Fashionably Late (39 page)

“I’d rather do ten shows than have to talk to one of them fashion bitches.” Defina shook her head. The fashion press was notorious for being difficult and small-minded. Well, when one thought about it, what kind of person would dedicate their life to writing about a drop in hem lines or the new smock tops? Too often Karen had found they were envious people who had wanted a career in fashion but were too frightened or not talented enough to go for it. It was a variation on an old adage: those who can do, and those who can’t write criticism.

“Hope you got some freebies ready for the bitch,” Defina added darkly.

Fashion journalists were also notorious for taking everything they could, from free meals to fur coats. Karen shrugged.

“I’m sure we’ll have something she likes,” Karen purred.

“Yeah. Let’s just hope it isn’t one of the two-thousand-dollar jackets.

You know, Karen, you can’t do everything. Your plate’s too full. One day you’re going to try to fit in one little bit more and pop like a balloon. We’ll be picking up shreds of you from down in the budget hosiery up to the bridal salon.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got key man insurance. You’ll get a nice pension.”

Defina rolled her eyes. “Well, I can’t tell you what a comfort that is to me,” she said. She turned to the models. “Let’s go. We got an hour to turn you into good-looking women. I pray to God it’s enough time.” She trooped off with the four girls while Crosby ushered Karen upstairs to the buying office.

Mindy Trawler was in the stereotypical black dress that every fashion writer seemed to wear. Working at a second-her paper in the second city would probably make her defensive, which would make for a difficult interview. Karen hadn’t really liked a fashion reporter since Ben Brantley, but he was just a great journalist who had burnt out on fashion and now covered politics or something even dirtier. So Karen threw down her schlep bag and reached out to shake Mindy’s hand.

It was then, when the girl stood up, that Karen saw the big belly she was carrying. How pregnant was she? For a crazy moment Karen looked down at the girl’s hands to check for a wedding ring. Yeah, right!

Like I’m going to get to adopt this baby! She forced the smile to remain on her face. She was definitely going crazy, but knew that her irrelevant look for a wedding band had just been a way to avoid the sweep of envy that shook her now. Funny. Just a few minutes before Defina had been telling her how these women were always jealous of her.

Well, this was a full turnabout. Karen knew she had to conceal her pain, but for a moment it was so real and so strong that she almost fell into the seat.

“When’s the baby due?” she asked, trying to make her voice pleasant and casual-sounding.

“Next month, but it feels like I’ve been pregnant for a decade.”

Karen nodded sympathetically, as if she had a clue. “This is so great!” she said. “I can’t believe you’ve made time to interview me.

Is there anything I can do to make it more comfortable for you? It can’t be easy for you to be on your feet much right now. Do you want an ottoman while we do the interview?”

Mindy shook her head, as if she were annoyed by the attention. She got right to work. “So, let me ask you: A lot of designers feel Chicago is a second-class town from a fashion viewpoint. Do any of your favorite clients live here, or do you only like to dress the Elise Elliots of the world?”

Oh Jesus! Karen didn’t need this! But she smiled. “Well, someone asked Chanel the exact same question,” Karen said. “I’m no Chanel, but I’ll tell you what she said. I like the ones who pay their bills.

Keep your princesses and cottesses and pretenders to the throne. Such women are so impressed by their own nobility, to send a check is beneath them. Give me the chic, second wife of a rich businessman who cheats a little on his government contracts. Such a woman is too insecure to posture, such a woman pays her dressmaker.”

” “So, you like insecure women?”

Oh God. It was going to be one of these. “Not at all. I like all my clients,” Karen said. She looked at her watch. “Do you have a lot more questions for the interview?”

“Well, actually, I didn’t want to do an interview as much as follow you through the trunk show. Would that be all right?” Mindy smiled. “You know, a kind of backstage view for our readers.”

Oh fuck, Karen thought. Just what she needed! A snoop behind the scenes catching every catty remark and each fumbled sale. Plus, she couldn’t afford to have the press report on the Paris stuff beforehand.

She could just imagine Defina’s reaction. Here in the Midwest a trunk show was a way for the fashion addict to stay ahead of the curve. But that didn’t mean Karen had to tip her hand to the press. Still, Karen smiled. This girl didn’t look experienced enough to know what she was really looking at. “What a great idea,” she said. “We’d just love it.” And she considered the bullshit shoveling for the day officially begun.

Mrs. Montand stood in front of the three-way mirror looking at herself in one of the long silk dresses that Defina had brought in to her. “I can’t, Karen. The dress is great, but it’s not for me. I have no waist.”

Karen looked at her critically. Mrs. Montand was a good customer, one who had been buying Karen’s clothing almost from the beginning, but she was conservative and she knew what she wanted.

“She’s right,” Karen said quietly to Defina. “She has no waist.”

Defina nodded. “But you’ve got great legs. Stick with the short skirts and the blazer jackets.”

“Or how about the knit dresses?” Karen asked, hoping for a market test.

“With this ass?” Mrs. Montand raised her eyebrows.

“You’d be surprised.” Karen turned around and displayed her own behind.

“It works for me.”

“Okay. I’ll give one a try,” Mrs. Montand agreed.

Karen had watched women trying on clothes all her life. It was funny: to wear clothes well you didn’t have to be thin but you did have to have good shoulders and be long-waisted. Mrs. Montand’s problem wasn’t really her waistlineţit was her short-waistedness. She’d look best in a tunic that disguised it.

It was amazing what clothes concealed as well as revealed. A tall, thinappearing woman took off her tunic and it was clear that she was actually rather heavy. She was what the French called fausse maigre and could keep the illusion going with the help of the right clothing.

Other women actually looked better when they took their clothes off.

Those were the ones that needed help in selecting the right line.

Karen strode down the dressing room hallway and back out to the selling floor. It was funny that they called it that when most of the selling went on in the changing rooms. Not that Karen needed to push.

Sometimes it actually frightened her to see how much and how compulsively these women spent their money. Karen often felt that lurking under the excitement of the purchase, under the thrill of the new, was a dark and lonely place. When women clients asked for one of everything, or for a particular design in every color, Karen felt their desperation. What kind of lives did they have? Did her clothes actually give them some comfort or was she nothing more than a Band-Aid, a Norris Cleveland on a hanger? Karen knew that some of the more extreme women didn’t bother to unpack their purchases when they got home. They’d stick them in the closet like an alcoholic hiding an emergency bottle. It made her very sad. But she didn’t like to question their motivation because she might have to examine her own.

As she worked the floor Karen kept hearing pops, like the sound of flashbulbs or corks being opened. What the hell was it? She didn’t have time to find out. More than two dozen women were already milling around going through the racks that XK Inc had imported for the day.

Defina kept her eye on the Paris numbers.

“Oh, God, I just love this jacket! And gray is the color this season,” a big blonde matron told Karen. The jacket was a gray boucle wool. It would look like shit on her.

“It is great,” Karen agreed. “But did you see this one?” She held up one of the navy double-breasted ones she’d done. “Navy isn’t really a neutral, you know. Women think it is, but it’s murder on most of them.

You could wear it, though,” she said, truthfully.

“Well, what’s the best color this year?”

“The one that most becomes you,” Karen told her, with a smile.

“Well,” the woman admitted, “I don’t really know so I mostly stick with black. Except you don’t do it, so I get confused.”

“Black is an unforgiving color for most blondes,” Karen said.

Then she saw the woman register recognition. It was the old “Karen Kahn is talking to me” syndrome. Karen still wasn’t used to it. The woman took the jacket and held it up. “I love the buttons,” she said.

Instead of the usual door knobs, Karen had done the jacket with self-covered buttons. It updated the look. She smiled at the big blonde.

“You might also want to try one of the long dresses. They’d be great on you.” She took a size twelve off the rack and handed it to the woman.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I don’t usually wear dresses, but it is nice.” Then she looked at the size. “I’m a ten though.”

Shit. If she was a ten, Karen was the tooth fairy. “They’re running a little small,” she said diplomatically. “Why don’t you try both?”

Doubtfully, the woman took the two hangers and began to head toward the changing room. “I’m sure I’m a ten,” she called back. Karen smiled and noddedS but she was ready to spit nickels. It was all that goddamned downsizing. Years ago, Albert Nipon had found that a lot of size-ten women would buy his dressesţif they could fit into a size six.

So he just cut everything bigger. Loads had followed his lead. Most designers wouldn’t admit they did it. It still amazed Karen that some women absolutely refused to buy clothing that fit them perfectly and looked great if it wasn’t labeled with the size they wanted it to be.

And so the industry had all begun downsizing. Of course, the very best couture houses kept true to size, but then their customers were the ones who were most figure-conscious and had the time and money to maintain their bodies. For the sportswear lines, downsizing had become just another marketing trick. Put a size-twelve butt into a size-twelve jean that was labeled a size eight and you racked up a sale. But where would it stop?

Jeffrey, Casey, and even Defina had nagged her to do it, but somehow, up till now, she’d resisted. For one thing, it would give Mrs. Cruz a heart attack. Karen kept the smile plastered on her face and caught Defina’s eye. “Get the blonde into the size-twelve dress,” she said with clenched teeth. “Cut the size label out. It will look great on her.” Defina nodded. She had a tiny, razor-sharp pocketknife on hand for just such operations. Karen looked up.

Mindy Trawler had her eye on the two of them. Karen smiled brightly, looking only at the girl’s face and avoiding Mindy’s bulging belly.

She was immediately besieged by another two customers. They had to try the boucle. Karen had been at it for almost three hours now and it seemed to be the best show they’d done yet. Despite Mrs. Montand and her nonexistent waist, despite the blonde and her fixation with numbers, the dresses were a big hit and some of the other Paris designs were moving nicely. Karen felt justified but exhausted. Round little Mr. Crosby was almost dancing in the aisle. It was then that he turned and, with a flourish, announced that tea and champagne were about to be served.

Three carts were rolled up from a service elevator. The napery was a wonderful damask in one of Karen’s signature wheat colors, with a vase of lilies in just the same shade. There was a huge silver tea service, gold-rimmed china cups and saucers, and a three-tiered silver server with wonderful miniscule cucumber sandwiches and tiny scones. They had really gone all out, and Karen was touched to see that the champagne in the silver coolers was Dom Perignon, not some domestic crap. It wasn’t vintage, but it would do.

Dozens of the women customers, Tangela, Defina, and of course Mindy Trawler descended on the tables. But Karen needed a break from them more than she needed a drink.

She retired to their staging area and took a moment to glance at herself in the mirror. Jesus, she looked like shit ! There were dark circles under her eyes that almost perfectly matched the mauve of her silk shirt. Well, at least she was color coordinated. She hadn’t needed that 2 A.M. wakeup call last night. Despite the press of fans and customers, she’d have to take a break. She turned around and made her way back to the screened part of the staging area that Tangela and the other girls had been using as a dressing room . As she walked past the divider, Tangela strode in behind her, still wearing one of the brown farm wife dresses, nibbling on a sandwich. She looked spectacular. “Don’t get anything on the dress,” Karen warned her.

Tangela scowled but nodded, turned, and left the room.

It was only then that Karen saw Stephanie huddled in the corner, by a mirror, her back to the pipe rack of clothes and the rest of the room.

Her back was bare and from where Karen stood it seemed as if her shoulders were shaking with sobs. Karen moved quickly to her side.

Her niece was crying, her face running with the black tide of her eyeliner and mascara. She looked like a very young raccoon. Karen pulled a seat up next to her and put her hand on the girl’s bare shoulder. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I can’t do this,” Stephanie said.

“What do you mean? You’re doing great.”

“No. I know I’m not. I don’t know what to say when the women talk to me, and nobody buys the things that I model.”

“How would you know that?” Karen asked.

“Tangela told me.”

Karen shook her head. Even she didn’t know exactly what was sellingţ except for the French stuffţand wouldn’t until there was a final count at the end of the day. This must just be a case of novice nerves. And Tangela’s bitchiness. Well, Stephanie was entitled to be anxious. She had never really been exposed to anything like this before. Maybe it was too much for her. Karen felt guilty. She’d thought this would be fun, a sort of makeup for busting Stephie at the boat party. It hadn’t occurred to Karen that it might be traumatic for her niece. She’d been too wrapped up in the adoption and NormCo and her marriage to give any more time or thought to poor Stephanie, and here the kid was feeling like a failure when she’d done a great job. Karen took a deep breath.