Inessa shrugged. “Just watch yourself around her, okay?”
Why would Inessa warn Ludmila? Just because she was wearing Ludmila’s dress? No. It was more likely Inessa thought Ludmila had a future; that Ludmila would design clothes for her, help her build a modeling career. Ludmila was flattered, but had no intention of worrying about someone else. She had her own career to think about.
And then there wasn’t time to think about anything. First, the garments had to be unpacked, pressed, hung up. One of the evening gowns was misplaced and panic ensued. Instead of joining the hunt, with breathless anxiety Ludmila looked for her own dress. Inessa was uncharacteristically helpful. Together the two of them located the box, which had been mislabeled “sewing tools and supplies.” Inessa even helped her unpack it and found a place for it on the clothes rack.
Then, showroom exhibits had to be installed as well as the final preparations for the fashion show made. The evening before the opening day, a special preview and reception would be held, which would be attended by Deputy Premier Kozlov and other top Soviet officials, Vice President Nixon and his wife and daughter, the American and Soviet press, and many other illustrious dignitaries of both nations. It all had to be perfect. The order of models had to be adjusted. Last-minute alterations had to be made.
Days at the Coliseum sped by in a frenzy of pressing, trimming, cutting, and stitching. Vladlena Gribkova never asked for advice, and Ludmila never offered it. Ludmila just watched and learned, and little by little, it seemed, Vladlena came to trust her and rely on her.
In contrast, the models were useless, too giddy and lazy to be delegated the simplest task. When they didn’t manage to slip out to tour New York, trailed by KGB, they loafed, drinking Cokes, smoking, and looking at the Vogue magazine they’d bought from the corner newsstand. They also flirted with the Americans, or at least tried to.
They stopped when one of the KGB men looked their way. Except for Inessa. She paid the KGB no mind and they, miraculously, didn’t seem to harass her.
As Ludmila watched, Inessa blatantly waved at one of the American CIA men who seemed particularly taken with her.
Ludmila resolved to distance herself from the girl even more.
“Where is she?” Vladlena screeched. “The devil take that girl! I should never have brought her. Where is she? I’ll send her back tomorrow, so help me.”
It was the morning dress rehearsal before the evening preview. It had been decided that Ludmila’s dress would finish the show, a position of great prestige. Ludmila might have been ecstatic if Inessa wasn’t missing. She’d been on the bus with them from the hotel, but once they’d reached the Coliseum, she’d disappeared. Off on some stupid lark, Ludmila thought, numb with frustration and despair. When the girl finally turned up, she’d probably charm the searching KGB men into not reporting her, too. But by that time it might be too late.
Vladlena was beside herself with a rage that struck them all dumb with terror. They’d never seen her like this, and Ludmila feared she might use Inessa’s absence to strike her cocktail party dress from the show entirely.
Ludmila wanted to plead for her dress, but she was afraid if she opened her mouth, she might vomit. She shivered in the air conditioning, and hoped.
To her relief, Vladlena ordered, “Put Alla in it!”
It would be too tight and too long on Alla, but Ludmila hurried to obey.
At the last minute, as Ludmila was about to help Alla change, Inessa dashed in, all smiles, as if nothing were wrong, her cheeks rosy with summer sun.
There was no time for lectures now. They blotted the perspiration from Inessa and slipped her into the dress. Vladlena glowered at the girl, but said nothing.
But on stage, Inessa was the best of them all, walking with an insouciant confidence that none of the other models could match, and Vladlena was mollified.
When the dress rehearsal was over, Vladlena led them in a round of applause. Before they dispersed, she delivered a speech detailing all the many errors that would have to be corrected before the next day, but they knew her well enough to see how pleased she was. Ludmila now realized just how nervous Vladlena had been, that the senior designer had just as much to lose, perhaps even more to lose than Ludmila herself if the show was a failure.
The tension drained from Ludmila. Calm descended on her as she headed backstage, and she allowed herself a smile when the models congratulated her.
In the changing area, Alla asked, “Cut this thread, will you?” The model lifted her hair above her neckline. “It’s been tickling me all morning.”
Ludmila picked up a pair of shears, found the offending loose thread, and snipped it.
“Ah, that’s much better. Thank you,” Alla said.
Ludmila looked for Inessa to help her change. She glimpsed the model still in the dress exiting through a back door. The anger that Ludmila had been too afraid to let herself feel earlier at Inessa’s tardiness welled up. Would the girl never learn? Furious at Inessa’s disregard for her garment, Ludmila followed, a harsh reprimand forming on her tongue.
Behind the stage was a service corridor, its light dim and sickly green. Inessa scurried down it and into the women’s toilet. A man, an American, followed her in.
This was too much! Wearing Ludmila’s creation to some sordid romantic rendezvous!
Ludmila burst in on them.
The man knelt before Inessa, the skirt in his hands. At first Ludmila thought he was lifting it, before she realized he was picking at the fabric. They both were.
The man turned toward her and exclaimed, “Hell.”
“Ludmila, give me a moment’s privacy, please,” Inessa begged. She didn’t giggle.
“What are you doing?” Ludmila choked out. But she knew, even as she asked. She saw it on the man’s fingertip. A dot, a microdot. According to Soviet propaganda, spies used them, American spies. She’d never believed such things existed. But here was the evidence before her eyes.
How long had the microdots been in place? The tiny dots blended with the fabric, indistinguishable from the pattern. She handled the garment daily and even she hadn’t noticed them.
The man stood, uncertainly glancing at Inessa.
In a flash, Ludmila understood. The girl had used Ludmila’s dress, her beautiful creation to smuggle out secrets. With or without her fiancé the physicist’s connivance. The invaluable information wouldn’t be lost or go astray if it was attached to a carefully tended dress. Inessa must be hoping to buy defection to the U.S. with such a delivery. And if the microdots were discovered, Inessa could claim she knew nothing. Inessa would get away with it as she always did. It was Ludmila’s dress. Ludmila would be the one condemned as a traitor and spy, not Inessa.
“In my dress?” Ludmila rushed forward, hearing herself roar, “You used my dress!”
“Your precious dress is fine. It hasn’t been damaged. I was very careful. Go away for a moment,” Inessa said, and pushed her gently back toward the door. “You never saw any of this.”
Ludmila held her ground. “My dress! You filthy little slut!” she shrieked. Her vision clouded, and a scream filled her ears, reverberating on the lavatory tiles. She struck Inessa, punched her, forgetting she still clenched a pair of shears. Rather than a blow, it was a stab.
Too late, Inessa flinched. The blades glanced over her jawbone and tore open the fleshy part of her long neck.
Ludmila pulled out the shears and stabbed again, harder, deeper.
Blood spouted from Inessa’s throat and poured down the front of the dress, drenching it, painting it a bright and terrible red.
The sight stopped Ludmila. “My dress,” she croaked, her voice raw.