“I closed the shop for ten minutes to do some marketing, Derrick.”
“Marketing,” he sneered. “What do you know about marketing?”
“Enough to bring us in lots of money.”
That got his attention.
Slowly he warmed up to the idea of a fashion show with coverage by Charley and narration by me. I should have stopped there, but giddy with success, I made a proposal to seal the deal that was definitely not inspired by my late husband.
“And, Derrick, many fashion shows feature a male escort for the model. Someone young and attractive,” I mentioned coyly.
He blushed and looked almost likable. After studying him for a few seconds, I decided he was attractive in a punk-rocker sort of way.
“I was thinking of you, Derrick, but you most likely wouldn’t want to walk down the runway — which needs to be built, by the way — with an old movie star, even though Charley would insist on taking pictures, which might even be carried nationally in one of those entertainment papers you always read.”
He didn’t answer immediately; he must have needed time to visualize himself smiling out at supermarket shoppers everywhere. Cracking his knuckles to signal the arrival of a decision, he said, “I’ll do it.”
We set the date for the show for the Tuesday before Christmas, a month and a half away, when our clientele would be in a holiday mood for buying. I handled the invitations and chair rentals and Derrick ordered the construction of a portable runway and a renovation of the dressing room. He even hired the most expensive caterer in town to prepare the hors d’oeuvres and select suitable wines.
“This is going to be a classy operation,” he beamed. “And it’s going to be the real deal. I’ve been renting Stella Stanley videos and taping those dentist-office old-time songs for background music for the show. I’m ordering a tux like the one Cary Nelson wore in that high-society flick. And my hair stylist is going to give me an authentic ’forties Hollywood do.”
Delighted with Derrick’s enthusiasm, I couldn’t say no when he told me he had invited Charley to sit in on the preparations. After all, it’s Derrick’s shop.
“Charley wants to do a whole spread for Flash, USA, the paper that goes all over the country,” he said. “He wants to chronicle the great event from start to finish. And he’ll take pictures the night of the show.”
“Okay, but he has to stay out of the way.”
“He will. He’s just going to be taking notes for the article.”
I had a bad feeling about the Charley situation, especially about sending the article to Flash, USA, a notorious tabloid. When Charley came in, I mentioned my concern about that paper. He smiled, ran his hand through his newly shampooed hair, and oozed smarmy charm to reassure me.
“You’re looking lovely today, Vera, and may I put your fears to rest? Derrick must not have told you, but I will be sending the article to The Lamplighter, that snobby arts weekly.”
I was so relieved I offered to buy him an espresso.
When Stella arrived with Brenda after-hours to choose dresses and accessories for the show, Charley took the hand she offered for a handshake during their introduction and kissed it.
“What an honor to be in the same company as a star of your magnitude!” simpered Charley.
“Oh, my dear, how gallant of you,” Stella answered. “Tell me, which of my films was your favorite?”
“Well, um, that’s hard to say,” Charley stammered. “So many good ones.”
Adept at rescuing little white liars, Brenda said, “Come now, Stella. We’ve got work to do,” and gently ushered her toward the dressing room.
Before the door closed, Stella blew Charley a kiss. “Please stay, dear boy. As a connoisseur of my films and a reporter for The Lamplighter, I’m sure you’ll love the previews of these outfits I’ll be modeling.”
Charley grinned and settled back into the catbird seat, where he stayed throughout Stella’s “rehearsals,” offering opinions on jewelry, hats, and gloves, as well as jotting down notes for his article. The “dear boy” almost displaced Brenda as Stella’s dresser. An inveterate flirt, Stella requested his help with zippers, clasps, buckles, and snaps before entering the dressing room. She was cool to Derrick, however, in their two pre-show meetings. Because of his lack of deference to her, he never achieved “dear boy” status, but nevertheless he reveled in his role as escort to the star.
To prepare for the color newspaper spread, he went to the tanning salon. To slash his waist to swashbuckler’s fighting trim, he joined a gym. For the smile that would dazzle millions of readers and ultimately lead to a film career, he pressed whitening strips to his teeth. To achieve perfect modeling posture, I suspect that he paraded in his condo with the shop’s missing Yellow Pages phone book on his head.
On the night of the fashion show it was only fitting that he and the other star arrive in a white limo and walk on the red carpet set on the sidewalk past two strategically placed strobe lights as Charley clicked madly on his camera. Derrick had justified the expense beforehand by reminding me that our shop’s motto was “Make an Entrance.”
Dressed in a shimmering gold-sequined sheath, her blond hair in a vintage upsweep, Stella strode into the boutique on gold sandals with three-inch heels to the cheers and applause of the forty invited guests. Radiant, she paused for a minute before walking up the ramp to model the dress. Before I started my narration, I saw Brenda peeping out of the dressing room, and a tear — I know it was a happy tear — slid down her cheek. After describing the dress, I motioned for Derrick to move away from Stella. Showing off his beautiful smile, Derrick mugged for the audience on both sides of the runway until Stella firmly lifted his hand from her arm and did several pirouettes to display the dress and her still-beautiful legs. Stella insisted that Derrick sit the next eight outfits out.
“The tuxedo does not go with these scenes, darling, but you’ll be in the finale.”
The lights dimmed and Eunice’s husband, who had generously offered to put together a slide show, flashed a slide of Stella wearing a dress similar to the one she modeled next in the film Table for Three. I handed the mike to Stella, who quoted her lines from the movie. “Reginald, Reginald, I implore you,” she breathed, “believe me. I had only one drink with Philip as I was waiting for you. It’s you I love, you, only you.”
“We love you, too, Stella,” yelled Muriel’s husband.
Stella dimpled and blew him a kiss. The audience applauded loudly as she kicked up her heels and sprinted into the dressing room. “Oohs and aahs” greeted each outfit, and appreciative murmurs accompanied the slides and Stella’s reenactments. I heard comments like, “Mark and I saw that picture on our first date,” and, “Lord, going to the movies was the only thing that kept me sane when my brother and cousin were fighting in the South Pacific.” I noticed couples holding hands and widows lost in reverie. I felt George’s presence intensely, and I told him that I didn’t care if the shop lost money on this evening, if no one bought a single thing. For a short time, our Stella Stanley Night brought back youth, with its dreams and heartaches, for the guests — and for the star.
Stella didn’t simply wear the clothes; she emoted them. Wrapped in a faux ermine coat like the one she wore in Viva Les Showgirls, she clutched the belt as if she needed something to hold on to when my narration referred to Jasper Carrington’s refusal to divorce his society wife. “No, Jasper, no,” she gasped and staggered on the runway, before recovering with a mischievous grin and showing off the coat.