A Dangerous Dress

by Julia Holden

  Then after I slapped him, I thought maybe we could kiss and make up.

  All in all, I thought it was a pretty good plan. In fact I only saw one immediate obstacle: finding my way back to the hotel.

  One of the things that makes the Place Vendôme so beautiful is that it is very symmetrical. Which, I discovered, means it looks pretty much the same whichever way you are facing. On my way into the Ritz, I wasn’t paying all that much attention to directions, as I was rather distracted by Josh. On my way out, ditto, and ditto. Only after I had left the Place Vendôme did I realize I had no idea where I was.

  When I looked at the map the next day, I saw that I mistakenly exited the north end of the plaza, instead of the south end. Which meant I was going away from the Seine, when I needed to be going toward it. It should’ve been no big deal. I just needed to find a cab. Only at one thirty A.M. on a weeknight, there are not a lot of taxis on the streets of Paris. So I had to walk. And I guess I took the long way. My life would have been considerably easier if I had just taken out my map then. But what with all the wine, grappa, and Lemon Charlies, not to mention that perfect kiss, and then getting unceremoniously dumped by the very romantic man who gave me that perfect kiss, suffice to say I was distracted.

  Finally, at two forty in the morning, drunk and miserable, I got back to the hotel.

  I went straight to the front desk to get an early wake-up call. Only the clerk was busy talking to Marty, the movie’s unit production manager—the UPM. Gerard Duclos had introduced us when he took me around the dressing room. Marty was a little man who wore his hair big, like Elvis’s. He wasn’t exactly talking to the desk clerk. More like arguing.

  “Part of my job,” Marty scolded, “is to make sure all the little unexpected bills don’t turn into big unexpected bills. And this”—he waved a piece of paper under the clerk’s nose—“is a big unexpected bill. Which I am not going to pay.”

  “I am sorry,” said the clerk, “but that is what they cost.”

  “No way,” said Marty.

  It looked like it might take a while. And I was afraid to go to sleep without the wake-up call. So I said, “Excuse me.”

  I could tell Marty recognized my face, but couldn’t remember who I was. I guess UPMs deal with a lot of people. “Can you believe it?” he said to me.

  “I just want a wake-up call,” I said.

  “Sure, but can you believe it?” asked Marty.

  “For what hour?” asked the desk clerk.

  “Six o’clock,” I said to the clerk. “Believe what?” I asked Marty.

  “What they’re charging me for Snickers bars,” said Marty. He shoved an invoice in front of me. It was for eight hundred Snickers bars.

  “Six P.M.,” said the desk clerk.

  “That looks like a lot,” I said to Marty.

  “See?” Marty said to the desk clerk.

  “What?” I said to the desk clerk.

  “Six P.M.,” said the clerk.

  “Six A.M.,” I said to the clerk.

  “See?” Marty said to the clerk again.

  “Why do you need eight hundred Snickers bars?” I asked Marty.

  “Six A.M.,” said the clerk to me.

  “Oh, sure,” said Marty to the clerk. “When she asks you to change something, you change it.” Then Marty looked at me. “Haven’t you ever made a movie before?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then why did I hire you?” he asked.

  “You didn’t hire me,” I said. “I’m the dress girl.”

  “Ohhhh,” said Marty. Then he gave me a suspicious look. “You should be shopping.”

  “It’s almost three A.M.,” I said.

  “The candy drawer,” Marty said.

  “What?”

  “On the set. I always have a big drawer full of candy. It keeps the crew happy. Especially Snickers bars. They say, ‘We’re hungry. We need to break for lunch.’ But you’ve got two more setups you need to put in the can before lunch. So you say, ‘Have a Snickers bar.’ ” He gave the desk clerk a nasty look. “But never in my life have I paid so much for Snickers bars!”

  “Did you ever buy Snickers bars in Paris before?” I asked.

  “No,” Marty said.

  “Maybe Snickers bars just cost more in Paris,” I said.

  “This is exactly what I am trying to say,” said the desk clerk.

  “It makes more sense when she says it,” Marty said. He turned back to me. “You really never made a movie before?”

  “Never.”

  He looked genuinely amazed. “Where are you from, anyway?” Marty asked.

  “Indiana,” I said.

  “Wow,” he said.

  Nobody has ever said “wow” when I told them I was from Indiana.

  “A small town?” he asked.

  “Really small,” I said.

  “Wow,” he said again. Then he said, “I always wanted to be from a small town.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. Only I could tell he wasn’t.

  Suddenly Marty’s eyes opened wide, and a look came over his face like he had just seen the burning bush or something. “I have a question,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “What’s a Hoosier?”

  20

  I will make this quick. It was already almost three A.M. I was desperate to get to bed. I had a wake-up call at six. Then I had a dress to find to save Josh’s movie.

  I told Marty a Hoosier is something you call anybody from Indiana. That was not the answer he was looking for. He wanted to know, what exactly is a Hoosier?

  I did not waste Marty’s time, and I will not waste yours. I told Marty, and I will tell you: I don’t know.

  He was disappointed. But he remained impressed, and even envious, that I was actually from a small town in Indiana. “Someday I’m going to get out of the movie business,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “My piety consultant tells me I need to be reborn,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Spiritually, not literally. Maybe I’ll move to a small town in Indiana and be reborn as a Hoosier.”

  “Sure,” I said, although what I thought to myself was, You’ll be reborn as a Hoosier the day Nick Timko comes home to Kirland.

  I said good night, walked upstairs, and went to bed. Where I tossed and turned, trying hard to forget about Josh Thomas. How much I liked him. How mad I was at him. How much I just plain didn’t get him. I wondered if I would ever get him. If anybody from Kirland, Indiana could ever get him. I did not do a wonderfully good job of forgetting. But I was so tired, I fell asleep anyway.

  Next comes my obnoxious wake-up call. Only to get a sense of my complete wake-up experience, you must remember that three days ago I was minding my own business—on Indiana time. That two days ago I flew to Paris. Which is on, well, Paris time, which to say the least is radically different from Indiana time. The day I arrived, I stayed up until three A.M., falling in and out of love and winding up stuck somewhere in the middle, then got only three hours of sleep. Now I had to wake up and find a dress like I promised myself, or they wouldn’t save Josh Thomas’s movie. And oh, yes, I’d had all that Chianti and grappa and those Lemon Charlies.

  Now you can appreciate how I felt when the phone went brrrr brrrr.

  To my credit, I actually did get up, but it was even harder than I had expected. It was still dark in the room, even though I had left the curtains wide open. It was dark outside, because it was raining. No. Pouring.

  I checked that Grandma’s dress was still in my mom’s suitcase, exactly where I left it. I had been through a lot in the last few hours—the last few days, for that matter. Grandma’s dress is extremely powerful, but I cannot imagine any dress in the world, no matter how special and dangerous, that could have made me feel all that much better at that moment. But knowing the dress would be waiting for me when I got back to the hotel certainly helped.

  I closed the suitcase. Then I put on my most dispo
sable clothes and stumbled to the breakfast room. Where they were, in fact, serving breakfast. There were all these wonderful French breads with crunchy crusts, about six different cheeses, at least three of which I’d never seen before, two kinds of ham, and very strong coffee.

  None of the actors and actresses were there yet. Nobody I recognized, anyway. Of course, you would not expect the famous glamorous people to be at breakfast at six thirty in the morning. At least I would not. Because they were probably all out late last night. Doing the kinds of things famous glamorous people do in Paris. I had been out late last night too, but I was not famous or glamorous. Plus, they did not have to find a dress, and I did.

  I finished the butteriest croissant I ever ate, with the best strawberry jam I ever ate, and made myself drink the rest of my cup of brutally strong coffee. It tasted burnt to me, but I figured I would need the caffeine. I was just starting to wonder where I was going to find an umbrella at a quarter to seven in the morning, when a voice behind me said, “Umbrella?”

  I turned around. It was Marty, offering me a big black umbrella. I am pretty sure he was wearing the same clothes he had on during the Snickers and Hoosier debate.

  Before I could even ask him how he knew, he said, “It’s my job.”

  Off I went. The umbrella was great, although it must have been made in the United States. Because it was very wide. Too wide for the sidewalks in Paris, some of which are walk-the-plank narrow. But a too-wide umbrella was better than none. Unfortunately the umbrella didn’t help my feet. Stepping off the curbs was like going whitewater rafting. Before I had gone two blocks, my Skechers were soaked. I went squish squish as I walked. Only it did not sound like squish squish to me. It seemed as if my sneakers were saying Josh Josh. Like I needed the reminder.

  According to the map Irene gave me, there was a big cluster of vintage clothing stores in the Fourth district, so I figured I’d try those first. The Fourth is across the Seine. On the Right Bank, for those of you to whom that Right-Left business makes sense. I estimated it was only a mile or so from the hotel to the shops. That probably does not feel very far when it’s not pouring buckets. I thought about taking a cab, but I didn’t see any. Besides, even though it was only seven A.M., the streets were full of cars, none of which seemed to be getting anywhere. So I walked, Josh Josh Josh Josh, until I could feel my toes getting all pruney inside my sneakers.

  You may wonder what I expected to accomplish at seven in the morning, since the stores weren’t open yet. But Irene had given me a long list, and based on the seven I had covered the day before, I figured I could eliminate a bunch just by looking in their windows. It was always possible that the one perfect 1928 dress might be stuck randomly in the middle of a vintage shop full of sixties Mod, but I didn’t have time to look in every one, so I decided to follow my best guesses.

  Shops started to open around ten or eleven o’clock. Some of them never opened at all. By eleven I had crossed a bunch off the list as not promising enough to waste time with. That gave me a more manageable list.

  I actually started to think I might find a dress. The dress. Especially when, around five thirty, Irene’s list led me down a little alley and I discovered a tiny store that was all Art Deco. It wasn’t just a clothing store. There were some small tables and a few chairs, and cigarette lighters shaped like skyscrapers and desk lamps in the form of airplanes. But there was also lots of clothing, and it was all Art Deco. Technically, most Art Deco stuff is from the 1930s, as opposed to the 1920s. In case you are wondering what’s the big deal if a dress is from 1928 as opposed to 1930, remember we are talking about fashion. Two years can be forever. For example, look at the difference between clothes in 1966 and 1968.

  I know I was not born in 1966 or 1968, but I took that History of Fashion course. We spent two whole lectures on what Professor Singer called the Transformative Sixties. And I will tell you, I am glad I was not around in the Transformative Sixties, because I would be ashamed if I had to admit I wore any of those clothes.

  Anyway. A dress from even 1929 would be no good, because hemlines dropped way down that year. But dresses in 1928 were already pretty Deco, so I was confident this store would have a lot for me to look at. And it did.

  In fact, there were even two dresses that got me kind of excited. I can’t say that either of them quite struck me as perfect. But they were very, very good. And what was perfect, anyway? I mean, perfect is a highly subjective standard, don’t you think? So I actually pulled out the picture phone and called Gerard Duclos. Some American person answered, but she found Gerard right away when I said who I was.

  “Is it perfect?” he asked. He sounded excited.

  “I think so,” I said. Which was only lying a little bit.

  “You are not sure,” he said.

  “I’m sure,” I said. Which was lying more than a little bit.

  I took a picture of the first dress. It was red satin, and it had a gypsy girdle, which is a rather provocative wide sash over the hips, and it ended in an asymmetrical pleated skirt. It was really stunning, and I would bet money it was from 1928. I even thought maybe it was by a designer named Jacques Doucet, although there was no label.

  If you are wondering how I know all this, please remember that paper I wrote, and all those footnotes.

  I put the phone up to my ear. “So?” I asked.

  “No no no!” Gerard Duclos said. He sounded furious. “This is red,” he said. “Catherine’s dress is not red. Nathalie will never wear red.” He sighed. “I have lost confidence in you.”

  Nowhere did the script say Catherine’s dress was not red. But he was the director. “I’m sorry,” I said. I took a picture of the other dress.

  This one was a pale, very sexy opalescent pink. The pink was quite close to the color of skin, so when you first looked, you wouldn’t be sure where the dress ended and the woman began. The illusion was accentuated by the neckline, which plunged low in front and even lower in back. And the hemline was daringly high in the front and longer on the sides and back. Maybe an Augustabernard. Whoever made it, it was a very provocative dress.

  I put the phone back to my ear. Nothing. “Hello?” I said.

  “This dress,” Gerard said slowly. “This dress.” Then he said nothing for a while. Finally, he again said, “This dress.” Then he said, “You should buy this dress.”

  Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes

  “No,” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “No, I am wrong. This is a very good dress. Now I have confidence in you again. But this is not the right dress. Nathalie requires not the very good dress. Not the almost perfect dress. Nathalie must wear the perfect dress. So you must keep looking.”

  Then he hung up.

  21

  I was defeated. Totally utterly miserably defeated.

  I didn’t care if Gerard Duclos’ confidence in me was lost or found. I had been kidding myself. I had been kidding everybody. Now there would be no movie—on account of me.

  I was going to break my promise to myself. I was not going to save Josh’s lost cause. I felt terrible. Not for me. For Josh. Even if he had been a jerk, walking out and sticking me with the check, that was outweighed by how bad I felt for him, and all the other things I felt for him. If I saw him right now, I would tell him that I had read his script, it was fantastic, it would make a wonderful movie, and I was so sorry I couldn’t find the dress. I might even kiss him, if he would let me.

  But he wasn’t there. All I could do was head back to the hotel and admit my defeat. I suppose I could have just called Gerard on the cell phone. But if I was going to ruin their movie, I ought to do it in person. Face up to your failures—that’s what Mom and Dad and Uncle John have always taught me. Especially Uncle John.

  The walk back seemed endless. I trudged. Sloshed. Squished. Joshed. Slogged my way back across the Seine, over an old bridge that a plaque said was the Pont de la Tournelle.

  I felt so completely vanquished, I literal
ly could not lift my eyes. All I could do was stare at the pavement as I made myself put one foot in front of the other.

  If I hadn’t been so downcast, I might not have seen it at all. But suddenly, on the sidewalk in front of me, there it was: a coat of arms. Like you see on the shield of a knight. Okay I have not met any knights. But I have seen A Knight’s Tale. Which is quite a bad movie, but let’s be honest, Heath Ledger is extremely good-looking. And as I recall, all the knights had coats of arms on their shields.

  The coat of arms on the sidewalk was made of metal. Silver, I think. It had a castle on it. A little castle, like the chess piece. A rook. But the rook is not important. The words are.

  The words on the coat of arms said: LA TOUR D’ARGENT. Which was the name on the menu I had found in the suitcase, along with Grandma’s dress.

  I looked up from the sidewalk. I was standing in front of a restaurant. The restaurant. Grandma’s restaurant.

  At that instant, no matter how defeated I felt, a little spark lit up inside of me. Through coincidence, or fate, or magic, I had stumbled across the very place where Grandma had . . . well, I don’t know what. But the very place where Grandma had something. Eaten dinner, I’m sure, because after all it was a restaurant. There must have been much more to it than that, though. If it had just been a meal, no matter how fabulously delicious, I don’t think she would have taken the menu, brought it all the way back to Kirland, and stashed it away in that suitcase for decades. No, I knew somehow that the restaurant and the dress were linked together. Something special had happened here. Something careless, reckless, gorgeous, sexual. Something dangerous.

  I looked at the restaurant for a long time. Then I turned around and looked back across the Seine. Right there was Notre Dame, soaring up through the rain, the tops of the towers disappearing into mist. Even in my half-drowned state, it was an enchanted view. I could only imagine how magical it must have been for my Grandma when she was a young woman, a girl really.

  As I have told you, I learned pretty much everything I could about Grandma’s dangerous dress, and I put all those facts in the paper for my History of Fashion course. But I was never able to learn how she got the dress, where she wore it, and for whom. At this moment, though, I was closer to those events than I had ever been. Maybe they had all happened almost eighty years ago, but they had all happened right here. Despite my despair, despite the rain, I felt an incredible connection to Grandma and her wild past, like somebody had just plugged me into an electrical socket. I closed my eyes and let that electricity flow through me.