with you.' He sounded tired but elated, like a child after a party.
'Move,' he commanded. And I actually twirled!
Kevin smiled approvingly. The butterfly was opening its wings. Until he brought me down to earth.
'If only for your hair.'
—14—
Ah, that Arabian Nights romance of froth and trembling teardrops—Desirée's first garb. The low-slung diaphanous skirt that caressed my swell of thigh. The beaded bodice I spilled out of only, Kevin assured me, in the most alluring way. My below-the-waist little melon of a belly (Kevin's description) showed to its best advantage, as did my deep-as-a-pool navel (Kevin again), a crater I had previously thought of only as a cleaning nuisance.
My back now flaunted a seahorse curve.
My skin glowed. My body was so white and pink and peach that it surprised me, but it shouldn't have, since I had hidden it the whole of my adult life. My arms were a fright. I had to promise Kevin to correct that fault, being tanned from just above the elbow to my snaggle-nailed, rampant-cuticled hands, about which he lectured me again.
~
But enough of tan arms, broken nails, bare feet. Kevin's interest was clothes.
From his first generous lesson (he wouldn't take payment for his houri outfit), Kevin taught me that clothing can be fun, and it can make one feel bloody marvellous. Lying on my pillows reaching for Turkish delight was more delightful, when dressed right ... popping a peeled grape into my mouth (Of course I had to order them, though only once. They are far better when you pop the skins in your mouth), the wack wack of air from the ceiling fan (got it installed for fun) stirred the silk to caress me, the countless little pearls, to tremble. Dressed right, I learned to move my body to its best advantage instead of its eternal shame. Freedom and joy.
But I couldn't wear my houri outfit only. Kevin had much work to do. He brought me art books, not that I needed to see what he planned, but he could not contain himself. This art he drew inspiration from for his vision of Desirée Lily was actually not art at all. Just collections of dressmaker designs, many by Worth who Kevin was madly jealous of for having lived at the right time. Kevin was a romantic, and a visionary. I giggled and he sighed over Bakst's exhibitionisms for the Ballet Russe—all bared breasts flinging and veils flying. Impractical, and not quite fitting for a famous novelist, but I was flattered.
Desirée Lily, Kevin told me, was made for her body. How could your mother have known , he asked me, what you would be like? He marvelled at the exact fit between my body and my name. La Belle Époque, and better yet, the ten years earlier, he told me, was my time—and the French part of it, not the American, which had those scarecrow Gibson girls with their stiff serge skirts. Kevin liked froth, and lots of it.
He taught me about ruffles, ruches, swags, bias cuts, décolletage; leg-of-mutton sleeves hugely puffed to the elbow, then tight as gloves and buttoned past the wrist. He was a stickler about skirts, because the right skirt makes the right, swaying walk—the trained skirt, which restricts the size of steps, the gored skirt that creates an elongated trumpet bell shape 'like the gently opening head of a longiflorum lily'—he adored symbolism. Jackets were his passion, unfortunate in our climate. But he persevered, begging me to wear them in training for my world tour. He made them with collars so high they exhibited my head on a plate of creamy velvet.
Kevin took me on a tour of what Justin had bought, and reintroduced me to the women in the pictures—Justin!
He brought me advertising pictures of corsets and bustles worn by beautiful women, and would exclaim, holding up a page, 'Look at you.'
Then he would make me strip and parade in front of the picture, daring it to look back at me. I didn't need a bustle or a corset or wadded tissue for my equally 'extraordinary' (according to him) breasts. It was a delight to
'Move,' he commanded. And I actually twirled!
Kevin smiled approvingly. The butterfly was opening its wings. Until he brought me down to earth.
'If only for your hair.'
—14—
Ah, that Arabian Nights romance of froth and trembling teardrops—Desirée's first garb. The low-slung diaphanous skirt that caressed my swell of thigh. The beaded bodice I spilled out of only, Kevin assured me, in the most alluring way. My below-the-waist little melon of a belly (Kevin's description) showed to its best advantage, as did my deep-as-a-pool navel (Kevin again), a crater I had previously thought of only as a cleaning nuisance.
My back now flaunted a seahorse curve.
My skin glowed. My body was so white and pink and peach that it surprised me, but it shouldn't have, since I had hidden it the whole of my adult life. My arms were a fright. I had to promise Kevin to correct that fault, being tanned from just above the elbow to my snaggle-nailed, rampant-cuticled hands, about which he lectured me again.
~
But enough of tan arms, broken nails, bare feet. Kevin's interest was clothes.
From his first generous lesson (he wouldn't take payment for his houri outfit), Kevin taught me that clothing can be fun, and it can make one feel bloody marvellous. Lying on my pillows reaching for Turkish delight was more delightful, when dressed right ... popping a peeled grape into my mouth (Of course I had to order them, though only once. They are far better when you pop the skins in your mouth), the wack wack of air from the ceiling fan (got it installed for fun) stirred the silk to caress me, the countless little pearls, to tremble. Dressed right, I learned to move my body to its best advantage instead of its eternal shame. Freedom and joy.
But I couldn't wear my houri outfit only. Kevin had much work to do. He brought me art books, not that I needed to see what he planned, but he could not contain himself. This art he drew inspiration from for his vision of Desirée Lily was actually not art at all. Just collections of dressmaker designs, many by Worth who Kevin was madly jealous of for having lived at the right time. Kevin was a romantic, and a visionary. I giggled and he sighed over Bakst's exhibitionisms for the Ballet Russe—all bared breasts flinging and veils flying. Impractical, and not quite fitting for a famous novelist, but I was flattered.
Desirée Lily, Kevin told me, was made for her body. How could your mother have known , he asked me, what you would be like? He marvelled at the exact fit between my body and my name. La Belle Époque, and better yet, the ten years earlier, he told me, was my time—and the French part of it, not the American, which had those scarecrow Gibson girls with their stiff serge skirts. Kevin liked froth, and lots of it.
He taught me about ruffles, ruches, swags, bias cuts, décolletage; leg-of-mutton sleeves hugely puffed to the elbow, then tight as gloves and buttoned past the wrist. He was a stickler about skirts, because the right skirt makes the right, swaying walk—the trained skirt, which restricts the size of steps, the gored skirt that creates an elongated trumpet bell shape 'like the gently opening head of a longiflorum lily'—he adored symbolism. Jackets were his passion, unfortunate in our climate. But he persevered, begging me to wear them in training for my world tour. He made them with collars so high they exhibited my head on a plate of creamy velvet.
Kevin took me on a tour of what Justin had bought, and reintroduced me to the women in the pictures—Justin!
He brought me advertising pictures of corsets and bustles worn by beautiful women, and would exclaim, holding up a page, 'Look at you.'
Then he would make me strip and parade in front of the picture, daring it to look back at me. I didn't need a bustle or a corset or wadded tissue for my equally 'extraordinary' (according to him) breasts. It was a delight to
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