Best Laid Plans (2 page)

While Mother Nature had made
umbrellas, slickers and boots de rigueur for the past ten days, spectacular
summer wear in bold, bright colors and styles waited temptingly on
dressing-room racks. Yet for all the emotion the models were exhibiting, Amanda
felt she could have used the mannequins that graced her shop on Royal Street.

Head bowed, she began to massage the
stiffness from her neck. Inhaling and exhaling three times, Amanda told herself
to relax, to remain calm. Hadn't she met and conquered worse challenges than
this? But the tension was still there, hidden not only in the constricted
highway of tendons on her neck but straining every muscle in her body.
Willpower and words - today they proved poor tranquilizers.

Lizette's final pirouette made Amanda
wince. New Orleans' black-tie audience wasn't paying two hundred fifty dollars
a plate to the Cancer Society to view this blasé performance. An awful thought
nagged at her. Perhaps she had unconsciously trampled everyone's enthusiasm.
Guilt smothered her. The real stars of the fashion show were the designs.
Homage had to be paid to these creations. These fabric children - conceived
with love, cut and sewn with tenderness and sent out into the world with hope and
fear.

Resentment at her own loss of faith
was all-consuming; adrenaline and anger overcame her inertia. Amanda's long,
dark-stockinged legs dismissed the four steps to the runway in two graceful
leaps. She caught Lizette by the shoulders and spun her around. Even, white
teeth smiled at the startled young woman, but the smile did not reach her
glinting eyes. "This is silk, Lizette, painstakingly sewn by hand in
crowded workrooms by at least twenty skilled seamstresses." Amanda's
expert fingers gently readjusted the shoulders on the red and white dress
accented with bold purple stripes.

"This is a masterpiece,"
she continued, impersonally smoothing the horizontal bodice over the model's
minuscule breasts, "worked on for weeks and weeks, and…" her flint
like gaze narrowed into Lizette's blinking hazel eyes, "in less than two
minutes, on your body, it is either condemned or adored."

Dropping to her knees, Amanda
straightened a rope of amethyst ribbons that circled a waist no bigger than a
double hand span. "You are wearing art, Lizette, couturier's art. Dior was
awarded the Legion of Honor for his designs." She looked up from repinning
the hem. "In Paris this dress is considered a national treasure."

Amanda nodded with satisfaction at
her adjustments, then dexterously returned to her feet, towering over the young
woman. "This is what dreams are made of, and you are the keeper of this
dream. Tonight you are the owner of this luxury." Her voice grew as
passionate as her words. The stern lines that had hardened her attractive
features disappeared. She bloomed with the intensity of her emotions.
"Silk, Lizette, feel it. It gets better, softer, and more sensuous every
time you wear it."

Wide eyes glowed like polished
solitaires. "Let this luxury show on your face. Feel it caress your
body." Her long fingers re-formed the black strands that had escaped
Lizette's curlers. "Make this dress your lover and return the
passion."

Her peripheral gaze caught the other
models clustered in the wings. "Come out, ladies!" Amanda motioned
them to assemble onstage. "I want to see and feel the opulence, the
glamour, the spirit. Look out there." A slender wrist directed attention
toward their magnificent surroundings. "We've created a dream and made
you
the stars.
You
command the attention.
You
are the epitome of
fashion."

She took time to inspect each model,
making small adjustments to shoulders or wrists, reangling a straw hat or
straightening a belt. "I want you to become a part of what you're wearing.
Feel the fabrics, drink in the textures, spin your own fantasies. Listen and
move with the music. It's intoxicating."

Amanda clapped her hands. "Now
let me experience these masterpieces." Her attitude was light but there
was a sharp insistence in her tone. "Excite this room. Dazzle these people.
Make them stand and beg for an encore." Her voice lowered persuasively.
"Release the ecstasy hidden in your soul."

She turned and walked the length of
the runway, instinctively aware that her own regal carriage and supple stride
were under close scrutiny. "Harry!" Amanda shouted, lifting her hand
toward the balcony. "Give me a blue filter for the first three, then blend
in the pink." A shadowy figure immediately made the transition. She
signaled Isaac, and the music cued Lizette.

The improvement proved as dramatic as
the fashions. Models turned into dancers, and dancers turned into ballerinas.
It was a well-orchestrated symmetry that enhanced the clothes.

The dulcet chords of Count Basie's
The
Lady Is a Tramp
emphasized the contrast in daytime fashions. European and
American designers had captured the independent woman. The contemporary woman
would not be forced into one shape; she would choose from an enormous variety
of silhouettes and styles.

The clothes were marvelous, Amanda
thought. Basile's lean white linen and ballooning culottes; Fendi's sensuous
suede gauchos and toga-tunic pants; Versace's petal shorts peeping beneath a
kimono coat; Ungaro's blossoming chemise and Feraud's striped silk culottes.

Clarinets, horns and saxophones
wailed to herald the transition into evening wear. Crisp agility sparked Dior's
pleated and ruffled taffeta, while Yves St. Laurent's scarlet toga slithered
with insinuating bareness. Chanel's paillette embroidery floated like a
virginal maiden in contrast to Oscar de la Renta's rich, turquoise,
bead-encrusted harem treasure. Givenchy's that plunged to the navel or ruffled
to the chin were displayed with artistic flair.

Halston's bugle-beaded organza swept
by, to be immediately replaced by a strapless Nipon taffeta ball gown. Adele
Simpson's boldly striped tunic and trousers was followed by Geoffrey Beene's
multicolored obi-wrapped gown. Harem dressing in red from Mary McFadden and
drop-dead glamorous tunics from Michaele Vollbracht fluttered like graceful
butterflies. Tarquin's ruched crepe and magenta marabou spun toward the stage
wings chased by Ralph Lauren's prairie plaid.

Amanda's smile broadened with each
new display. Her energy level was as puffed as Adolfo's candy-cane-striped gown
and as effervescent as Bill Blass's champagne taffeta bubble. Enthusiasm turned
into applause and when the last trumpet note faded, Amanda's own appreciation
was echoed by the workers in the ballroom.

"That was perfect! Just
beautiful, everyone!" She continued applauding until the models joined her
onstage. "You've captivated and charmed them. I am very pleased with you
all." Amanda turned a more sober countenance to the petite, gray-haired
woman who stood at her side. "Any problems, Bianca?"

"A few, some tempers but…"
Mme. Duprée gave a futile shrug letting two slender fingers move to massage a
throbbing right temple. "The Lanvin on Felicia is very snug." She
nodded toward a delicate blue and white cotton. "Too many patisserie…
"
she hunted for the proper English word,
"…pastries." A scolding finger wagged at the willowy blonde
chattering in line. "I will release it. The changing will go faster,
yes?"

"Yes," Amanda agreed, her
critical gaze judging the strain on the puffed-sleeve, square-necked bodice.
"What an improvement? Don't you agree?"

"Very." Bianca's gold crown
glinted among worn, yellow teeth, "this was magnifique." Dark blue
eyes cast a direct stare at Amanda, widening at the latter's sallow complexion
and weary features. "What about you?" The words came out a mixture of
French and stammered English.

"I, too, will be magnificent if
they perform this well tonight," Amanda assured the aged woman. She gave
Bianca's rounded shoulders a companionable hug. "This will be our last
show until August. The charity tennis and golf competitions will replace us in
a few more weeks."

Mme. Duprée drew a grateful breath.
"The rest will be most welcome." Her skilled fingers were busy
regrouping the slender dressmaker's pins in the cushion snapped around her
wrist. "Your gown is ready. I lowered the straps, pressed it and sent it
up to the hotel chamber."

"What would I do without you,
Bianca?" Amanda smiled her appreciation. Her eyes grew moist as they
focused on the wiry French seamstress who had been in her employ for the past
four years. "We've made quite a team, yes?"

"But of course, my little
one."

An airy chuckle replaced Amanda's
momentary slide into nostalgia. Bianca Duprée had been calling her
little
one
since their first meeting. The endearment had always amused her,
considering her
petite
was an imposing seventy inches. "All right,
ladies." Amanda clapped for order. "Next is the lingerie. This will
be fun."

Her easy smile encompassed the
attentive group. "Silks and satins and lace and ruffles provide instant
fantasies. Think Hollywood. Silver screen. Arabian sheiks. Follies
Bergère." Amanda was laughing, but a red-tinted fingernail stabbed the air
with a distinct warning. "Isaac's spliced together a Duke Ellington trio
that's a perfect introduction for this line. I want you to seduce the audience,
make them desert Jean-Claude's fabulous cuisine to stare at you in erotic
delight."

She spoke again to Bianca.
"You'll have ten minutes to exchange the gowns for the lingerie. Mr.
Cramer will be giving a slide presentation on the new cancer research wing
while the busboys are picking up the dinner plates and the waiters are bringing
the crème brûlée and pousse-café."

"It seems I am the preparer of
the plat de résistance." Mme. Duprée's mouth formed a tight moue; the
vertical lines that surrounded her thin, waxen lips deepened in distaste.

"Our seductive fashions were
selected to rival the dessert," Amanda returned on a wry note. "We
must give the audience a finale worth their donation, my dear." She
favored the seamstress with an audacious wink.

Mme. Duprée muttered something Amanda
had once read scrawled on a curb in Paris and turned away. "Hurry!
Hurry!" Bianca's pink-smocked figure herded the giggling young women
backstage to the dressing room.

"Oh, Miss Wyatt."

"Yes, Isaac." Amanda
stepped to the edge of the runway. "Is there a problem with the
slides?"

"No, ma'am." He shook his
head, index finger pushing the aviator-style sunglasses tight against the
bridge of his nose. "I'm going to run through them right now and then I'll
fix your mike." Isaac held up a telephone. "There's a call for
you."

"Thanks." Sliding the phone
against her ear, Amanda found only a dial tone to greet her. "Did you
catch who it was?"

"Your shop," he related,
dark brows rising in satisfaction as the remote-control device expertly lowered
the projection screen into position against the stage curtains. "I was
holding that call for quite a while," Isaac announced, his talented fingers
manipulating the machine controls.

Amanda's shapely shadow became
silhouetted against a construction site while the slide projector showed the
progress being made on the cancer research wing. After she dialed seven
ingrained numbers, a melodic southern accent greeted her with: "Good
afternoon,
Rags 'n' Riches."

"Hi, Sherry. You called?"

"Hello, boss. How's
everything?"

"I've got to rewrite that damn
speech, and frankly both the troops and I could use some extra energy,"
came her caustic rejoiner. "What's happening there?"

"Good things to give you extra
energy." Sherry said, her tone as effusive as a greeting card. "I
poured iced lime-spiked mineral water into Mrs. Bowling all afternoon and she
wrote out a check for a Mollie Parnis, an Anne Klein and half a dozen Pierre
Cardin separates that just arrived. She'll be in Monday so Bianca can fit
her."

"Leaving you in charge is
certainly proving monetarily advantageous," Amanda agreed, her winsomeness
belying the spasm that twisted the muscles in her shoulders. "Did you have
any trouble with Reuben?"

"Not a bit," the assistant
manager continued. "I dutifully listened to his gossipy shmooz, told him
politely that his last runner ended up on the markdown rack and took a look at
his sleeper." Sherry took a deep breath. "Mandy, he has the most
gorgeous silk T-shirts you've ever seen, expertly sewn, high-quality and a
great price, so - " She coughed twice.

Amanda stopped exercising her back.
"So you ordered them," she finished matter-of-factly.

"Well . . . Reuben said we were getting
first look, the color selection was breathtaking and I know they'll be
Fords," Sherry returned in a rapid staccato. "I... I didn't think a
token order was out of line."

"It wasn't and neither were
you." Amanda intuitively provided the words that would salve her
assistant's conscience.

"Well, I just didn't want you to
think...I mean, I really appreciate all the authority you've given me and . . .
we . . ." Sherry stammered in nervous discomfort. "I've just loved
working for you the past two years and I would never want to overstep my
position," she finished on an apologetic, formal note.