Lace II

by Shirley Conran

  “I have decided to settle for ninety percent of the cake instead of fifty percent of the alimony.” Maxine crossly removed her sunglasses.

  “You see, here we are talking about divorce and I haven’t even got married yet,” giggled Pagan. Maxine began to understand how Abdullah might sometimes be exasperated by Pagan’s flippant charm.

  “Oh, Pagan,” she sighed. “Abdullah is what you’ve always wanted. I can’t understand why you don’t jump at the chance of marrying Abdi, when you’ve been in love with him for years.”

  “Being in love is different from loving!” Pagan said. “I can’t imagine loving Abdi in the way I loved Christopher. Christopher really cared about all of me; we trusted each other, so we could expose our vulnerability. I wouldn’t like to risk exposing my vulnerability to Abdi. And he’ll never trust anyone.”

  In the distance, the eighteenth century turrets of the chateau shone purple in the sun.

  “But what about all the wonderful things that the hakim taught him when he was sixteen?” Maxine reminded Pagan.

  Pagan hesitated. “When we’re in bed, it’s physically wonderful, but Abdi’s not emotionally involved. That love doctor in Cairo taught him everything about eroticism and nothing about love. I don’t want only a sexual relationship. I want warm intimacy and mutual concern.”

  “Perhaps you can change him?” Maxine made the female’s fatal error of believing this to be possible.

  “At least I’m not stupid enough to think that!”

  “But if he’s asked you to marry him and you’re not certain, why not ask for a six-month engagement, a secret engagement that the world will never know about, to give you time to get used to the idea? You have nothing to lose with a secret engagement.”

  On the distant stone building, row upon row of windows glistened in the sunshine. Pagan turned the idea over in her mind. The most attractive aspect of Maxine’s suggestion was that Pagan would now be able to put off her decision.

  “Maxine, I think you’ve solved the problem,” she said, looking at the row of fountains in front of the chateau terrace, where the July sun formed rainbows in the dancing water.

  13

  August 1979

  LAYER UPON LAYER of swan-white lace swayed softly as Sandy moved her hips, and the half-hidden diamanté brilliants twinkled like the stars in a Walt Disney sky. Sandy crossed her wrists in front of her, which pushed her breasts together and upward. The flounces helped as well, she thought, but she sure wished her tits were bigger.

  “How much is it, Ken?”

  The dress manufacturer’s plump pink hand carefully smoothed the satin petals of the ice-pink rosebud between her breasts. “Let’s not talk about the price, Sandy, just tell me what you think of it.”

  Sandy knew that when a man said “let’s not talk about the price,” the deal was going to be very expensive. However, the circuit gossip was that Ken liked it straight and came fast.

  “Why it’s just beautiful, Ken,” she cooed, right into her Southern belle act. No girl got to be a beauty contest finalist in a dress run up by her mother, in spite of the rule that no evening gown could cost more than two hundred dollars. Which is why Ken Sherman loaned his dresses for publicity value, if he thought a girl had a good chance of winning the beauty pageant. And, of course, a girl had to be nice to Ken.

  “I could not imagine a finer antebellum gown in the whole world,” Sandy smiled her gleaming, wholesome smile. In the gloom of the deserted showroom, Ken twitched the pink satin sash into place, stood back from the spotlight and slowly nodded. No girl could lose in that dress. “Right,” he said briskly. “Care for a cocktail at my place?”

  “Why Ken, I would be honored,” Sandy breathed. The bullshit level had to be higher, the closer you got to the top.

  * * *

  The bedroom floor and walls were covered by white fur. The lamps were Lalique crystal seashells and the circular bed was covered with a white leather spread, upon which lay Ken with his legs apart while Sandy cheerfully sucked his stiff little cock. The girls were right about Ken, this was the cheapest dress she’d ever acquired. But Sandy was merely making her down payment; Ken wanted more for his money, and he knew that he wouldn’t have another chance after tomorrow’s contest.

  “Let’s take a look at you.” Ken pushed a white fur bolster behind her head and spreading out her waterfall of pale blond curls, he felt for the zipper of her silver lamé boiler suit and yanked at it. “Listen, baby, you got nothing to worry about, tomorrow.” He took a look and thought they’d hardly make a 34B, as he ripped off the silver lamé. “Like some music?” He pushed a couple of buttons on the bedhead console that looked capable of flying a 747. Dolly Parton started to wail “Stand By Your Man” and, overhead, the remote control videocamera started to roll as Ken purred, “Why, you’re as bald as a baby down there,” and pushed Sandy onto her back.

  Who did he think he was fooling with that mirrored ceiling, thought Sandy, as Ken squeezed gobs of her body lotion over her breasts. Obediently, she massaged the translucent white goo over her breasts; no wonder the bedcover was easy-wipe white leather. “Honey, you are amazing,” she breathed as she thrust one immaculately manicured finger inside her pink gauze panties, then stuck her rump in the air and pulled at the bows which held the pink gauze in place.

  Half an hour later, Sandy had been squeezed and shoved and pulled, pushed and arranged in a hundred different poses. She realized that the videotape must be running out, because Ken squeezed her breasts together, felt around her clitoris for a few moments, missed it, poured body lotion on his penis, shoved it inside her, gave ten very careful thrusts, gasped, rolled off, felt around for his cigarettes, and said, “What happened to the thatch, honey?”

  “Electrolysis. Hurt like hell. Worse than having the teeth capped. They should give you an anesthetic.”

  Ken dragged on his cigarete. “So do we have a deal?”

  “What sort of deal?”

  “If you win the Miss International Beauty Pageant tomorrow, you’ll need more gowns, at three thousand dollars a throw.” He pushed his cigarette end into a built-in ashtray on the bedhead. “You get the gowns from me for ten percent of the prize money. And don’t try to bargain, that’s the going rate.”

  “Why, honey, whatever you say. I have no head for business.”

  Ken leered at Sandy. “You don’t need a head in this business.”

  Sandy slid off the bed and smiled. “Honey, I’ve got to take a shower and get home for my beauty sleep.” In the shower, she ran through her plans. When Ken showered, she’d jump on that bed and push at the mirrored tiles until she found the one that concealed the camera. You certainly did need a head in this business: only last year, the California Citrus Princess had been forced to resign, when a boyfriend published split-beaver pictures of her in a stud magazine.

  * * *

  By the third day of the Miss International Beauty Pageant, the Clarence Plaza Hotel in Miami overflowed with females of every age and shape. Like grown-up children playing with their Barbie dolls, pudgy professional mothers, often obese, chaperoned their still-slim, professional-virgin daughters. Looking as wholesome as strawberry yogurt, these girls had learned to be as tough as infantry boots, but the rules insisted on one chaperone per entrant, and a mother added greatly to the clean-living, ail-American apple-pie atmosphere. The unspoken, uncodified, and unstated agreement was that this image should be preserved, unsullied. This was why, however jealous, desperate, cynical, or vicious a competitor felt, she never let it show. The currency of conversation was always candy-coated. The myth was that all the girls were loving friends.

  Sandy’s mother, wearing a peach polyester pants suit, sat on the terrace overlooking the swimming pool. Ostentatiously, she stitched the ice-pink rose on the front of Ken Sherman’s extravagant gown; you scored extra points if your gown was homemade. Lying beside her, Sandy sunbathed in a swimsuit that was carefully cut to match her competition costume, so that her tan marks would match
up. Sandy was certain of being one of the three finalists, and knew that she had a good chance of winning the title.

  So did the other contestants. On the next lounger, Miss Canada propped herself up on one elbow and asked, with honeyed friendliness, “Are we going to see you use those wrenches today, Sandy?”

  Sandy immediately dived into her tote bag and produced a pair of nickle-plated plumber’s wrenches. “Why, honey, I never go anywhere without them. Good conversation point. Good defense weapon. And you’ll see me use them in the talent section.”

  “How did you figure out your neat act?” marveled Miss Canada, who was sick of seeing Sandy giving her frank, freckle-nosed virginal grin, as she brandished her gleaming wrenches in contest after contest, to the delighted surprise of the crowds. Sandy allowed herself a moment of complacency. “It’s easy if you’ve got personality.” She put the wrenches back in her tote bag and reached for the suntan oil. They both knew that personality was the winning trick. It was what the judges were looking for, because they needed a girl who could speak up on a talk show or at an opening ceremony. Personality meant the ability to define your own chosen character in three words, and in Sandy’s case it was SOUTHERN PLUMBER’S DAUGHTER.

  “Sandy’s always had personality.” Her mother bit off the cotton thread and held up the seafroth-white gown for inspection. “Just as well, because she cracks the windows if she tries to sing, she can’t dance worth a dime, and the only thing she was ever any good at was baton.” Proudly she stroked the satin rose again. “Sandy, honey, your dress is all finished.”

  “That is the most adorable dress I have ever seen,” Miss Canada said, sitting up and curiously looking at the delicate lace. “I can hardly believe it only cost two hundred dollars honey.”

  * * *

  Sandy sauntered on stage in overlarge denim coveralls, with a red and white spotted handkerchief in the pocket, plumber’s wrenches in each hand; she looked refreshingly wholesome. She began to twirl the wrenches as if they were batons, whirling them up in the air, then catching them with panache. As the banjo music slowed, Sandy mopped her forehead with the red handkerchief, gave it a flourish and pulled a bunch of flowers from it. After her little conjuring trick, the tempo of the music quickened, as Sandy produced three giant metal washers from the back pocket of her faded blue coveralls and deftly juggled the metal circles to a crescendo of applause. Sandy thought, fuck you, Miss Canada.

  * * *

  On the following evening, Sandy dripped blue drops into her eyes to make them sparkle; she cleaned her teeth with red toothpaste to make them extra white; she checked the thick tan makeup on her shoulders; she looked at herself in the mirror.

  Perfect.

  Then she squeezed into the tight white-satin corselette and hooped petticoat which went under Ken Sherman’s gown. “Hook me up, honey,” she murmured to Miss Canada, who was sticking on her left eyelashes. Carefully, Sandy stepped into the middle of Ken’s white-lace masterpiece. Miss Canada felt for Sandy’s zipper, then paused. “Hey, Sandy, something’s wrong with this zipper.”

  Sandy instantly sensed disaster. She grabbed a hand mirror from the makeup counter, spun around and examined the rear view in the mirror. The zipper down the back of the gown had been slashed in a dozen places and, as she touched it, the zipper fell away from the dress.

  What Sandy wanted to say was “holy fucking shit.” What she automatically said was “Jeepers creepers.” Using unladylike language was a sure way to get thrown out of a beauty pageant on the spot.

  Goddammit, I told Mama not to let the dress out of her sight, Sandy thought, as she shrieked for the pageant supervisor. It was not abnormal for the best dress in the pageant to be sabotaged with a razor blade. It only took thirty seconds.

  “Okay, you’re on last,” said the pageant supervisor, taking in the situation at a glance.

  “Mama, go get the hotel maintenance man here with his toolbox,” Sandy ordered.

  When the bemused janitor arrived outside the dressing room door, Sandy dived into the toolbox for the roll of waterproof adhesive used to make temporary repairs in cracked water pipes. It was wide and strong and sticky on both sides. Swiftly Sandy cut twenty inches of the tape and ordered her mother to stick it down her back. Without a word, Sandy’s mother spread a dust sheet on the floor, then held the dress as Sandy stepped into it. Clutching the white flounces to her breast, Sandy carefully lowered herself onto the dust sheet, face down. Then, while her mother held the edges of the dress in place, Miss Canada walked daintily on Sandy’s spine, her bare feet pressing the dress firmly onto the double-sided strapping. Then both of them helped Sandy to stand up. She thought, thank Christ I really am a plumber’s daughter, as she said, “Thanks. Guess I mustn’t breathe too deeply, but I reckon every cloud has a silver living, because now I’ve got the last number.” The last girl in the parade had the best chance of making a strong impression on the judges.

  * * *

  Sitting at the judges’ table, Judy and Lili watched the endless stream of girls, glassy-eyed and stiff, walk down the catwalk towards the cameras, the host, and microphone. Their smiles were peppermint-fresh, their faces were peachperfect and their flesh was the color of peanut butter.

  “Can’t think why they chose Miami in August,” muttered Lili to Judy.

  “Politics, politics,” Judy murmured back to Lili, who had flown over from Europe for the judging. Both women had agreed not to stay in Miami for one minute longer than was necessary. The humid, tropical heat blasted them every time they left the over-elaborate lobby of their gaudy hotel, and within minutes their clothes would be soaked with perspiration, and the energy drained from their bodies.

  The final parade, in formal gowns, was the first time that the audience had heard the girls speak. Each girl was interviewed to determine whether or not she had personality. Translated, that meant whether she would be able to stand up for herself on talk shows in the appropriately charming, self-deprecatory manner.

  Suddenly, the hot, tired women in the theater gasped as Sandy glided down the wide staircase. Sandy looked as if she had been sprayed with lace foam that was slowly slipping down from her shoulders and about to reveal her body.

  “Tell us about yourself, Sandy,” encouraged the whitesuited host as he handed the microphone to Sandy.

  Sandy gave the judges her most brilliant smile. “I am majoring in social science and then I plan to be a teacher because I just love children.” Pause at that point, thought Sandy.

  “This is a beautiful dress you have on,” the host prompted, holding the microphone under the tip of her nose.

  “I usually make all my own clothes,” Sandy confided, thinking, keeping the answers short, “but my Mama helped me with this.” She blew a kiss to her mother in the audience.

  “And what do you do in your spare time, Sandy?”

  “I like to water ski, I go dancing and I’m taking an evening course in domestic engineering.”

  “Domestic engineering?” The host glanced briefly at his prompt card. “What is that, Sandy?”

  “I guess it’s just a fancy name for plumbing,” Sandy repeated her confident laugh. “My Daddy’s a plumber and he taught me all I know. When I get married, I’ll be able to fix the washing machine.” Roars of applause.

  “May I ask if you are courting at this time?”

  “Do you mean, do I have a boyfriend?” Sandy moved closer to the microphone so that her voice sounded breathy. “Well no, I do not. Right now my life is just so full of opportunities that I want to get on and enjoy it to the full.”

  “And now, Sandy, for the final question,” the host finished. “Tell us why you are proud of your country.”

  The beauty queens had all rehearsed their answers, but Sandy’s reply sounded enthusiastically impromptu. “Because America really is beautiful, American really is friendly, and America really is free! I believe that America is the land of opportunity and I am the living proof of that. My Mama was a dancer from Sweden and my fathe
r came over from Ireland, when he was just a kid. Why, if it hadn’t been for America they would never have met up.” Sandy deliberately turned away from the host and waved to the close-up camera. “Hi, Mama and Daddy, I am so glad you chose America!”

  The theater erupted in a storm of cheering and clapping. Many in the audience dabbed their eyes or wiped away tears as they stood and applauded. Sandy mentally evaluated her chances. Sudan was statuesque, almond-eyed, and the Third World girls always got sympathy votes. Sri Lanka might be an added threat, because she had been a stunning sight in her national costume, ultramarine silk, with tinkling bracelets on her tiny, high-arched feet.

  As the ten nervous girls clattered up the backstage stairs, Sandy wondered why, for Chrissake, Canada had been selected. According to Sandy’s research, Canada and the United States were never chosen together, since it was considered undiplomatic to pick neighboring countries. Maybe Canada has something going for her that we don’t know about, maybe someone down here owes someone up there one big favor, Sandy decided as, carefully, she pulled her full skirt clear of her high heels, and walked across the dirty backstage floor, crisscrossed with electrical leads.

  While the audience was entertained by a team of dancers in azure chiffon and sequins, the judges withdrew to a side room and considered their decision. Judy unpinned the lurid purple orchid from her cream silk lapel and pondered the three nordic, three hispanic, three black, and one oriental finalist; she realized that the color mix for the final line-up was as predictable as the colors in an ice-cream sundae.

  The international photographer offered first opinion. “I want Sudan,” he said firmly. “She’s marvelously photogenic; she’s got terrific presence, and she’s unattached.”

  The Mirabelle man interrupted quickly. “Sudan would be of limited value to us.” He meant that the Mirabelle range was not designed for a black skin. “Our vote goes to United States, her microphone manner was professional.”