Fashionably Late (2 page)

“So? When are you going to create a line for me?”

Karen shrugged, but smiled. There was something hamishe about Bobby.

He was warm, familiar, and very, very Brooklyn. “Not tonight,” she told him.

Bobby laughed. “We ought to talk,” he said. “You ought to see the kind of numbers I’m talking about.”

Jeffrey said his hello, someone else greeted Bobby, and then Karen and Jeffrey were free to wander off. When they were out of earshot, Jeffrey turned to look back at Bobby. “Can you imagine?” he said, outraged. “The guy is selling schlock jewelry and polyester pull-on pants. I don’t care if he’s desperate to upgrade, he’s not dragging your name down. Look what happened to Cher, and she just did an infomercial.”

Karen shrugged. “Still, it’s nice to be asked.” She certainly didn’t consider the attention an insult. Her husband was a cutie, but he was also a snob. Of course, he could afford to beţhis family was wealthy, German Jews with more than enough money in Manhattan real estate.

He’d gone to private schools and had always been part of a more glittenng world than she had. He’d always been sought after while Karen was just a girl from Brooklyn.

She wasn’t interested in socialites. The people in the room tonightţthe ones who actually attracted her, who fascinated herţwere the other designers. She wanted to talk with them. Yet those she respected always made her feel shy. And although tonight she was being recognized by them, there was not a lot of camaraderie in the fashion world. While she admired Valentino’s gowns, and sometimes appreciated the exuberance of Karl Lagerfeld, she couldn’t imagine hanging out with them. They spoke at least four languages, knew all the best restaurants in all the best cities, owned palazzi and villas, and went to the opera forfun. Karen couldn’t imagine them seeking out her company to split a Diet Coke and a rice cake.

Three of the fashion “walkers” congregated against the doorway. John Richardson, Ashton Hawkins, and Charles Ryskamp were successful in their fields. Cultured, attractive bachelors, they accompanied society women to events like this when their own husbands were too busy or too tired or too dead. No matter what their age, it seemed that society women required events to go to, escorts to take them, and dresses to wear.

Sometimes Karen wondered at it, but it did sell gowns.

Slowly she and Jeffrey continued to make their way through the crowd to their table, where Defina Pompey was standing, tall and majestic as an ebony column. Karen and Defina had worked together for more than a decade. Fifteen years ago Defina had been the hottest runway model of the season and now, even with Linda Evangelista standing not too far behind her, Karen could see why. Her friend was still gorgeous, more beautiful than Beverly Johnson or Naomi Campbell on their best days.

Today, when it was truly unchic to do a show without several black models, it was hard to remember that it was this woman who had broken ground for all women of color. Defina was deep in conversation with a painfully skinny, intense young woman dressed in black and an elegant Italian-looking manţDefina had a gift for languages and spoke flawless Spanish, Italian, and French, but she still knew how to communicate with the homeboys.

Defina looked across the table and flashed a smile at Karen. She was wearing a white silk jersey gown that Karen had designed for her. With it, Defina wore the wrap jacket that did great things for any woman who wanted to camouflage a thickening middle. Defina, in the days since she’d left modeling, had broadened and matured in all senses of the words.

“May I introduce you to someone who would like to meet you?” Defina asked smoothly. She turned to the Italian and dismissed him with a “ciao” and a gracious smile. Then she sidled over to Karen, the little black fashion wraith fighting the crowd behind her. “This one is so green she actually thinks Calvin and Anne Klein are related. Should we tell her they’re married, and Kevin is their son?” Defina suggested, sotto voce. The wraith got closer, extended a skeletal arm, and put out her bony hand. “Karen, meet Jenn Nuborg. She’s a freelance fashion writer who would like an interview. I told her you’d love to.”

Defina had put a little too much emphasis on the word love though only Karen would pick it up. Defina knew how much Karen hated to be bothered by the fashion reportorial tyros. God, they could be stupid and annoying. As if that wasn’t enough, they were most often oversensitive and quick to take offense. But Karen had no illusions: it was the fashion press who had put Karen here tonight. After years of effort, Karen had managed to survive in the cut-throat world of haute couture, but it wasn’t until Jeffrey had insisted on hiring Mercedes Bernard to do their public relations work that Karen had really broken from the pack and become a national, and perhaps almost an international, name.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” the Nuborg woman asked.

Her voice was as thin as her arms. This was no time for an interview, but before Karen could think of a pleasant way to put the woman off, the girl continued. “What, in your opinion, is the sexiest part of the female body?” she asked. Defina, standing behind the reporter and towering almost a foot over the Nuborg’s head, smirked at Karen.

“Her mind?” Karen asked, as if the question had been a riddle.

The girl didn’t smile. Too intense for that! “What is your biggest unfulfilled desire?” she asked relentlessly.

Karen’s smile faded. Without thinking, she moved her hand to cover her stomach, as if to shield her empty womb. She remembered Dr. Goldman tomorrow. She blinked, paused, and told herself to get a grip.

Before Karen could begin to answer or make an excuse, tall, pale Mercedes Bernard floated over. “lenna. It is Jenn, isn’t it?” the PR woman was a genius at remembering names, and while the pre-party arrival noise crescendoed around them, there in the glittering ballroom of the Waldorf, Mercedes began to detach the Nuborg mollusk from Karen’s side. “Perhaps later would be a better time for this,” Mercedes was saying, her cool but pleasant smile already in place.

Mercedes projected an aura of noblesse oblige. Though she spent her business life trying to cadge publicity and snag the best coverage from a host of egomaniacal fashion editors and journalists, she managed somehow to retain her dignity. The industry “poop” on her was that “Mercedes bends but never stoops.”

The Nuborg turned once more to Karen. “Which is better: elegance without sex appeal or sex appeal without elegance?” Karen opened her mouth, but Mercedes’s long white hand took the reporter by her bony, black-clad shoulder and firmly turned her away. Karen sighed with relief. She knew that some day she would have to sit down and pretend an interest in those cliched questions, but at least she didn’t have to do it right now. Later, she would kill Definaţbut she’d be careful not to spoil the white dress.

“Where do they get those questions from?” Defina asked innocently wrinkling her brow. She looked over at Karen. Then she got serious.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just fooling around. I didn’t know she would … ” “That’s okay. It’s nothing,” Karen told her.

Defina widened her eyes. “Smile pretty at Nuclear Wintour,” Defina told her, and Karen flashed a grin at Anna Wintour, arguably the most powerful woman in fashion publishing. Anna was shrewd and tough and glamorous and difficult. She had a lot of nicknames, but Mercedes, the most literate among them, always called her “The Wintour of our Discontent.” Needless to say, Mercedes only said it behind Anna’s bony back.

At the next table, Karen could see Doris and Donald Fisher. He had started The Gap stores, and he, along with Peter Haas Senior of the Levi Strauss family, probably pushed more denim than anyone else in the world. With them was Bill Wolper of NormCo, the fashion conglomerate that was more successful than anyone else in the market. Everyone knew that big-time fashion wealth had come from the mass market. The real money had never been on Seventh Avenue. As Jeffrey reminded her over and over, “Henry Ford got rich making Fords, not Lincolns.” It was only in the last dozen or so years that top-of-the-market Seventh Avenue American designersţwho made Lmcolnsţhad built enormous empires.

And they had done it by moving out and down. Lincolns had been downgraded to Fordsţbridge linesţ for the malls. People like Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, and a half dozen others had created fashion empires larger than any that had come before. Now Karen stood on the brink of an opportunity potentially as vast. And sometimes it frightened her.

But the faces around her table were all supportive ones. Aside from Jeffrey and Defina, she could smile at Mercedes, who had brought an obviously gay male friend. Mercedes came from the generation that always had male escorts for social events. Everyone knew Bernard was a lesbian (though no one ever mentioned it). Only Defina had the nerve to once refer to the woman as a “Mercedes diesel.”

Casey Robinson, their vice-president of marketing, sat next to Mercedes and he was with his gay companion Ray. Karen sighed again and had a flash of gratitude that she had met and married Jeffrey early on in her career. So many women in her business bemoaned the lack of heterosexual men in the industry.

Karen smiled at Casey, Mercedes, Defina, and the others. All of the people at the table tonight had helped her get here. When she learned she’d earned the Oakley Award, Karen had decided to have these people surround her and share in her success. She had not invited her family.

They hadn’t contributed in the same way, and somehow their presence always complicated things. Just this once, Karen had decided to keep the night for herself, to share the event with her mother and sister only after the fact. She felt a little guilty about it, but as her friend Carl had explained, “The choice is between inviting them and spoiling your evening, or not inviting them and having a great night but feeling guilty. I say go with the guilt! Guilt is like a muscle.

Learn to use it.”

As if the thought of Carl had conjured him up, Karen saw her tall, fat, balding friend making his way toward her. The table wouldn’t be complete without Carl Since the days at South Side High School, back in Rockville Centre, Long Islandţwhich both she and Carl still called “Lawn Guylind”ţ he had been her biggest cheerleader. Actually, her only cheerleader.

Certainly, neither her mother nor her younger sister were supporters of Karen’s dream to make beautiful, fabulous, comfortable clothes. Belle was too practical, too critical for dreams, and poor Lisa, younger than Karen, needed support and couldn’t give any. Only Carl, with his crazy optimism, his sense of humor, and his mother’s sewing machine, had supported Karen’s ideas. He was her earliest fabricator and ally. Now his bulk crossed the last part of the Waldorf dance floor and he enveloped her in his big embrace.

“Brava, brava, brava!” he boomed, and smacked kisses on both her cheeks.

“GrazEa,” Karen responded, exhausting all of her Italian vocabulary with that single word. It had been agony for her to learn French, which Jeffrey had insisted she do for her career. Karen was no Defina when it came to languages. She still spoke English with the heavy, adenoidal tones of Nostrand Avenue (where her family lived before her father could afford Rockville Centre).

“So how did you achieve this enormous success?” Carl asked in a mock announcer voice, holding up a butter knife from the table setting as a faux microphone.

“I guess I just kept my nose to the grindstone for a long time,” she answered, too modestly and sweetly.

“Oh, is that what made your nose look like that?” he asked. “Let’s get a picture of it.” Carl popped out a tiny camera. He handed it to Jeffrey. “Yo, Defina. Get over here! I want a picture with the stars of the evening.”

Defina smiled and obliged, but Karen saw Jeffrey’s expression tighten.

Why hadn’t Carl asked her husband too? Sometimes Carl could be incredibly undiplomatic. Karen was always aware that Jeffrey could be made to feel like an appendage, when the truth was he had made all her success possible. But to Jeffrey’s credit he obligingly held up the camera and squinted.

“The Three Musketeers and their mid-life crisis,” he said as he flashed the picture.

“Isn’t that a book by Dumas?” Carl cracked.

“I think so,” Defina said. “But I can never remember if it’s Dumas pere Dumasfils, or Dumas the Holy Ghost.”

“Hey, guys, you’re confused,” Karen explained. “Even I know that it’s Casper the Holy Ghost.”

Jeffrey shook his head at their foolishness. “Could you behave like celebrities instead of tourists for just one evening?” he asked.

“Speaking of celebrities, I saw John Kennedy Junior in the lobby,” Carl whispered. “I nearly passed out. I swear, he is a real and present danger to the gay community. The boy could cause cardiac arrest.”

Carl began breathing hard with actual or feigned excitement. It was difficult to tell with Carl. “Oh, to be Daryl Hannah for just one night!” he cried.

Karen rolled her eyes at him. “Behave,” she warned. Carl was obsessed with the Kennedys, or pretended to be. He was probably the only person in the country who could name all the Kennedy cousins of this generation. It was a parlor trick he did, kind of like naming the wives of Henry the Eighth or the seven dwarves, except it took a lot longer.

By now most of the people in the ballroom had taken their seats, and Carl joined the Karen Kahn team at the table. He picked up a glass and when one of the waiters brought champagne, he cleared his throat and got serious. “Let us all toast this year’s winner of the coveted Oakley Award,” he saluted. Karen was touched. Then, on cue, everyone at the table pulled out a slice of toast and lobbed them across the table at herţeven the sedate Mercedes. Then they all collapsed in giggles. All except Jeffrey.

“Jesus Christ!” he said. He obviously hadn’t been privy to the gag.

“A food fight at the Waldorf Astoria?” He shook his head while Karen couldn’t stop laughing. Tears came to her eyes and she had to use a napkin to make sure she didn’t blot her mascara.

Suddenly the mistress of ceremonies, Leila Worth, began speaking from the podium set at the corner of the stage. “If I may ask for your attention,” she cooed over a sound system that had to be set on supermax to be heard over the braying and whinnying of the mavins of couture. The fashion crowd was a loud one. At last they settled down.