The Pink Suit: A Novel by Nicole Kelby

hours and twenty-two minutes late, Kate thought. She’s probably at St. Patrick’s now. The ice in the champagne bucket had melted completely. The single crystal coupe looked forlorn. Kate sat in the showroom, fidgeting. Ankles crossed. One hand over the other? Hands in her pockets?
    It was one thing to honor the Wife by copying her clothes for Maggie Quinn; it was another to meet the real deal. Kate thought of all the things that could go wrong. She could be sweaty, and that would ruin the toile. And all that smoking—Kate did not care for anyone who smoked. After fittings, the Wife’s dressing room was like the inside of a gray cloud. What if the Wife cursed? That would be awful. The more Kate waited, the more she was convinced that nothing good could come of this meeting. She closed her eyes and pictured the Wife’s face—that smile, the faint freckles across that nose, and the dark hair. Perfectly Irish, perfectly beautiful. Perfect—not human. And that was the way Kate preferred her.
    Kate pulled the champagne bottle out of the bucket to take a good look at it. Was there a trick to opening it? She wasn’t much of a drinker, but the color of champagne was an important factor in her work. When a champagne coupe was held, it became an accessory. The color of a gown must be chosen based on the type of champagne served. If the champagne was vintage, even if it was only aged a year or two, it would have a golden cast; Dom Pérignon was usually the color of new gold. But if it was aged more than five years, then it was the color of autumn leaves. Taittinger, which was the drink of the moment, was always “cathedral gold” because it was the color of the gold leaf in St. Patrick’s.
    Moët & Chandon was what the Ladies left for this particular meeting. It was what they always served. Non-vintage. Miss Nona bought by the case. When poured into crystal coupes it cast the world in the shade of tattered moonlight, which made everything feel both unbearably beautiful and unbearably sad. Details like that made a difference; they separated dressmakers from seamstresses.
    Cut. Trim. Baste. Tuck. Pin. Trim. Stitch. That was what most people thought sewing was about, but they were wrong. It was really about perfection. Each stitch must be exactly like the one before it; each must be so small that it seems part of the fabric. A ribbon is sewn into the waist of a skirt to help keep the blouse in place. Zippers are either placed on the side, for comfort, or in the back, to emphasize the elegance of a line. Each tuck and pleat carefully disguises any flaw in the wearing or the wearer—small breasts, uneven hips, thick waists, and, of course, waning youth.
    There were always so many elements involved, so many things to consider, and so many variables. From what Kate could tell, the same dress, or even a similar one, could not be worn Opening Night at the Met and also to the New York Junior League Winter Ball—the guest list was nearly identical. But a dress worn to the Kentucky Derby could be dyed another color and worn again in the same season. At the Derby, the “Horsey Set,” as Miss Sophie called them, spent so much time looking at each other’s hats, they never noticed the dresses at all.
    Finally, at 6:46 p.m., when there was no hope of getting Mrs. B’s gown to her at a reasonable hour and there’d be all hell to pay, the phone rang. A secretary. Reschedule.
    â€œI see.”
    Kate’s knees stopped shaking. That was fine. Better she didn’t come.
    Kate threw the toile in the trash.

Chapter Five
    â€œElegance is innate. It has nothing to do with being well dressed. Elegance is refusal.”
    â€”Diana Vreeland
    I t was nearly ten p.m. when the train pulled into Inwood. Maggie Quinn had long since cleared the supper plates and put her Little Mike to bed, so it was too late to root around in her sister’s icebox. And Kate would not make the same