Chapter Six
Ten minutes later, Lauren was sorry she had refused Mike’s offer. She unlocked the door to the sitting room, relocked it from the inside, noted that the door to the models’ room was closed, and slipped quietly into her own bedroom.
She was immediately aware of a heavy reek of wine. Oh, no, she groaned, not Herbert again. Switching on the light, she glanced quickly at the bed, fearful of seeing a red-faced, drunken man asleep on it. The bed was empty.
Lauren scanned the room. Her glance rested on the covered rack containing the new collection. She went to it at once to check on its safety. At least no one had taken it. But then she noticed that, near it, the stench of wine was stronger.
Frantically, Lauren unzipped the cover. Then she stood, frozen, staring. One hand crept up to press against her lips. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision, unable, unwilling to believe. . . .
Every garment on the rack had been liberally soaked with wine. Dark red and odorous, the heavy liquid still dripped from many of the costumes. The shoulders and tops of her new dresses and suits had the most massive stains . . . not removable even if she had time. It was wrecked. The whole new collection was ruined.
Although she knew it was no use, Lauren gently separated the dripping garments and tried to assess the damage. Was there anything usable left? The showing! Could she pull together a few outfits, enough to make some kind of presentation?
No. Whoever had done this had separated each hanger and doused its burden liberally. How many gallons does it take to ruin a collection? Lauren heard herself asking wildly.
She walked back and sat on the side of her bed almost mindlessly. She was finished. Aside from the destruction of months of work, there would be her public failure to present a fashion show tomorrow. How could she explain that to the Cunard officials who had given her this wonderful chance? Of course she could tell them about the ruined garments, but that wouldn’t fill the runway for the final presentation of their special event. The event for which this very cruise had been set up. They would naturally wish to know what kind of security she had set up and how it had been breached.
Who would be this eager to see Lauren Rose fail? Carlos? How could he have gotten into her bedroom? The staff and crew of the Queen Elizabeth II were not people who could be bribed to open doors.
Herbert had had a key! On Sunday night he had been sprawled on the couch when she entered the sitting room. She tried to remember whether he had had a key or imposed on Dani. If he had a key, had he dropped it on a table before he left?
Lauren rubbed her forehead frantically. She must think. What was to be done? Go at once to the cruise director and tell her of the disaster, of course. And then find Derek and tell him—
Derek! Her eyes widened with incredulous joy. He and Tony had wheeled out a whole rack of the costumes, everything they would be wearing for their presentation, before she had left for Mike’s suite. September Song still had a show! Incomplete, yes—quite failing to do justice to her planning and the seamstresses’ inspired sewing—but a show. Lauren dropped to her bed and lay there, a hand over her eyes, too busy planning to cry.
*****
She waited until after breakfast to tell Nella and Dani about the vicious sabotage. With the air-conditioner going all night, she had cleared out some of the reek from her bedroom, but a steward would have to be summoned to remove the sodden mess and clean up the carpet. She ordered breakfast to be served in the suite, preferring to keep the models as unflustered as possible, and well away from prying eyes that might note their reactions. While she was waiting, she dressed in the suit she had worn to Mike’s cabin the night before, let her hair fall in its natural soft waves to her shoulders—she didn’t think she could endure a single pin or clasp—and then went to rouse Nella and Dani.
Dani at once noticed the faint redolence of wine. “Had a little party last night, Ms. Rose?” she gibed.
Lauren went to the door of her bedroom, opened it, and pointed. Both girls crowded forward to look, gasped, and turned stricken faces toward her.
“Who did it?” Nella gasped.
“Someone who got a key from somewhere, or who was let in.” Lauren said slowly. “Did either of you let anyone in last night?”
“I left the door open for the doctor,” Nella wailed. “It’s all my fault.” She gulped. “But I don’t see why he would want to ruin our show,” she added wretchedly.
“I’m sure he didn’t,” Lauren told her. “But an open door was an invitation to anyone to enter.” She squared her shoulders. “Not to worry—as our English friends say, I think I can handle it.”
“What are we going to do?” demanded Dani.
Lauren felt a wave of gratitude at that partisan “we.”
“We’ve still got all the clothes the troupe are going to wear for their act. Thank God, they needed them last night to iron out some problem in their presentation. That means there’s enough costumes for us to do some sort of modified showing. The great dress is safe.” That was the way they had referred to the jewel of Lauren’s collection, the velvet, sequin, and chiffon creation that Lauren believed was the most beautiful gown she had ever designed. It was certainly the most original.
“Will you make an announcement about the sabotage?” Dani asked.
“I haven’t gotten that far,” Lauren admitted. “I’ve been awake half the night thinking what sort of presentation I can make with two-thirds of the clothes gone. We’ve got shoes and accessories, but what they’ll fit in with, I’m still trying to work out.”
Nella said surprisingly, “I think it was that Mr. Masen. He hates you, Ms. Rose.”
Lauren and Dani stared at the tall woman in surprise.
“You could be right,” Dani said. “Look at how the rat has acted. Can you pin it on him, Lauren?”
It was the first time Dani had ever called her anything but “Ms. Rose” and Lauren felt supported by the friendship. She said honestly, “I’m not sure I could prove it, and the hassle of making charges like that against a rat like Herbert might spoil our image. Let’s just go into the show looking like brave little soldiers who are facing the challenge as best they can, eh? That ought to win us some support.”
The models nodded dubiously. The saboteur’s action had been a shrewd blow against them as well as against Lauren, and they were angry and resentful.
They ate a good breakfast, which relieved Lauren of one of her fears. The models had taken it well, with a spirited resolve to beat the underhanded attacker at his rotten game. As soon as they had finished, Lauren shepherded them to the rehearsal room and briefly explained the problem to the troupe. They didn’t say much, although the little they did say was too colorful to repeat. At least Lauren had a wonderful sense that their loyalty and total support were hers.
As she was leaving to consult with the steward about the removal and boxing up of the clothes—they might conceivably be needed as evidence—Nella said hesitantly, “Remember your color sketches of all the new collection, Lauren? She looked embarrassed as they stared at her. “You know, you told us you were carrying a portfolio, in case any client asked to see some of the designs with a view to buying . . .”
“Yes, I’ve got the portfolio in my briefcase. When I found out we’d drawn last place in the program lineup, I didn’t think I’d have time to discuss it with any prospective buyers. Why do you ask?”
“I thought we might put the sketches up on easels or something, and that would show everybody just what that rat Masen spoiled.”
Lauren considered quickly. “I’ll get them, unless—” Oh, God, Herbert knew about the sketches. Had he got at them too? She went on calmly, not wishing to disturb her team any more than they already were, “I’ll check them while I’m in the cabin. Go on with your rehearsal, gang. I’ll be back in a flash with snacks.”
They’ve forgotten me already, Lauren thought as she heard the faint beat of music behind the locked door. It was good to see their dedication to her show. Lauren knew that even if everything didn’t turn out, at least she’d made some real friends who meant more than any lounge full of wealthy patrons. Then she caught herself up. What kind of naïve idiot was she? You’re a businesswoman, Rose, she told herself. Now you’d better prove it, for everyone’s sake.
The steward, when he came, was properly horrified at the mess some vandal had made of Madame’s clothing. He said it must be reported to the purser, and possibly even to the captain. Lauren explained about her showing that afternoon, barely five hours away. The man’s concern was comforting, and, after telling her he would ask the purser to send someone down to her rooms at once, he left, pushing the ruined collection before him.
Lauren waited for the officer in the sitting room. When he came, Maida Hass was with him, and Reb Crowell. Maida, her expression concerned and helpful, asked the expected questions.
“I can’t be sure who did it,” Lauren confessed. “I was out of the cabin until almost midnight and the models were asleep in their own cabin. Whoever did it worked quietly.”
“And had a key or access,” added the reporter.
“That idea worries me,” the cruise director confessed. “The Line—”
“I can assure you,” Lauren said quickly. “I am convinced no member of the staff would supply entrance to any unauthorized person.” She hesitated. “There is a good chance that my husband’s friend, Mr. Herbert Masen, got a key from one of the models the first day out. She wouldn’t have suspected anything, since he is, actually, a shareholder in my business, September Song.”
“Do you intend bringing charges, Mrs. Rose?” asked the officer quietly.
Lauren shook her head. “No. At this point, that sort of fuss would detract from my presentation and cause an unpleasant situation without solving anything.”
“You intend going on with the show?” Reb asked incredulously. “I thought your costumes were ruined.”
Lauren looked around at the three people in her cabin. Every face was friendly, interested. “May I trust you not to say anything about all this until after the show today?”
They nodded, and the reporter grinned. “I told you I’d mention your name, Mrs. Rose, and I sure will, but not until you’ve made your comeback. Just how do you plan to put on a show with no costumes?”
Lauren smiled. “That’s the break I got. Not all the costumes were on the rack. About one third of them were in a small room we requested for secret rehearsals. You see I got an idea . . .” And she told them about the dance troupe and the special presentation. “By the most wonderful stroke of luck, Mr. Derek Strange needed the costumes I’d assigned for their performance, and he and Tony called for them last night. They’re safe. Right now the troupe is working on details with my models and we’re going to put on a show.”
Lauren was surprised and almost in tears when the three people clapped heartily.
Maida said firmly. “I think you’re right about not making trouble before the show, but I do think an announcement could be made just before we start this afternoon. Think of the suspense! I’ll handle that part.”
The officer smiled and shook her hand. “You’re showing splendid spirit, Mrs. Rose, if I may be permitted to say so. Courage and restraint.” He shook his head. “My own impulse would be to knock the fellow sideways.” Lauren laughed and mimed a punch.
Reb grinned at her. “Feisty, aren’t you? What a story this is going to make. Don’t worry, I’ll hold it until after the show. In the meantime, if it’s not illegal or unethical, I’d like to wish you the best of luck, Lauren.” He too shook her hand.
When they had left, Lauren wasted no time returning to the room where the rehearsal was going on. She ordered sandwiches and beer and coffee to be sent in, and stood guard by the door to take in the trolley herself when it arrived.
The rehearsal was going well. It seemed that the sabotage had brought the determination and creative skill of the dancers to a high point. Even Nella and Dani were being helpful, offering sensible and practical advice, demonstrating the model’s walk and postures so Tony could mime them. He did so with such gusto and wit that even Nella was soon chuckling and Dani didn’t seem offended at his sly little jokes about her profession. Lauren, dispensing food and drink, could hardly believe the feeling of comradeship they were all sharing. And gradually a presentation was emerging that combined the best of a formal fashion showing with some delightful comedy and graceful, costume-flattering dances. Lauren wondered if she dared breathe a sigh of relief yet, and then superstitiously crossed her fingers.
During the few minutes when Derek was not rehearsing, Lauren told him about the colored sketches of her whole new collection, safe in her briefcase. He was very interested and advised her to them on display.
“It’s proof, if any is needed, that you did have a terrific collection. And the sketches will show what it looked like. I’d be willing to wager you might even get some takers—or buyers, or clients, or whatever you high-fashion types call it.” He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. “What we need here is visibility. Taping them on the walls of the lounge wouldn’t do. So where?”
Lauren tried to think of something original and couldn’t. She hadn’t enough assistants to have them parade with the large, colorful sketches.
Derek gave a sound of triumph. “Got it, I think. What are the runways made of?”
“Wood, usually.”
“How high are they—off the ground, I mean? About four feet?”
“Something like that,” guessed Lauren, who’d never thought about it before.
“Then we’ll tape the designs on the sides of the runway, so everyone can see them and can’t tear or deface them without all the rest of the people in the row witnessing the act. Tell Maida Hass before the show. I know they close the lounge for an hour before a presentation to be sure everything’s clean and shipshape.”
“You do have a fund of knowledge,” Lauren teased, delighted at his suggestion. “I’ll take the sketches to Maida right away. That is, if you think you can spare me from this rehearsal?” She chuckled.
“We’ll manage,” Derek said.
Maida was more than willing to help in any way possible. She promised to have the sketches taped up around the runway. “If I can tear myself away from them long enough to have it done,” she admitted, drooling over the brilliant, colorful drawings.
Lauren returned to her cabin, feeling breathless and frightened and full of gratitude all at the same time. Her phone was ringing as she unlocked the door. She swung it closed behind her and ran to catch the call.
It was Mike Landrill.
“I need to see you, Lauren.”
“My showing is in a couple of hours, Mike. May I see you afterward?” Lauren was surprised that she had breath to answer him, so fiercely was her heart pounding in her breast.
There was a little pause. “What’s wrong?” Mike asked softly.
“You mean you haven’t heard? Ship security must be tighter than I suspected, or else Herbert’s ashamed to boast that he ruined my collection,” Lauren said. She hadn’t intended to tell anyone. She wasn’t even aware that the words were there until she heard them herself.
And then she heard him say, in that deep dark voice that so excited her. “Stay there. I’ll be right down.”
Is that what I wanted? She asked herself. Then she ran into her cabin and checked her makeup and brushed her hair until it gleamed and shone like white gold.
She hardly had time to return to the sitting room before there was an imperative knock on the door and Mike entered. His nostrils flared at the pervasive smell of wine.
“What happened?”
Lauren told him. His face became stone-hard. “What have you done about it?”
“The cruise director knows. So do the judges, by now—Reb Crowell was here. I’ve asked them all to say nothing until after the showing this—”
“Showing?” Mike interrupted. “What will you show?”
Lauren explained about the clothes the troupe had taken away.
“So some of your lovely designs were saved,” Mike said slowly. “And, being you, of course you’re going ahead with what’s left. Well, I congratulate you. And no, I won’t talk about it, or break Masen’s neck as I should do. Was Carlos de Sevile in on it?”
Lauren shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t even seen Herbert today, much less accused him. And I may not ever do that. I’m just tired of the whole chintzy mess. The dancers and my models have been so good, so supportive. I feel blessed just knowing how fine some people are.”
Mike looked at her intently. “No raging desire for blood? No revengeful counterplans? I’m getting to know you under fire, Lauren. What’s that academic handle—Professor Emeritus? You know it means a title won in the heat of battle? I’m going to call you Lauren, Designer Emeritus.”
He smiled for the first time since he’d entered the cabin. Then he came to her and took her in his arms. It was so natural, so sweet, so right, that Lauren forgot her resolutions and relaxed against him in perfect peace. After a moment, he rocked her gently, a slight motion, but one that made her very conscious, for the first time, of his hard body against her softness. She caught in a deep breath of the lovely male smell of him, clean flesh, a spicy cologne, fresh linen.
“You smell good,” she whispered.
His body telegraphed laughter to hers, and he drawled, “I think you do too, but it’s hard to tell with so much wine in the air. Come up to my stateroom and we’ll investigate.”
Lauren drugged with the unexpected pleasure of being held in his arms again, was ready to agree to anything when the phone rang.
“Never a dull moment,” she murmured, reluctantly releasing herself from his possessive hold.
He followed her to the telephone and, standing close behind her, took her breasts in his hands. Lauren almost hung up, so keen was the excitement that firm grip roused in her.
“Hello?” she managed.
The next instant she was upright and holding the receiver to her ear tightly. “Why, hello, Lady Winston-Bell,” she stammered.
“I’ve just heard of the dreadful thing that happened to your collection, Mrs. Rose, and your very gallant intention to present the dresses you have left. I wonder if you have time to see me for just a few minutes? I know how frantically busy this morning must be for you, and I can come to your cabin at once if that is convenient?”
“Of course, I shall be delighted,” said Lauren.
When she hung up, she told Mike what was happening. “I suppose she wants to reassure you, or something,” he murmured discontentedly. “I wanted to comfort you.”
He was so much like a small boy denied a treat that Lauren grinned. Then, greatly daring, she said, “Perhaps you’d like to invite me to dinner in your suite again?” Third-time lucky, her heart prompted.
“I’m taking you to the Captain’s Dinner tonight,” Mike said casually. “I want to be there when we hear who won.”
“I’d love to go with you to the dinner,” Lauren said. To have him near her, beside her—whether the evening produced pain or triumph—that would be security. The kind of thing a married couple would do, she told herself, but didn’t say so to Mike.
He left, and Lauren hastily checked the cabin and opened the window to assist in dispersing the still-lingering wine odor.
When Lady Winston-Bell arrived, Lauren led her to a chair and sat down across from her. The older woman took no time for idle chatter. “I understand your models were working with some of your costumes when this terrible thing happened. Did you save enough to put on a show?”
“Yes, with the kind of performance I have envisioned,” Lauren said quietly. “I know you don’t want to hear the details, since you will be judging our presentation this afternoon. Maida Hass intends to announce the sabotage, but I do wish to give a modified showing.”
“I am so pleased you are taking the dastardly blow so gamely.” She smiled at Lauren. “I must tell you that I have requested a brief meeting with each designer, so that I may understand the theory, the artistic intention, behind the style of each collection. Would you tell me what you feel is the particular motivation behind your designs?”
“Yes, I’d like that,” Lauren answered cheerfully. “I like to believe that a woman does not need to become either a vegetable or a wax dummy on the eve of her thirtieth birthday. She is still the same warm, vital, creative human being she was the day before. If she has taken intelligent care of her body and stimulated her mind, she should be able to function in every way as a woman until she is twice that age.”
Lady Winston-Bell laughed delightedly. “You only give us sixty years, Mrs. Rose? Conservative of you!”
Lauren returned her guest’s pleasant smile. “I was once told that the whole body regenerates or rebuilds itself every seven years. And recently I read that there is a perfect pattern for reconstruction in every cell. Why shouldn’t these patterns continue to create good cells for us?” She chuckled at the look on the other woman’s face. “No, I’m not trying to start a cult; I’m just optimistic, life-oriented, busy, happy. And I seem to be making it work, somehow. But, as for growth, I believe it brings change also. The clothes that suited me when I was five or fifteen or twenty-five are not suitable for me today.”
“In other words, you think a woman doesn’t get older, she just gets better?”
“Something like that. Didn’t Shakespeare say, ‘ripeness is all?’ Aren’t the greatest vintages mature ones? Life gives us time to learn to appreciate the rarest wines, time to build relationships that are strong and able to weather the storms.” Lauren caught herself up. “Do forgive me, Lady Winston-Bell. I am giving a lecture rather than answering simply.”
The older woman rose gracefully to her feet, her smile warm and reassuring. “You’ve told me exactly what I wished to hear: your philosophy of design. No wonder your own clothes are so beautifully simple and suitable. And so pretty.”
Lauren thanked her and saw her to the door. Then she sank down into a chair and wondered what other surprises this day would bring. She immediately jumped up, shocked that she could, even momentarily, have forgotten that September Song would be presenting an unusual fashion show within two hours. She hurried to don the simple, elegant violet silk dress she had chosen for the occasion.
The next two hours were hectic, but the enthusiasm of her team carried them and Lauren toward the moment of truth. Ten minutes before the Royal Court Lounge was opened to the public, Lauren knew they had done all that eight human beings could do. Even the small orchestra, having heard of the destruction of most of Mrs. Rose’s costumes, seemed determined to support her with their most careful and spirited playing. Maida was quietly helpful, making sure that coffee and broth were available, checking the stage and the curtains she had had installed across the arch.
Lauren stood at a lookout behind one of the side screens. At this moment, it seemed to her that for all their efforts her team was doomed to fail, not through any fault of their own, but because there would be no audience to evaluate the designs. The judges were already in place, their small table and scoring sheets before them. Besides the three of them, so few people sat in the comfortable chairs that Lauren’s heart sank. Had someone spread the word among the first class passengers that the show wasn’t worth bothering about? Was it known that her costumes had been ruined? Lauren resolved that her show would go on if only these few people watched it.
And then Herbert strolled in, with his youthful girlfriend clinging to his arm. Lauren saw him glance around as he sat down near the runway—in a position to gloat, thought Lauren—counting the poor attendance with satisfaction. Just you wait, Herbert Masen, just you wait.
There was a stir at the entrance. People began to stream into the room—well-dressed, laughing people. Soon the seats were comfortably filled, and still new arrivals entered and searched for places. Lauren could hardly believe her eyes. And then she saw Mike, big and darkly handsome in a lounge suit that had surely been made in London. Mike Landrill was shepherding the influx of guests, smiling broadly. Lauren couldn’t believe the warmth of the feeling of gratitude that rose within her. Mike was acting like a partner. No, more than a partner. She turned to the troupe and caught Derek’s eye. There was determination in her own.
“Ready?” she called to him.
He nodded, grinning.
Lauren gestured to the leader of the musicians. The strains of “A Pretty Girl Is like a Melody” drifted gently through the lounge. The curtains drew slowly back, revealing a boutique at night. Two artificial mannequins on platforms were revealed, dressed in costumes that gleamed and glowed softly in the dim light. The mannequins posed rigidly, their makeup indicating that they were lay figures. Slowly the lights brightened. A baby spot focused on one figure. It was Nella. Her red hair glowed in the light. She was wearing a sheath of bronze silk that clung lovingly to her splendid figure and enriched the luster of her air. As with most of the September Song dresses, this one had no busy details or ornaments to distract the eye from the pure, flowing line of the design and the body in it. While the murmur of pleasure was still rising from the audience, a second spotlight came on, revealing Dani in the jewel of Lauren’s collection.
Dani looks like a princess, Lauren thought. The way most of us dream of looking. Her head of glistening black curls was held proudly. The small body wore the lovely dress with such verve that, even frozen into position, the gown shimmered. There were audible gasps of appreciation as the musicians paused for a moment before moving triumphantly into “Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing”.
The ivory velvet of the bodice was artfully sewn with pasted sequins, gentle yet erotic. From the waist, soft floats of chiffon to pastel colors flowed to Dani’s ankles, and though they were, of course, motionless now, Lauren knew how they would sway and shift enchantingly as the wearer walked or danced, revealing a brief tantalizing glimpse of thigh or ankle. The costume was a celebration of femininity. The audience loved it, applauding generously.
A tiny chill went over Lauren’s skin. Those were her two best designs. She had given her strongest cards away, and the show was just beginning. Normally the greatest design was saved to crown and climax the showing. Then she shrugged and forced herself to relax. Nothing in this performance was normal, routine. She had better keep her mind on the job of helping the performers into and out of their costumes.
A change in the music announced the entrance of the cleaning women. The lighthearted, irreverent “With a Little Bit of Luck” caused laughter as Violet, Polly, and Dolly strolled in, impudently examined the gowns of the rigid mannequins. Although she was seeing it from the back, Lauren had to chuckle at the hilarious mime Tony had created for the women. Their heads were swathed in cloth, to protect the elaborate coiffures they would need to display after they donned the beautiful gowns from the collection. Their work clothes disguised the essential undergarments. They mimed around the mannequins, peacocking absurdly with their brooms and dusters, until one of them, Violet, made a decision. Calling the other two close, she mimed a proposal to which the others heartily agreed. Then, very carefully, they pulled the stand bearing Dani back behind the screens.
At once Lauren was ready to assist Dani out of the costume and put Polly in it. While this was happening, Dolly and Violet pulled Nella’s platform behind the screen as Polly prepared to go on stage.
Tongue in cheek, the musicians played “Here She Comes, Miss America” as Polly danced on stage. Then, followed by a pink spot, Polly danced down the runway, apparently in a dream of joy. This was well received; the applause was generous.
By the time Polly had returned to the stage, Violet was out, dressed in the bronze silk, which flattered her newly bronzed hair. Her movements, at first awkward, to carry out the idea of the cleaning woman’s inexpertness as a model, gradually changed as the music swelled into “Where Is Love?” And then Derek and Tony entered, in black leotards and tights with large security-guard patches on their shoulders. Polly and Dolly came running in, dressed in delicate afternoon gowns. There was a mimed chase as the guards attempted to catch the women. For this amusing scene, the orchestra played an hilarious mélange of classical czardas, a pizzicato from “Sylvia,” which cried out for the tiptoeing choreography Tony had chosen, and then an absurd segue into “Camptown Races”. The audience, tickled with the mood music, enjoyed the dancing tremendously.
Then the tempo changed. The guards caught the cleaning women and held them, but instead of an official grip, the contact became a slow dance of invitation and acceptance. For this, the orchestra played Viennese waltzes. The men slipped away behind the screens and changed into formal evening wear, reentered the stage, and bowing, requested the pleasure of the dance. Violet, in the bronze silk, was the first led out, by Derek. The two tall dancers swayed and swung to the music as though in a dream. The man’s head was bent adoringly over the woman’s. They smiled. The women in the audience loved it.
Then, as Derek returned his partner to the stage, Tony moved down the runway with Dolly. Derek followed with Polly in the jewel dress. Their sensuously rhythmic movements displayed Lauren’s designs perfectly. Tony had choreographed this part of the dance to emphasize the beauty-in-motion of the long chiffon “leaves”. Again the audience received the effort with enthusiastic applause.
And then, to the dismay of most of the audience, the lights began to dim. At first the dancers did not notice; then, as the music took on a gentler note, they seemed to become aware that the party was over. To the rather mournful notes of “Good Night, Sweetheart”, the guards returned the cleaning women to the stage and brought back the platforms. By this time Nella was again robed in her bronze dress and the men carried her out and placed her on her platform. A musician sounded twelve strokes of midnight on his chimes. The pensive mood was most delightfully and unexpectedly broken by the hasty entrance of the guards bearing Dani—in her exquisite bridal underwear! As they set her on her platform, the baby-pink spot lighted her delicious contours, to the guards’ obvious consternation. Tony rushed backstage, caught the evening cloak Lauren was holding ready, ran back on, and flung the cape about the pretty figure just as the last note struck. The audience loved this little scene, especially the men.
Then the lights went out and the curtains were drawn across the stage.
Lauren had been concentrating so hard on helping with costume changes that she had scarcely had time to listen to the audience’s reaction to the show. She did hear—after the first few startled moments when the audience was apparently shocked into silence by the unusual nature of the show—scattered applause, laughter, and the silence that denotes absorbed attention. When the final curtain came, there was a minute of absolute silence. Lauren clenched her hands so tightly that the nails cut into her palms. And then there was a crash, a barrage of clapping, and cries of “Bravo” and “Well done!” Lauren slumped against the wall, trembling. It was over and most of the audience evidently liked it.
Now she heard the well-bred, clear accents of Lady Winston-Bell. “What you have seen today, ladies and gentlemen, was the very courageous and successful attempt of a woman designer to give you a showing after two-thirds of her beautiful new collection had been deliberately ruined. By whom, it has not yet been determined, but investigations are being made.”
There was a buzz of comment and exclamation from the audience. This was far more exciting than the average fashion show. Quite like the movies, in fact. Artistic sabotage, spies, secret forays by night!
Lady Winston-bell resumed. “If you care to inspect the drawings that have been put up around the runway, you will see some of the lovely costumes Lauren Rose had hoped to please you with today. And now, a special tribute to a gallant lady, if you please.” And she led another round of applause.
The curtains swung back and Derek and Tony, in the evening dress of their dance scene, led Lauren out onto the stage, and presented her to the audience. The applause became louder. Lauren smiled, bowed, and then curtsied to the judges, spreading the full violet silk of her skirt into softly rippling wings. When she turned to leave the stage, Derek and Tony again made themselves her escorts. The curtain closed. Backstage, the team fell into one another’s arms, babbling with happiness and triumph.
“I think you might have a chance of winning,” Dani said slowly. “I really didn’t think so, until now. I just knew I had to help you, no matter how poor the show was. But it was great!” She looked at Tony soulfully. “Could you teach me some of those steps?” she asked, fluttering her long artificial eyelashes at him.
Back to her old tricks, thought Lauren. But she didn’t have the heart to hold such tricks against a loyal member of the team, not when they’d pulled a show from the very depths of disaster.
In the next few minutes, however, it began to appear that they had not. A flurry at the entrance, voices rising above the cheerful chattering of the crowd, and then, when people were turning to see what the excitement was about, Carlos de Sevile came pushing through the departing audience like a small bright tugboat breasting heavy seas. At his shoulder, two of his assistants followed grimly. Carlos came to stand before the three judges, who were quietly talking near the runway.
“I demand to be heard,” announced Carlos, very much aware of the numbers of guests who were watching him.
“What’s with you, Señor Carlos?” Rebel Crowell asked. “Some of your designs sabotaged?” His glance was frankly skeptical.
“My collection was properly protected. Not left unguarded while the designer spent her time in—”
“I think you had something to tell us, Mr. de Sevile?” interrupted Lady Winston-Bell in a voice whose cool authority could not be denied. “Do so, please, without irrelevant comments.”
Carlos glared at her, but his brash arrogance weakened before her calm, authoritative manner. “I wish to register a complaint,” he blustered. “Ms. Rose has broken the rules of this Fashion Cruise by putting on a theatrical performance instead of a legitimate fashion show.”
“Did you personally watch the alleged theatrical performance?” Reb gibed. “I seem to recall hearing that you were buying drinks last night and trying to dissuade people from attending.”
Lady Winston-Bell frowned at the designer. “Are you making a formal charge without having seen the performance?” she asked.
Carlos shrugged. “I sent one of my assistants. He had just brought me the information.”
“Then perhaps he should make the charge, since he has the information and you don’t,” suggested Reb, who was obviously enjoying baiting the pompous designer.
“Mr. Crowell,” Mrs. Dornelius warned, “this is not a joking matter. Serious charges are being made.” Since it was the first time the third judge had spoken, everyone looked at her. She was a handsome woman and her dark tan (hunting in the Shires, yachting in the Med and the Bahamas) contrasted effectively with the white linen suit she was wearing this afternoon. It was clear she didn’t like Carlos de Sevile, but it was also well-known that she never permitted personal feelings to influence her in any way.
“Very well,” Carlos said recklessly. In the brief conversation he had had with his almost hysterical assistant, he had gathered that Lauren’s show had been a greater success than Carlos’s own, that Michael Landrill had been there with a huge party, and that the destruction of most of her costumes had been used as a sympathy-getter. Something needed to be done. He said, “My assistant, Dicky Devon, will bring a written statement to the cruise director’s office within twenty minutes.”
Lady Winston-Bell spoke up. “I have read the rules quite carefully. I assure you there is nothing stated therein that denies the designer the right to present his or her work in any way he or she deems suitable.”
Reb Crowell glanced around. They had an audience, dozens of well-dressed men and women obviously enjoying the drama of this confrontation. The reporter suggested, “Why don’t we call a conference in the cruise director’s office? Request all the designers, including Mrs. Rose, to attend? Better to clear this up right away.”
Lady Winston-Bell and Mrs. Cornelius nodded. Carlos, neglecting to thank them for their consideration, hurried away to lobby with as many of the designers as he could reach before the meeting.
Lauren stood quietly backstage, surrounded by her appalled team. No one knew quite what to say. After a moment, Lauren broke the silence. “Well, at least I’m to be given a fair hearing, which is more than the wine-thrower gave me.”
Derek touched her shoulder lightly. “May I come with you? You might need some support.”
Lauren placed her hand lightly over his for a moment. “Thank you. But I have an idea this inquisition is to be limited to designers and judges.”
Violet nodded her head sharply once. “We’ll wait outside in the lobby, luv. Then you can shout for us if you want us.”
Lauren took time to check her appearance in a ladies lounge before she went to Maida’s office. When she got there, she glanced around the outer lobby hopefully. Just a glimpse of Mike’s big, comforting body would have given her support for the coming ordeal. Violet and Derek were there, seated in two leather armchairs, and they gave her encouraging smiles. Mike wasn’t there.
Inside the office, Maida was listening while Reb Crowell reviewed the situation. Mrs. Cornelius and Lady Winston-Bell were talking quietly at one side of the room. Stewards were bringing in extra chairs. Several of the designers were already present. Maida, looking harried, asked the stewards to bring tea. Lauren, feeling like a criminal, took a seat by herself near the door. Jan Haliday, the designer behind the Janus line, entered, noticed Lauren, and came to sit beside her.
“I caught your show,” he said, smiling. “It was awesome, when you consider what de Sevile did to your collection.”
“Thank you,” Lauren answered, more cheered than she realized by this friendly gesture. “Your show was, uh, awesome, too. Those leathers are wonderful. How—?”
Still smiling, Jan shook his head. “Trade secret, Mrs. Rose,” he murmured.
Lauren frowned. “You said de Sevile wrecked my costumes. Do you know that for a fact?”
Jan stopped smiling. “No, dear. I just took it for granted. He’s such a nasty little beast and that’s just the sort of thing he’d do. He’s been bad-mouthing you, both personally and as a designer, ever since he came on board. The rest of us can’t quite understand it.” His raised eyebrows were a request for information.
Lauren said slowly, “I think he may be worried because Landrill’s, to whom he’s under contract, has made me an offer. His contract is up next year and I’m informed they don’t intend to renew.”
Jan whistled softly. “That would do it. Have you any evidence. Carlos’s boys were near your stateroom?”
“No. And I’m not sure it was Carlos. There’s someone else who wants to manipulate my business and he had a better chance than anyone to get into my cabin.” She caught herself up and stared hard into the handsome face beside her. “You must have magic,” she said. “I can’t think why I’m telling you all my problems like this.”
“Maybe because we’re not rivals,” Jan suggested, smiling widely. “I make a rather good friend, in spite of what creatures like de Sevile have to say about me.” He stared at her worried face. “I’ll vote for you, dear.” He laughed. “Anything to frustrate our darling Carlos.”
Lauren felt comforted but her musings were cut short abruptly when several people entered the office at once. When they were seated, Maida took the floor. She explained briefly the reason for the meeting and told the designers that there would be a chance for each one to express an opinion, if so desired, and then a vote would be taken as to whether Lauren Rose’s presentation had in any way broken the letter or the spirit of the Fashion Cruise agreement.
Carlos was on his feet at once, spouting his objections.
Maida held up one hand. “Señor de Sevile,” she said quietly, “you are aware that you have only one chance to speak at this meeting? After that you may vote, but you must not speak again.”
“This is absurd,” he shrilled. “I am not obliged to conform to your ridiculous rules—” He stopped, made aware of what he had said by the quizzical smiles of the other designers and Reb Crowell’s wolfish grin.
The reporter made the too-obvious point. “You’re telling us, Señor Carlos, that Mrs. Rose has to abide by the rules and you don’t?”
Carlos sat down, for once aware that he was in hostile territory, not surrounded by his usual sycophants.
Maida went on as though the interruption had not occurred. “I’ll poll each designer. Then I’ll ask the judges for their opinion. Mrs. Rose, you won’t have a vote.”
Lauren smiled. “I understand.”
Briefly and succinctly, Maida outlined the problem. She began, however, with a brief description of the sabotage. As an unexpected bit of evidence, she pressed a bell and a steward wheeled in the rack of ruined garments. Everyone stared, appalled, at the reeking mess. Designers themselves, they knew all too well the endless hours that had gone into creating such a collection; anger and disgust were plain on most of the faces. Adah Shere presented her habitual serenely blank expression. Maartens was frowning slightly but not revealing his thoughts.
Carlos got up to speak, met Maida’s glance, and sat down. It was obvious, however, that he did not feel this display of sodden garments had much to do with Lauren’s performance.
Then, after the steward had wheeled the rack out, Maida continued, “Mrs. Rose’s presentation was dance—quite permissible and even rather universally accepted as routine by most designers—and some mime to illustrate the little story she devised to show her costumes to best effect.”
Carlos could no longer contain himself. “Little story! It was a half-hour show!”
“What would you have done, de Sevile,” drawled Maartens, “if someone had ruined all your costumes just hours before your show?”
“I wouldn’t permit such a stupid thing to happen to me,” Carlos scoffed. “I’m a professional, not some two-bit dressmaker!”
“That finishes your right to comment,” Maida said sternly. “I want to hear from the other designers. Have any of you a comment to make before we take the vote?”
“Since I didn’t see the show,” Telford said, “I really can’t make a fair comment.”
“I did see it,” Jan spoke up. “It was bright, effective in showing off the mobility of the dresses and the feminine styling, witty, and in good taste.” He grinned at de Sevile.
Maida passed out the slips of paper and pencils. “Please write yes if you wish to allow Mrs. Rose’s presentation to be admitted; no if you wish to disallow it.”
When they had written, Maida collected the slips. Of the six who voted, three were yes, the other three were no.
“Tie vote,” Maida announced formally. “This means the three judges will have to vote to break the tie.” She handed slips to the judges.
Lady Winston-Bell said firmly, “I’m going to vote viva voce. My decision is that Mrs. Rose’s innovative-through-dire-necessity presentation should be admitted to the contest.”
“I’m afraid I disagree,” Mrs. Cornelius said. “We really shouldn’t open the door to Hollywood-type performances in a fashion show. I vote no.”
Lauren’s heart fell. For a brief moment, she had felt a lifting of the heart at the firm support of Lady Winston-Bell. Now she was back where she started. Would Rebel Crowell want to spoil his story? Lauren could see the headline? Noted designer kicked out of posh Fashion Show on board luxury liner Queen Elizabeth II.
Reb didn’t even look at her. “I vote yes.” That was it.
Lauren rose quickly and almost ran from the room. She was deeply afraid that if she tried to thank her friends—and she wasn’t sure after the secret ballot who her friends were—she would probably break into tears and embarrass everyone. Also she couldn’t face Carlos’s fierce glare or bear to listen to any more of his disparaging remarks. Her show was still part of the contest, but at this point Lauren didn’t really care who would see it. She was pretty sure it wouldn’t be herself. How could it, with only a third of her costumes available for judging? They didn’t really know what the other dresses and suits and the rest had looked like. But at least she wasn’t thrown out, like some sort of push impostor. She hurried to her stateroom, anxious to rest and recover her poise in private.
And somewhere in her mind was the hope that Mike Landrill might be there to meet her: Mike, who had brought guests to her showing, to fill the seats and give it a popular, successful ambience.