of what looked good on her thin, lithe frame. And it wasn’t that dress!
“Well, Gala, you’re quite slender. That style is too mature for you, too heavy-looking.”
“All the Sevillana Line is like this,” Gala muttered discontentedly. “Señor de Sevile—he insists we all call him that, not Mr.—doesn’t seem to care what age women are, he just designs what he likes. This season’s clothes were all red, black, orange, and purple. They’re loose on the breasts on most of us. Models are thin, Lauren. Everyone knows that. But his clothes are cut full on top, tight to below the hips, and then they flare out with lots of ruffles. I don’t like them. They only look good on Dolores, his top model.”
Lauren had to agree. She said cautiously, “The colors are hard to wear, but you’re young enough to get away with them. It’s a Spanish-inspired line, isn’t it? Perhaps that’s why he makes the clothes that we associate with flamenco dancers, tight to the hips and ruffled below.”
Gala sighed. “I like what you’re wearing.” She shifted in her seat and suddenly winced. “I think I will go look up the doc. Señor de Sevile will kill me if I turn up limping tomorrow evening for his showing.”
“Olé,” murmured Lauren as the girl walked gingerly away from the table.
She was just finishing her coffee when the dance troupe came into the dining room. They were all beaming, a delightfully different mood than the one they had been in the night before.
“We’ve got a room with a piano to practice in,” Violet announced. “And the door locks,” added Derek.
“Will you need any of us for fittings?” asked Dolly.
Lauren set a time, thanked them with a wide smile for their assistance, and turned to go. As she passed a nearby table, a man stood up, as though he had been waiting for her. Mike took her arm and led her out of the restaurant.
“I hope you’ll forgive me.” He grinned. “I overheard your comments just now, and you’re right. That pretty little model really doesn’t suit that flamboyant costume. She looks as though she’s wearing mommy’s dress.”
If he were one of de Sevile’s spies, Mike would talk exactly like that, Lauren knew. On the other hand, he might be a roving reporter out for a juicy designers’ war story. She looked at him doubtfully. “How do you fit into this, Mike? What’s your line?”
“I’m an entrepreneur, talent scout, manager—you name it.” He laughed softly. “What’s your verdict on that dress, Lauren?”
“It’s a Sevillana, Gala tells me,” Lauren stalled. “I think it’s probably featured in Landrill’s High Kick boutiques for young women.”
“What do you think of it?” Mike persisted.
Lauren shrugged. “Carlos’s designs don’t try to enhance the wearer; they shout Carlos. I recognized the color combinations and line of the costume before Gala told me.” Lauren admitted. “His dresses are quite good on some eighteen-year-olds—dark, Spanish types with very full figures—but they’re disastrous for slender, blonde teenagers and for most American women over thirty. They also cost so much that only wealthy women can afford them.” She glanced at Mike with a smile. “I hope you’re taking this with a pound of salt, Mike. I’m Carlos’s rival, if only in a very humble way. It could be professional jealousy talking.”
Mike shook his head, his eyes intent on her laughing countenance. “Somehow I don’t think so,” he mused. “You certainly know what suits you, and your models present a most attractive image. Why don’t you tie up with one of the big companies, Lauren? Saks or Bullocks or Landrill’s? Free yourself to create, and let someone else run the business end of it?”
“My husband did have offers,” Lauren explained. “He seemed very much opposed to handing over our line and my designs to what he called the big conglomerates.”
“And what did you think? Or didn’t Mr. Rose permit you to have any ideas of your own—away from the design board, I mean?”
Lauren frowned. It hadn’t been that way, had it? She had always been content to let Al run the business. But she remembered times when she had had to go for a swim in their pool to work off some of the frustrations his autocratic attitudes had roused in her. She shook her head. What did it matter now? She was alone and running the business well—at least the profits were slowly increasing—and loving every minute of it. She put a smile on her face.
“The widow is running her own show, Mike. After this