“Well, I’m glad I helped you realize that,” Nigel said. “But I’m sorry I let you down.”
“And well you should be.”
“Let me make it up to you. Tell me you’ll be my date to the opening tomorrow night.”
“But what would I wear?”
“Funny you should ask,” Nigel said. “Look what I just picked up from Jacques Doucet.” He reached into the shopping bag he had set in the booth and unwrapped the tissue paper covering a cream embroidered and beaded silk organza sheath that was—“WHAT! That’s the ball gown from My Fair Lady. Are you kidding me? I’m not wearing that, not after…”
“Not after what?” Nigel said. “After all you went through, you deserve to wear a real Hepburn costume. What’s Tanya going to do? Fire you? Phinn said you could borrow anything as long as you came.”
“He must not know it’s against the rules.”
“Take advantage of his ignorance. I’m not the only one who wants to see you in it. Cosima and Elaina do too. In fact, we insist.” Nigel was shaking his finger at me to make his point when he hit his glass and knocked it over.
I watched, as though it were in slow motion, as the liquid began cascading over the rim, sloshing on the table, and flowing toward the unprotected priceless gown. At the last second, Nigel whipped the garment out of the path of the oncoming vegetable juice. It was a brilliant save.
I patted the spill with my napkin and grabbed several more from the empty table next to us.
“The dress is unharmed,” Nigel said, his voice shaking. “You see; it’s a sign. This is something you must do because…you must do it.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll come and I’ll wear the gown,” I said, after cleaning up the spill. “There are things I want to say to Mr. Penis King.”
“You’re not going to embarrass yourself, are you?” Nigel asked. “Or the Fashion Museum?”
I gave Nigel a sly look. “Have you ever known me to do anything like that?”
Let’s Face the Music and Dance
“Tiaras through Time at the National Fashion Museum is a magnificent exhibit, epitomizing majesty, romance, and glamour, while showing that all that glitters is indeed gold, and diamonds, and rubies, and sapphires…”
—VOGUE
THE OPENING GALA FOR Denis King Presents: Tiaras through Time was the hottest invitation in town. Everyone was dying to see the stunning creations that had decorated the heads of the most celebrated women ever to walk the face of the earth. The Fashion Museum had invited all their major donors and board members, along with the socialite A-list as determined by the blue-haired old guard—those self-appointed society Nazis who have taken on the vital task of determining who matters in the worlds of fashion, philanthropy, arts, and the social whirl. Of course, there were the newer, younger “celebutants,” including Sydney and her privileged posse.
The exhibit had been set up in our ballroom, which always felt to me like a royal palace, with its gilded mirrors, looming faux masterpieces, and over-the-top crystal chandeliers. Glass cases with special lights designed to make gems sparkle at their brightest intensity lined the walls. Each display contained priceless tiaras—a gold-wreath crown from ancient Greece, a ruby garland of roses adorned with diamonds and emeralds from Rome, a crystal-engraved crown decorated with rows of brilliant-cut diamonds made by Cartier, a Russian tiara comb set with emeralds and sapphires with matching necklace and earrings—each piece more breathtaking than the last. This show was a jewelry lover’s wet dream. Okay, that was crass. But it was true.
I was proud of the understated elegance of our event. Too often, society fetes resembled over-the-top vomitzvahs as a result of party planners run amuck. We had avoided that pitfall by allowing the elegant venue and majestic treasures of our exhibit to speak for themselves.
Arriving fashionably late, I entered the room slowly, holding my head high. The gown I had borrowed, a cream embroidered and beaded silk organza sheath covering a matching crepe de chine slip, fit as though it were tailor made. The scoop neckline with its cap sleeves sparkled with crystal and gold beads that had been featured throughout the dress, most generously around the shoulders, sleeves, neck, and hemline. The empire silhouette did wonders for my bustline, which had been pushed up and amplified with the help of a new high-tech patented Victoria’s Secret bra. Wearing fabric that had once adorned Audrey Hepburn was everything I could have ever imagined and more—the exquisite detail of the embroidery, the sensual sheen of the organza sheath, the bright sparkle of the tiny crystals. What intoxicating bliss! In this gown, nothing bad could happen to you.
The replica starburst tiara from the movie graced my head. Diamond waterfalls spilled from my earlobes. The Edwardian choker that Edith Head had designed to hide Hepburn’s prominent collarbones and gazelle-like neck worked its magic on mine. I felt like Eliza Doolittle entering the embassy ball, having just been transformed from a Cockney flower girl to a duchess. Heads turned when I floated in, and I imagined guests asking, “Who is that spellbinding creature?”
Who is she indeed!
A waiter in tails offered me a crystal flute of champagne, which I downed in three gulps.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Sammie, who was having an impassioned conversation with Sydney. Even from here, I could see Sammie was engaged in some serious sucking-up.
“There you are, luv. Mwaa-mwaa.” Nigel said, air-kissing me. He stood back and gave me the once-over. “You are radiant tonight. That dress is positively sublime.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
Cosima with her cloud of flame-colored curls was right behind him with more air kisses. “Look at you! You’re dazzling.”
“I feel like a princess,” I admitted. “And you look amazing too.” Cosima was wearing a black Behnaz Sarafpour lingerie-inspired cocktail slip dress that she must have borrowed from the designer.
“It’s so lonely without you here,” Cosima whispered. “We can’t wait until
