Mademoiselle Laurent was there to approve the sketch of the dress. If she liked it, they would put the dress into production. From there, Rose would create a muslin for Mademoiselle Laurent to try on, and if all went well, they would then move on to fabric selection.
Rose took out her sketch and hesitated. She’d worked on this drawing longer than she’d ever worked on a design in her life. First, she’d consulted Madame’s old books—pages upon pages of dress designs she’d created for former clients. Then, Rose had pored over all of her own old work, all of her old ideas. She considered which design elements would work with Mademoiselle Laurent’s vision, while staying close to the inspiration: the Grace Kelly dress. She experimented with different styles and patterns, only to start over again the next day. She had drawn eleven sketches before finally settling on the one that she would be presenting to Mademoiselle Laurent. Would Mademoiselle Laurent be able to tell how much work had gone into her design?
Would Mademoiselle Laurent believe that what she was looking at was created by the protégé of the most celebrated wedding dress designer in Paris? That it was designed with her guiding hand? That it held the blessing of the great Madame Michel herself? It seemed unimaginable. Perhaps she was fooling herself. Her work could never hold up to the impossible standards Madame had set. There was simply no way.
Rose slid the delicate paper over to Mademoiselle Laurent. She had meant to infuse the moment with more confidence, more importance, but instead found herself holding her breath as the girl examined the drawing.
“Why, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Mademoiselle Laurent wiped a tear from her eye. “Thank you, Rose. I love it.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Laurent,” Rose said, bowing her head. She felt a flush come over her face, and she didn’t want Mademoiselle Laurent to see it. She wanted to keep up the ruse that she created wedding dresses every day under the guidance of Madame Michel, and that today was no different, no more special than any other day.
“Oh, please, Rose,” Mademoiselle Laurent said. “You must call me Diana. After all, you’re designing my wedding dress!”
“Diana,” Rose said, trying the word out in her mouth. She looked up to Julien to see if it was all right for her to call an esteemed client by her first name. Julien nodded his head imperceptibly, and Rose got the message.
“Yes,” Diana said, smiling broadly. When she smiled, Rose felt like she could tell all of her secrets to her.
“It’s the most important dress you’ll ever wear,” Rose said, echoing a statement she’d heard Madame say to her brides countless times. It never failed to impress. Sometimes it even brought brides to tears.
A slight laugh escaped Diana’s lips. Rose had no idea what was so funny. No bride had ever laughed at Madame when she’d said that.
“I’m so sorry,” Diana said. “I hope you won’t find me rude.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s just a wedding dress,” Diana said plainly, and Rose could not respond. She furrowed her brow. Why, a girl’s wedding dress was the most important garment in the world. Every bride who walked into Madame Michel’s atelier spent their entire lives dreaming about it. And now Diana didn’t think it was important?
“It’s your wedding dress,” Rose said, barely getting the words out. She looked down at the sketch of Diana’s dress. She thought of how tirelessly she had worked on it. Always with the thought in her head: this will be the most important dress this woman will ever wear in her life.
And then, leaning in, Diana said: “Do you want to hear a secret?”
PART TWO:
PICK YOUR FABRIC
“The importance of this step cannot be understated. If you pick the wrong fabric, your dress is doomed from the start. Pick a fabric that has the right weight, that will flatter the design. And the figure of the bride who will wear it. Once you pick your fabric, the die is cast. There is no going back.”
—Excerpted from Creating the Illusion by Madame Michel,
Paris, 1954
Twenty-Two
The bride
Brooklyn, 2020
She should not be there. She should not be there at all. It was totally inappropriate, like seeing your grandmother in her underwear.
Rocky felt an overwhelming sense that this was a huge mistake. It was personal, for one, too personal, and Drew and his mother should be alone for this. Drew and his adoptive mother, she should say. She now had to clarify between the mother who raised him and the birth mother he was trying to track down.
“I completely understand,” she was saying to Drew. She kept running her hand through her hair, trying to pat it down into place, as if the act of getting her hair to behave would change the conversation. “Of course I understand.”
“I don’t want to do anything without your blessing,” Drew said. He took his mother’s hand in his and held it. Steadied it. Rocky noticed that Drew’s mother, while smiling, would not meet his eye.
“You have our blessing,” his father said, shaking his head side to side, furiously. “Of course you do.”
Rocky wanted to melt into the couch cushions. This overly accepting display of mixed message blessing-giving was making her feel ill. Therapist or not, having a child tell you that they want to set off and find their birth mother could not be easy. And then the added bonus that said child also wanted to invite said birth mother to his wedding? Impossible.
And Drew’s mother had to pretend that everything was okay, that this decision was fine with her, even though it had to be difficult. When Rocky and Drew left, what would his parents say about it? Would Drew’s mother discuss it with her own therapist?
It was something Rocky had always wondered—did her therapist see a therapist? Or was he just perfect? Just followed all of his own advice? Having asked Drew’s therapist mother this very question, she now knew the answer: an unequivocal yes. Every therapist has a therapist of his or her own.
What, then, would Drew’s mother be telling her therapist this week? How she had to pretend that she was totally fine with Drew’s decision to track down his birth mother before his wedding? That her son suddenly felt as if he didn’t belong to their family anymore, as if some other mother was pulling him away? Rocky knew how much this wedding meant to Drew’s mother—she basically told her that very thing every time they saw each other—so, this couldn’t be easy. And then, having to pretend that all of this didn’t bother you? Even harder.
Rocky knew what she’d be telling her own therapist that week—that she wished she hadn’t come for this. Hadn’t been forced to witness it. And then her therapist would ask her: Why do you think you felt that way?
Rocky had been in therapy for so long, she could always anticipate what her therapist would say to her. Sometimes she even made it a game. She’d tell her therapist what was going on that week, and then tell the therapist: I know what you’re going to say. Eight times out of ten, she was right.
Rocky went to her first child psychologist when she was five years old. Her kindergarten teacher had “expressed concern” about how Rocky had outbursts of anger. How she didn’t play well with other children. How she didn’t share. Her mother pulled her out of school once a week for the next five weeks to see a dizzying array of experts to weigh in on what was going on with her daughter. There were IQ tests, cognitive tests, and skills tests. There were group play settings, there was observation of solitary play. And there were interviews. So, so many interviews.
Joan didn’t like the first doctor’s opinion, so it was on to a second doctor and his team. And then a third. While each doctor was very different, had a very different way of doing things, they each came to the same conclusion: Rocky had explosive anger disorder, a behavioral disorder that was characterized by uncontrollable outbursts of anger, usually to the point of rage, that were—more often than not—disproportionate to the situation that trigger
ed it. And they each recommended the same treatment: medication that would regulate Rocky’s serotonin levels. Joan was adamant that she would not allow her child to be medicated, it was not up for discussion, so it was on to the next best thing: therapy. So many types of therapy. Individual therapy, group therapy, family therapy.
Every time she came out of a meeting or a therapy session, her father would shrug his shoulders and say: “Well, I think you’re perfect, Kitten. But we all have things to work on, right?” When they got home, her mother would usually disappear into the master bedroom to “lie down,” but Rocky knew that she went there so she could cry in the bathtub. She would emerge an hour later, as if nothing had happened.
Drew’s mother seemed like the type who could appreciate a good midafternoon cry in the bathtub. Their Upper West Side townhouse was pre-war, but had modern finishes. The style was bohemian, but expensive. So, you might sit down on a couch that was soft and comfortable, looked like it had been purchased in the 1970s with its mismatched fabrics and wild color scheme, but then you’d later learn that the couch came from Roche Bobois and cost over forty thousand dollars.
Drew’s mother looked much the same way—bohemian, but expensive. The enormous scarves that were always draped over her shoulders? Hermès. Her many sweater vests? They were cashmere. And they were from Loro Piana. The wide-leg trousers? Silk. Armani.
Rocky sat with Drew’s parents on the first floor, the parlor level. One floor up was the kitchen, living room, and dining room. Drew’s childhood bedroom was on the third floor, the master was on the fourth, and the basement, ahem, garden level, had been converted into an office for Drew’s mother to see patients. It had its own separate entrance, making it function perfectly as a place of business. Drew’s parents always entertained on the parlor level, and Rocky puzzled over how there were no television sets on the entire floor.
“What are we supposed to do?” Rocky asked Drew the first time he brought her home to meet his parents.
“Talk to each other,” Drew said, laughter rising in his voice.
“Well, I know that,” Rocky had said quickly, defensively, in response. She wondered, but did not say: What are we supposed to eat if the kitchen is upstairs?
Rocky crossed her legs on the couch and checked her phone. Drew hated when Rocky took her phone out when she was at his parents’ house (We try to be present was a thing Drew’s mother often said), but she didn’t think he would notice.
He had noticed. “Rocky?” Drew said, his voice carrying across the room. Rocky looked up from her phone. “Would you like that?”
Rocky had no idea what they had just been talking about. She considered this a special skill of hers—the ability to drown out noise and retreat into her own world—and it served her well at work, where her loft-style offices were set up as an open concept workspace. She had to code and run the company all from a desk in the corner of the room. If she didn’t tune out the noise, she could hear seventeen different conversations happening at the same time, twenty-two different people slurping their morning coffees at the same time, and fifty-four different keyboards typing away furiously at the same time. She would never get any work done. But here, in this situation, it hadn’t served her well. She had no idea what Drew and his parents had just been discussing, and now she had only one option: she had to come clean and ask Drew to repeat the question, admit that she hadn’t been listening. After all, if she didn’t, who knew what she might be agreeing to? But then she thought of how disappointed Drew would be—she was supposed to be there supporting him, and instead, she’d completely zoned out into her own little world. (We try to be present.) This would never have happened if the Goodmans just had a goddamned television down here.
“I think it’s a great idea, babe.” Rocky had no idea what she’d just agreed to, but Drew and his parents seemed pleased, so she chalked it up as a win.
Twenty-Three
The mother of the bride, as a bride herself
Long Island, 1982
The ruse: Joanie told her mother that she’d be attending a late-night party at the Theta House, and she’d sleep in the dorms with Jenny, so as to avoid taking the Long Island Rail Road too late at night. Her mother had agreed. Easily, without question. Normally Joanie would feel guilty about lying to her mother. But not this time. She was on a mission. She would find Mel at Jesse’s show and learn the truth about what happened to her sister.
Time to get dressed. Joanie walked to her sister’s record player, as if it was beckoning her. She put the needle down on The Runaways record, and set it to top volume. She shook her head from side to side, letting the music fill her up, seep into her pores, get her ready. She knew she needed the right clothes, the right outfit tonight.
Joanie surveyed her sister’s closet. She grabbed a black leather mini skirt and shimmied out of her jeans. The skirt fit like a glove, but what to match with it?
Joanie pulled out an army-green jacket and slipped it on. Then a black silk blouse. And then an old black T-shirt. Nothing looked right. She grabbed an old Polaroid off Michele’s bulletin board and tried putting on the exact same outfit. But somehow it looked entirely different on her.
She thumbed through Michele’s albums for inspiration. On The Runaways album, the lead singer wore a sequin jacket, sleeves pushed up. Her hair was feathered, and Joanie ran her hands through her own hair to try to get it into a similar shape.
Next she pulled out an album called Parallel Lines. Joanie took the record out and set it to play. A telephone rang, and then the lead singer’s voice called out with the opening lyrics to the first track, a song Joanie had never heard before. She flipped the cover over to see what the song was called: “Hanging on the telephone.”
Joanie examined the front of the album cover—the sleek black-and-white stripes in the background, contrasted with the name of the band in a bold red. The guys, all in black suits with black ties. And then, the one thing you couldn’t take your eyes off, the girl. Debbie Harry, standing defiant in front of the group, hands firmly planted on hips, looking gorgeous in a slinky white dress with spaghetti straps. Joanie instantly thought two things: first, that she wanted to look just like that. And second, that she easily could. Her mother had an identical dress hanging in her closet.
Joanie made a beeline for her mother’s room. As a little girl, Joanie had loved getting lost in her mother’s walk-in closet, running her hands along the lush fabrics, putting her tiny feet into her mother’s high-heeled shoes, and draping herself in soft scarves made of silk. But if Joanie wanted to make her train into the city, she had to be quick. She found what she was looking for at the very back of the closet, still in a plastic bag from the dry cleaner’s. The dress was Halston, and it was perfect. She hung it on her bedroom door and set off to Michele’s room to put her makeup on.
Joanie threw all of her clothing off and sprayed herself with Michele’s Opium, recalling the famous line by Coco Chanel: Where should one use perfume? Wherever one wants to be kissed. Her neck, the crook of her arm, the backs of her knees. The room filled with the heady scent. Joanie thought of Matthew, how he would smell like her Love’s Baby Soft after they’d been making out. Smelling herself on her fiancé always gave her a thrill. She thought about what he’d say about the aggressive scent she’d just put on. There’s no way he’d like it. But then she remembered: she wasn’t seeing Matthew that night.
Next, makeup. Joanie carefully examined each of the shades of eyeliner in her sister’s collection and realized it was organized by color. On the farthest end, the shades were light, and then moved to medium colors, finally ending with various sticks of black. Joanie’s fingers went to the darker shades. This time she wouldn’t choose the medium blue that Princess Diana favored. Tonight, she would use black.
* * *
“Mel?” Joanie called out as she got out of the cab at the Rooster, a rock club in the East Village. The massive black mohawk had been the t
ip-off—Mel would always be easy to spot in a crowd. But when the person turned around, it most certainly was not Mel.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else.” Joanie choked on the cigarette smoke that enveloped the air outside of the club. She tried to wave it away, but there was no use. It was everywhere. She wrapped her arms around herself—she was freezing cold in the skimpy halter dress she’d worn. She was dressed all wrong yet again.
“You in or out?” the bouncer asked, lifting the velvet rope up for Joanie. She walked through, unsure of what she would do once she was inside. Fraternity parties were easy—everywhere she went on the NYCU campus, she was sure to be greeted by the friendly face of a sorority sister. But here? In a smoke-filled rock club in the East Village? This was farther downtown than any Delta sister had traveled before. She was on her own.
Joanie coughed again as she walked down the steps, through the haze of cigarette smoke, into the club. She would definitely have to get her mother’s dress dry-cleaned before sneaking it back into her closet. And she would definitely have to wash her hair before getting into bed that night.
At the base of the steps, the room looked pitch-black. It took Joanie a second for her eyes to adjust, to make out the bar in front of her, which ran the entire length of the club. All the way to her left, she saw the stage and a small dance floor. There was a band onstage and the music was so loud, it hurt her ears just to stand there. A couple next to her were etching their names into the wood frame of the doorway, and she took a step to the side, to give them some space. She smelled something funny, the faint scent of a skunk, and as she tried to place the smell, the guy standing next to her held out a fat cigarette and asked: “You want some?”
“Oh, no thank you,” Joanie said, as politely as she could muster, realizing a beat too late that it was pot. He was smoking marijuana right out in the open, where anyone could see him. Wasn’t that illegal? Hadn’t Nancy Reagan said something about a contact high? She would need to make her way into the club, and not just hover at the doorway.
The Grace Kelly Dress Page 9