I bit my lip. “You’re on the museum board. What do you think?”
“I think you’re…”
“Really something,” I said hopefully.
“Yes, the way you’ve relentlessly pursued the gown. It’s impressive.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. I had hoped he meant that personally.
“Please, I beg you…” Magda was on her hands and knees. “I’ll put plastic shields under my arms. I won’t wear the gown to dinner. I’m a fantastico seamstress, everyone will tell you that. And look at what I’d have to wear instead.”
Magda sprung to her feet, scrambled to a closet, and pulled out the most gruesome wedding gown ever. The bright white top was covered in large satin roses that would make Magda’s one pleasing feature (her small top) blend right in with her problem area (her wide arse). Enormous midlength sleeves resembling satin helium balloons were stuck on each side. The skirt was poufy, like Cinderella’s ball gown. It looked more like a wedding cake than a wedding gown. You would expect to see a getup like this at uglyweddingdress.com (if there was such a site) so people could come from far and wide just to laugh and post mean comments. Come to think of it, that might be a really fun idea for an exhibit at the museum—Ugly Wedding Gowns through the Ages.
Denis turned to me. “If Magda’s willing to stay up all night to fix the dress, she could get it to you Sunday morning.”
I shook my head. “Only a trained conservator can repair it,” I explained. “If I could get Nigel Calderwood here, then maybe the two of us could put it back together. He’d have to contact Paramount to see if he could get his hands on the thread from the spool that was used to make the garment in the first place.”
“They would have that?” Denis asked.
“A couturier would,” I said. “They’d have the original needles too. I’m not so sure about Paramount. Movie studios are notoriously bad about archiving that sort of thing. But if we could find it, we might be able to preserve the gown.”
“I could arrange transportation for Nigel to fly to L.A. and then Rome,” Denis said.
“You’d do that?” I asked.
“It’s business. I am on the board of the museum. The two of you can fix the gown on Saturday, and drop it at the Istituto Sunday morning.”
“The two of us can drop it? Does that mean you’re leaving me in Rome?”
“I’d stay, but I have to get to Annie,” Denis said. “We’ll be back Sunday. You’ll be fine. There’s so much to see in Rome anyway.”
Yeah, all by my lonesome, I pouted to myself.
If I stayed in Rome, I’d miss the stop in Florence. Michelangelo was one of my favorite artists and I’d waited a lifetime to see David’s penis.
On the other hand, Tanya and Sammie were waiting for me on the ship. How could I face them before the dress was fixed and delivered? The damage was already done. The gussets had been added to the bodice. Let’s see. If the wedding is over by noon, we’d have that day and night to repair the garment, deliver it the next day, then get back on the ship to tell Tanya the clothes were ready for exhibit. I could stop by the Istituto on Friday to help them dress the mannequins in the costumes we’d already delivered.
“You would need to get the gown back to me as soon as you’re married, capeesh?” I said. That’s a word I learned from watching The Sopranos.
“Capisco,” Magda said.
“And you must wear underarm pads, no deodorant or perfume, and don’t eat or drink anything while you have it on,” I said. “And tape the hem; do not sew it. In fact, do not put one more stitch in the dress or even a pin through the fabric.”
“I promise,” Magda said. “And you must come to our wedding.”
“All right, I guess.”
Magda threw her arms around my shoulders, squeezing so hard that she practically knocked me to the ground. “Grazie, grazie, grazie,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I said, laughing. “You’re going to be a beautiful bride.”
He Loves and She Loves
DENIS AND I STOPPED for an espresso at Caffè Greco, where the air smelled of fresh cinnamon pastries too warm and tempting to resist. Later, we returned to the hotel to make a few calls. I needed to reach Nigel and tell him the plan. Denis wanted to check on Annie and then have his “people” arrange transportation to Florence as well as a jet for Nigel’s use.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Nigel can fly commercial. This mess was as much his making as it was mine. Let him suffer like I have.” That wasn’t very Buddhist of me, I thought. Oh, well. Enlightenment takes time.
I decided to take a bubble bath. Drawing the water, I added the thick liquid soap from Claus Porto, which soon filled the room with a sweet rose scent. I lit two candles floating in gold holders on the tub, turned off the light, and submerged myself in the warm, velvety liquid. It felt divine after the crazy day we’d had. I wanted to forget about John’s dead mother, the mortician’s crooked son, Magda the big-butted bride, and most of all, I wanted to forget about Audrey’s costumes and how sorry I was for taking them in the first place. Although I supposed I wouldn’t be in this luxurious suite with Denis King if not for Audrey and her elusive dresses, so grazie, Miss Hepburn.
I opened my eyes and took in the bathroom, so utterly resplendent with its gold faucet, oversized pink marble tub, and flickering yellow lights. What a treat it was. Enjoy it while you have it, I thought, closing my eyes for a spell and breathing in the rose-scented foam. That made me sneeze. Twice.
“God bless you,” Denis said.
My eyes popped open and I repositioned the bubbles to cover myself. “Is everything okay on the ship?”
Denis moseyed over
