Herbert. See you later.” She hustled him, still talking, out the door and locked it. Then, poking her head into the models’ bedroom, she said clearly, “Don’t open that door for anyone but the doctor, got it? I don’t want my new collection made available for anyone who wants to look at it.”
That harsh but deserved rebuke quite crushed Nella.
Grimly, Lauren ordered a salad and tea to be delivered in one hour, and went to take a shower.
She wore an understated evening gown for the Maartens show. It was deep cream velvet, cut to look simple, a narrow sheath with a slit up one side and a slashed neckline front and back whose narrow opening reached almost to her waist. It had no ornament, depending upon purity of line and suppleness of material for its attractiveness. Her hair she dressed in a knot on top of her head, exposing her long, delicate throat and highlighting her face. She might not make a loud statement about her talents in this subtle gown, but she made a clear one. Shoes and bag of the cream velvet completed her ensemble. Fortified, Lauren went back up to the Royal Court Lounge and found her secluded position before most of the passengers arrived.
It was a much dressier group than that which had attended Janus’s showing that afternoon. The women sparkled and flashed with jewels. There were bright and also deep rich colors. Lauren noted a number of taffeta dresses, and silently condoled the wearers who would emerge from nearly two hours’ sitting down in a cramped space looking crumpled and squashed.
The show began exactly on time and proceeded with the smooth suavity of all Maartens’ productions. The audience, much more restrained than the Janus admirers murmured politely and applauded with gloved hands. Just before the final number—evening gowns and coats—Maartens himself appeared. He introduced the cruise director, Maida Hass, who announced the selection of judges. These were requested to stand upon the mention of their names. There were two women and one man. The first woman was Lady Winston-Bell. Quite a susurrus followed the announcement of her name, and a polite round of applause greeted her as she stood. The second woman was Mrs. Claire Lexington Cornelius, a socialite and respected member of an old New York clan. The applause was a little louder for her; she was well-known to any American with social ambitions. The man was rather a surprise.
“Our third judge is the New York columnist Mr. Rebel Crowell,” said Maida Hass. There was a gasp and then applause. A slender, gray-haired man with wise dark-brown eyes rose and waved nonchalantly, acknowledging the response.
“This way, our show is sure to get superior coverage,” teased Miss Hass. “Will it be Time , Newsweek ?”
“Or Playboy ?” yelled some wag in the crowd.
There was general laughter as the music started again, softly, for the final section of Maartens’ showing.
While the audience was still applauding, Lauren slipped out of the lounge and found herself almost in Mike’s arms. He wasted no time, leading her off rapidly to an elevator that took them up to the palatial suites which were the pride of the QE II .
Inside the spacious sitting room, Lauren stared around her with wide eyes. “So this is how the upper crust manages to scrape along?” she breathed. “Don’t you feel a little cramped?”
Mike grinned. “If I am, I can always go out on my private balcony, or into one of my two bathrooms, or my—excuse it—bedroom. Want to see?” he teased.
“But of course,” said Lauren, enthusiastically.
That seemed to surprise him. He stared at her, one eyebrow lifted in a quizzical gesture that had her heart pounding.
“It’s probably the only chance I’ll ever have to see one of the super suites on the Queen Elizabeth ,” she explained. “Lead on, McDuff!”
“I believe that’s ‘ Lay on, McDuff! And damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough! ’ ” quoted Mike with the wickedest grin
That harsh but deserved rebuke quite crushed Nella.
Grimly, Lauren ordered a salad and tea to be delivered in one hour, and went to take a shower.
She wore an understated evening gown for the Maartens show. It was deep cream velvet, cut to look simple, a narrow sheath with a slit up one side and a slashed neckline front and back whose narrow opening reached almost to her waist. It had no ornament, depending upon purity of line and suppleness of material for its attractiveness. Her hair she dressed in a knot on top of her head, exposing her long, delicate throat and highlighting her face. She might not make a loud statement about her talents in this subtle gown, but she made a clear one. Shoes and bag of the cream velvet completed her ensemble. Fortified, Lauren went back up to the Royal Court Lounge and found her secluded position before most of the passengers arrived.
It was a much dressier group than that which had attended Janus’s showing that afternoon. The women sparkled and flashed with jewels. There were bright and also deep rich colors. Lauren noted a number of taffeta dresses, and silently condoled the wearers who would emerge from nearly two hours’ sitting down in a cramped space looking crumpled and squashed.
The show began exactly on time and proceeded with the smooth suavity of all Maartens’ productions. The audience, much more restrained than the Janus admirers murmured politely and applauded with gloved hands. Just before the final number—evening gowns and coats—Maartens himself appeared. He introduced the cruise director, Maida Hass, who announced the selection of judges. These were requested to stand upon the mention of their names. There were two women and one man. The first woman was Lady Winston-Bell. Quite a susurrus followed the announcement of her name, and a polite round of applause greeted her as she stood. The second woman was Mrs. Claire Lexington Cornelius, a socialite and respected member of an old New York clan. The applause was a little louder for her; she was well-known to any American with social ambitions. The man was rather a surprise.
“Our third judge is the New York columnist Mr. Rebel Crowell,” said Maida Hass. There was a gasp and then applause. A slender, gray-haired man with wise dark-brown eyes rose and waved nonchalantly, acknowledging the response.
“This way, our show is sure to get superior coverage,” teased Miss Hass. “Will it be Time , Newsweek ?”
“Or Playboy ?” yelled some wag in the crowd.
There was general laughter as the music started again, softly, for the final section of Maartens’ showing.
While the audience was still applauding, Lauren slipped out of the lounge and found herself almost in Mike’s arms. He wasted no time, leading her off rapidly to an elevator that took them up to the palatial suites which were the pride of the QE II .
Inside the spacious sitting room, Lauren stared around her with wide eyes. “So this is how the upper crust manages to scrape along?” she breathed. “Don’t you feel a little cramped?”
Mike grinned. “If I am, I can always go out on my private balcony, or into one of my two bathrooms, or my—excuse it—bedroom. Want to see?” he teased.
“But of course,” said Lauren, enthusiastically.
That seemed to surprise him. He stared at her, one eyebrow lifted in a quizzical gesture that had her heart pounding.
“It’s probably the only chance I’ll ever have to see one of the super suites on the Queen Elizabeth ,” she explained. “Lead on, McDuff!”
“I believe that’s ‘ Lay on, McDuff! And damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough! ’ ” quoted Mike with the wickedest grin
Similar Books
