Fashionably Late (60 page)

Karen could barely take her eyes off the child. She longed to touch her, to hold the baby, but she wouldn’t allow herself. Now was not a time for her to lose control. Wearily, Mrs. Lemmon went off to begin paperwork on the orphan, while the Dagsvarrs drove Karen back to the hotel. They were silent on the ride, all of them tired beyond words.

At the hotel, before turning in to the semicircular drive, Mr. Dagsvarr stopped. “I am so sorry that you had to see this,” he said.

“You see it all the time,” Karen said.

“Yes, but this is my work. I chose it. You didn’t.”

“Perhaps I needed to see it,” Karen said. She turned to face the two of them. “It may be too late,” she said. “It may be too late for me to stop what NorrnCo is doing. But I will try. And I’ll make sure the word gets out back in the States. And I will send you money.” She handed Mr. Dagsvarr a business card. “I won’t forget and I will help,” she promised.

Mrs. Dagsvarr put out her hand. It was tiny, as small as a child’s.

“Thank you,” was all she said.

Karen didn’t wait to talk to Bill. What was the point? Was he a liar, or had he been fooled, misled by his own staff? She guessed that he was a liar, but if he was only a fool, that was bad enough. And to think she had considered sleeping with him. She thought back to all the things Arnold had mentioned. Had she listened to her father closely enough? Had she not wanted to hear? Had her own selfishness gotten in the way? Or was it her ego, her ambition? Was there a difference?

She thought of the contracts, all those copies with multiple signatures that she had already signed and sent back. As she threw clothes into her suitcase, she felt sick to her stomach. The trail of blood along the dirty hospital corridor kept coming back to her mind, a sanguine scar that sickened her. How many women, how many children, were dying, or working their lives away in slavery here so that women in America could buy a bargain? Was it too late to stop the deal? Was it too late to get away from Bill Wolper and NormCo? She thought with a kind of ironic self-contempt of the special, luxurious slavery she may have just sold herself into. A slavery where she would be able to buy as many clean toilets as she could ever use, but where all of them would be tainted with blood.

Once packed, she called the concierge to find out about flights to the U.S. There would be no more private planing, she was sure of that. And while reservations were being made, she tried, once again, to call Jeffrey. Had he known about all this? Had he suspected? Would he help her break this contract? What if he wouldn’t?

There was no answer at the apartment or at the Westport house, their car phone, or Jeffrey’s private line at the office. If her math was rightţalways a risky betţit was the afternoon of the previous day back in New York. But she couldn’t locate her husband.

Karen had never felt so alone. When the concierge called back on the other line, pleased to announce he had secured the last seat on a Hawaii-bound flight, she thanked him coolly. All she could remember was the baby, and Mr. Dagsvarr’s face when he said, “This is my work.

I chose it. You didn’t.”

No. She had chosen work where she seduced women into buying clothes they often couldn’t afford. And soon she would be enticing more of them, helping her clients to enslave other women a half a world away.

Somehow, it didn’t sound like a Vogue cover story.

Every family has a secret and the secret is that it is not like any otherfamily.

-AIAN BENNETT __

The taxi pulled up to 550 Seventh Avenue and Karen jumped out of the cab, almost running across the sidewalk into the building. With the long flight, the nightmare that the Mananas had been, and her loss of Cyndi’s baby, Karen knew she was wild. Worse than that, she looked wild.

She could see herself in the reflection of the stainless steel elevator doors, and it was Medusa time. She combed her fingers through her hair and, when she reached the ninth floor, strode out to the showroom.

Casey, a couple of sales staffers, and some buyers looked up, but Karen had no time for PR right now. Without a word, she passed through the big space and kept moving down the hall to her own office. Janet, on the phone at the desk beside Karen’s office door, opened her eyes wide in surprise and mimed that she would be one minute. Karen waved her off, threw her carry-on down at Janet’s feet, and moved to Jeffrey’s office.

She had to tell him about this. She had to tell him her outrage and she had to stop the deal.

But Jeffrey’s office was empty. Janet caught up with her. “Where have you been? I have like about a zillion messages. Mr. Wolper is going crazy trying to reach you.”

“Fuck Mr. Wolper!” Karen ignored poor Janet’s shocked round face, spun out of the room, and stuck her head into Defina’s office. Dee was sorting through a sheaf of photos with one of the young, intense photographers who was always pitching them. When Defina looked up and saw Karen’s face, she sent the guy and his portfolio packing. “The bitch is back,” I)efina smiled.

“It’s nice to be wanted,” Karen replied.

“What happened to you?”

“I tried to play with the big boys and I got my ass kicked. Defina, we can’t do the NormCo thing.”

“Honey, / been telling you that. But isn’t it a done deal?” Defina asked.

For a moment Karen felt as if she would begin to sob, cry like a baby and never stop. She had tried hard to do what she wanted to, to create clothes and a business the way she thought it should be done. But in the end it was always the men, the corporations, the bankers, the media moguls who really controlled the business and the lives of everyone around them. She had tried to fight for her independence, but Bill, Basil, Robertthe-lawyer, and her own husband had defeated her. Still, she wouldn’t go down without a fight. Karen took a deep breath and heaved an even bigger sigh. “It better not be.” She gave Defina a quick rundown of the Mananas. Defina listened, sometimes shaking her head.

When Karen was done, Defina stood up, crossing her arms.

“Slavery,” she said.

Karen just nodded. “I never thought fashion was something people should die over. I mean, I design a blouse, Mrs. Cruz cuts it, they sew it up, someone buys it, and everyone goes home with a paycheck. It didn’t seem so complicated or so dirty, but the bigger we get, the worse it gets. If we expand to this size, it’s like I’m part of a drug ring or something.

We all participate. We push fashion on society women and they keep needing new fixes. Meanwhile, working women pick up the styles. Then the bluecollar and the pink-collar workers. The lower you get on the chain the cheaper the knock-offs, and the worse the pay for the garment workers. That shit that retailed for twenty dollars in Macy’s cost them a buck to make, including wages. People shouldn’t die so secretaries in America can buy a nineteen ninety-five polyester blouse.” For once, Karen let go. Her rage, her betrayal, broke through in angry sobs.

Defina walked around her desk, closed the door, and then gave Karen a hug. Karen felt like melting into those big arms and that soft, warm chestx But after a moment she pulled herself together.

“So what do we do now?” Defina asked.

“You have got to help me stop the deal. Find out where the contract is, see if Robertthe-lawyer still has it. See if it’s been sent back to Herb. Stop it anyway you can, if it’s not too late. I have to find my husband.”

Janet walked into the room. “What are you doing here?” she asked again.

“I thought you were in Korea?”

“That trip won’t be necessary,” Karen said.

“But … ” “Janet, call Robert and see if he still has the NormCo contract.”

Defina snapped. “Tell him we’ve found an error that his office has made, and if it goes back to NormCo this way, his office will be responsible.

Tell him Jef frey is very upset. In fact, tell all of that to Jeffrey’s secretary and have her call Robert,” Defina instructed.

As Janet turned and left the room, Karen sunk into the only chair in Defina’s office that wasn’t piled high with samples, swatches, and clutter. “Where is Jeffrey?” she asked. “Defina, could you buzz his secretary and find out?”

“Well, actually, I don’t have to do that. I think he’s gone down to Perry’s loft. He’s spending a lot of time there.”

“At Perry’s loft?” Perry had given Karen the key before he left for rehab. She still had it on her key ring. “Isn’t Perry away? What’s Jeffrey doing there?” she asked.

“Beats me,” DeEm said blandly. “I thought you knew.”

Maybe he was painting, Karen thought. Perfect. My life collapses, he paints. “I’ll just call him.”

“No phone. The place is emptied out, I think. Perry’s had to sell it or rent it.” now.”

“You’re kidding! God! It must have killed Perry. He loved that space.”

Defina shrugged. “You going’ or you stayin’?” she asked.

“I’ll go. I have to find out if Jeffrey knew about any of this. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

“Dnn’t he so sure.” Defina said. “I’ll tell Janet and I’ll call you a car right “Thanks, but don’t bother. Just get hold of that contract before it’s too late. If it’s not too late already. I’ll run downstairs and snag a cab.”

Karen stood out on the street, almost exactly in the spot where Perry had staggered under the streetlight. She walked into the dirty vestibule of his building and the empty cage of the elevator. She pushed back the gate. These industrial-strength, high-tech old lifts scared her, but she remembered working the lever when she had brought Perry home drunk. The key to the loft fit into the keyhole beside Perry’s floor. Karen inserted the key, closed the cage door, and with her hand on the lever, moved the elevator up to six.

It was very quiet. The loft had been emptied. Poor Perry. He had told her he was going into rehab and didn’t know how he’d live when he came back, but she hadn’t understood. The place looked stripped.

Maybe Jeffrey had been packing up for Perry and already left. DeEm was right.

All of Perry’s stuff, the old sofas, the huge canvases, the paint-spattered tables, all of it was gone except the lingering smells of linseed oil and oil paint. The loft faced north, and the huge windows washed the emptiness with cool light. Defina must have been wrong, though, about Jeffrey. No one was here in this vast emptiness.

Karen turned, about to go. Then she heard the moan.

Was it Jeffrey? Had he fallen, alone in here? Was he hurt? There was an alcove, the only space not visible in the huge open area, and Karen walkedţ almost ranţtoward it. “Jeffrey?” she cried. She turned the sharp corner into the small sleeping ell.

It was odd, but even then, the first thing she saw when she stepped into the alcove were the clothes. Jeffrey’s slate blue silk Equipment shirt lying on the floor, his ostrich Bruno Magli’s chucked halfway across the room instead of lined up neatly beside the bed as he did at home. A forest green linen dress (Anne Klein? Calvin Klein?) and a hot pink suede blazer was draped across the windowsill. Who would wear a combination like that? she thought, irrelevantly. What am I doing?

A fashion make over at this critical moment? I must be crazy from jet lag.

Karen looked again at the shoes. Where were the woman’s shoes? Then, on the other windowsill that served as a makeshift night table, she saw the crocodile Gucci pumps.

Aside from the clothes, there was also a bed, or at least a mattress and frame, all draped in white. White on white against the blank walls of the loft. All white, except for Jeffrey’s warm skin, his salt-and-pepper hair, his ruddy foot, and the pale exposed leg of the woman under him.

It seemed as if the two of them had frozen, caught, as it were, in the act.

Frozen too, Karen’s eyes were the only part of her that could move.

She felt as if her blood had frozen, as if she had frozen to the spot in shock, embarrassment, and shame. What the fuck have I got to be ashamed of? she asked herself. He’s the adulterer.

“Jeffrey?” she repeated, moronically. Who the hell else was it?

“Jesus Christ,” he said, and turned to her, his face a white mask of shock. Then the color flooded backţso fast, so dense, that it was surely a blush. Well, at least he still had the decency to blush.

“Karen?” he asked, although she was as clearly there as he was.

“Karen?” the woman under him yelped. Karen knew the voice, but couldn’t place it. Jeffrey’s broad back shielded the woman’s face.

Once again Karen scanned the alcove and inventoried the clothes. And then she knew.

“Lisa,” she whispered.

Karen sat with Defina at the coffee shop. Karen thanked God for her big black sunglasses: despite being dehydrated from the plane, she seemed to be producing quarts of tears that flowed ceaselessly down her face, like one of those kitsch lamps she sometimes saw in bad Italian restaurants where tear drops dripped down nylon strands. Carl had given her one once as a gag gift. Hadn’t it been at her wedding shower?

Now the fountain flowed continuously down her face, and Defina removed another napkin from the chrome napkin holder and handed it to her.

Hadn’t Karen once been the girl who didn’t cry?

“Don’t rub. Blot,” Defina advised. “Or else you’ll get your face chapped up.”

“God, Defina how could they? And how could I be so stupid? Really stupid ! ” “Which question do you want me to answer first?” Karen shrugged wordlessly. “He could do it because he’s a scum-sucking pig.

It’s easy for pigs to do anything. And she did it because she’s a bored and aging woman and she just figured that out. And because she’s been jealous of you since the day she was born.”

“Oh, God,” Karen moaned. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Defina handed her another napkin. Karen blotted up more tears. “How could I be so stupid?” she asked again.

“It isn’t stupidity. It’s denial. I admit they look alike. But you’re not stupid. You’re just very good at denial. We’ll call you Cleopatra, Queen of Denial,” Defina explained. Then her face softened.

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. How could you admit that your husband was weak?

That he’s tried to sell you down the river. That he’s dependent on you and hates it. That he blames you for everything he never did? That he envied your career and was jealous of your friendships.”