A Dangerous Dress (5 page)

“Yes I am,” I said. “I have been working here almost three years, and the most I’ve taken off in a row is three days when cousin Mikey got married in Bloomington.”

“You took off four days in January.”

“I had the flu,” I said. Boy, was I sick. I should have gotten a flu shot. This year I am definitely getting a flu shot.

“When are you going?” he asked. Still not looking up.

“Tonight,” I said.

Uncle John looked up at that. “No you’re not.”

“Yes I am. I have a plane ticket.”

“Since when?”

“Since five minutes from now. They’re e-mailing me the ticket.” Uncle John tolerates the computer as a necessary evil. I hoped that things like e-tickets would intimidate him.

“You can’t go,” he said.

“Sure I can,” I said. Now this probably sounds very bold on my part, especially considering that Uncle John can be a pretty tough guy. But he is also my uncle, and one of the relatively few advantages to working for a family member who you’ve known forever is that you have a pretty good sense of where you can push them and where you can’t. Besides, it was a really slow time, and I knew that and he knew that. “Plus I’ll just be gone a couple of days,” I said. Which was completely true when I said it, because that was what I believed at the time.

Reluctantly, Uncle John said okay.
Woohoo!

I went back to my desk. An e-mail came in from Elliot, with the script as an attachment. I printed it out. Here is what the cover page said:

 
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEATING ERNEST

an original screenplay

 
The bottom of the page said Copyright J. Thomas, and there was an address on King Street in New York, NY.

I was about to start reading, when another e-mail came in. I opened it, and
woohoo
turned into
ohmygod.
I immediately called Elliot Schiffter. “There’s a problem,” I said.

“Didn’t you get the e-mail?” he asked.

“Yes, I got the e-mail,” I said.

“You don’t like the seat? You’re in First Class. You want a window instead of an aisle?”

“The seat is fine,” I said.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You’re sending me to Paris,” I said.

“And?”

“Paris,
France,
” I said.

“I already told you that,” Elliot said. “That’s where they’re making the movie. So?”

“So I just realized: I don’t have a passport.”

There was a prolonged silence. So long, I thought we might have been cut off. Finally Elliot said, “Sure you do. Everybody has a passport.”

“I don’t. I live in Kirland, Indiana. I’m twenty-five. I never needed a passport.”

“I’ll call you right back,” Elliot said. Then he hung up on me.

Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again. Forty-five seconds, max.

“We’re putting you on a later flight,” Elliot said. “Go home. Pack. Be ready to leave in half an hour. A car will take you to the passport office in Chicago. They will process your passport on an emergency expedited basis. Then the car will take you to O’Hare Airport. Your flight will leave at . . .” I could just picture some little assistant whispering information into his ear—“six-oh-five,” he said. “Any questions?”

“No,” I said.

“Then why are you still talking to me?” Elliot asked. Before I could answer, he hung up again.

Two thoughts immediately collided in my head. The first was,
I am going to Paris. I. Am. Going. To
Paris.
Paris,
France. Which was amazing. Incredible. Unbelievable.

The second thought was,
I have to leave in twenty-nine minutes.
Which was impossible.

I am not speaking figuratively. I am not the very fastest person in the world when it comes to picking clothes. And, as you probably know, picking clothes is a fairly important part of packing a suitcase. Especially when you’re going to Paris, France. I had no idea how I could possibly do it in twenty-nine minutes.

I ran home, which is only two blocks away. When I got there I pulled out a suitcase—my mom’s, because I don’t exactly have my own luggage. I do have some duffel baggy kind of things, but to go to Paris, I thought I should at least have an actual suitcase. Not that it was the suitcase I would have picked for Paris. It’s made of this pink carpet-bag fabric. But it was big. Then I proceeded to pull absolutely every piece of clothing out of my closet. No exaggeration. Every single thing. Then I just grabbed and tossed. Here are a few of the things I took:

Everything I own that is black.

A Miracle Bra. Not that I have anything to apologize for in that department, thank you, but every girl can use a little help now and then.

A teeny tiny thong. Just in case an appropriate occasion presented itself.

Every hopelessly ripped, shredded-at-the-heels pair of jeans I have ever refused to throw away no matter what my mom said.

The most perfect little black Dolce & Gabbana skirt and top, which Celestine gave me. Celestine is my best friend from college, and she lives in Paris. I need to tell you considerably more about her. But first let me finish about my packing.

A fiercely painful pair of Stephane Kélian pumps. Also from Celestine.

All told, I packed enough clothes for a week. Or two. I had no reason to think anybody would need me in Paris for that long. But I could hope, couldn’t I? Let’s face it: If somebody offered you the chance to get out of Kirland, even for a day, you’d grab it. If you got the chance to stay away longer than you planned, you would. If staying away longer meant, oh, forever? Sign me up. And that’s if I was going just anyplace. But Paris? Oh,
please
let it be forever.

I also took a copy of my “A Dangerous Dress” paper. Actually I packed that in my carry-on. Which I guess to the uninitiated might look like a small duffel baggy kind of thing. I figured I’d better reread the paper. Because that was why Elliot Schiffter was flying me to Paris.

And, of course, I packed my Grandma’s dress: wrapped up in white acid-free tissue paper, folded very gently, and surrounded by a protective wall of Tampax boxes and Stayfree packages—which I packed for that express purpose.

Looking at the dress, all wrapped and protected in my mom’s suitcase, I wondered if I would ever have the nerve to wear it.

I suppose I should make this clear: I had never worn it. Ever.

I didn’t even know if it fit. Sure, I had held it up in front of me, lots of times. It
looked
like it would fit. But I never put it on. The thought of me wearing Grandma’s dress has always seemed . . . how do I say this? . . . almost sacrilegious. Like if you were invited to a Christmas party and somebody offered to let you wear the Shroud of Turin, you wouldn’t, would you?

Okay maybe that is not a perfect comparison. But you get the idea.

So the fact that I was packing my own personal Shroud of Turin and taking it with me to Paris was somewhat terrifying. At the same time, though, it was . . . inspiring. Liberating.

You read the part of my paper about the transformative powers I believed the dress must have had to be able to turn my small-town Grandma into a sophisticated, enchanting,
dangerous
woman of the world. Even though the dress was almost eighty years old, it still felt pretty powerful to me. Maybe the dress wasn’t the Shroud of Turin after all. Maybe it was a magic wand—not a fairy godmother’s, but my very own Grandma’s. And if I was lucky, it might have enough magical powers left to transform me, too.

J
ust as I zipped the suitcase shut, a car horn honked.

I looked out the front window. A big black Lincoln Town Car was outside. I stuffed the screenplay into my carry-on duffel baggy, together with my “A Dangerous Dress” paper. I grabbed the suitcase and the duffel, and ran for the car.

In three minutes we were out of Kirland and onto the toll road to Chicago. I took out my cell phone and called my mom, who had gone to Mrs. Holupki’s house for an early lunch. I couldn’t think of a clever or subtle way to introduce the subject, so I just said, “I’m going to Paris!”

“Paris is in school, dear.” I swear I heard my mom
tsk-tsk
at me. “Please don’t disturb her.”

I guess I hadn’t been entirely clear. “Not Mary’s Paris.
Paris
Paris.”

“Paris,
France?
”

“Of course Paris, France.” I gave her the two-minute version of events. I must say she took it pretty calmly. My parents are very steady people.

“You will be careful,” she finally said.

“Of course, Mom.”

“Then . . . have a wonderful time.” She giggled.
“Paris?”

“Paris, Mom.”

“But you don’t have a passport,” she observed.

At that moment the driver pulled up in front of the Federal Building on Dearborn Street. “Eighteenth floor,” he said. “They’re waiting for you.”

“I will in a few minutes,” I said. “Anyway, I’ll be fine. And I’ll be back in a couple of days. Tell Daddy I love him. Bye!”

The driver was right: I got off the elevator, found the passport office—and the instant I walked in the door, a nice young woman greeted me by name. Then a nice young man took my picture with a special digital camera that printed out two identical photos for the application. The nice young woman handed me forms, filled out except for my signature. It was becoming quite clear that there are real advantages to being in the movie business. That made me think,
If I do a really great job and find this dress and save this movie, maybe I can get an actual permanent movie business job. One where you fly First Class, get driven around in Lincoln Town Cars, and drink sparkling water while the nice people at the passport office set a new land speed record processing your paperwork. A job in Hollywood. Or Paris. Anywhere but Kirland, Indiana.

Whether my goal of leaving Indiana behind and getting a First Class-flying Hollywood job was realistic or not, it motivated me to pull out my “A Dangerous Dress” paper. While I waited, I read the whole thing. Including all those footnotes. Because Elliot Schiffter had not been very specific on the phone, and who knew what that director might ask me? I wanted to make a good impression. No—a perfect impression.

A First Class impression.

I never gave much thought to how long it takes to get a passport—or any thought, for that matter. But if you had asked, Is it possible to get a passport in under three hours? I would have said no. A week, maybe. Don’t ask me how they did it. But it is possible: two hours and forty-two minutes. I have the passport to prove it.

We got to O’Hare Airport at about five ten. My flight was scheduled for six-oh-five. As you probably know, that is not necessarily a safe margin if you want to be sure you make your flight nowadays. Especially an international flight. Except that the advantages of being in the movie business do not end at the passport office. You also get to have somebody meet your car at the airport, check your suitcase at the curb, escort you directly to security, and put you into the short, fast line for the X-ray machine and the metal detector. I had always wondered who those people are who get to go in that short fast line. Now I know.

I did hesitate for a minute when they were checking in my mom’s suitcase. Remember, my Grandma’s dress was in that bag. I was really nervous about being separated from it, even for the length of the flight. It was from 1928, which by definition made it irreplaceable. And it was my Grandma’s. I did not want to take the slightest chance of Grandma’s dress being lost. Let’s face it: Airlines have been known to lose things on occasion. In fact, I was so anxious I actually started to tell the skycap the whole story about the dress.

“Do you want to buy extra insurance?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“So ... ?”

“So . . . I just don’t want you to . . . lose it,” I said.

“We’ll try hard,” he said, and flashed me a paternal smile.

I got to my gate in plenty of time, even after stopping to buy a couple of magazines. I bought
Premiere
—because, after all, I was in the movie business. Also
Daily Variety,
for the same reason. Although $3.25 for a magazine that is only about twenty pages long seemed a bit much.

Preboarding for the flight was announced: First Class passengers only. I walked up and handed the attendant my ticket and my brand-new passport. “I’m sorry,” the flight attendant said. “We are seating First Class passengers only.”

“But I’m—”

In row forty-two. I hadn’t looked at my ticket before this moment. The first ticket Elliot Schiffter sent me was for a First Class seat. I know they had to put me on a later flight because of the passport thing, but I had just assumed I’d still be in First Class.

Obviously there was some mistake. I would have to talk to Elliot about this. Meanwhile, though, all I could do was blush and slink off and wait with the crowd until they called everybody sitting in the back of the plane.

That is where I was. The last row, to be precise—where the seat doesn’t recline all the way back, because the bathroom is right behind you. In the middle seat.

I guess because of the delay from the passport, I had missed all the nonstops from Chicago to Paris, so I was flying through Atlanta of all places. Thank goodness it only takes two hours to fly from Chicago to Atlanta. I don’t think I could have sat in that awful seat for ten hours nonstop, hemmed in by people who only spoke French and who promptly fell asleep, so that when I needed to use the restroom I had to climb over them.

About an hour into the flight I noticed a woman who kept walking past me down the aisle, then forward, then toward the back of the plane again. Finally she stopped and leaned over the sleeping Frenchmen.

“I can’t believe they didn’t put you in First Class,” she said to me.

On the one hand, I agreed with her completely. On the other hand, I wondered how she possibly could have known about Elliot Schiffter and the tickets.