It had been four whole days since I’d had my last Gelson’s fix, so I stopped in on my way home from Annie’s to pick up a Chinese chicken salad to go. It was only a quarter past four, but I was projecting ahead to dinner and the sorry state of my larder. Somehow, I never seemed to have any of the staples you’re supposed to have on hand to whip up a fabulous impromptu meal. My pantry featured various dusty cans, jars, and bottles of things that must have seemed like a good idea at one time or another, but never should’ve have made the cut: pureed cannellini beans, diet cauliflower bisque, unsweetened cranberry juice. Fodder for the earthquake kit, I suppose.
The minute I walked into the house, I pulled my now-oppressive blue dress over my head and fantasized about burning it. But I was loath to do so. It was by Claire McCardell, who had singlehandedly founded American ready-to-wear fashion in the forties. And in a size ten, with those oversize patch pockets, it was a rare find.
As far as I know, no one except yours truly has advanced a theory as to why vintage clothing tends to be found only in fours and sixes. At five-eleven and 144 pounds (naked, first thing in the morning, and definitely not between Thanksgiving and New Year’s), the only thing about me that’s a size six is two-thirds of one foot. I like to think it’s because throughout history, voluptuous girls like myself tended to be ravished by impatient mates, their dresses shed in the heat of passion, while our petite counterparts, being inherently less desirable, had ample time to hang up their garments neatly, thus preserving them for posterity on eBay.
A crock of shit, I know. Nevertheless, it does explain why, after checking my messages (“Cece, get your butt over here. Someone your size has died!”), I abandoned my salad and hightailed it over to Bridget’s. Like the Duchess of Windsor, I’d rather shop than eat. But it was a tough call.
I considered myself lucky to call Bridget Sugarhill a friend. The sole proprietor of On the Bias, the premier vintage clothing shop in Los Angeles, Bridget wielded power equivalent to (and during Oscar season greater than) that of your average studio head. Bridget knew everything about clothes, and everything about everyone who liked them. Who makes no career move before consulting her Chinese herbalist? Who is really the boss at Sony Pictures Classics? Who ran over her agent’s dog? Oh, if the tabloids only knew.
The bell tinkled as I opened the celadon and gold door of the otherwise ordinary brick building located on a small stretch of Burton Way in Beverly Hills. Bridget appeared instantly, a tall African-American woman wearing a swath of kente cloth cut with the precision of a Balenciaga frock.
“Hello, Cece, come in and join me,” she said grandly.
Bridget was not exactly old Hollywood royalty, but she was definitely old Hollywood. Her grandmother, Jeanie Sugarhill, had been a seamstress at MGM in its glory days, renowned both for her moxie and way with a needle. Every good fashionista knows that padded shoulders came into vogue in the 1940s because the great costume designer Adrian decided they offset Joan Crawford’s hips. But Jeanie Sugarhill was famed on the MGM lot for even greater subtlety. She could trim fat off your thighs in half-inch increments, deflate your dowager’s hump, or give you a D-cup overnight, as the occasion warranted.
Bridget’s mom, who was born quoting Voltaire, couldn’t be bothered with such frivolities. So Bridget got Grandma’s full attention. The girl may have grown up in a cramped apartment in Culver City, but she always looked divine. The night of her senior prom, she was outfitted in a pitch-perfect copy of Rita Hayworth’s strapless Gilda gown. The year before, it had been Marlene Dietrich’s muted yellow satin sheath from Morocco. No wonder the woman put on airs.
The bell on the front door tinkled again. A young matron in a red coat walked in. Without missing a beat, Bridget’s dachshund made a beeline for her crotch. As the poor woman looked around for help, Bridget told me to hold on for a minute and sashayed over.
“I see you’ve met Helmut,” she said, pleasantly enough.
Now for the rap. I’d heard it maybe a thousand times.
“You’ve never been here before, have you? Well, we carry only vintage designer pieces. Some of them are very fragile.” Bridget turned toward a rack filled with silky tops and soft sweaters spangled with beads. “We do not handle the clothes like this,” she demonstrated, yanking a peasant blouse from Yves St. Laurent’s Ballet Russes collection by its ultra-puffy sleeve. “We touch only the hangers. Thank you so much for your attention. Do let me know if I can be of futher assistance.”
Bridget returned to her reproduction Louis XVI desk and seated herself noisily in her not-reproduction Louis XVI chair.
“You are such a bitch,” I said.
“Don’t I know it,” she replied. “But god save me from the amateurs. Do you know what happened yesterday? Some skinny-assed starlet came in looking for something to wear to a premiere. She grabbed my favorite Schiaparelli gown, the one with the square neckline and floral appliques, hustled into a dressing room, and came out scrunching the waistline between her fists, whining about how big it was. Scrunching that fabric, can you imagine? You can’t iron it, for heaven’s sake! Anyway, I would’ve thrown her out if her stylist didn’t bring me so much business.”
I made sympathetic noises.
“Oh, cut it out. So, you want to see this dead woman’s clothes?”
“I’m ready,” I said, salivating.
The next forty minutes were bliss. I stripped plastic bags off dresses like there was no tomorrow, and Bridget knew enough to stay out of my way. Of course, there were a few corkers: a peasant/wench gown in transparent floral chiffon with a foot-wide elasticized waistband, perfect for going-amilkin’ at Studio 54; a Rudi Gernreich trompe l’oeil woolen suit that made me resemble a human checkerboard; and the requisite half-dozen Halston Ultrasuede coatdresses, in shades as mystifyingly popular as mushroom and burnt orange.
But I forgot about those fashion faux pas as I luxuriated in a 1930s bias-cut gown in fuschia rayon crepe with a thick velvet belt in a slightly contrasting shade of raspberry; an Oscar de la Renta silk sari printed with a pattern of periwinkle, sage, and gold; a 1960s Nina Ricci empire-waisted gown with the thinnest shoulder straps (more cappellini than spaghetti), constructed out of a single piece of accordion-pleated chiffon dyed into stripes of chartreuse, tangerine, hot pink, and lime.
And then there was the masterpiece, the dress to end all dresses. It was by Ossie Clark, the guru of rock-star girlfriends, the king of King’s Road, the designer who could make a woman feel like an angel while she was inspiring wanton lust. It was a cherry-red silk chiffon A-line from the seventies with signature Ossie bell sleeves and a keyhole neckline that plunged from the nape of the neck to the waist. I would need an engineer to construct a bra I could wear under it, but what the hell. When I put it on, I made myself swoon. After recovering, I told Bridget to wrap it up.
While I was seated at Bridget’s desk, waiting for my package, I flipped through one of her books on fashion history. Oh, what I would do to own a Claire McCardell Popover. These were wraparound, unstructured denim dresses to be worn over more elegant clothes, you know, while you whipped up cherries jubilee for your husband’s boss and his wife. Popovers were produced in response to a request by Harper’s Bazaar for appropriate clothing for women whose maids had selfishly abandoned them for wartime factory work. For some odd reason, they loomed large in my fantasy life.
I picked up another book on style icons. Talitha Getty, sprawled on a Moroccan rooftop in a floaty caftan. Slim Keith, the ultimate cool blonde. Coco Chanel, the crimson-lipped revolutionary. And Meredith Allan. Ohmigod, Meredith Allan. I knew I recognized her name.
“Bridget,” I demanded, “what do you know about this woman?”
“Meredith Allan? Why? Did she finally die? Oh, please say yes. I’d give anything to get a crack at her closet.”
“I don’t think she’s dead. Well, she might be. I think I might know someone who knows her. Or knew her. Actually, two people who know her. Or knew her. This is so strange.”
“Meredith Allan is a legend, darling. You’ve seen pictures of her, Cece. The cascading ringlets? The kohl-rimmed eyes? The jewel-tipped cigarette holders? She invented the whole gypsy patrician thing, an armful of huge Navajo bracelets, rugged leather sandals, and an haute couture gown. A sleek Chanel suit and an embroidered peasant blouse, topped by a real Tyrolean hat. That was when she lived in Austria. And London, she took that town by storm. Oh, honey, she loved Ossie Clark. Just like you. Would wear one of his butterfly-sleeve things with a gargantuan gold necklace she’d designed herself. Looked like a torture device, studded with lapis as big as your fist. And she’d go out barefoot. Wearing patchouli. She married young, I think, divorced, and took oodles of lovers. Her father was a famous tyrant. Rich as Croesus. Oil.”
“What happened to her?”
“Last thing I remember hearing she was in Ojai. Meditating. Throwing pots. Wearing Indian skirts with petticoats, her arms covered with that massive turquoise jewelry. She was sick as a child, you see. Heart trouble. Those bracelets were therapeutic. They were her weights. She wore them to strengthen her weak arms.”
As the celadon and gold door slammed shut behind me, I had a thought.
Maybe Meredith Allan was still in Ojai. Ojai was not so very far away, just half an hour inland from Ventura. Maybe the woman was lonely. Maybe she’d like a visitor. Named Cece Caruso.
It should be noted that I’ve always believed that under the right circumstances pigs could fly.