Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,34
he didn’t commit.”
“Look, I’m doing all I can. But in this instance what can I do? Wear a wig? Dark glasses? It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t have the poise or the attire to trick anyone into believing I’m a wealth investor.”
“Bah,” she cried. “Poise comes with the proper attire, and that’s a problem easily solved.”
She set down her china cup and stood. “Come with me. I’m sure we can find something suitable from my own wardrobe.”
Madame led me down a long hallway lined with statuary and through the door to her boudoir. The corner room was bright and spacious, with ivory lace curtains pulled back to admit the afternoon sun. Passing the mirrored dressing table, Madame flung open the cream-colored doors to her walk-in closet and stepped inside.
She stared, clucking at the array of fine clothing hanging there, then shook her head. “No, no, no…these clothes just won’t do.”
Madame moved deeper into the closet, to an ornate armoire made of dark teakwood. When she opened its doors, my eyes widened. The armoire was packed with vintage clothing sealed in clear plastic—a fabulous array of textures, a cascading rainbow of colors. An Oleg Cassini evening dress in shell pink, silk-georgette chiffon beside a Givenchy dress and jacket in deep-pink wool bouclé. An elegant two-piece linen suit in blazing red, a la Chez Ninon. A pale blue Herbert Sondheim sundress. Black cigarette pants with matching black-and-white striped jacket. Pillbox hats. Capri pants. A-line skirts. And there were vintage accessories, too. A Gucci hobo bag. Real crocodile shoes. Belts. Handbags. Gloves. Jewelry. Even several pairs of oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses.
“When I was your age, these were the clothes I wore,” Madame said with a note of pride, as she pulled out piece after piece.
“They’re…marvelous. Simply spectacular. These clothes are thirty years old, yet they seem so contemporary.”
“More like forty years old, my dear. But it does not matter one whit. Elegance is timeless.”
“And your taste is impeccable. I like this black number….”
“The crepe minidress with the pleated hem ruffle? It’s Mary Quant. A lovely dress, but all wrong for this occasion. You must wear light colors to blend in with the rich and powerful….”
“Light colors?”
“If for no other reason than to demonstrate to the world that you can afford the dry cleaning bills.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s the rich. Ah, let’s try this Christian Dior skirt and jacket, perhaps with this white cashmere sweater. Or would this Andre Courreges A-line shift dress be more appropriate? No, no, the hemline is much too short….”
I soon realized that much of Madame’s wardrobe mimicked the style of a highly public figure of that era, a woman known for her impeccable taste in fashion—an arguably effortless feat with all the top-tier designers of her day scrambling to dress her. Well, who could fault Madame for that? After all, what woman of Madame’s generation didn’t try to dress like Jackie O?
We decided on a Coco Chanel wool suit in a creamy beige—jacket, skirt, and coordinating blouse. The fit was pretty good. The overall ensemble elegant and flattering. Unfortunately, at five-two, the skirt’s hemline hung too far below my knees, but Madame called in her maid and the two women were soon fussing and pinning and promising to have the hemline lifted up for the event.
“When that suit was new, I would wear it with a pair of high-heeled pumps and this hat,” said Madame, holding up the hat.
Uh-oh, I thought, seeing the signature Jackie pillbox with the lacy veil. I think we’re going a little too far on the time warp. “I’ll lose the hat and go with calf-high boots,” I told her gently. “It’s a more contemporary look.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She tapped her chin. “I suppose the white gloves are out too?”
I smiled indulgently and nodded. Then I gazed at my reflection in the floor-length mirror, amazed at the transformation. Even without the hat, I looked like a different woman—elegant, ageless, timelessly fashionable. I also appeared affluent, wildly so. In these clothes, even my personal style changed from practical to poised. I stood straighter, my movements seemed graceful. I felt nearly as confident as I looked. But there was one problem—my head. My face and hair still gave away my identity.
“Try this.” Madame handed me a hat box containing a shoulder-length, straight-styled natural hair wig in a color at least three shades darker than my own natural chestnut brown. The wig, and a pair of oversized Oleg Cassini tinted glasses, completed the ensemble.
We fumbled with my hair for a