All That Glitters

She went slowly upstairs to her apartment and fixed herself a meager supper of a ham sandwich and some yogurt, washed down with a cup of coffee.

Somewhere, a loud voice yelled and a shriller voice answered. A baby was crying. Outside on the street, a car backfired—or was it a firecracker, or a pistol shot? Ivory turned on her radio and found some elevator music. Then she picked up her sketch pad and charcoal pencils and went to work on more designs that no one would ever see.

The designers were working feverishly to get ready for the showing of the spring and summer lines that would take place after the first of January. Ivory watched the seamstresses become more harried by the day as they tried to cope with changes and more changes. The pattern-makers threw up their hands and threatened to quit. Dee had said it was the same with each new collection. What looked right on paper became a nightmare when it was translated into patterns and cloth. A pocket might mean so much extra work that it would make the garment too expensive to produce profitably. A few pleats might interfere with a smooth line. A kick pleat in back might not be deep enough, or might be too deep for comfort. A neckline that looked elegant in a drawing might be nearly impossible to sew so that it would lie flat around a neck.

All the adjustments had to be made in the designs long before a garment was put into production. Even couture houses had to keep costs down in a slow economy. Every penny counted even in the production of an expensive garment. Rich people were like the poor, not willing to pay more than they must for a piece of clothing. Mr. Kells, they said, was a fanatic about fads and frills that added to production costs. One of the older designers had cried with frustration when one of her innovative dropped-shoulder designs was scrapped because it took too long to sew properly.

“Ah, the joys of high fashion,” Dee chuckled as they ate lunch at their favorite Japanese restaurant. “Don’t you just love it?”

“It isn’t what I expected,” Ivory replied. “I had such dreams.” She laughed softly into her hot tea as she sipped it. “Well, we live and learn.” She reached for the delicate little teapot.

“No!” Dee exclaimed, taking it away from her. “That isn’t polite. Never, never pour your own tea. Pour someone else’s, but not your own.” She filled Ivory’s cup.

“I’ll remember next time.”

The waiter brought them more sushi and Dee grinned at him warmly. “Domo arigato gozaimasu,” she said, nodding politely.

“Do itashimashite,” he replied with equal politeness, and withdrew.

“You sound so sophisticated when you speak Japanese,” Ivory remarked.

Dee shrugged, pushing back her pale blond hair. “I love languages. Japanese is wonderful—so precise and logical and uncluttered with homonyms. I could teach you.”

“Not on your life. I can scarcely speak fluent English.”

“They say Mr. Kells speaks three other languages besides English, all fluently. His mother is from some Spanish-speaking country, we’ve heard.” She studied Ivory’s head. “You do very well at Spanish, don’t you?”

“I picked up a little because we had some Mexican...neighbors for a while.”

“Where?”

Ivory looked briefly hunted. “Back home.”

“And where is back home?” Dee pursued with a smile.

“Out west,” Ivory said, and changed the subject as quickly as she could. “I meant to ask you something. Miss Raines says that we have to go to some party the first week of December for the brass, did you hear?”

“Yes. We’re going to mingle with the models and the designers like real people.”

“Stop that. It’s supposed to be an honor.”

“And Mr. Kells will be there.”

“I’ll wear my best ragged gown.”

Dee shook her head. “You never look ragged.”

“I will at the party,” she said miserably. “If only I could afford some fabric!” she blurted out.

“I have some pretty Christmassy green Qiana you can have. It looks like silk to the uninitiated.”

“There won’t be any uninitiated people at that party.”

Dee rested her chin on her hand. “Well, it’s pretty material. You’ll look great in it. Got a design in mind?”

Ivory nodded. “One of my own,” she said doggedly. “Since you’re kind enough to supply the material, I’ll run up something for you, too, if you like. I’ve got a nice sewing machine at my apartment.”

Dee had arranged to rent an expensive gown. She didn’t want to hurt Ivory’s feelings, so she hesitated.

“Actually, though,” Ivory added quickly, sensing the reluctant refusal, “it will take a lot of time to do two gowns...”

“I’m renting one, and I’ve already put a down payment on it,” Dee confessed. “But next time, I’d love for you to design something for me.”

“Super. Maybe by then I’ll have managed to pay you back for what you’re advancing me!” Ivory laughed.

Dee studied her face and thought how flawless that complexion was, creamy pink and beautiful, with those big pale gray eyes framed by thick curly lashes. If Ivory let her hair grow long, she’d be a knockout. Even with her hair cut short, she was very attractive. And she had a willowy figure that wasn’t too thin or too voluptuous but seemed to mold itself to any sort of clothing. She was what old-timers would call a clotheshorse. She would have looked good in a potato sack.

“You have nice eyes,” Dee said unexpectedly.

Ivory laughed. “I wish I had green eyes,” she confessed. “Lucky you.”

“Thanks. I was just thinking how pretty your gray ones are, and how your hair would look if you let it grow. Then you could wear one of those white Grecian things and wear your hair in rows of tight curls...”

“You should have been a designer,” came the dry reply.

“I’ll drink to that.” Dee lifted her tea and sipped.

Designing the dress became a prime project for Ivory in the two weeks that followed. She threw away many of her sketches before she finally settled on an updated copy of a gown she’d seen in Tudor portraits of the mid-sixteenth century. It had a square neckline with lavish embroidery and puffed sleeves tapering down to tight cuffs. She left the length as it would have been in that period, but cut it down to a formfitting silhouette that stopped at her ankles. It was a striking concept, but it wasn’t suited to slinky Qiana. It needed to be made of white satin and embroidered with colored thread. But how could she afford that sort of fabric when she was hardly able to buy groceries? She’d just have to make do with what Dee was willing to give her, she thought, and resigned herself to the fact.

At work one day she showed the drawings to Dee, who stared at them openmouthed.

“Will it do?” Ivory asked her, uncertain even now.

“Do? My God!”

“I thought I’d start cutting it out tomorrow. It’s Saturday. If you don’t have any other plans...” she began.

“You can’t use a limp fabric on this,” Dee said.

“Yes, I can,” she argued. “The embroidery will...”

“It will pucker,” Dee said.

Ivory hesitated. Dee was right. A light fabric embroidered so heavily probably would pucker. Maybe she could cut down on the embroidery...

“It needs to be white satin,” Dee suggested.

“Well, yes, but you’ve already got the Qiana. I can’t afford...”