Twelve
C
hing Ma Dong took the subway to Manhattan without her mother, or her sister-cousin April, or anyone else knowing she was going there. She was full of happy secrets, excited about the chance to spend a few private moments with her old friend Tang Ling, who was giving her a wedding gown at an absolutely unheard-of price: free, for nothing. And they hadn't even been close friends for more than a decade. Why had the famous Tang Ling made such a gesture? Ching guessed it was just for old times' sake, to show off how great she'd become. As if Ching didn't know.
Tang and Ching had met when Tang was just a young woman studying economics to please her parents, but secretly cutting out patterns for fantasy dresses on her bedroom floor. Tang had wanted to be a designer. Ching was the one with the head for business. The two had drifted apart long ago—Tang into glamour, Ching into the world of the Internet. Ching had been awed by Tang's flare for self-promotion ever since.
Tang Ling had been the first Asian designer to become a household name in the special-occasion dress business. She was the first to set up shop on Madison
Avenue, the first to have a worldwide clientele. Her broad peasant face was the first female Asian seen in AmEx commercials. She was a phenom. Everybody wanted a Tang Ling dress. The gowns were slinky, spare, understated, often cut on the bias. And the rage all over the world. Born and raised in Hong Kong, educated at Stanford and FIT, Tang Ling had been in the business for fifteen years, subsidized in her ambition by a wealthy grandfather and even wealthier father. She had a reputation as the close friend of celebrities, personally creating gowns for their Oscar night, Emmy night, and Golden Globe appearances. Her photo was in
People
magazine almost as often as theirs.
When Ching got engaged, she called Tang on a lark. She was well aware that Tang traveled in limos, knew all the movie people and politicos, was out every night. But even celebrities and people in the field paid through the nose to wear her clothes. She knew that, too. Tang had always been tightfisted and socially ambitious. She was Chinese, after all.
So Ching certainly had no expectations that a long-ago friendship would yield any special attention from Tang. She wasn't even sure that Tang would remember her at all. She called to say she was getting married. She was that happy and proud of herself and just wanted to share her news. Tang's instant positive response had taken her completely by surprise. It was as if no time had passed at all.
"Tell me all about the wedding," Tang had gushed as if they were still in a college dorm and no business meetings and important people were waiting while she chattered on the phone in her office.
"It's just a simple banquet at the Crystal Palace," Ching told her shyly. "Nothing special."
"Oh, that's perfect. I love Chinatown weddings. They're my favorite. You'll have to wear one of my gowns." Tang enthused over the idea as if Ching had thousands of dollars to spend, like all the stars with whom she mingled.
"I'd love to," Ching said slowly, but she couldn't possibly afford such a luxury. Not a chance. She didn't want to get embroiled in something that would cause her embarrassment.
"Yes, yes. Come into the shop. I insist. I'm sure we can find just the right gown for you. And don't worry about a thing; we're doing inventory now."
Ching was silent, didn't know what to say. Then Tang surprised her again.
"I'm giving you one, silly," she said. "You can't refuse."
So she didn't refuse. Ching had visited the magnificent shop on Madison Avenue, and Tang found a sample from last summer that they weren't making anymore.
Here Tang showed her true colors. No free lunch for anyone. She offered Ching a gown that had a large coffee stain in the train and was a size too big for her. Tang was queenly about her offer and promised Ching the gown would be perfect when they were finished working on it.
Ching was Chinese, too, and showed no distress over the gesture, or the tiny flaw in it. The dress had been, after all, five thousand dollars last year. That was a great deal of a gift, even if the item was unsellable now. Ching's athletic figure was far from delicate, and she had a robust appetite she'd never attempted to curb. Tang's sculpted sheath with pink pearls dancing across the bodice and tulip sleeves would skim her curves and give her stature and grace.
It also made her ambitious. Suddenly she wondered if there was another dress among the thousands Tang didn't need for her stubborn sister-cousin, April Woo. Nothing too fancy. Just the same fashion glory for them both, so they could shine together like real sisters on Ching's great day. April would object, of course. For sure she would object to being Ching's maid of honor. April didn't like standing out in any way whatsoever. That was the reason Ching hadn't told her yet. But if April had a magnificent gown, she wouldn't be able to refuse being maid of honor. She'd have to stand up with Ching and give a speech.
Secrets, manipulations, and most of all scheming was the only way to work with the stubborn Woos and also the Tangs of the world. When Ching got off the subway at the Hunter College stop, she was smiling at all her manipulations on April's behalf and hoping against hope that Tang would indulge her just a little more. It was a gorgeous day, only three blocks to Madison, and she wanted that dress.
When Ching climbed the stairs to Tang Ling's ultrachic second-floor showroom, however, she was disappointed to find Tang herself deeply engaged in a cantankerous bridal fitting for a noisy mother-daughter duo. Fittings with Tang were unusual. She was always so busy designing a new line for each season and traveling around the world that only the rarefied few received her personal attention after the choice of a gown was made.
"Prudence, stand still!" the mother shrilled loudly.
"1 am standing still," protested a slender girl who seemed to Ching awfully young to be a bride. She was encased in alenqon lace from shoulder to toe and eight feet beyond, dolled up like a Barbie of the fifties and looking every bit the part with a dip of real blond hair over one amethyst eye. All she needed was the white mink shrug of Doris Day to make her perfectly retro.
It was a daunting sight, and Ching was discouraged. She'd expected to have Tang to herself for at least a few minutes. She knew Tang had an important meeting at noon. So the young bride and her mother, and the friend they had with them, were an annoying setback. Time was passing, and they filled the ballroomlike showroom—usually large enough for more than one party to parade around in at the same time—making it clear how important they were in the scheme of things.
"Ni hao, Ching," Tang called out when she saw her. "Have a seat. I'll be with you soon." She glanced at her watch, a large one, heavily studded with diamonds.
Ching nodded and sat on a slipper chair by the elevator to watch the maestro work. After she'd been there for fifteen minutes, she had to hand it to Tang. The most famous of all special-occasion designers knew how to work the crowd and steer clear of disaster. The bride was slender; the mother was stout. Ching's own mother was chubby, but this woman was huge, her chest as big as a ship's prow. Tang took control of them.
Both women were wearing white gowns. The mother's had a long chiffon skirt that softened her bulk, but she wasn't happy with it. The neckline was cut low enough to reveal a great expanse of soft, crepey skin on her neck and abundant chest. That, however, wasn't what bothered this MOB.