If Aunt Sheila sensed my thoughts, she didn’t let on. She just picked up one of the fashion magazines and said briskly, “Now, let’s see what I can show you as an example of what you might want to wear. We’ll clip a few pictures and you can take them to Monsieur Lombard, a French designer I know. He’s donated his help to our charity benefits. He just opened an outpost of his
atelier
here in London. His prices have gone up since I used to shop there. But tell him I sent you; I’m sure he can help.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
So there I was, standing on a big satin pink tuffet like Miss Muffet, trying on and discarding one fluffy dress after another while three women with pins in their mouths tried to convince me that each dress was
parfait
. Well, not for me, they weren’t. I’m not the fluffy ruffled type, even when the ruffles are young and insouciant and tongue-in-cheek fashion statements worn by the hippest rock stars and models. Besides, I didn’t want to look like the “nice, old-fashioned girl” that Lydia had branded me. Plus, I was panicking at the prices, because habits die hard, and I can’t help it, I just think there is something slightly immoral about a dress with a price tag that could feed a family of four for a year . . . and buy them a car. (And those weren’t the most expensive ones, either.)
As dress after dress piled up, the ladies grew less patient with me. They kept reminding me that most of their clients ordered their clothes months in advance, so what did I expect now, so late in the season?
“Something simple, very simple, and modern,” I said, but this only produced a slew of black dresses with metallic studs and street-tough zippers, placed on parts of the anatomy where zippers aren’t required or even feasible, really.
Furthermore, I had not once met Monsieur Lombard, nor did these ladies seem to think that I deserved to.
“Impossible. He’s very, very busy with the upcoming fall collection, ” said the frosty English girl who seemed to be in charge of this pack of jackals.
“Well, would you just let him know that I am here, and that Sheila Laidley recommended him to me?” I asked. “It’s rather important. ”
She smiled at me patronizingly. “
All
our clients are important to us,” she said, as the front doorbell tinkled and new customers came in. She turned, and then swept off with cries of false delight to welcome some regular client and her two daughters; all three of whom were stick-thin, artificially tanned, and left a cloud of perfume in their wake as they commandeered the rest of the fitting rooms and all the best mirrors.
The flock of pin-ladies fluttered off to attend their favorite customers. That left me standing there in my underwear, surrounded by piles of tulle and silk and chiffon. I glanced at myself in the mirror in annoyance. Why did I suddenly feel I needed a complete overhaul?
I climbed down from the tuffet, and wrapped myself in one of the black-red-and-white silk kimonos provided for customers, which said
L’amour et Lombard!
all over them.
“Did you find something you liked?” the frosty one called out aggressively to the back of my head. Something in her imperious tone grated on my nerves.
“No, I did not,” I said. “Since I am neither a hooker nor a senator’s wife nor an actress at the Academy Awards, I guess that lets me out. Thanks anyway.”
“So-orry,” the girl, who was only half-listening anyway, sang out as I headed for the dressing room where my own clothes were waiting for me to crawl back into them.
At that moment, a very short, wiry man in an unassuming black suit, and eyeglasses with thick black frames, came out of a back room, looking preoccupied. But when he heard the last exchange he frowned.
“May I be of service, mademoiselle?” he inquired.
“I doubt it,” I said, “unless you know Monsieur Lombard.”
He smiled. “Oh?” he said. “And how is it that you know Monsieur Lombard?”
“I don’t,” I said. “Sheila Laidley does. Might you be he?”
He bowed. “At your service. Do you have a particular occasion or color in mind?”
“All I want is something simple, modern, elegantly casual, for an evening dinner party,” I said desperately, brandishing the torn pages from the magazine that Aunt Sheila had sent me in with. “And I
know
that your customers usually order ahead of time, and I know it takes years to get one’s style right, but I don’t have years, I have hours. What is the occasion, you ask? Only that I have to meet my boyfriend’s old school chums and their gaggle of wives, who can’t figure out how I, out of everybody they know, managed to ‘capture’ this great guy I love, okay?
That’s
the occasion. ”
Monsieur Lombard took this all in with Gallic serenity, then spun ever so slightly on the balls of his feet, and fixed a severe look on the frosty girl. “Bring me everything we’ve got in her size from this week’s samples,” he said.
The woman blanched. “From—fall?” she said as if she could not believe it.
Monsieur Lombard said, very curtly,
“Oui,”
as if that one word were a dart that hit her straight between the eyes.
And suddenly there was another very different kind of flurry—one with absolutely no chatter. All those chickens silently scurried and hurried, and the next thing I knew, they hauled a rack of clothes out of the vault from the upcoming autumn collection, and Monsieur Lombard selected three beautiful dresses—a maroon silk taffeta, a pink crochet with delicate beading, and a blue knit with matching jacket.
I thought any one of them would do, right off the rack. But Monsieur Lombard frowned and fussed and then decided that the maroon was
le plus chic
. He crooked his finger at one of the gals-with-pins, who immediately began to fit the dress for me. He murmured to someone else, and a pair of maroon pumps appeared; then, a diaphanous long gold scarf followed, which worked as a shawl or could be wound around the head and neck for late night strolls on the veranda. Or yacht deck.
“Anything else?” Monsieur Lombard asked briskly. “Would you like to look at sketches for fall?”
I knew that this was one of life’s rare moments, where I had the personal attention of a fine artist willing to listen and help. “I do need a few everyday items,” I said hesitantly. “Nothing outrageous, just subtle and lovely.”
“Bring her the book,” he said. And he sat right down on the little satin pink sofa, and they cleared off the coffee table for him, and he opened up the big book that held his sketches for the fall collection, and he got some tissue paper to put over them and retrace them with an alteration here, a fix there, all in a quick line or swoop or squiggle; and he asked me a few calm questions now and then, the way a doctor does when he’s checking to see what you’re allergic to, and finally,
zut alors!
In less than an hour, he had made my own personal “book of suggestions” from his more moderately priced line, mapping out an everyday wardrobe (that Jeremy had assured me was “upkeep” for the year). Some well-chosen pants, skirts, blouses. A decent raincoat. A winter coat. A few good jackets, and pairs of shoes. A pair of boots. And
voilà
. It’s done. Stop worrying about your clothes. Go out and enjoy your life.
“Look these over,” he said. “You can e-mail or call me if you have any questions, about fabric and colors and so on. Then you can place your final order if you wish.” I could have kissed him. Instead I thanked him in English and in French, and he smiled.
“Sheila is an old friend of mine,” he said. “I hope to be yours as well.”
One of the pin-girls came over, carrying a garment bag and another bag for the accessories. “Your dress for tonight is ready, mademoiselle, ” she said respectfully. “Would you like it sent or shall you take it with you?”
Nobody had asked for my credit card. I didn’t know what to say.
“Um. I’ll take it with me. Will you send me the bill?” I asked.
Monsieur Lombard patted my hand. “Wear it to the party and see if you think it’s right for you,” he said. “Then you let me know. I have been trying to get Sheila to wear my clothes to parties for years. She doesn’t like to attract attention away from her charities. Have a good time.”
And I went off, and the doorman hailed me a cab, and when I returned to Aunt Sheila’s building I floated up in the elevator, carrying my garment bag that said
L’amour et Lombard!
all over it. I couldn’t wait to show it to Aunt Sheila, and when I reached her bedroom I flung myself on her and hugged her.
“Ah,” she said in her droll understated way, amid my squeals of happiness. “I take it you found something to wear?”
Chapter Thirty
"You look beautiful,” Jeremy said as we walked up the steps. "And to think I owe it all to your mum and Monsieur Lombard,” I said.
"You owe it all to your folks,” he said. “They created Penny Nichols.”
“That’s
Penelope
Nichols, to your crowd,” I said with mock hauteur.
Bertie’s party was in a swank duplex, outfitted with all the latest gadgets and gizmos that modern money can buy. You know how it is when a divorced man is on his own: he buys all kinds of electronic equipment, the latest in TV screens, computerized players, souped-up speakers, hot new music DVDs, furniture in leather and chrome, crazy kitchen apparatus, enormous bedrooms with bordello-sized mirrors and beds covered in black silk; and bathrooms with big tubs, showers and sauna fit for an emperor.
There was an iron spiral staircase that made you go round and round in a dizzy tizzy, just to get from the living room to the “entertainment room” upstairs where jazz music was playing. Bertie immediately hustled Jeremy off to the bar, where all the men were clustered around a hired bartender.
The women were on the other side of the room, in chairs grouped around a low table. They had been chattering gaily, but the minute I walked in, they all clammed up.
Then one of them, a green-eyed brunette, said in a low, poshly accented voice, “You’re Jeremy’s girl, aren’t you?”
“Penelope Nichols,” I said.
“Love your dress,” she said. And she introduced me to the others, only none of them said who
they
belonged to. Jeremy returned with Bertie and a couple of other men. Jeremy introduced me to them, and they all smiled in that frank way that guys do when they’re meeting their friend’s girlfriend for the first time. Jeremy passed me a drink.
“Harold and Rupert are here,” Jeremy murmured to me in warning. These were his closest associates from his law firm.
“So, Penelope,” said Bertie, “heard you work for television.”
A few other guests did, too, so we exchanged some polite Q&A. I was a little out of practice; in France it was considered a
vulgarité
to charge right in and ask people what they do for a living; however, these folks had no such qualms. But soon enough they got right back to talking about their own world. Occasionally somebody stopped to politely attempt to explain the jokes about obscure politicians or friends who weren’t there. Bertie especially turned out to be as sweet as Jeremy had told me, by trying to expand the conversation to include topics I could chime in on, like the latest movie or global warming or international politics or gossip about famous people.
And once the men got wind of calling me Penny Nichols, that old joke kicked around the table awhile. Small stuff, I’m used to that.
Just as Jeremy started looking furtively at the exit, a male cook in a white shirt and black pants came out and spoke in Bertie’s ear, and Bertie announced that dinner was ready.
“He didn’t bother to tell us it was a formal sit-down dinner party, did he?” Jeremy murmured out of the corner of his mouth to me. “I’m afraid there’s nothing for it now.”
Bertie’s dining room was actually a large glassed-in alcove with big skylights overhead, so when you sat there you felt as if you were floating in a bubble, hovering over London. I was seated across from Jeremy, midway down an enormous table, and it really wasn’t easy for us to hear each other. But that was the idea. You were supposed to talk to the people on either side of you, but you could still keep an eye on your mate to make sure he wasn’t getting too chatty with his dinner companions.
I had a perfectly nice guy on my right, good-looking but accustomed to listening instead of instigating conversation. On my left was an older fellow, who made little jokes about his friends to make me laugh and relax; but he stopped talking every time a new plate was served, when he acted as if eating was a very serious task requiring all his concentration. Jeremy had the green-eyed brunette on one side; she had taken off her evening wrap to reveal a set of enormous breasts, scooped up and displayed as if on a serving platter. On Jeremy’s other side was an older woman (the spouse of my older guy) who wore eyeglasses that twinkled in the light of the candles before us.
We progressed through course after course, harmlessly enough, with the wine flowing so endlessly that soon the men’s laughter grew more boisterous, and the women’s giggles more shrieky. The conversation ran the gamut from money-and-investments, to money-and-education, to money-and-the-second-house, to money-and-divorce.
But at one point I caught Lydia staring at me, and then she looked at Jeremy and made a small shrug, with the tiniest but unmistakable gesture of NOCD (Not Our Crowd, Darling). Jeremy knew what it meant, too, because he frowned at her, and glanced away and didn’t look back.
Then he did a sweet thing, and looked at me and mouthed,
Temps Joyeux
. He waggled his eyebrows at me questioningly, as if to say,
Well, I’ve had enough, how about you?
I nodded, and felt immediately better.
However, Lydia, alert as a hawk, saw this little exchange, and she didn’t know what it meant but she bloody well knew what it
meant
, if you know what I mean. And when I saw the look that crossed her face, I knew we were in for trouble, even before she said, loudly and brightly, “So, Jeremy, do tell! Are you embarking on some sort of new career now?”