How Not to Make a Dress
cabin, Nella,” she said gently. “You’ve had no sleep for nearly thirty-six hours. I’m sure when you’re rested you’ll feel better.”
“I’ll stay with these people,” said Dani. “I’m not tired.”
Lauren glanced at Violet Strange. “Where will you be, later, Mrs. Strange?” she asked softly, helping Nella to her feet.
“Here or the pub on this deck,” the woman answered her with a friendly smile. “We’ll look after your mannequin as if she were a doll.”
“We’ve got a business meeting after dinner,” explained Lauren. “Dani will need to know the stage, dressing rooms—all sorts of details.”
“You’ll be back before we’ve finished dinner,” Mrs. Strange assured her. “Not to worry.”
Lauren got Nella comfortably settled in bed with a cold cloth on her forehead and then sent for a stewardess and requested some Dramamine. The Englishwoman came back in a remarkably short time with some tablets and a glass of water. “Doctor says give her these and she’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”
“Thank you very much,” Lauren replied with real gratitude.
Nella accepted everything docilely. Then she sobbed, “I just know I’m going to be sick. I shouldn’t have come.”
Within ten minutes, however, she was sleeping peacefully. Lauren hurried back to the dining room. Dani and the dance troupe were still enjoying their dinner, which was superb and served with style. Lauren sat down at the table with relief. In response to their kind queries, she explained that Nella was a bit of a hypochondriac.
“She’s a nitwit,” Dani announced coldly. “Just because Mr. Masen told her all those stories about storms at sea, she’s sure that we’ll all drown or something. Seasick. It’s as calm as an oyster.”
The men chuckled. Dinner proceeded without any further problems, and Lauren enjoyed both the food and the service very much. The company of the dance troupe could, she felt, have been pleasant, had it not been for the unhappiness she sensed in them in spite of their attempts to be cheerful.
Finally she turned to Violet Strange. “Is something wrong? Can I help you in anyway?”
Violet gave her a wry look. “Is it that plain, then? We were trying to keep a stiff upper lip.”
There was a little pause as the waiter served their desserts. Dani had ordered a fruit-and-cream concoction, but Lauren hadn’t the heart to object. There had been enough trauma at the table already. When they were eating again, Violet smiled at Lauren. “We expected to be rejoicing at this point. Our tour of your country was most successful. Then yesterday our promoter disappeared with all the receipts from the trip. All he left us was our return tickets. So we’re going home broke.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” breathed Lauren. “What a rotten trick.”
Violet shrugged. “It’s happened before to dancers and it will again, I’ve no doubt. But we were good. We deserved our moment of celebration on the ship.”
It was time for Lauren and Dani to go to the Royal Court Lounge for their briefing, yet she really hated to leave Violet and the rest of the troupe. “Perhaps we might meet later, at the pub?” Lauren proposed. A vague idea was drifting around in her head. She wanted to think it through clearly before she made a move. So, with smiles exchanged, the dinner party broke up. Lauren was leading Dani out of the dining room when they ran into a stocky man in full evening dress.
“Herbert! What are you doing here?” Lauren demanded.
“Surprise!” Herbert smirked. “I decided you needed me to get you through this cruise.”
“You are the last person I need, you—you traitor,” snapped Lauren. “Thanks to you, Nella has gone to bed convinced she’s seasick, and we’ve got a show to put on. Just stay away from her, and from me, or I’ll—” She stopped for want of a dire-enough threat.
Herbert laughed. “Well, if she can’t do the show, you’ll make out just about as well as if she could. You can take her place, can’t you? You hadn’t a hope in hell of winning against the big guns they’ve got on the program, anyway. Why don’t we all just relax and enjoy the trip?”
Lauren could not remember ever being as angry as she was at that moment. Not only had he ruined Nella’s usefulness, but he had come on the trip to gloat over Lauren’s failure! Getting her voice under control, she told him, “You’ll have to excuse us now, Herbert. We’re due at a meeting in the Royal Court Lounge—no guests allowed,” she ended sharply as he offered an arm to each of the two women.
Lauren led Dani away quickly. When they reached the spacious room where the fashion shows were to take place, Lauren discovered that none of the other designers was present, just their assistants and models. This did not disturb Lauren; in fact, she was secretly amused at the rather snobbish jostling for prestige it implied.
“I’m in no position to be arrogant,” she told a worried Dani. “It’s my job to see you get the best dressing room and the best help I can give you. At the moment, that’s me.”
Dani gave her a long, level look. “You really are a doll to work for, Ms. Rose,” she said, as though just now convinced of the fact. “I always figured I’d rather work for a man, but you don’t pull any tricks and you’re here to help me when I need you.”
“Thank you, Dani.” Lauren suppressed a chuckle. “Now let’s get you set.”
It was easier than Lauren had dared hope, since the assistants, however top-lofty, had to bow to Lauren’s superior status. Carlos de Sevile’s deputy sent off a frantic note to his employer after Lauren secured for Dani the dressing table in the best position in the room; apparently the assistant had quite forgotten that he and his models wouldn’t be backstage when Lauren’s September Song line was being shown. The session was nearly over and the cruise director was assuring everyone of her continued assistance when the flamboyant Spanish designer stormed into the lounge.
“What’s going on here?” he barked, his gaze darting at once to Lauren’s shining gold head. “What are you pulling, Rose?” There was no trace of the fascinating Spanish accent he usually affected.
“I’m just doing my job, buster,” she said cheerfully. “Who wants to know?”
Just for a moment, before he realized she was joking, de Sevile’s expression was ludicrous with surprise. Then his full mouth tightened and he said angrily, “I’ll report you to the judges—”
“For what? I’m just attending to the logistics of the show with my models. We were all invited to come.”
“Carlos de Sevile doesn’t have to be here in person. I have assistants to do such jobs,” he began with insolent emphasis.
Lauren laughed. “So report me for being faithful to my duty and courteous to our hosts,” she suggested. Then she added, “You’ll look like a fool, of course, but that’s nothing new.”
She walked away, her gleaming head high, her violet eyes bright with satisfaction.
An awed Dani spoke softly at her shoulder. “You really told that honcho, Ms. Rose. Aren’t you afraid he’ll hit back?”
“Let him,” Lauren was too elated to be cautious. “Things are tough all over! It really did me good to puncture his hot-air balloon.”
Dani shook her head. “I’ve been in the business a long time, Ms. Rose. Better watch out behind you from now on,” she warned gloomily. “You’ve only got me—and yourself, of course—now that Nella’s out of it. You’ll have to shorten all Nella’s stuff if you want me to wear them, and I’ll need you backstage to help if I’m to wear both sets of dresses. It’s a mess.”
Lauren refused to be downcast. “Let’s join our dancing friends in the pub, shall we? They’ve had a worse knock than we have, and they’re still smiling. I like them, don’t you?”
Dani refused to commit herself. Her own tastes ran to obviously wealthy men, like the handsome fellow in the blazer. “That hunk of man on deck,” she murmured soulfully. “I knew he wasn’t an employee of Cunard. His blazer was a Bill Blass and his shoes came from Gucci. In my book, he’s a ten, maybe even an eleven.”
Lauren grinned and
led the way to the cozy Crown and Anchor pub with its very British ambience. She found the troupe gathered around a small table at the rear. Derek got up politely to find two more chairs, but Dani told them she was going down to her stateroom. Derek set Lauren’s chair between himself and his “storm and strife.”
“He means wife, dear,” Violet interpreted. “How did the briefing go?”
Lauren told them about de Seville and got them laughing. Then she insisted upon buying a round. “Why should you, luv?” Derek asked. “We’ve still got our pocket money.”
The others laughed ruefully, but Lauren insisted. “You see,” she explained, two dimples very much in evidence beside her soft, wide mouth, “I’ve got a proposition to make.”
“To me, I hope,” teased Tony, the younger man who was the lead dancer and choreographer for the troupe.
“To all of you,” Lauren said soberly. “You know that one-half of my team is out. I can’t take Nella’s place, since our figures and coloring are so different, but mostly because I’m needed backstage to help with costume changes and accessories, as Dani has just reminded me.” She looked at each of them in turn: Derek was lean, handsome, silver-haired, fortyish; his wife, Violet, was buxom and tall, her hair dyed a silvery blue; Tony had a hard, young-old face crowned with dark hair and must be, she thought, about thirty-five years old. Then there were the twins, one fair and one dark as Dani, in their