Chapter 9 #2
“Now, dear Alida, with your lovely face and hair, there is no need for a hood. You might have an occasion to wear a hat, so we’ll provide you with a few options.
A variety of cloche hats, of course, a few berets, perhaps a knitted balaclava with matching scarf.
” I could not picture myself in a hat of any kind.
I was certain I would look foolish, but I said nothing.
“How tall are you, dear, and what do you weigh?”
“On a good day when things aren’t so heavy, I’m five feet tall. I stopped growing about five years ago, although I keep trying. I weigh ninety-three pounds.”
“Do you gain weight easily?”
“For the past five years, regardless of what I eat, I haven’t gained a pound or lost one. I seem to be stuck.”
“Darling, there are women who would pay a fortune to be so stuck. Now, if you will, I need you to undress to your underwear so I can make an accurate record of your proportions. Every woman I dress has to do this if the clothes are to be an ideal fit. I’ve seen Loretta in her skivvies perhaps as often as Franklin has.
There’s no reason to feel uncomfortable. ”
I thought it odd that Miss Merrimen and Loretta would imagine that I might be embarrassed to undress, considering that for years, day after day, I’d been put on display nearly naked.
Loretta herself had seen me boldly presented on a stage.
To my surprise, as I began to disengage the series of snap fasteners that held my robe together at the front, I grew self-conscious about how the dressmaker would react to my appearance.
Loretta would have prepared her for what she would see, but there are things for which no amount of preparation is sufficient.
My fingers trembled as I worked the metal snaps, and I realized that undressing in an intimate situation involved a much greater risk of mortification than parading nearly naked on a stage.
An audience is a mere thing, a creature of many faces, none of which speaks to the heart as does the face of someone you love, as already I loved Loretta—or someone who might become a friend, such as Miss Merrimen.
The sleeves of my robe were wide, but the sleeves of my long johns had been cut off because they were too tight and would not comfortably accommodate my arms. What remained of that knitted undergarment, which was a size too large for me, still concealed much of my tortured form.
Nevertheless, I expected Marjorie Merrimen to be seized by horror or pity, the two reactions with which I was most familiar, the second being the worse of the two.
I undid the last fastener. The robe slipped off and puddled on the floor.
Marjorie Merrimen, couturiere to the stars, neither gasped nor made that thin whimper of compassion with which I was so familiar.
Her voice wasn’t strained when she said, quite businesslike, “Well, we can do a great deal better for underthings than this. What I’ll provide will be more comfortable and prettier.
You’ll feel warm but fresh. I guarantee it.
I do think dresses are not the way to go.
A flowing robe, duster length, is more practical.
However, there’s no reason why you have to be costumed like a dour monk on a penitential pilgrimage.
They should be robes with shape to them, robes of quiet colors, perhaps with good lace around the collar and at the cuffs.
Contrasting buttons, piping, all sorts of subtle flourishes, though not too many for any single garment.
I’ll make you seven different robes, one for each day of the week, and seven more as backups, so you’ll always have the right choice to fit the occasion and your mood.
Your gloves are—shall we agree?—rather less than elegant. May I see your hands, dear?”
I took off my gloves, and I could see at once that she was not entirely prepared for my hands.
Until the night just passed, my life had been one of rigid routines, the same experiences repeated day after day, the same offenses, with no prospect of change.
Therefore, I was not accustomed to surprises.
Miss Merrimen’s reaction to my hands indeed surprised me.
She went to her knees before me and took my left hand in both of hers and kissed it, and then my right hand.
She did this with such tenderness that I felt my eyes well with hot tears, and I required all my resources to repress them as she had repressed hers.
“Is there pain?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. It’s not arthritis, just how my fingers are. They don’t hurt. They work okay. And those aren’t bruises or fungus. That’s how my nails always are.”
She looked up at me and smiled. “I will design the most amazing gloves for you, Alida. The right gloves can make even the most ordinary outfit look special. Socially prominent ladies have collections of gloves, and so will you. The clothes must be stylish and in good taste, but the accessories are every bit as important.”
Now that Miss Merrimen had seen the challenges my deformities posed when it came to clothing, she asked me to take off my shoes and long johns so that she could make precise measurements, of which there needed to be more than was necessary with her usual clients.
I did so without shame, for I knew now I was in the company of people who regarded me not as a freak but as a girl.
While she employed her tape measure and recorded her findings in the little notebook, I saw her glance repeatedly at the pack of Pall Malls on the nightstand.
I asked if she would like to pause for a cigarette.
“My dear,” she said, “when I leave here, I will quickly smoke the entire pack with pleasure. But although Loretta and Frank’s teetotalist attitude toward tobacco strikes me as ill-informed and downright silly, I adore them so much that I respect their request never to smoke in their home or office. ”
“This isn’t either one,” I noted. “And ashtrays are everywhere you look.”
“All true,” she said. “But I’m certain Loretta will argue that the hotel is her home while she’s staying here, and I have learned that I lack the intellectual capacity to win an argument with your mother.
However, in a few years, when you’re twenty-one, if you were to decide to indulge in the noble tradition of Sir Walter Raleigh, you and I will sneak out behind the garage and light up together. ”
Loretta looked cross, but I could see that she was amused and that her indignation was a pretense. “I can think of nothing more obvious and incontestable than the claim that inhaling enormous quantities of smoke will ruin your lungs.”
Miss Merrimen sighed. “Darling, I will only remind you that the advertisements quote prominent doctors and scientists to the effect that smoking actually strengthens the lungs, improves circulation of the blood, and in numerous other ways improves your health.”
“That is all bullshit wrapped in humbug and served on a bed of flimflam.”
“I cannot believe,” said Miss Merrimen, “that physicians and scientists with impeccable reputations would lie.”
“Oh, now, Margie. When they see a main chance, ninety percent of them are as sly as movie moguls, just grifters in white coats, waving university degrees. For enough money, they’ll tell a long chain of lies and swear on their mother’s grave that every link is the pure truth.”
As Miss Merrimen measured my arms and took notes, accounting for the features that snagged and tangled ordinary sleeves, she said, “Alida dear, you should ruminate on this revealing exchange between Loretta and me. Participation in the motion-picture industry tends to make people cynical not just about the movie business but also about much else. You will be spending a great deal of time with my otherwise wise and wonderful friends, Franklin and Loretta, so you must guard against being infected by their cynicism.”
“Maybe it isn’t cynicism,” I said. “Maybe it’s just a clear-eyed understanding of how the world works.”
Putting on a mask of dismay, she said, “Child, I fear their influence has already led you onto a dark path.”
With such banter, they distracted me during the measurement process, which could have been awkward and embarrassing. Instead, the time passed quickly and in a spirit of fun.
When she had all the numbers she needed and I was once more fully dressed, Miss Merrimen promised that she would choose the fabrics from her current inventory, cut them herself to patterns that she created, and put three seamstresses to work that very night.
She would return on Tuesday morning with two sets of fine undergarments, two robes, and pajamas.
The remainder of my new wardrobe was to be delivered over the next two weeks.
Looking as fresh and purposeful as when she had arrived, she kissed each of us on the cheek, asked us to pray that the parking valet was not dead in her ruined Pierce-Arrow, and breezed out of the bungalow, the pack of Pall Malls clutched in her left hand.
I used my bathroom, washed my hands and face with a soap that smelled like lemons, and brushed my hair. Although I didn’t need to hide my hands from Loretta, I put on gloves as a matter of habit.
When I returned to the living room, I found that Loretta, too, had freshened up and had produced a deck of cards from her luggage. She proposed that she would teach me rummy.
Just then the doorbell rang. Startled, I whispered, “Captain,” and I stood up straight, shoulders back, hands fisted in my gloves, ready for whatever might come.
If Loretta heard my soft exclamation, she made no comment.
She opened the door to admit a bellhop pushing a food-service cart.
Sooner than later, I needed to bleach away the memory of Captain Farnam until he became a faded figure on the fabric of the past, with no power to cast a shadow on my newfound happiness.
Loretta had ordered an afternoon tea. The cart served as a table, draped with pink damask and laden with delicious little sandwiches, scones, and two-bite cakes.
When this delectable production had been wheeled in front of a window and flanked by chairs brought from the dining nook, the two of us settled before a view of the gardens, to what Loretta called “a divine refection.” I felt as if I were in an English novel, in a story rife with challenges and travails that would nonetheless end in justice and gladness.