Lauren's Designs - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,1

quickly with the reminder that the Ocean’s Passenger Terminal in New York was no place to stand and ruminate, Lauren checked with a member of the purser’s staff to be sure that her sealed rack of costumes had been delivered aboard and was safely locked in her suite. Then she presented passports and tickets at the appropriate counters. She was instructed to collect her two models for check in, and did so with some trepidation. Nella had been fretting all night long on the plane about what a poor sailor she probably was, and Dani had spent the time flirting with every personable male in sight. Lauren had a grim suspicion that her troubles were only starting.

She was exasperated to find that Herbert had bought queasy Nella and Dani a sandwich and a Coke from the dispensers. “Are you crazy?” she asked the models, holding out her hands for the thick, greasy packages. “If you get mayonnaise on those suits, I’ll kill you. Don’t you remember there are photographers waiting at the gangway?” She glared at Herbert. “Are you doing this deliberately, Masen?”

“Doing what?” His voice, his narrow smile, were too innocent.

“Good-bye, Herbert,” Lauren said grimly. “I’ll try to forget your help.”

She shepherded Nella and Dani through Immigration and led them up to the embarkation hall. A dozen photographers rushed toward them, calling out a babble of instructions to the models. Nella and Dani moved automatically into a series of graceful, elegant, and provocative postures. Dani sparkled at the lenses, her dark curls gleaming, her small figure moving seductively. Nella, tall and big-busted, went into a rehearsed sequence of movements that showed off her statuesque figure as well as Lauren’s designs.

Lauren drew in a deep breath of relief. The models were professionals. In spite of their weariness, confusion, lack of sleep and food, and especially in spite of Herbert Masen’s efforts, the Lauren Rose September Song mannequins were triumphantly displaying the top numbers of this year’s line. And in her own suite on board, safely locked away, were the new designs, the new collection that would, she hoped, win the admiration of fashion-conscious women over thirty years of age. It was thrilling to watch her two models turn and sway and smile, smokey-eyed and beguiling, and to see how gracefully her dresses clung and flowed, glorifying the women’s figures. Lauren exhaled a deep breath of satisfaction.

At that minute, a gray-haired reporter approached her. “Who are you?” His question wasn’t insolent, merely routine.

“Lauren Rose, September Song Line, Los Angeles.” Lauren handed him a small publicity package. She held out her hand with the smile that had won her the friendship and loyalty of her employees as well as her many customers. “I’m also wearing one of this year’s top sellers.” She gestured at her raw-silk suit, a creamy-gold that exactly matched her softly waving hair. The silk scarf at her throat brought out the deep, almost violet-blue of her eyes. “September Song is created for the lovely woman over thirty who has kept both her wits and her figure.”

The man chuckled, his brown eyes gleaming with admiration. “Quotable!”

“May I know your name?” Lauren asked. His answer delighted her. “Reb Crowell!” she exclaimed. “We love your columns in California. It’s an honor to have you covering us.”

His suddenly wicked grin sparkled. “I’ll be glad to cover you any time,” he teased. “Want to hear my opening paragraphs?” At her smiling nod, he declaimed, in the manner of a TV commentator, “At four-forty-five on a bright Sunday afternoon the QE II, darling of the international darlings, pet of the jet set, pulled majestically away from the dock and headed out past the Statue of Liberty—who was green with envy—on a highly publicized voyage, the Fashion Cruise. Seven of America’s finest dress designers are on board, with their latest dazzling collections and their world-famous models. The cream of society from Bel Air to Boston has checked into luxurious staterooms on the greatest liner afloat for the five-and-a-half-day cruise from New York to Southampton. Four glamorous afternoons and three glittering evenings will be devoted to the seven individual showings of the most exciting clothes and accessories American creativity and taste can design—a fabulous fashion preview for America’s best-dressed women.

“A panel of judges will be chosen from among the first-class passengers on Sunday evening. These fashion-wise experts will attend all seven shows and then, at the Captain’s Dinner the last night before docking, the winner will be announced—”

“Don’t say it,” interrupted Lauren, laughing, as she held