In the tidy little business suit with the fur collar, she paced impatiently as if awaiting a verdict, as she did in Scandal in Soho. As a fearless reporter she dodged bullets and daggers to bring to light a conspiracy to defraud investors. “And in high heels, too,” she ad-libbed to the delight of the audience. Her sense of humor also sparkled when she wore the long off-white, candlelight-satin dress with the hand-sewn beaded jacket. Although she had never worn anything like it in a movie, she had insisted on modeling it. Since I knew the dress would make a striking finale to any show, I agreed.
“It will fit with the theme,” Brenda assured me. “It’s a role she’s played often. You’ll see. They’ll love it.”
And they did.
After strolling sedately down the runway, her arm draped in Derrick’s, Stella took the mike from me before I could describe the dress.
“And this, dear ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, “is the perfect dress for the mother of the bride.”
She whirled around.
“Or for the bride herself, the second or third time. I believe I wore this type of dress when I married Harold, my second. Or was it Lawrence, my third? Or will I wear it for Charley, my fourth?”
She winked and everyone laughed, except Charley, who clicked away.
She whirled around again, then stood on tiptoes, and planted a kiss on Derrick’s cheek. “Or will it be worn for Derrick, my fifth?”
Derrick gulped audibly before backing away.
“Not to worry, silly boy. Now just go sit in the audience with all those jealous men that I’ll kiss later. Stella has a big surprise for everyone.”
Delighted, the men whistled and the women applauded.
I shrugged and looked over at Eunice’s husband, who had turned off the slide projector. He shrugged back. Brenda came out of the dressing room and handed me a note.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced, “Miss Stanley is going to model one of the costumes she actually wore in a movie. It’s from one of her finest, most moving, most dramatic roles, as Anna in Innocence Denied. Ken Keefer, the motion-picture critic for National News, dubbed it ‘Oscar-worthy,’ but alas, Oscar went to another. Tonight, you can judge for yourself if she was robbed.”
Slowly the dressing-room door opened and Stella shuffled out. She was wearing a black-and-white-striped prison costume. Head down, she transformed the runway into the last mile. When she reached the end of it, she lifted her head, thrust out her chin, raised her fist, and shouted, “As God is my witness, I am innocent of this murder and I should not be going to the electric chair...” and continued to deliver an impassioned monologue from the film.
She was superb. Many of the women wept and some men dabbed at their eyes. After a full minute’s silence, the shop erupted into thunderous applause. Shouts of, “You get my vote, Stella,” and, “That Academy of Something-or-Other was crazy not to give you the Oscar,” and, “We love you, Stella.”
She curtsied and accepted the bouquet from Brenda that Derrick was supposed to present. He sat frozen to his chair. Before returning to the dressing room, she hushed the audience. “I have a message for all of you, something from the heart that says how I feel about you. It was given to me by the film crew of Innocence.”
She reached down into her shirt and pulled out a small placard on a chain that read “Prisoner of Love.” Laughter rippled through the shop, followed by more appreciative applause. During the long ovation that followed, Stella shed many, many years, as did her audience. Finally, she took a deep breath, blew one final kiss, and trotted to the dressing room.
For a few moments I basked in the afterglow of Stella’s triumphant performance and my role in initiating it — until Derrick, the consummate spell-breaker, poked my shoulder.
“You’d better get those cards and pass them out,” he ordered, “before the geezers get too trashed on the free booze and forget the reason they came here.”
For Derrick, the reason being, of course, to sell merchandise. Obediently, I resumed my role as shopgirl and passed out the cards that listed the twelve outfits and their prices. The Muses of Commerce went to work.
“Oh, I must have that adorable magenta sheath, Bucky. It’s only nine hundred and ninety-five dollars.”
“You’d look terrific in that shiny silver number, Gloria, like my personal mermaid. Let me buy it for you.”
“Jimmy, I will simply sulk for weeks if I don’t have that wedding dress Stella wore.”
“Not thinking about getting married again, are you, sweetheart?” quipped Jimmy as he pulled out his checkbook and averted a prolonged pout.
The sound of ballpoint pens clicking didn’t satisfy Derrick. Grimly he surveyed the room, then charged over to me.
“Where the hell is Charley?” he demanded.
“I guess he left.”
“What a jerk. Look around. There’s more money to be made.”
As soon as Stella came into the room, all kinds of cameras immortalized her entrance. Swarming toward her, the guests became instant paparazzi. Usually reserved clients were shouting, “Over here, Miss Stanley, be in a picture with Herbert and me,” and, “How about one with our bridge club?” Graciously, she fulfilled every photo request.
Ungraciously, Derrick muttered, “We could have made some big bucks if Charley had stayed around to take pictures. Charged a hundred dollars a shot. These fans would have paid that much or more.”
Although not a fan of Charley’s, I offered an excuse to get rid of Derrick. “He’s a journalist with a national audience now. He must have a deadline.”
Brightening, Derrick straightened his shoulders and his bow tie. “Hey, you’re right. Flash, USA comes out on Thursday. It’ll have my picture all over it. I’ll have to tell Trish down at the News Nook to save me at least ten copies.”
I corrected him. “Not Flash, USA, Derrick, he’s doing the spread for Lamplighter, the newspaper of the arts.”
“You must have heard him wrong, Vera.” He grinned.
Speechless, I watched as he resumed working the room, looking over shoulders to tally up the sales. I rushed to my office to connect with my late husband George. When I lifted his picture from my desk, I shivered, which is not my usual reaction to his treasured face. Slowly, I put the picture down.
“George, you are not reassuring tonight.”
Chilled, I wrapped an old shawl around me and probed my discomfort. Okay, so Charley lied to me about his assignment from The Lamplighter. Maybe he thought that Stella would refuse to allow him to photograph the before-and-after of the show for Flash, USA, the tabloid that had reported her shoplifting arrest years ago and had thoroughly humiliated her during her third divorce by publishing photos leaked by a legal secretary of Stella with eye blackened and nose swollen.
But — and this was a very improbable but — the tabloid might want to atone for its past sins by displaying a radiant Stella at the boutique. Of course, attributing a conscience to Flash, USA was like claiming that Dracula’s altruistic acts saved his victims from the disgusting practice of bloodletting by leeches.
But — and I thought this was a better probability than the first but — there was no way that Flash, USA and Charley could distort the actuality of the rehearsals and the fashion show, which showed Stella at her best. Although Stella had never sued about the earlier photos, perhaps a deluge of other lawsuits was making Flash, USA clean up its act.
Cheered, I went back to the party. Cameras were still flashing. Brenda hovered over Stella, offering her mineral water, trying to lead her to a chair, advising her to rest a bit, and being shooed away by her boss, who had burst through the cocoon of age and was thoroughly enjoying her recovered youth. At midnight, no pumpkin arrived. It was well after two when Brenda led her to the car, followed by a mob of adoring fans. Stella gave a regal wave, then covered an unqueenly yawn.