‘It’s going to be everything a good party should be,’ she replied. ‘We were famously good entertainers, Wally and I. If he hadn’t passed away, I sometimes wonder if that would have been our legacy. Esther Williams jumping into the pool in her gown to perform a routine, Lauren Bacall dancing with Gene Kelly in the ballroom and the Kennedy boys getting up to God only knows what with God knows who in the gardens. And it wouldn’t be me, but there are some who will tell you Liz Taylor and Richard Burton consummated their relationship in our greenhouse rather than on the set ofCleopatra.’
‘And the rest is history,’ I exhaled happily. ‘What a love story.’
‘They married and divorced each other twice and now they’re both dead.’
‘It’s still history,’ I pouted. ‘So that’s what we’re going for? Fully clothed swimming and celebrities shagging in between the tomato plants?’
‘Don’t be vulgar.’ Myrna frowned and the delicate, translucent skin of her forehead crinkled like crepe paper. ‘But yes.’
‘Can’t wait,’ I said, pushing my luck with a second grape.
‘Wally always said it wasn’t a proper party unless you’d kissed a stranger or fired a pistol. I fear my kissing days are over, but I do still keep a loaded gun in the house.’
I gulped so hard, I felt my corset protest. ‘Now I think about it, I might be busy Friday night.’
‘As for what I will wear,’ she added, ‘I haven’t decided yet. All of my custom gowns still fit; they have all been properly preserved. I never did like to plan too far ahead; I imagine I’ll decide on the day.’
‘Nothing too restrictive,’ I suggested as the dressing room door clicked open and the sales assistant returned, drowning in garment bags. ‘You want to be able to fire that pistol and get your leg over.’
‘The girl’s a poet,’ Myrna declared with a one-sided smile.
‘I’m a copywriter,’ I clarified for the nameless assistant. A boutique like this didn’t have anything as utilitarian as name badges for the staff. Who needed names when rich people could come in and point at people instead?
‘What do you think that is, other than a modern poet?’ Myrna replied. ‘The idea of a man wandering around with a quill, sleeves billowing in the wind waiting for inspiration to strike is utter nonsense. Know your history, the greats wrote to order just as you do. You mustn’t belittle your own work;, it’s tacky and beneath you.’
‘Your mom is very wise,’ the assistant said as she unfurled a full-length red gown so beautiful, if I hadn’t already been sitting on the floor, I would have fallen over.
‘Oh, no,’ I said quickly, looking over at the older woman. ‘Myrna isn’t my mum.’
‘No,’ she confirmed. ‘I’m her lover.’
The sales assistant froze; the shirred chiffon fabricshe held in her hand fluttered under the air-conditioning vent as Myrna hooted with laughter.
‘I think that’s the one,’ she said, gesturing towards the red dress with her champagne. ‘Try it on, darling, I do so love to see you in red.’
‘You’re a monster,’ I told her as the assistant scurried away again.
She raised her glass in a one-woman toast. ‘That’s a funny way to say thank you but you’re welcome nonetheless.’
The dress was stunning. Three slender straps curled around my neck, holding up the cherry-red empire line gown, silk chiffon ruching over the chest and falling in sleek pleats all the way past my feet where the fabric pooled on the floor. It moved when I moved, brushing against my body to suggest the shape underneath it but never clinging.
‘It’s beautiful, Myrna, but I can’t buy this,’ I said, running my hands over the fabric. ‘Even if I could afford it, which I definitely cannot, I’d only ever wear it once. This dress deserves so much more.’
‘The chances of a designer gown sold in LA being worn even once are slim to none,’ she replied, rolling her eyes. ‘Most of these dresses will be bought or borrowed by stylists, hidden in a closet and never see the light of day. How many people do you see repeating outfits on the red carpet?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t read a lot of celebrity gossip,’ I said, hoping she would not ask to see my browser history. ‘It’s still too much. I’m sure Suzanne has something I can borrow.’
‘And I’m sure she doesn’t.’
She stood and rattled the door of the dressing room with her cane as I shimmied out of the dress and back into my jeans and T-shirt. ‘We’ll take the red one, darling,’ she said when the apprehensive-looking assistant’s head popped inside. ‘Take it up by three inches and have it delivered before Friday. Put it on my account.’
I watched the dress, my dress, as it was whisked away by the happiest on-commission sales assistant in the world. ‘Myrna, I can’t let you buy me that dress.’
‘You’re not letting me do anything,’ she replied. ‘I’m buying it because you should have it and because I don’t trust you to dress yourself for my party, from your own or your sister’s wardrobe.’
‘Well, when you put it like that, thank you very much.’ I sat on a small velour stool, struggling with the tiny gold buckles of my borrowed sandals. ‘Would it be all right if my sister comes as well? You don’t need to worry, she goes to posh events all the time, she’s a much better dresser than I am.’
‘She couldn’t be much worse.’
