A Dress to Die For

by Christine Demaio-Rice

  He came out with an armful of magazines and dropped them on the floor in front of her.

  She checked the covers. “These are, like, from the nineties.”

  He tossed a handful of Sharpies on the rug and lay down next to her. “Okay. Here’s what you do. You find a pose that shows the parts of the body you want to see.” He peered at her sketchbook and pointed at one of her little patterns. “For this one, you’re going to want to see the armhole, so...” He found a picture with a model who had her arm up and wore a gauzy, bangly dress that looked plain dumb and outdated. He uncapped a Sharpie with his teeth and drew on the page, his hand deftly putting dark-black lines around the body, ignoring the old dress. He talked around the cap in his mouth, which he’d jammed into the left corner like a toothpick. “Your problem is you’re trying to get the body right so you can get the clothes right, but you just don’t have the coordination. And your croquis are the wrong pose entirely. So you need a body done already so you can just visually drape the pattern onto it.”

  “It’s perfect,” she said as he filled in the last of the lines. He could draw circles around just about anyone. “Let me try.”

  She found a pose and pattern to match. He watched as she drew a long skirt with a bustle and a little vest on the magazine picture of a woman in jeans and a tube top, filling in where she needed to shade and exaggerating the bustle.

  “It’s not as good as yours,” she said.

  “Your collection is beautiful.” He gathered her in his arms. “I don’t tell you that enough. Sartorial is the line I wish I could be doing.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Creatively, he kept himself so far removed from Sartorial Sandwich that she had no idea how he felt about it at all. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He unbuttoned her shirt. “Now. It’s Monday in China. So I scheduled a conference call with Walter about the new label package. It’s in an hour. You in?”

  “Of course.”

  “But first, this shirt is all wrong.”

  “I hate what you’re wearing, too,” she said, reaching for him. “But Ruby told me I shouldn’t say this after or during—”

  “You love me.”

  Laura felt cheated and somehow as if the risk she was about to take had been appropriated without any pressure for reciprocity on his part. “No, you love me.”

  “And I trust you, which took longer.”

  “How long?”

  “You saw me in the hospital room, the day after you got beat up. When you were looking for Gracie’s killer. And I told you.”

  “About the cystic fibrosis?”

  “Yes. You were the only person I’d told in years, and I did it on impulse. When you walked out, I had a panic attack. I couldn’t breathe. I thought they were going to have to intubate me.” He smiled as if that was the silliest idea he’d ever had. “And for months after, I thought, ‘How is she not going to tell Ruby?’ I waited for the lid to blow on the whole thing. But it didn’t happen. I thought maybe Ruby was tighter-lipped than I imagined. And the reporter. He terrifies me. I beat myself up over telling you. So one night, I was in the showroom, and I heard Ruby and Thomasina giggling behind that ridiculous partition wall. And I guess I was coughing, because all of a sudden, Ruby calls out, ‘Jeremy, could you go to the doctor, please? Bronchitis has been curable for, like, a zillion years.’ And I knew then. You didn’t tell.”

  “Of course not. How could you think I would tell your secret?”

  “Well, now I know. Then, telling you I had cystic fibrosis was like jumping off a cliff. So when I found out you weren’t with the reporter, I mean, come on. I had to figure out a way to have everything.”

  “Every time you mention that, you remind me how hateful you are.”

  “It reminds me of the exact same thing.” He smiled when he said it, though, as if he was simply who he was, love him or leave him.

  CHAPTER 3

  Laura fit Sartorial’s April production like a machine, lengthening, changing, and negotiating with Ruby, laser-focused on her job and priorities. She had to get done before her sister left, and her mind was a bullet train covering miles to the finish line.

  “That was the last one,” Heidi said, gathering up her paperwork and an armful of samples. Heidi’s real name was some unpronounceable Romanian word that sounded something like Heidi if you were a three-year-old trying to say the name while swallowing oatmeal.

  Three months previous, Rolf Wente had chained three girls to a boiler in a Washington Heights basement with the intent of turning them into high-class prostitutes. He’d gotten them into the country using Sartorial’s old backer as a shell, as the backer had also invested in Thomasina’s foundation for young Eastern European girls. The upshot was that Rolf had connected the dots: The girls’ papers said they were employed by Laura, and if she denied they worked for her, they’d be deported. So Laura got them hired. Heidi had a little patternmaking and sewing she’d learned from her grandmother. All of her experience was nearly useless, but she had a good attitude, spoke English, and soaked up information like a sponge. Thus, she became a technical designer for Saint JJ and Sartorial imports. Tracy had a knack for people, so she filled a human resources opening, and Julia could draw, so she ended up in the design room.

  “Thanks, Kelly,” Laura said. Then she said to Heidi, “April deliveries go out first so Jeremy and Ruby can see it in Hong Kong.”

  Heidi nodded and took off, attacking her job like a cat on a bird. Laura liked that attitude more than any actual task Heidi performed.

  Laura asked Ruby, “Do you need anything from me?”

  “No.” Ruby didn’t look up from picking at her nail polish.

  “You look like you have the sads.”

  Ruby was having trouble moving on from Thomasina’s death, as they had been lovers in the six months previous. Laura hadn’t known until Thomasina was dead, but once she caught up to it, she became the source of her sister’s comfort.

  “Little bit,” Ruby said. “It gets less and less.”

  “You okay to go to China?”

  “I’m fine. It’s just Hong Kong. Easy. And Jeremy’s taking off for the mainland almost right after, so he won’t be breathing down my neck.”

  Laura didn’t worry about Ruby and Jeremy in the same plane, hotel, or country. They’d both been clear in their own way that there was no interest. Ruby, for her part, was thrilled Laura had a boyfriend, and in their first conversation about him, Ruby had been crystal clear on how she had no interest in attempting to steal Jeremy, as she had Laura’s previous boyfriends.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Ruby had said over lunch at Valerie’s. They’d gotten the Marc Jacobs table, but the name had faded behind the other names scratched and drawn on the surface. “He slept with you, then surprise, next morning, he’s our backer? That’s how he did it?”

  “And the job offer was part of it. I’m partnered with him on JSJ.”

  “And what? It was an all or nothing deal?” Ruby twirled her linguini as if they were discussing shoes.

  “I can get out of any of them, really.”

  “So you want to work with him on his stupid line?”

  “It’s not stupid.”

  “And you want him to back Sartorial?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you actually want to continue having sex with him?”

  “Abso-freaking-lutely.”

  “Gross.” Ruby held up her hand as if blocking the thoughts coming from Laura’s head. “So he’s your lover now. You can’t tell me that if you two break up, Sartorial won’t be affected.”

  Laura’s face had tingled when Ruby said “lover,” an expression her sister had picked up after switching to breaking the hearts of women, rather than men. It seemed like such an old-fashioned word, but “boyfriend” was infantile, and she could think of no other options.

  “It’s just a job.” Laura leaned forward. “We can use 40th Street, Rubes. The floor’s mostly ours. We’re not getting anything
better than that.”

  “Do I have to work for him?”

  “No and yes. He’s our backer, so we’re responsible for making him money. If we don’t, he’s stepping in. Same as anyone.”

  “See, that worries me because I could work Bob. I could make him see it my way. But Jeremy? He’s like… I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you lost your mojo.”

  Ruby sneered as if Laura had told her she’d gained twenty pounds and a double chin. “It’s not me. It’s him. He’s... I have no idea how you cope with him… or why. He’s bossy. I don’t like it. How do you deal with it in bed?”

  “He’s actually quite—”

  “Stop!” Ruby dropped her fork and held up both hands. “I’m eating. Please. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “Wait a minute. Since when don’t you want every detail? What happened to you? You switch to women, and suddenly men are gross?”

  “Not men. Just Jeremy. I mean, I’m glad you’re happy. Really. You deserve it. And I’m not saying he’s not fine looking and all, but besides the bossiness, what’s with the cough? Time to see a doctor, don’t you think? Some antibiotics maybe?”

  “Ignore the cough.”

  Ruby rolled her eyes. “No, you ignore the cough.” She’d stuffed a forkful of pasta into her mouth and refused to discuss Laura’s love life further.

  **

  When Laura came back from the fitting, Mom was sitting at her desk.

  “Hey,” Laura said. “I have a meeting in, like, ten minutes. What’s up?”

  “I need to see the dress again, and that cop won’t let me.”

  Jeremy strode in and made a beeline for his desk. “Jackie can’t find the key to the conference room.” He yanked open his top drawer and cursed.

  Jackie, another one of the three girls who had come to them because of Rolf Wente, was his assistant. She was great at looking good and sketching, but keeping track of things wasn’t her forte.

  “Take mine.” Laura plucked her keys out of her drawer and tossed them to him. “Are they here yet?”

  “Just the lawyers. Hello, Jocelyn.”

  Mom nodded. “Jeremy.” She still wasn’t crazy about him, and it showed.

  “I’ll see you in ten,” he told Laura and was gone.

  Laura couldn’t be late. The meeting was a contract signing with New Sunny Garments, a Chinese manufacturer that would be responsible for up to ninety percent of Saint JJ. Though Laura’s signature wouldn’t be required and Saint JJ wasn’t her responsibility, Jeremy wanted her to be his eyes and ears in the exploding business. It comforted him to know that if he needed a hospital stay, she had things covered.

  Laura gave her attention back to Mom. “Why?”

  “I need to prove to them they can pull prints off the back of the button.”

  “I feel like a broken record asking why again.”

  “You don’t need to question me, young lady.”

  “What’s the deal, Mom?”

  “I talked to your curator this morning, and he swears it’s the right dress. But if my prints aren’t on the button, it’s fake.”

  Laura felt as if she’d been hit over the head. Was that what people went through with her? Was that what it felt like to have someone run around asking questions about something you’d let go of already? “Mom, seriously? Bernard Nestor? You hunted down Bernard Nestor to tell him he curated the wrong dress? Did he slice you a new one, or is he going to just take it out on Jeremy and me?”

  “You’re being very self-centered.”

  “I am not. No one stands to lose more from a fake dress than Jeremy, but I’m not greasing wheels with the NYPD for this.” Laura gathered her notebook and paperwork for the meeting. “Cangemi’s already pissed at me for just existing.”

  “Fine.” Mom pushed away from the desk and stood. “I have a meeting with Mr. Nestor tonight. I’ll ask him to grease whatever needs greasing.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Oh, yes, I will.”

  “Mom.”

  “Laura.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Good-bye.” Mom slung her bag over her shoulder and headed out the door.

  Laura hurried into the hallway and saw her mom walking, head high and ready to take on the NYPD and Bernard Nestor to prove some point Laura didn’t understand.

  “Mom,” Laura called. When Mom turned, she said, “What time? I’m going with you before you get us into trouble.”

  “Five. After work.” Mom wore a sly smile as if she knew that was Laura’s midday.

  **

  Bernard Nestor was not a man to be taken lightly. Curating Dressed for Infamy had not been for the fainthearted. It required a thorough knowledge of history, politics, fashion, and high society. The connections involved went from the White House to the assistant librarian at the Fashion Institute of Technology and back around to anonymous art collectors. The job required a deft hand at social interactions and knowledge of relational webs in high society that would relax well-known people enough to allow their clothing to be associated with their most infamous moments.

  The Brunico Saffron gown had been the star piece. The Brunican princess, Philomena, had worn many gowns and dresses, but none could be found in the hands of a single collector or university since her death, six months previous. The current high prince of Brunico, Salvadore Forseigh, had to be called from a hunting expedition on the far side of the island, but nothing of her was left. Everything was gone with nothing at the cleaners or a friend’s, not a stitch, sock, bead, or belt. People who collected famous gowns and dresses lamented the loss.

  So when the Brunico Saffron dress, designed by Scaasi with parts sewn by Mom, was discovered, a hullabaloo ensued. More than the only gown of a beloved princess to be found anywhere in the world, it was also the bit of formalwear she’d donned on the night of Salvadore’s inauguration from prince to high prince of Brunico. The feasting had gone on for the weekend and its bookends, with fox hunting taking up the days, and providing the raw materials for more than a few fur coats, and dancing and gambling taking up the nights. The dress had been verified partly by a lump of beluga caviar found between two beads at the bust.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do dinner,” Laura told Jeremy on her way out of the office. “I have to make sure Mom doesn’t say anything she shouldn’t.”

  “How are you going to stop her?”

  “I can spin whatever she says. I don’t know. But she’s freaking me out.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “I hope you don’t expect a Christmas present with little remarks like that.”

  “I’m on the wrong list for presents. Are you meeting me at my place later?”

  “Yes.”

  He checked behind him, then kissed her and stroked her cheek with his thumb before saying, “Call first. I may be here.” And he was off to meet with his designers about New Sunny and the prep for the China trip.

  **

  Mom waited on the corner of Madison Avenue and 50th Street, lit by the colored Christmas lights twisted on the lampposts, hugging herself against the cold.

  “Why didn’t you wear a scarf?” Laura asked when she was in earshot.

  “I didn’t have anything nice.”

  Laura unspooled hers and passed it to her mother. They walked a block east to an old stone building with arched windows and a beveled glass door. Mom stomped right up and rang the bell.

  A bald man in a black suit answered. “You must be Mrs. Carnegie?”

  “A Mrs. and a Ms.,” Mom said.

  The butler smiled. Laura hadn’t realized her mother was charming.

  Bernard Nestor was slim, almost waifish, with small feet and short stature for a man. He had olive skin, and his tight curls were cropped close to the scalp. He walked straight and tight, giving new meaning to the word “ramrod.” He wore the air of a man who did important things with important people during important events, yet still had the earthiness of someone wh
o wanted to be your friend, no matter where you lived or what your social class. That aura put Laura at ease, because even though she currently made more money than she knew what to do with, she still felt like the kid whose mother scraped up sofa change to pay the rent.

  Bernard’s townhouse was thick with stale air, as if people didn’t live in it most of the year. That may have been true, as he was rarely in town. He didn’t curate more often than every other year, but when he did, he always had the rarest artifacts, the most precious art, or the biggest find.

  He’d approached Barry about putting the show together about the same time as Gracie’s death. Jeremy hadn’t gotten on board until the Brunican gown entered the picture. Bernard had explained the demands to him and Laura. The location of the dress had been a closely guarded secret. It was to be moved on the form it came on and never taken off. The garment was to be moved out of the museum in the same way. The interior of the dress could not be touched. There was to be no deviation whatsoever.

  Laura had met Bernard to review the dresses for the show, more as a novelty-seeker than decision-maker. They’d spoken at length about why Mom’s work on the Barbara Bush suit was so much different from the blue Tollridge & Cherry dress. He’d been slated to meet Mom but had begged off, claiming illness, though he made sure she had a ticket for the opening.

  The Brunico Saffron gown didn’t show up until two weeks before the show. A find. A miracle. Another rabbit out of a hat for Bernard Nestor. They had it validated by Lloyd’s in a big hurry, and the cost of bonding the show had skyrocketed.

  His house was decked out in dark woods, with frescoes on the dining room walls and marble patterns on the floors. They met him in the library, which Laura thought was too busy, with too many hardcover books and patterns on the rugs, walls, and furniture. The room looked like a library was supposed to look, without actually being a comfortable place to read a book.

  Bernard gave Laura a perfunctory hug. “Good to see you again. It’s been a harrowing couple of days.” He shook his head as if mourning the loss of a neighbor. He turned to Mom, “You must be Mrs. Carnegie? You worked on the dress when it was made?” He offered her his hand.