Chapter 13
Chapter 13
“Lena!” Estelle stood at the doorway of the art room, looking exhausted and frustrated. “We need your help. The production censor needs a change immediately.”
Lena turned from the easel, where she was enlarging a croquis for Summerland Express . “What kind of a change?”
“The costume for the Queen of Sheba is showing too much cleavage, for one—”
“Just use souffle.” She was puzzled why Estelle needed her to come up with that solution; it was standard to use the sheer fabric for things like that.
“Yes, of course, it’s not only that. I need all hands on deck. They want the costume changed to pastel. Pink.”
“But it’s stunning in red and black.”
“Soviet Union colors,” Estelle explained. “The censor believes we’re signaling some subliminal communist message. It can’t be bleached. It has to be remade.”
“Was pink a color in Sheba?” Mike asked from his easel. “Wait—where was Sheba, anyway?”
“It’s a nightmare. Please come. I have a continent of beading work.”
Lena hurried after Estelle, noting that neither Mike nor Royal, who were also working on croquis, was called to help redo the costume. All hands on deck apparently meant only women.
She joined a group of other dressmakers gathered in the sewing room. Estelle handed her a bandeau of pink velvet and a bowl of crystals. Painstakingly, Lena began the laborious process of sewing them on. After an hour, her neck and shoulders began to hurt. After two, her fingers joined the pain parade. Three, and her eyes burned. She pulled the light closer—she might actually be going blind. She was so focused on wondering if that was true—could one go blind staring at transparent crystals?—that she failed to hear the fluttering until it went silent.
She looked up to see that Flavio had come into the workroom. Lena had been at Lux nearly six months—six months not just doing the work she loved, but also this kind of brutal, backbreaking detail work—and she hadn’t seen him since he’d hired her. Immediately, she spilled the bowl of crystals. She put aside the bandeau top to pick them up—they had scattered everywhere, sparkling across the floor in little prisms of light. The workroom sweltered, sweat beaded on her forehead. She heard footsteps, and then Flavio stood in front of her—she recognized those wingtip shoes.
Lena looked up.
“There you are.” He frowned. “Good God, are you ill? You don’t look like yourself.”
“I—I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s hot down here.”
“We need more fans. I’ll have some sent over. Well, come along then. I haven’t all day.”
She was unsure at first that he was speaking to her. Then it became obvious he was. She said, “I’ve got to pick these up—”
“Estelle, can you assign someone else to the beading? I need this one.”
“Of course, Flavio.” Estelle hurried over. “Of course.”
Flavio offered Lena his hand. She took it, half-dazed. When he pulled her to her feet, she felt she was in a dream. She followed him upstairs, aware of the frowns and surprised looks of her fellows. He led her to his office. She hadn’t been inside since the day he’d hired her, but it was just as scattered and messy. She saw three of the sketches she’d enlarged for him laid out on the low table, on display, and Lena’s surprise shifted into dread—why did he have those laid out? What had she done wrong? Or right? Why had he brought her here? She wasn’t sure whether to be excited or anxious. Was she going to be fired, or ... or something else?
Flavio motioned to the illustrations. “You did these?”
Lena nodded warily. “Yes, sir. I did. Is there something wrong with them? Whatever it is, I can fix—”
“There’s nothing wrong,” he said. “I’ve been watching your work since I hired you. Lena, isn’t it? Lena Taylor?”
“Yes.”
“My assistant is leaving. I need a new one. I’d like you to be that person. What do you think?”
She stared at him, disbelieving. “Your assistant? I would love to be your assistant.”
“Good. I’m leaving for Rome next week. I’ll need—” He broke off with a frown. “What is it?”
“I can’t go to Rome.”
“Have I asked you to go to Rome? Wait—you can’t go to Rome? That’s an odd thing to say. What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I’m . . . not allowed.”
“Your husband won’t let you?”
“No, not that.”
“Then . . . ?”
Charlie and Harvey had told her never to tell this story, but neither of them could have anticipated this. “I was ... escorted out. They told me not to come back.”
“Well.” Flavio leaned back on his desk and crossed his arms. “That’s interesting. I’ve never heard of anyone but Mussolini getting escorted out of Rome. Are you some kind of—I don’t know what, actually. You look quite harmless.”
What was she to do? It would be dangerous to tell him, and more than that, she didn’t want to lose her chance. “I was at the American Art Academy, but ... I had some questionable dealings, and—”
Flavio held up his hand, stopping her. “No—stop. Don’t tell me. It’s better that I don’t know. Well, tell me one thing: You were really kicked out of Rome?”
“They were quite adamant about it.”
Flavio nodded slowly. “Are you a danger?”
Yes, no —she didn’t know. She had not lost the habit of looking over her shoulder, and Julia’s warnings haunted her dreams. “I’m a sketch artist,” she said steadily.
He smiled. “Ah, good answer. Very good. Excellent. The next time someone asks you to go to Italy, tell them you’re allergic to the country and you’ll meet them in Paris. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t go to Italy with you.”
“I said I was going to Rome. Not that you were. I need you here to take over the sketching next week. It will be insanity, but I trust you can do it. The croquis are mostly done, and I’ve ideas written out for the script. You’ll have to take over from there. If you need help, my current assistant will be here another week—you’ve met Jonny, I think? He’s headed back to New York, but he’ll teach you what you need to know.”
Lena nodded.
“You’ll be overwhelmed, and I need you to focus completely on the tasks at hand. Do you think you can do that?”
This was her chance. She would not mess it up. Lena nodded. “I can do whatever you need, Mr. Flavio.”
“Just Flavio,” he said.