All That Glitters. Diana Palmer
was talented enough to go right to the top.
The big designs, the ones that would be shown in seasonal fashion shows, however, were those of the top in-house designers. Ivory wasn’t permitted to submit designs of her own because the senior designer, Miss Virginia Raines, felt she hadn’t enough experience to think up usable ones. Ivory’s job was to do freehand illustrations of Miss Raines’s designs. She also accessorized outfits for fashion shows—such as the spring showings that had just finished—and made appointments for Miss Raines. Because Ivory was only twenty-two, Miss Raines considered her too young to make contact with buyers and kept that chore for herself. Nor was she receptive to suggestions from Ivory on any designs, despite the fact that nothing new or particularly original ever came from Miss Raines’s mind.
Ivory was walking briskly to work one morning carrying a portfolio of drawings. She had some ideas for the summer line that would be shown in January—if only she could get Miss Raines to take a look at them. Ever the optimist, she was cheerful even if she knew her cause was probably hopeless.
She came to a halt in front of the church half a block from Kells-Meredith. A man sat on the wide stone steps, wrapped up in what appeared to be a fairly expensive gray overcoat. He stared straight ahead at nothing with his one good eye. The other was covered by a black eye patch held in place by a band that cut across his lean, handsome face. He looked like a film star, she thought idly, with his wavy black hair and smooth olive complexion and even features. He had nice hands, too. They were clasped on his lap, the nails very flat, very clean. On the right little finger was a ruby set in a thick, oddly Gothic gold ring. A thin gold watch peeked out from the spotless white cuff over his left wrist. His black shoes had a polish that reflected the sheen of his gray slacks. He was leaning forward, as if in pain, and although people who walked by glanced curiously at him, no one stopped. It was dangerous to stop and help anyone these days. People got killed trying.
Ivory looked at him indecisively, her portfolio of drawings clutched to the front of her buttoned old overcoat. Her jaunty white beret was tilted just a little to the right over her short, wavy golden blond hair. Her gray eyes studied him quietly, intently. She didn’t want to intrude, but he looked as if he needed help.
She approached him slowly, dodging the onrush of people on their way to work, and stopped just in front of him.
He glanced up. His one eye was black as coal, and it glittered with anger and coldness. “What do you want?” he demanded.
The abruptness of the question caught her unawares. She hesitated. “Well...”
He sighed roughly, sizing up her lack of financial wherewithal in a cold scrutiny that took in her shabby coat with the spots she couldn’t erase on the lapel, and her scuffed, old shoes with their worn heels. He dug in his pocket and handed her a five-dollar bill.
“Get yourself some breakfast,” he said shortly. “You look like a starved kitten.”
He got to his feet. She hadn’t realized how big he was until then. His size was intimidating, but not as much so as the look he gave her.
“I didn’t want anything,” she said, trying to give back the money. “You looked as if you were in pain. I wanted to help...”
“Sure you did,” he scoffed. He rammed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and strode off down the sidewalk, muttering every step of the way.
Ivory smiled ironically. “Well, I guess that puts me in my place,” she murmured to herself. “I really will have to get myself a new coat!” She pocketed the five-dollar bill; she could give it to Tim when she went to the shelter on Saturday.
When she saw the stranger go into the building where she worked, she hung back a little before she entered. She didn’t want him to think she was following him!
Ivory worked on the first floor of a converted warehouse where seamstresses on an assembly line sewed sample garments. Pattern-makers, markers and junior designers had small offices there; Miss Raines’s office and those of the two other senior designers were carpeted and more luxurious. The executive offices—art, promotion and production—were on the second floor. That was where the vice president and manager of this division, Harry Lambert, worked.
Adjoining the elegant room occupied by Miss Raines was Ivory’s small cubbyhole. The space was cramped and furnished with cast-off pieces that had apparently been designed to depress the most optimistic of workers. One of the two straight chairs had a loose leg, and the desk had a rough finish marred by careless hands with sharp implements. The curtains were windowless; not that it mattered, because the view was of a rough red brick wall less than twenty feet away. At least Miss Raines had a view of the street outside. She never looked, though, because she said it depressed her. No doubt she hadn’t paid much attention to the furniture in Ivory’s office, or she’d have discovered real causes for depression!
Ivory had sorted out the accessories that she’d been told to match with the simple outfits for the upcoming summer fashion shows. She was trying to decide which of two scarves to pair with a nice silk suit when her door opened.
“Miss Keene,” Miss Raines said formally, her cold eyes unblinking behind her stylish glasses, “why were these designs placed on my desk?” She waved the portfolio at Ivory.
Ivory paused with the scarves held before her like a shield. She hesitated, and then rushed ahead before her courage gave out. “I’d hoped you might like one of them,” she began.
Miss Raines put the portfolio on Ivory’s desk with the air of someone disposing of nasty garbage. “Hardly,” she said. “As I’ve told you already, the other two senior designers and I make up our new lines each season. Junior designers may contribute, but not someone on your level. Perhaps when you’ve been here a few years, we might consider something of yours. However, you will have to prove yourself first.”
Ivory wondered how she was going to prove anything by matching scarves and suits. She studied the older woman from her short hair and simply cut but very expensive mauve dress to her polished calf pumps. Miss Raines had never married, and the business was her life. Perhaps it was all she had, Ivory thought, trying to be kind.
“Kindly keep your...drawings...out of the way,” Miss Raines added as she left, and Ivory’s impulse to be kind vanished at once. “And do clean this place up,” she added as an afterthought. “Mr. Kells is in the building.”
The door closed firmly behind her. Ivory stared at it with resignation. She’d been here six months, and it felt like six years. Mr. Kells might be in the building, but she was hardly likely to get to see him. She’d had no contact with anyone except Miss Raines, Dee Grier, who was the head seamstress, the seamstresses who made reality of the mental creations of the designers and the various salesmen who frequented the office. Mr. Kells had no reason to come here. There was no suggestion box. Wages were paid, frugally, every other week. Insurance was bare bones. Holidays were, apparently, few and far between. Hard work was the order of the day.
Ivory toyed with the label of the silk scarf in one hand. Gucci. She wondered how it would feel to be able to walk into an exclusive department store and buy several of these. Even one was far beyond her means, and the outfits that carried the Kells-Meredith label, even in the casual line, were so expensive that the price of one leisure dress would pay Ivory’s rent for a month.
She put the scarf down and opened the portfolio. She’d designed a collection based on sixteenth-century Tudor costumes, having become intrigued with them when she’d first seen them in her local library back home. Her adaptations had a definition that was like a signature, and everyone she’d shown them to had exclaimed over them. Everyone, that is, except Miss Raines, who had the power to bring them to the attention of those in charge of the company’s lines. She released a long sigh over her favorite, a heavily embroidered gown with mutton-leg sleeves and a square neckline. Ideally, it would be done in silk for summer and a heavier fabric, perhaps satin, for winter evening wear. The long sleeves might be too hot for summer. But, then, nearly every building was air-conditioned now and silk was so summery.
She closed the portfolio reluctantly and picked up the scarf again,