for the captain when we were embarking?”
“No, I mean the little teenager you were advising at breakfast.”
“Gala Devine? No, I don’t plan to. She’s one of Carlos’s models, as you guessed.”
“What sort of costume would you suggest for a girl like Gala? Something like that very pretty jump suit you have on?”
“No. This is the wrong color for her, the wrong line for her extreme slenderness. She would look like a boy in it. Of course, she might want that effect.”
“You don’t look boyish,” Mike answered.
“This suit is effective for my height, weight distribution, coloring, and age,” Lauren explained. Rather than feeling complimented, Lauren felt he was mocking her, even testing her. She continued in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. “I try to design a dress with the woman who is likely to wear it in my mind. A very plump woman, for instance, would look absurd in this. Or a very thin one.”
Mike nodded.
Lauren, very much aware that the moment was spoiled, nodded back and walked swiftly away.
Unfortunately for her ruffled poise, she found Herbert Masen in her sitting room talking to Nella, who was dressed in a very fetching negligée from the new collection. Since she didn’t particularly like Herbert and was wary of him after his horror stories about ships at sea, Nella must have put on the robe for the British doctor’s delectation. Lauren set her lips firmly. It was her practice never to reprimand her models in front of outsiders; she said nothing, but her displeased glance at the robe got her point across to Nella.
“I was . . . waiting for the doctor to call,” she explained, self-consciously. “When Mr. Masen knocked, I thought he was him.”
“Better get back to bed, Nella. That robe isn’t really warm enough for a sick woman,” Lauren said a little waspishly. When the model had gone, Lauren turned to Herbert. “What can I do for you?” she asked shortly.
Herbert essayed his wheedling smile. “I wanted to apologize for coming in here drunk last night to wait for you, Laurie. I guess I just got worried when things seemed to be falling apart on you.”
“How were you proposing to help me?” Lauren countered.
“Well,” he said with a wide grin, “I was going to offer you my shoulder to cry on, as I remember.”
“But you really don’t remember,” added Lauren. “You came on strong and nasty.”
“Ah, forget that, babe,” Herbert coaxed. “You know I’ve got your best interests at heart.”
“So what else besides a shoulder did you have in mind?”
“I was going to propose to you again,” he confessed, looking like a small boy. “You need a husband, Laurie baby. I can help you with the business details Al always saw to. Leave you free to do your thing with the designs.”
Lauren studied the self-indulgent face of her husband’s best friend. “Sorry, Herbert,” she said as gently as she could. “I really don’t need a husband right now.”
“But you do need someone to get this show on the road—or off the deck. From the look of Nella and from what I hear about Dani, you haven’t got a show. Be reasonable, Laurie-baby. You need me.”
Where had Herbert dredged up this “Laurie-baby” bit? He sounded like an old-style Hollywood producer. Lauren was suddenly very tired of his fat, flabby face, body, and mind.
“You’ll be glad to know that I’m handling it, Herbert,” she said coolly. “Not to worry—” She caught herself short. Would that British phrase give Herbert a lead to her group of dancers? She didn’t think so, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Herbert was looking extremely curious, and he had no scruples about prying. “Look, Herbie-baby, I’ve got to get changed for tonight’s show. It’s Maartens, and he always has elegance.”
“Have dinner with me, Lauren,” Herbert wheedled. “I’m in the Princess Grill Restaurant. It’s really something. I can have a guest if I work it right.”
“I’m dieting,
“No, I mean the little teenager you were advising at breakfast.”
“Gala Devine? No, I don’t plan to. She’s one of Carlos’s models, as you guessed.”
“What sort of costume would you suggest for a girl like Gala? Something like that very pretty jump suit you have on?”
“No. This is the wrong color for her, the wrong line for her extreme slenderness. She would look like a boy in it. Of course, she might want that effect.”
“You don’t look boyish,” Mike answered.
“This suit is effective for my height, weight distribution, coloring, and age,” Lauren explained. Rather than feeling complimented, Lauren felt he was mocking her, even testing her. She continued in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. “I try to design a dress with the woman who is likely to wear it in my mind. A very plump woman, for instance, would look absurd in this. Or a very thin one.”
Mike nodded.
Lauren, very much aware that the moment was spoiled, nodded back and walked swiftly away.
Unfortunately for her ruffled poise, she found Herbert Masen in her sitting room talking to Nella, who was dressed in a very fetching negligée from the new collection. Since she didn’t particularly like Herbert and was wary of him after his horror stories about ships at sea, Nella must have put on the robe for the British doctor’s delectation. Lauren set her lips firmly. It was her practice never to reprimand her models in front of outsiders; she said nothing, but her displeased glance at the robe got her point across to Nella.
“I was . . . waiting for the doctor to call,” she explained, self-consciously. “When Mr. Masen knocked, I thought he was him.”
“Better get back to bed, Nella. That robe isn’t really warm enough for a sick woman,” Lauren said a little waspishly. When the model had gone, Lauren turned to Herbert. “What can I do for you?” she asked shortly.
Herbert essayed his wheedling smile. “I wanted to apologize for coming in here drunk last night to wait for you, Laurie. I guess I just got worried when things seemed to be falling apart on you.”
“How were you proposing to help me?” Lauren countered.
“Well,” he said with a wide grin, “I was going to offer you my shoulder to cry on, as I remember.”
“But you really don’t remember,” added Lauren. “You came on strong and nasty.”
“Ah, forget that, babe,” Herbert coaxed. “You know I’ve got your best interests at heart.”
“So what else besides a shoulder did you have in mind?”
“I was going to propose to you again,” he confessed, looking like a small boy. “You need a husband, Laurie baby. I can help you with the business details Al always saw to. Leave you free to do your thing with the designs.”
Lauren studied the self-indulgent face of her husband’s best friend. “Sorry, Herbert,” she said as gently as she could. “I really don’t need a husband right now.”
“But you do need someone to get this show on the road—or off the deck. From the look of Nella and from what I hear about Dani, you haven’t got a show. Be reasonable, Laurie-baby. You need me.”
Where had Herbert dredged up this “Laurie-baby” bit? He sounded like an old-style Hollywood producer. Lauren was suddenly very tired of his fat, flabby face, body, and mind.
“You’ll be glad to know that I’m handling it, Herbert,” she said coolly. “Not to worry—” She caught herself short. Would that British phrase give Herbert a lead to her group of dancers? She didn’t think so, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Herbert was looking extremely curious, and he had no scruples about prying. “Look, Herbie-baby, I’ve got to get changed for tonight’s show. It’s Maartens, and he always has elegance.”
“Have dinner with me, Lauren,” Herbert wheedled. “I’m in the Princess Grill Restaurant. It’s really something. I can have a guest if I work it right.”
“I’m dieting,
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