GUS OPENED THE DOOR to the vault and gave me a friendly wink. Seeing him, smelling the cedar-lined walls, surrounding myself with beautiful clothes, thinking about the trip—I immediately felt better. I could never have afforded to go to Europe on my own. After all I’d been through, a week on a luxury liner sounded heavenly.
Nigel scoped out the room, looking for outfit candidates. There were many to choose from. Besides the eighteen thousand costumes and accessories from Corny’s collection, twenty-five thousand more ensembles had been donated or acquired at auction through the years. Compared to the Met’s hundred thousand garments, our collection was small, but it dazzled. Most pieces came from society doyennes, so the size would be right. In New York, socialites wearing anything over a size four were pretty much considered cows.
Nigel stepped over to the trunks that were packed with costumes from the Audrey Hepburn show. “Holly, I’ve just had the most inspired idea.”
“I’m listening,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously.
Nigel put his index finger to his mouth and tapped his foot in thought. “The Hepburn show starts on the twenty-sixth, right? Why not take the reproduction costumes from that god-awful TV movie? You could wear any of them on the ship, display them for your talk, whatever you like, no harm, no foul.”
I nodded slowly. When Sony Pictures produced the movie of Audrey Hepburn’s life a few years back, they re-created the best-known dresses and gowns from Hepburn’s pictures. These pieces were new, sturdy, and replaceable. For our opening gala, we had hired Audrey look-alikes to act as show guides and dressed them in the wardrobe from the TV film. The Istituto di Moda in Rome was using the same gimmick for their launch party.
“The cruise ends in Rome on the twenty-fourth,” Nigel continued. “After you dock, take what you borrowed to the museum. This way, no one can fault you for traveling with the clothes. You’re hand delivering the reproductions for the opening night party. It’s perfect.” He laughed like a mad scientist.
“I’m not sure,” I mused. “Sony Pictures lent them to us. If I’m going to take this kind of risk, shouldn’t it be with clothes from our own inventory, maybe some newer items?”
“Puh-leaze, these are Jennifer Love-Hewitt costumes, circa 2000,” Nigel said. “If by some accident anyone catches on, we have a better cover story than if you borrowed original pieces from the museum.”
My heart leapt into my throat. “You really don’t think anyone would find out?”
Nigel knelt by the six brown leather trunks that were ready to ship. He examined the packing slips attached to each, and then slapped the side of the third container. “Here are the repros. We still have to box up the mannequins and call the art shippers. As soon as that’s done, everything’ll go out. I’ll fill a dummy trunk with fabric and boxes, so six cases will still be dispatched. No one will know you borrowed a thing.” Nigel’s eyes took on a diabolical cast as he spoke.
“But what happens when the cases are delivered in Rome and the reproductions are missing? They’ll flip out.”
“Luv, with the timetable we’re on, the whole lot won’t get there until the last minute anyway. I’ll call Rosa Di Giacinto the day everything arrives and tell her the guides’ costumes will be hand delivered in time for the party. It’s foolproof!”
“Let me get this straight. What you’re really saying is, I wouldn’t be taking them so much for myself, but I’d be taking them because it could be safer than shipping them.”
“One might look at it that way,” Nigel said.
“So this isn’t a loss of integrity on my part, it’s a means to an end, a service to the museum—I’m just making sure the dresses get where they’re supposed to be on time.”
“Of course.”
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Marvelous!”
“Let’s see what’s inside,” I said, my heart performing a swan dive into my stomach.
Nigel opened the trunk and began sorting through the garment boxes where the dresses had been securely wrapped and encased. Each had a snapshot of the costume it held taped to the front. “Perfect,” he said. “You’ll need three things for formal nights, and that’s exactly how many gowns we have.” He pulled out copies of the white strapless confection I loved so much from Sabrina, the red chiffon from Funny Face, and the cream-colored silk brocade gown from Roman Holiday with its matching tiara, collar, and earrings. The oversize trunk contained eight more suits and dresses, including an impeccable duplicate of the elegant black number Audrey wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I pulled it out of its box, stood in front of Corny’s full-length mirror, and held the iconic piece to my body, imagining myself peering wistfully into the famous jewelry store window while munching on a croissant from a brown paper bag. Maybe if I wear the same gowns as Audrey, I’ll inherit some of her style and grace, I thought. Wouldn’t that be something?
“These will do for the other nights and for your speeches,” Nigel declared. “During the day, you’ll wear shorts. Those you can get on your own. The Mediterranean is positively sizzling this time of year. Now, what’s your shoe size?”
“An eight,” I said, my voice quivering. Even though these were copies and I was merely making sure they were safely delivered for the opening party, I still felt like a borderline criminal (or at least a bad seed) borrowing them. They were gorgeous, hand-made reproductions that belonged to Sony Pictures, not the museum. Of course, I would treat them as I would my own children. Then I remembered I didn’t have children. Okay, I would treat them as I would my beloved cat. Then I remembered Kitty was lost. Oh, screw it; I would care for them as I do my headgear, which is in mint condition after six months of daily use. My orthodontist
