“But even before that,” I explained, “a frozen body of a man from 5300 BC was found in the Tyrolean Alps and he was wearing an animal-skin loincloth.” The visuals from my laptop accompanied the presentation, although most of the old codgers stared unapologetically at my fig-leaf bra and panties, no doubt hoping they would fall off.
“In early Rome, Egypt, and Greece, the lower you were on the social strata, the less you wore under your clothes,” I explained. “So your slaves usually went commando, while your kings might wear as many as twelve undergarments. In 1352 BC, King Tut, being at the top of the social pyramid—get it, pyramid,” I said, inspiring a few polite coughs, “was buried with one hundred and forty-five pairs of underpants for the afterlife.”
“My wife brought more than that for the world cruise,” a heckler yelled. I laughed to show how good-natured I was.
The audience was intrigued to learn that in Victorian times, open-crotched bloomers were de rigueur (for hygiene purposes, naturally). The style came to an abrupt end after Parisian cancan dancers wore them in the cabaret. One octogenarian even claimed to remember that, and I played along. I discussed the freeballer movement, dedicated to protecting the rights of people who dare to wear nothing but air. The women oohed and ahed and the men sat slack-jawed as I showed my slides of today’s lingerie, from frumpy to latex to thongs to G-strings to fetish undergarments to nasty va-va-voom designs.
“What about men?” a shriveled woman with liver-spotted skin shouted. “Got something to turn on us ladies?”
“I believe I do,” I said, cutting to a photograph of a bare-chested Clark Gable with Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night. “When Gable took his shirt off in this scene and he was bare-chested, men across America decided, ‘Well, if Clark Gable doesn’t have to wear an undershirt, neither do I!’ Sales of men’s undershirts dropped seventy-five percent after that. Of course, later, when James Dean was photographed wearing a cotton undershirt in Rebel Without a Cause, sales zoomed back up. It’s really quite astounding how underwear fashion in the movies impacts what people wear in real life.”
Hmm, that would make a great theme for a show at the museum, I thought. We could get Elizabeth Taylor’s silk and lace slip from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Mae West’s sequined corset from Diamond Lil, and Madonna’s Jean Paul Gaultier–designed corselet with cone-shaped cups that started the underwear as outerwear trend. This was an excellent idea, one I would definitely propose when I returned to work. With the original Hepburn costumes safely on board, my future at the museum seemed secure.
After my titillating talk, the audience rewarded me with a shower of applause and a standing (yes, standing!) ovation. I could see Pops telling everyone who would listen that I was his daughter. Then my adoring fans clamored for a piece of me, saying I had given the best speech they’d ever heard (okay, it was a crowd of dirty old men, but still). I’ve never felt so appreciated. Denis King waited until everyone left to congratulate me.
“That was impressive,” he said. “You had them eating out of the palm of your hand.”
I giggled as I slipped on one of Lucille’s bathing suit cover-ups. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Your father was sure proud of you,” he said. “That must have felt good.”
I thought it odd that Denis would notice something like that, but then he was awfully devoted to his own daughter, so maybe not. “It felt wonderful,” I said.
“You are a connoisseur when it comes to fashion history, and an extraordinary showman…show-woman.”
“Yes, thank you, it’s true,” I said, taking a page out of Sydney’s book. “Do you still think I work at a two-bit museum?”
“I shouldn’t have said that. I was angry at the time,” Denis said.
“Soooo…maybe you’d reconsider your decision to never give us another dime?”
“Maybe,” Denis said, smiling, “if you’re really nice to me.”
“Why, you flirt,” I teased. “You’d better be nice to me or I’ll tell your fiancée you’re trying to seduce all the pretty girls.”
“Not all the pretty girls,” he said, “just one in particular.”
“You bad boy, you.”
“Please don’t tell the old ball and chain.”
“All right, it’ll be our secret,” I said. “Hey, are those edible undies I see sticking out of your bag?”
“I took them for Annie.”
“Yeah, sure you did,” I said, giving him a playful swat. Denis and I were friends now, maybe even a little more than friends. It was as though I’d never called him Penis in front of a roomful of reporters. The Audrey costumes were safe. Life was good.
Who Can I Turn To?
I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the buzz of Pops’ electric shaver. That’s the problem with these penthouse suites. Even the largest ones are tight for two people. The perks of the rich can be such a mixed blessing, I thought, stretching my arms and yawning. For a moment I felt there was something wrong, something I should be worried about. Then I remembered that, no, everything was fine. Finally, I could relax and enjoy the trip.
Smiling, I stumbled toward the balcony and opened the curtains, blinded by diamonds of sunlight glistening on the crystalline blue water. Grabbing a pair of sunglasses and my robe, I went outside and took in the sparkling sea air. We had stopped in a glorious bay broken by the crescent rim of an ancient volcano. The island in front of us seemed to erupt from the ocean to the sky. I had seen this place in every Greek island tourist brochure I’d ever laid eyes on and in at least one American Express commercial. Perched on top of Santorini’s dramatic limestone cliffs were dots of whitewashed houses, cafés,
