, stood as she scanned the crowd before offering a slight curtsy.
The rapid succession of a horn blasting stopped Ginger short. All eyes turned to the two-seater, convertible motorcar driving across the lawn towards the bandstand. An attractive brunette with a heart-shaped face and tantalising dark eyes sat on the edge of the back of the passenger seat, waving a gloved hand as if she were royalty. She held a white parasol over her head, which had a repeating pattern of black connected Cs, a logo that identified the designer’s products and, Ginger thought, a brilliant marketing device.
Coco Chanel had arrived.
4
Keeping her composure, Ginger walked toward the flamboyant designer, hearing the other designers’ catty comments as she walked by
“So very like her to make an ostentatious entrance,” Monsieur Patou said.
Elsa Schiaparelli spat, “She’ll do anything, anything, to outshine me!”
The competition between the two ladies was well documented in the fashion world.
Miss Reily was more forgiving. “I find her rather cunning.”
Bette Perry, the youngest designer of the group and ripe with hope, sat with wide eyes.
Ginger kept a ready smile, hoping to comfort the loudly murmuring crowd.
“Coco,” she said smoothly. “How nice of you to make it.”
Coco, unlike anyone else in the crowd, wore strings of black beads with her daring “little black dress”, a calf-length black sheath made of chenille. Twirling her parasol, she flashed white, straight teeth.
“Darling, did you not get my telegram?”
“I expected you earlier.”
“I am here now.”
Coco Chanel’s assistant came running. “Mademoiselle, thank goodness,” he said in French. “I thought you’d got into a motorcar crash!”
“Oh, Jean-Luc, nothing so dramatic,” Coco said with a flick of one glove. “There was a little matter of construction at Piccadilly Circus.”
“Yes,” Ginger said. “They’re putting in a set of traffic lights. I imagine that will make it easier to get to places on time.”
Coco Chanel shrugged thin shoulders then instructed her assistant to show her to their tent. Ginger huffed then followed them.
“We’re about to start,” Ginger said. “I’ve had my manager rearrange the schedule so your models will go last.”
Coco smiled over her shoulder, and Ginger realised exactly what the designer wanted, the final fanfare. Coco had soared to fame in the last few years, and she wore her importance with panache.
When they reached the door to the tent, Coco lowered her parasol, spinning it for effect. “What do you think, darling?” she said to Ginger. “I am afraid it is the only one in England now, but I am having them made in China for almost nothing. Look at this bamboo stem? Is it not charming?”
“It’s quite smart,” Ginger admitted.
Coco snapped the parasol closed and propped it in the corner. Her models stood in a row, wide-eyed with obvious awe, each wearing a Chanel original. Coco strutted to each one, not looking any in the eye, only at how her creation was displayed on their bodies.
“It will do,” she finally said. Then she said to Ginger. “I thought we were starting?”
“Would you like to be introduced?” Ginger returned. “I’ve already introduced the others.”
Coco’s red lips curled in a slow smile. “Of course.”
Ginger motioned to the section where the other designers waited, and Coco, waving to the spectators like Queen Mary, claimed an empty seat, but remained standing. Ginger quieted the crowd and once again held the megaphone to her lips.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Coco Chanel has arrived.”
“Bonjour!” After a final wave and short curtsy, Coco finally sat.
Ginger got the models ready to present the autumn collection, each walking the runway with confidence and poise. The Kate Reily collection would start the line-up then Elsa Schiaparelli, Emma Miller in the middle, followed by Jean Patou, Bette Perry, and finally, Coco Chanel. Regardless of which design house brought them to the event, the mannequins generally modelled something from each designer in rotation. It was the only way to keep the show flowing seamlessly.
However, trouble brewed outside the tent of Feathers & Flair. Ginger had only rounded the tent corner when she witnessed one of the models, Miss Alice White—a tall elfin-type model with platinum-blonde hair styled in neat rows of finger curls—shove her own Millie Tatum in the chest. Ginger gasped as Millie stepped back to brace herself and nearly tumbled. Having saved herself, she stepped towards Miss White and popped her in the arm with her fist.
“Ladies!” Ginger stated with as much force as polite society allowed. “Please rein yourselves in!”
“Madam?” Millie said, blushing with humiliation.
There wasn’t time to allow for ex
planations. “You are professionals, and I demand that you act like them. Now, Miss White, return to your tent and ready yourself to do your job.”
Miss White turned sharply and stomped away, but not without casting a quick snarl in Millie’s direction.
“I’m terribly sorry, madam,” Millie said. “I shouldn’t let her get under my skin. I promise to maintain professionalism from now on.”
“I shan’t ask what your row was about, but I understand the competitive nature of the modelling industry, and that the stress of such a life could cause one to act out of character.”
“Thank you, madam.” Millie ducked her head sheepishly and entered the tent.
Inside, Ginger found Madame Roux in control—her clipboard in hand—checking things off. “Ten minutes, Emma,” she said before leaving.
Ginger smiled. She’d definitely put the right lady on the job.
Felicia was gazing at herself in the mirror, turning her chin over her shoulder to examine the back of her dress. “It’s a delightful frock,” she said. The flowing lavender design was sprinkled with sequins, growing denser as they got to the skirt’s hem, which sparkled in the light. A sheer scarf in the same shade of purple looped around Felicia’s long neck. “Well done, Emma!”
Emma gushed back. “Thank you, Miss Gold.”
“And you look stunning in it,” Ginger said.
Felicia squealed. “I can’t wait to see Charles’ face.”
Madame Roux returned. “Ladies, time to line up.”
Along with Millie and Felicia, two other models strolled out of the tent in single file. Ginger followed, stepping out of line to watch from the far side of the stage.
The crowd hushed the minute the first model, displaying a Kate Reily design, stepped onto the runway, Miss Reily’s propensity for fur on display.
Once a model displaying a frock designed by Elsa Schiaparelli hit the runway, Ginger felt herself relax. The show was going swimmingly!
Ginger caught sight of Emma backstage, her face flushed with excitement and anticipation. And the response from the crowd at Emma’s creations was very encouraging. Ginger couldn’t help but burst with pride at her young protégée’s accomplishments.
A model reached the midpoint of the runway, and Felicia stepped out after her. Lacking the seriousness of more seasoned models, Felicia smiled widely, stopping to put a hand on her hip and turning from side to side. When she reached the front of the runway, she caught Charles’ eye and made playful overtures to him, hamming it up rather unprofessionally! A low wave of chuckling rippled across the crowd, and Ginger worried that Felicia would ruin things for Emma. Fortunately, a round of models, including Millie, had started their walk wearing Jean Patou’s line. With Miss Cummings in the latest tennis wear, some attention lifted off Felicia. All was well until Felicia spun to give Charles one last wink. Somehow, she twisted the heel of her shoe, her knees bent, and the crowd emitted a breathy gasp.
And down she went.
Oh mercy!
5
Before meeting Ginger, Basil Reed had never been aware of the fashion world. Names like Patou, Schiaparelli, and Chanel meant nothing to him.
How things could change in just a few short years. Basil had moved from a moody, job-focused, childless, divorced man to a married father-of-one with another on the way, and living in a house full of strong Gold ladies and a myriad of staff.
He couldn’t have been happier.
A couple of hours spent outdoors watching pretty models strut down a narrow runway, displaying a wardrobe he could acknowledge had some merit, was a small price to pay. But he had to admit, Mademoiselle Chanel’s entrance had been a needed spot of diversion and entertainment.
With Ambrosia and her perpetual scowl to one side, and Lord Davenport-Witt, unable to temper his smile, on the other, Basil felt like the brace holding up two sides of a weighted balance. Soon this would all be over, and he could go home and enjoy a drink with his lovely wife who would, though exhausted, regale him with all the drama that was sure to be going on backstage.
As always, his gaze searched for Ginger as she moved about the crowd; she flowed from backstage to stage left, expertly managing everyone involved. He worried about the circles forming under her eyes and how she was prone to overexert herself. He really would have to put his foot down after this. His wife must take proper care of herself in her delicate circumstances. Besides, the loose fashion trends would only hide her condition for so long.
“Hey, old chap,” Charles Davenport-Witt said, reaching over to give Basil a nudge in the arm with his fist. “You’re looking rather serious.”
Basil considered the earl. Ginger had got over her initial distrust of the man but hadn’t warmed to him. Charles had spent time in the Great War with Ginger’s first husband, Daniel, but Basil would’ve thought that would’ve endeared the man to Ginger. However, Ginger had a past during the war she didn’t like to talk about, not even with Basil, though, being the detective he was, he had deduced that his wife had possibly been involved with the British secret service. Ginger would never confirm or deny his suspicions.
“No, not at all,” Basil returned. He crossed his legs and strove for a relaxed look. “Just waiting for the excitement to begin.”
Ambrosia harrumphed. “I’m about ready to send for Clement to drive me home. This was supposed to start twenty minutes ago!”
Before Ambrosia could execute her threat, Ginger appeared on stage and, after introducing the vivacious Coco Chanel, got the show going.
The train of well-dressed ladies held Basil’s attention, but he sat up when Felicia stepped up, a face he recognised.
“There she is!” Charles said, beaming.
Ambrosia pursed her lips, deepening the already ravine-like lines on her face.
Basil chuckled. “Fashion models are respected in high society, Lady Gold,” he said.
“Barely a step up from those burlesque clubs,” was the elder Gold lady’s curmudgeonly reply. “But then, how would I know?”
“I can assure you,” Basil said, “they are nothing alike.”
Ambrosia cast a suspicious scowl, but propriety prevented her from asking how Basil would know.
However, on seeing Charles’ happy face, Ambrosia softened. An earl was interested in her granddaughter, and Basil was aware of the many suitors in the past that had not not satisfied Ambrosia’s standards.
“Very nice, darling!” Charles said as Felicia sashayed towards them.
It was so like her to play things up, and Basil could feel the chill of Ambrosia’s disapproval as her eyes darted between Felicia’s playful antics and a lady with a large hat and a Cheshire-cat grin on the opposite side of the runway.
Felicia pressed her two index fingers into her rosy cheeks as she leaned in Charles’ direction, eliciting vigorous applause from him alone. Then she spun, attempting her return along the runway.
But failing. Dreadfully.
Try as she might, Felicia couldn’t regain her balance, and the fall was inevitable. The only question was, would she remain on the runway or fall into the lap of the lady in the hat!
The crowd gasped; Basil and Charles sprang to their feet.
“Felicia!” Charles cried.
The model behind Felicia stopped, her eyes flitting from side to side, uncertainty replacing her trained expressionless face. Then, she grabbed her arm, let out a yell, and went down.
The third model, with a white-blonde bob, looked about with a pinched expression of confusion and appeared to simply lose her footing, falling off the edge of the narrow runway with a wounded cry. Inexplicably, a few moments later, another model went down. This time, there was no cry of pain or attempt at recovery.
Ginger, who’d been watching the spectacle from stage left, stepped toward the final fallen model.
“No!” Basil shouted, “Ginger, stop!”
Leaving an astounded Ambrosia and Charles in his wake, Basil leapt through the chairs, pushing spectators out of the way as he d
id so
Someone was attacking the models, and he had to keep Ginger safe, no matter what.
6
Basil reached her, holding her back when her impulse was to see to the fallen model.
“Call the doctor!” Ginger shouted.
“You,” Basil said to a stranger next to him, “find a constable and request assistance immediately!”
The young man dropped his hat as he charged away to do Basil’s bidding.
“What’s happening here? Four models down in a row!” Ginger pointed. “That’s Irene Cummings!”
“Wait here,” Basil said. He ran to the runway, made the easy jump, and pushed through the gathering crowd. “I’m Chief Inspector Basil Reed. Please step back.”
Felicia and Alice White hobbled with mustered grace near the runway whilst Millie sat upright, clasping her arm. Irene Cummings remained prone but moaned as she tried to lift her head.
Had some malefactor sought to cause havoc by greasing the runway? Yet, there hadn’t appeared to be a problem with slippage before now. How could such a prank have been accomplished with no one witnessing the deed?
Curiosity spurred, Ginger could hold herself back no longer. Whatever the danger was, it appeared to be gone now.
“Oh, Ginger!” Felicia, her arm linked with Charles, limped lightly in Ginger’s direction. “I’m such a dunce! I’ve ruined everything!”
“Darling,” Ginger said, “I doubt that you can take the blame for the others who fell. Please, just rest.” She gave Charles a look. “I trust you’ll look after her.”
Charles blinked. “Of course.”
The spectators had gone from looking scandalised to inconvenienced. As if a round of falling models had been planned purely for their annoyance, murmurs of complaint reached Ginger’s ear. More than a few ladies fanned their faces with collapsible, handheld fans, the sharp flicks of their wrists passively criticising the show.
On their feet, hands on hips, the designers bore down on the scene with outraged expressions.
