“There’s no reason why you should. If you were a female, I’d be worried.”
Dane murmured something.
His heart had not jumped; his flesh was not crawling; he was feeling neither rage nor contempt. He was wondering why when Sarah Vernier came up, beaming. “Sheila, this is my godson, Dane McKell. Isn’t he lovely?”
“I’d hardly select that adjective, Mrs. Vernier,” Sheila Grey smiled. “Or don’t you object to it, Mr. McKell?”
“I never object to anything Aunt Sarah says, Miss Grey. Incidentally, how did you know who I am?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You addressed me by name twice a few moments ago.”
“Did I?” Did her make-up conceal the slightest flush? “I suppose I must have known who you were from seeing you in the lobby of your parents’ apartment building. You know I have the penthouse?”
“Of course,” said Dane ruefully. “This is my stupid day.”
She was neither short nor tall. She was slender, on the pale side (or was that her make-up?), with lustrous brown hair and gray, gray eyes. Her features were so regular that they seemed to Dane to have no character; certainly he would never have invented her as a femme fatale for a book. He wondered what had attracted his father, who had access — if he wanted to take advantage of his opportunities — to scores of far more beautiful women. It was not her youth alone; youth could be bought, or rented. There had to be something special about her; and he felt a slight anticipation.
“Is this part of the international couturière’s image?” Dane asked, gazing around. “I mean all this unoccupied space? Or do you have invisible customers, Miss Grey?”
“They’re invisible at this time of the year.” She smiled back. “The summer doldrums are at their height. Or is it depth? However you measure doldrums.”
“I’m not enough of a sea-dog to know.”
“Dane, I thought writers knew everything,” said Sarah Vernier, delighted at the opening thus presented to her. “You know, Sheila, Dane’s in town working on his new book.”
“Then you and I are in the same leaky boat, Mr. McKell.” Her eyebrows (unplucked, he noticed) had gone up.
“You’re writing a book, too? On haute couture, I suppose.”
“Heavens, I can barely write my name.” He rather liked her laugh; it was fresh and brisk and brief, like a frank handshake. “No, I’m staying in town to work on my new collection.” Sarah Vernier went, “Ohhhhhh...!” with a rising inflection. The showing was scheduled for November, the designer went on. “I should really be home at my drawing board right now. In fact...” Dane saw that she was preparing gracefully to withdraw.
“Sheila, you mustn’t!” wailed Mrs. Vernier. After all, she had come all the way from Rhinebeck, no one else could wait on her properly, she wanted summer and fall things, too — “Dane, help me.”
“I’d be the last one to keep another suffering soul from creative agony, Miss Grey, but if you’ll spare Aunt Sarah a little more of your time I’ll drive you home afterward.”
And “There!” exclaimed Mrs. Vernier in a you-can’t-refuse-now tone of voice. And “Oh, no, no, that won’t be necessary—” Sheila, hurriedly. And how do you like the pressure, dear heart...? Dane went on boyishly: He had never met a designer before, he threw himself on her fellow craftsmanship, and so on. “And think of poor Aunt Sarah, doomed to wear the same miserable rags.”
“I’ll have you know, Mr. McKell, those ‘rags’ came from my shop.”
“Oh, but Sheila,” cried Mrs. Vernier, “I got them here in April.”
“The riposte supreme,” Dane murmured. “Surely you can’t expect a woman to wear clothes she bought in April? It’s unconstitutional, Miss Grey.”
“Is that a sample of your dialogue?” Sheila dimpled. “Well, all right. But if the French and Italians sweep ahead of us next season, you’ll know just where the fault lies.”
“I accept the awesome responsibility. I’ll turn myself over for being spat upon and stoned.”
“While I go bankrupt. Now, Mr. McKell, you sit over there on that chesterfield and twiddle your thumbs. This is women’s work.”
It was clear that she was, if not exactly interested, at least amused. Perhaps, too, the element of danger contributed to her decision. Or am I overstating the situation? Dane thought. Maybe she figures this is the easiest way to get rid of me. Give the little boy what he wants and then send him off with Auntie.
“Sheila, what do you think about this one?”
“I don’t. Billie, take that away. Bring the blue and white shantung.” After a while, skillfully, the designer had Sarah Vernier almost entirely in the charge of her staff, while she sat beside Dane and they chatted about books and New York in midsummer and a dozen other things. Occasionally she put in a word to resolve a doubt of Mrs. Vernier’s, or overrule a suggestion of her salespeople. It was all most adroitly done. She can handle people, Dane thought. I wonder just how she goes about handling Dad.
“I think we’ve crossed the Rubicon,” Sheila Grey said suddenly, rising. Dane jumped up. “Mrs. Vernier won’t have to wear rags after all. Now I really must get home.”
“I’ll drive you, as promised.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Mr. McKell, although it’s noble of you to make the offer. You have to take care of Mrs. Vernier. I’ll grab a taxi.”
“Supper?” he asked quickly.
She looked at him — almost, he thought, for the first time. Had he pulled a boner? Going too fast? She had remarkable directness in her cool gray eyes that warned him to be very cautious indeed.
“Why would you want to take me to supper, Mr. McKell?”
“I have ulterior motives. The fact is, I have to research a designer — and I can’t think of a pleasanter way to do it, by the way, now that I’ve met the woman Aunt Sarah’s raved about so long. Is it a date?”
“It is not. I’m going home and working right through the weekend.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve made a bloody pest of myself.”
“Not at all. It’s I who’s sounding ungracious. I could lunch with you on Monday.”
“Would you? That’s awfully kind. One-ish? One-thirty? Name the time and place, Miss Grey.”
Sheila hesitated. It seemed to Dane that she found herself in a dilemma. That means I’m not repulsive to her, he thought; and he felt a tingle suddenly.
“If you’re really interested in my work, in the whole area of fashion... Tell you what, Mr. McKell. Why don’t you plan to get here a bit earlier Monday? Say, at noon? Then we can go over some of the basic things.”
“Wonderful,” said Dane. “You can’t know what this means to me, Miss Grey. Monday at noon, then. Aunt Sarah?”
“Oh, you two do like each other,” cried Mrs. Vernier, glowing.
Dane had been normally aware that women wore clothes and that their creation was a matter of considerably more moment than, say, the designing of a nuclear flattop. He knew vaguely that there was rivalry between the Continental and American dress houses, and that it resulted in a secrecy that made the answer to Does Macy’s tell Gimbel’s? meekly affirmative. But he was hardly prepared to find Pinkerton guards standing watch over every nook and cranny of Sheila Grey’s establishment except the salon itself.
“It’s almost like the CIA!” he exclaimed.
The comparison was not inexact. In a hugely different degree, on an infinitely smaller scale, the behind-the-scenes scenes of high fashion did have a faint air of the Pentagon gone mad. Men with the dedicated look of the career idealist, women who gave the impression of having studied at the secretive feet of Mata Hari, zealous underlings of the three sexes, and assorted females who could have been camp followers, sat poring over plans, screwed up their tired eyes at sketches, moved from office to office in zombi-like withdrawal; they examined swatches as if the bits of material were secret weapons, and peered with tucked-in lips at lovely young models who, for all the excitement their beauty generated, might have been made of plastic. Here clothes were the only living things.