The Pink Suit: A Novel

by Nicole Kelby

  He’d obviously given this a good deal of thought.

  As Patrick spoke, the geography of Kate’s life grew smaller, until it fit into the palm of his hand. She wanted to say: I told Mr. Charles no. I want to open my own couture shop. I know I can do this. Mrs. Vreeland did.

  Kate wanted to say all this to Patrick but couldn’t. She was, after all, the Queen of Inwood. She was a nail to be pounded down.

  “I love you,” he said. “Always have.”

  “I know.”

  Patrick waited for a moment to hear her say the word love, but some words must be carefully considered. They complicate. They define. They own you. Kate wasn’t sure she wanted to be owned, but she couldn’t imagine her life without Patrick, either.

  He looked hurt for a moment and then seemed to think better of it. He kissed her again. He was still searching for that word somewhere in Kate’s eyes when he said, “Should we get some dinner? Shake all this off?”

  “Please.”

  He took off his butcher’s coat. He had on a tie, the Harris clan tartan—How sweet of him—and a freshly pressed shirt. It was supposed to be a proper date, after all. He was lovely, if men could be called lovely. He put on his overcoat and then stopped for a moment, as if he’d just remembered something. “I’m not saying you have to leave the Ladies.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.” Patrick checked the air conditioner again, and the humidifier. “I think we’re good.”

  “Are we?”

  “We are. You know, I did have this little speech worked up for you. It was all about the unpredictability of dry-aged beef. How you can’t rush it. Takes forever to do properly, but tenderness comes, always—but it comes on its own terms.”

  As promised, the poet butcher did have a big, romantic finish.

  Kate said his name with such tenderness. “My dear Patrick Harris.” Yes, tenderness. It surprised them both. She wondered, just for a moment, how many telephone operators he’d told his dry-aged meat story to—but then she kissed him for it.

  It was not a chaste kiss, or a drunken kiss, although she still tasted of olives and gin. It was the kind of kiss that one remembers through both good times and bad.

  “May we have our supper now?” he asked.

  They could. And they did. But only after Mrs. Brown had a word or two with them about “punctuality being the road to heaven.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Elegance is elimination.”

  —Cristóbal Balenciaga

  When a garment was complete, the final step was to sew on the label. For ready-to-wear, it read Chez Ninon. New York, Paris. Couture garments, being completely handmade, were more complicated. Each label identified Chez Ninon, but it also bore the name of the owner, the date the garment was created, and the model number assigned to it, so that if its remnant was needed for repair work, or if the owner wished to have the piece cleaned and stored at the shop, it could be easily identified. It was a very efficient system.

  The label for the pink suit was waiting on Kate’s table when she arrived that next morning. There was a trunk show going on, but after it was over, the Wife was scheduled to come in for a fitting of the completed suit. It would be her first and final.

  Everything was ready for her arrival, so Kate and Maeve snuck up front to see the show. It was Snob Dresses, the “It” dresses of the hour. Modest in design and outrageous in price, they were worn with the Wife’s preference of a tiny, two-inch heel. They were “little nothings,” more stylish than around-the-town dresses and more ornate than the yearly Little Black Dress that Chanel always showed with pearls. More important, at least for the Ladies, they were amazingly profitable if run off on the machines, with only a few hand finishes, just for show. The Ladies had written their regulars about a special trunk showing. Straight from Paris, for Winter Cruise Season!

  Straight from Mr. Charles would have been more truthful. He’d designed every last one of them as his last act.

  “Miss the old goat,” Maeve said.

  Mr. Charles and Maeve were about the same age, but Kate didn’t want to mention that. She never even told Maeve about the Atelier or being “intoxicated by lilacs” or the gin martini. And, of course, the fact that Mr. Charles had paid her bill at The Carlyle would be a secret Kate would take to her grave. It was embarrassing enough to confess it to Father John.

  The bright colors of the summer Snob had become passé, and so Mr. Charles had created an “Anti-Snob Snob” in somber tones. It was basically the same dress—a well-fitted sheath—with endless variations in black, brown, and gray. No prints. The necklines were bowed or slashed or cowled. There were pleats or buttons—but not both. There was a sleek gray silk Snob with an exaggerated Greek neckline that draped the collarbone, and a brown wool day Snob with a hem made of dozens of brown woolen roses. The black crepe cocktail Snob was low in the back and could be worn in reverse—and that was cheeky enough to garner a standing ovation.

  “They’ve no clue they’re snobs themselves, do they?” Maeve said.

  The showroom was filled with about fifty people or more. They were all wearing pillbox hats and white gloves, drinking away the sorrows of bad haircuts and imprudent servants with Taittinger; the Ladies had sprung for better champagne this time because the profit margins for Snob Dresses were vast.

  Mrs. Babe Paley was in attendance, sitting in her usual spot, facing the audience. She was not wearing white gloves or a pillbox hat. She was, as always, setting trends, not following them. Her long legs were casually crossed at the ankle; her dark hair was turning elegantly gray, as God had intended. Kate admired that about her.

  Mrs. Paley been the editor at Vogue years ago, then married the chairman of CBS, and then won some award for being well dressed. It wasn’t so much that she was deadly beautiful, although she was—Kate could see that from across the room. It was as if she were sculpted from marble—the drape of her dress, the luminescent skin: there was a cool elegance to it all, as if she had remained untouched by human hands. The Ladies said she was not a trendsetter but a “fashion icon.” An original. Kate knew what the Ladies were getting at. Every time Mrs. Paley made a note about a piece, nearly everyone in the showroom would place an order for the outfit and hand it to the runner. It was pandemonium. Everyone wanted to be an original too, and that made Kate laugh. She wondered if Mrs. Paley was just having a bit of fun with the crowd, making notes just to see how many people jumped at the sight. Babe Paley never ordered in public. Everybody at Chez Ninon knew that.

  When the show finished, she would wait until everyone had left and then go back to her favorite dressing room, where the Ladies would have the models walk by her one more time. The rule was that while Mrs. Paley was making up her mind, everyone had to be perfectly silent. No talking. No machines. No loud noises. Even the Ladies were confined to their private offices. “She hates the distractions,” Miss Sophie reminded the back-room girls.

  And they call me the Queen, Kate thought.

  She’d never gotten a good look at Babe Paley before, but now that she had, Kate felt nothing but pity. Whenever she looked up at the girls on the runway—with their pose-turn-pose-turn style—Kate could clearly see that her eyes were deeply sad. She seemed hopeless, somehow. Even with all that money and fame. Kate didn’t know what to make of it.

  Kate and Maeve were still watching the show when Schwinn sidled up next to them and whispered, “Maison Blanche.” The Wife was waiting in the back room with the back-room girls.

  It was really thrilling; even Maeve thought so. “How very ‘just us girls’ of her,” she whispered.

  Kate nearly ran down the long hallway to see her. She could hardly believe it. After all this time, and all these clothes, all these hours spent imagining her in one dress or another, Kate would finally get to see the Wife up close, maybe even have a word or two with her. To see her in that beautiful suit would be the most thrilling thing of all; she certainly would appreciate the perfectly quilted lining, no matter wh
at Cassini had said. It would be impossible not to. Just for a moment—maybe, just maybe—the Wife may even wonder if it is a real Chanel. As long as she didn’t look at the skirt too closely, it would be difficult to tell the difference.

  There might even be tea. And if she had just a moment, if no one was talking to her, Kate could ask her about Cork. She could ask if she missed it, too. Maybe even ask after the Lees, because the Old Man would want Kate to do that. If there were still any Lees left in Cork, maybe she could get a telephone number for the Old Man to call, and they could all meet somewhere for a pint, if they fancied that, or just stroll through the English Market, looking at the wild geese, red currants, farmhouse cheese, and sweet butter.

  At that moment, the world had become Kate’s. Queen of Inwood. Who cares what those people think?

  Schwinn opened the back-room door with a flourish. “Girls,” he said, “meet the Wife.”

  Instead of the usual entourage of forgettable men in rumpled suits and Ray-Bans, and nervous assistants with wash-and-wear hair and practical shoes, there was just one single girl. She was a slight girl, actually. It was not the Wife at all but a girl wearing the Wife’s pink suit.

  Take that off, Kate thought as soon as she saw her.

  “The new Wife,” Schwinn said. “Maison Blanche has decided we’re completely off-limits these days. No more sneaking around in tunnels for Her Elegance.”

  “Probably all the gawking the other day when she came round,” Maeve said. She sounded disappointed but not surprised.

  Kate, on the other hand, was shocked. She knew the other shops always used live mannequins for the Wife, but not Chez Ninon. We’re Blue Book, she thought. Miss Sophie, Miss Nona, and the grand Mrs. Molly Tackaberry McAdoo are Blue Book all the way. We’re one of her own.

  “She’s not coming back?”

  “Sorry, kiddo.”

  At Chez Ninon they had dressed the mother and all the others in the clan of Lee for years, and then Her. But now the L&Ms and that air of Chanel No. 5 were gone forever. First Mr. Charles, now this. Kate had so many questions that they bled together and reduced themselves to just one: “Are we fired?”

  “Nope.”

  Schwinn handed Kate the envelope from Maison Blanche. It was filled with drawings and a dozen or more orders. They certainly were not fired. They would still make her clothes; the trip to India alone would take a solid month of work.

  He shrugged. “Looks like Maison Blanche has decided to set up a procedure for us because they are the government—and that’s what governments do best. That, and memos.”

  Chez Ninon now had both. The memo even had bullet points:

  The live mannequin will now be used for all fittings. No exceptions.

  Photos will always be taken. If the outfit photographed meets the specifications stated, then the Chez Ninon label may be sewn in, and it will be eligible for inclusion in the White House collection. Once approved, all invoices will be handled in the usual manner.

  Kate knew that meant Mrs. Tackaberry McAdoo would address the invoices as if they belonged to Mrs. Raymond A. Gallagher, the Wife’s secretary, and then mail them to either the account at Riggs Bank or to the Father-in-Law, in Hyannis Port, depending on the “damages,” as Maeve would say.

  Neither Kate nor Schwinn could figure out whose desk the memo had come from. The paper was high quality, but plain and without a watermark.

  “Very CIA,” Schwinn said. “Untraceable and thereby deniable.”

  “I think the Minister of Style had it sent.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’s gone.”

  It was difficult to imagine.

  Schwinn took out his camera. It was an old Brownie, not a Polaroid, like the Minister of Style had. The pictures would have to be taken to the developer.

  “Back to work for the mere mortals,” he said. The mannequin, whose name was Suze, was still wearing the beautiful suit. “Give us a pose,” he told her. “Something very Maison Blanche.”

  The girl’s pose was arrogant and sullen, and that made Kate angry. She wanted to shout—She’s not like that, she’s not a snob—but didn’t. Kate really didn’t know what the First Lady was like, and now she would never know.

  “No. No,” Schwinn said to the girl. “We’re looking for an I Hate Camp David but That’s No Reason to Hate Me look. I need a look that’s cheerful but pained.”

  The girl laughed. “Got it,” she said, and tilted her head the exact way that the Wife did, her hips jutting out at an angle. She smiled winningly, but it wasn’t the same smile at all. It didn’t have that same playful spark. Maeve checked the fit. It was perfect except that the shoulder was slightly off.

  “That’s because of her swayback,” Kate said.

  “Right. The gammy bit. Nearly forgot.”

  Schwinn was clearly enjoying his role as White House photographer. He was thorough and sharp eyed. “Looks good, Cookie.”

  “Not Cookie—Suze.”

  “Suze.”

  Schwinn didn’t even try to explain that every female he knew was either “cookie” or “kiddo.” He was a names-optional sort of fellow. Unlike Cassini, Schwinn photographed the entire girl, including her head. Of course, the girl was younger than Kate, and the suit fit as it should. The skirt looked better than Kate thought it would, but she didn’t want to look too closely at it. It still hurt that she didn’t get to complete the job properly. In the end, the suit was beautiful and that’s all that really mattered. Still, the vibrant pink bouclé overshadowed the girl. The navy silk blouse seemed dull against her skin. It was as if the model were just a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.

  “What is it that makes one outfit look so different from person to person?” Kate asked.

  “Karma,” Schwinn said. “You’re not born into the perfect dress; you’re reborn into it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “To be well dressed is a little like being in love.”

  —Oleg Cassini

  The next day, when the letter from Kate’s father arrived, she didn’t have time to read it. She usually made a ritual of opening it with a proper cup of tea and her feet in a warm bath of soaking salts, but she and Patrick were on their way to the rectory to talk to Father John about marriage.

  “Can’t he just give us a few Hail Marys and a rosary or two and send us on our way?”

  “He wants to know if we’re ready to announce the banns.”

  “And if we’re not?” Kate asked.

  “He wants to talk about that, too.”

  Misery. She put her father’s letter in her purse for later.

  Kate and Patrick walked hand in hand down Broadway. The sun was setting, but it was not dark yet. Impatient stars appeared, dim as shadows, but they still could be seen. The last remnants of Indian summer took the chill off the moment, making it warm enough to walk down the high street in just a smart hat, without gloves. Winter seemed impossible. They were nearly at the Good Shepherd Church when someone in a black Buick honked and waved.

  “Customer,” Patrick said, and so they both waved back.

  “People will talk,” she said.

  “That they will.”

  Father John answered the door to the rectory himself. He was in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pants, and a black wool cardigan that one of the women from the Ladies Auxiliary had knit for him. He could have been any man. He didn’t really look like a priest. He smelled of Ivory soap. His pale hair needed combing. Kate almost didn’t recognize him without his collar. He was younger, softer looking, and a little too round around the middle. Cork’s greatest footballer still had the air of an athlete—the mantle of the red and white, the Blood and Bandages, still hung about him, but now he was soft and pleased with his life.

  “We can come back another time,” Patrick said.

  “You’re not getting out of it that easily,” he said, laughing. “Come in. Won’t be that long.”

  Father John led Kate and Patrick down the dark, pan
eled hallway. There was a light on in the dining room and a mumble of voices.

  “I’d rather be playing poker, but we’re discussing the Harvest Dinner Dance and Car Raffle. We’re still looking for some chaperones for the young ones, in case you two are interested. Are you interested?”

  Kate had never noticed how tall Father John was before. How long his arms were, how large his hands. The good father certainly had been a spark on the field; he was the finest player she’d ever seen. He’d throw his body into a block so fearlessly that it was stunning to watch.

  “Kate?”

  “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  He was towering over her, clearly amused. “I’m going to need to put on my collar, aren’t I? I can see it in your face. You’re in one of those dreamy moods of yours.”

  She was. That morning, the grand Mrs. Tackaberry McAdoo and her tiny black-and-white fluffy dog boarded a Pan Am flight to Washington to deliver the photographs of the pink suit. Kate hoped that the Wife would request to have the skirt redone. This time properly, by hand.

  Unfortunately, if the Wife didn’t like the pink suit at all, the Ladies would not get paid. The memo was quite clear. It was all Kate could think about; it was all anyone at Chez Ninon could think about. Every time the telephone rang, the workroom went quiet. Miss Sophie told the back-room girls that the stewardesses always let Mrs. Tackaberry McAdoo fly with Fred the dog on her lap. She was just that sort of lady. If anyone could talk the Wife into accepting the suit, it would be Miss Nona’s niece. Kate hoped she was right.

  Father John opened the door to his office and turned on the light. The room felt cold. It was just like being called into Mother Superior’s office at the convent school. The priest put his huge hands in the pockets of his cardigan, which pulled the wool out of shape. He stood at the door, looking more like a student than a priest.

  “I have to warn you both, I enjoy the sheer look of terror on your faces. I’m not going to allow either of you to leave tonight without a date set for the wedding.”