The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [121]
“And that’s just what you are,” the stylist replied. She looked at her in the mirror and smiled. “My, you look beautiful,” she said.
Missie crossed her fingers, hoping she was right. One thing she knew, she didn’t look a bit like Missie O’Bryan from Rivington Street.
Madame’s little silver bell tinkled for silence and her voice came from beyond the curtain, telling her guests how privileged they were to be seeing a preview of her latest spring collection displayed by her sensational mannequins—and that afterward they could view any of the new styles privately in their own homes if they so wished. “Eh bien,” she announced, “now we begin.”
The orchestra swung into a Gershwin tune from Ziegfeld’s latest show. Minerve was ready in an ice-blue afternoon dress with matching shoes and stockings, a floral chiffon scarf trailing from her neck to the ground. With a toss of her head she slunk out onto the catwalk, and Missie heard a spatter of applause and murmurs of appreciation from the salon. Miranda followed in a pale lilac, and then Minette in sugar pink, an outrageous combination with her red hair that drew gasps of admiration.
It was Missie’s turn next. She was wearing a travel suit in a creamy tweed with the new slouch hat pulled down over one eye, high-heeled cream buckled shoes, and half a dozen long ropes of fat, creamy pearls. As the curtains closed softly behind her she froze, staring at the sea of expectant faces turned her way. It’s no good, she thought, panicked, I can’t do it, I just can’t. Her knees shook. She had forgotten everything Madame had taught her, she just wanted to run back inside. Minerve strode past on her way back down the catwalk, throwing her a contemptuous smile as she shrugged back through the curtains, but Missie just stood there, staring at the curious women staring back at her. She thought of Anouska: Hadn’t she been just like these women? She realized suddenly that of course they were not interested in her. All they wanted to see were the clothes.
The thought gave her courage. Taking a deep breath, she strode down the purple platform in her usual long-legged loping walk, pausing here and there to smile at the ladies, extending her arm so they could see the cut of the sleeve, patting the new-style hat and turning her face sideways so they could see how it looked in profile. She stood for a few moments at the end of the platform, then spun around and, with a quick glance over her shoulder, loped back toward the curtains.
Safe in the dressing room listening to the polite spatter of applause, she wondered what Madame would think of her now. But she just could not walk the way the other girls did; she guessed she was just not cut out to be a mannequin after all.
She glanced up as Minerve sauntered past in a gold lace dress embroidered with sparkling copper beads. “Told you, didn’t I?” she said with a snigger. “You can’t make a swan from an ugly duckling.”
The applause was very loud for Minerve, and Missie stepped despondently into the violet chiffon dress, searching the shelf for her silver kidskin slippers. They were not there and she glanced around, puzzled, spotting them at last on the floor under the dressing table. She picked them up, staring at them in horror; the narrow straps that kept them on were broken. Not broken—cut! She remembered Minerve’s jealous smile. Would she stoop to such a thing? She glanced around in panic: The dresser had disappeared and all the maids were out in the salon, busy serving China tea and little cakes. Miranda and Minette were standing by the curtain waiting their turn, but anyway she knew they would not help.
She threw down the shoes in despair: It was the last straw; she knew now she was doomed to failure. She stared at her reflection in the big mirror and knew she looked beautiful. She remembered her confident promise to Azaylee that morning and was suddenly filled with a ruthless kind of courage, a do-or-die feeling. “Oh, what the hell,”