The Last Dress from Paris, page 1
PRAISE FOR
THE LAST DRESS FROM PARIS
“A delightful fashion treasure hunt involving some of my favorite Dior gowns made this book a winner for me! The present-day and 1950s narratives weave seamlessly together, the dresses dance from the pages, and Paris is resplendently depicted.”
—Natasha Lester, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Secret
“After finishing Beer’s latest, it was all I could do not to book the next plane to France and head straight for the House of Dior. Offering a whirlwind tour through Paris, both past and present, the novel is a rich exploration of the power of female friendships and the true meaning of family. Moving and utterly enjoyable.”
—Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author of The Lions of Fifth Avenue
“An absolute delight! The Last Dress from Paris is as original, elegant, and romantic as the Dior dresses the novel’s mystery is woven around. Jade Beer seamlessly stitches together an illuminating story of female friendships, secrets, and a couture treasure hunt that takes the reader from postwar Paris to present-day London. The writing is a breath of fresh air, and in her leading ladies, Lucille and Alice, Beer delivers intriguing, complex characters for her readers to really care about. Magnifique!”
—Hazel Gaynor, New York Times bestselling author of When We Were Young & Brave
“An unexpected trip to Paris starts this journey of discovering lost fashion treasures while uncovering a tale of forbidden love. In The Last Dress from Paris, Jade Beer’s gorgeous prose brings Dior’s fashions to life as she deftly weaves together a novel that is part homage to fashion and part romance, as well as a celebration of mothers and daughters. Readers will eat this one up!”
—Renée Rosen, USA Today bestselling author of The Social Graces
“I devoured this multigenerational masterpiece! Jade Beer invites her reader on a glamorous treasure hunt through Paris, searching for exquisite Dior dresses and secrets from the past. The Last Dress from Paris is a stunning mix of haute couture, romance, scandal, and intrigue. With breathtaking prose and a stunning Paris backdrop, Jade Beer offers a tender, heartfelt look at love and friendship, and the sacrifices we make for both.”
—Lori Nelson Spielman, New York Times bestselling author of The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany
“As beautifully stitched together as a couture gown, Jade Beer’s book entrances with its themes of family and female friendships. I loved it.”
—International bestselling author Jessica Fellowes
“An elegantly and evocatively written, thoroughly researched novel that will prove to be an absolute must-read for romantics and fashionistas. Transportive, dreamy, and aspirational, guaranteed to uplift and entertain.”
—International bestselling author Adele Parks
BERKLEY
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Copyright © 2022 by Jade Beer
Readers Guide copyright © 2022 by Jade Beer
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Beer, Jade, author.
Title: The last dress from Paris / Jade Beer.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2022.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021039367 (print) | LCCN 2021039368 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593436813 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593436820 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Family secrets—Fiction. | Grandmothers—Fiction. | Female friendship—Fiction. | Paris (France)—Fiction. | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR6102.E335 L37 2022 (print) | LCC PR6102.E335 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23/eng/20211102
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021039367
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021039368
First Edition: June 2022
Cover design by Lila Selle
Cover photographs: woman by Ildiko Neer / Trevillion Images; dress and stairs by Nikaa / Trevillion Images
Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for The Last Dress from Paris
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1: Lucille
Chapter 2: Alice
Chapter 3: Lucille
Chapter 4: Alice
Chapter 5: Lucille
Chapter 6: Alice
Chapter 7: Lucille
Chapter 8: Alice
Chapter 9: Lucille
Chapter 10: Alice
Chapter 11: Lucille
Chapter 12: Alice
Chapter 13: Lucille
Chapter 14: Alice
Chapter 15: Lucille
Chapter 16: Alice
Chapter 17: Lucille
Chapter 18: Alice
Chapter 19: Lucille
Chapter 20: Alice
Chapter 21: Lucille
Chapter 22: Alice
Chapter 23: Lucille
Chapter 24: Alice
Chapter 25: Lucille
Chapter 26: Alice
Chapter 27: Lucille
Chapter 28: Alice
Chapter 29: Lucille
Chapter 30: Sylvie
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
To Della Irene Rainbow Morgan Garrett
With a name like that, you’d have to be a very special mum
In the world today, haute couture is one of the last repositories of the marvelous, and the couturiers the last possessors of the wand of Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother.
—Christian Dior
PROLOGUE
CHRISTIAN DIOR, AVENUE MONTAIGNE
SEPTEMBER 1952
Alice lowers the window an inch in the back of the Chrysler. She hopes the bite of cold air will wake her up, snap her out of herself, and make her realize just how lucky she is. She knows women compete long and hard for these invitations.
The subject of Dior’s guest list has already occupied enough of the conversation in her drawing room for her to be sure of that.
“I fear you may have to walk a little way back, Madame Ainsley.” Alice jolts at the mention of her new title. “Will that be okay? There are so many cars, I can’t get you any closer.”
“Of course, it’s not a problem.” Alice hops out of the chauffeur-driven Chrysler, one of the perks afforded to the wife of the British ambassador to France, and starts to pick her way back over the cobbles to the Dior town house.
In a few moments she will be surrounded by dozens of wealthy, well-connected women. She can see them now, clustered and swarming outside like tormented insects, smoking, congratulating each other, closing ranks on the tight community they want her to be a part of. But as Alice approaches, all she feels is the competitive swirl of women who want more of everything. Nothing but the best.
Alice enters through the black polished double doors and lifts her nose to the air. Fresh paint. The salon’s walls must have been decorated overnight in preparation for the show today. She pauses in the lobby, smooths her hands down her navy wool jacket. There is a nervous energy pulsing around her. Much will be written about the new collection, and Alice feels those nerves seep inside her too. Why is she so anxious? She turns and looks into one of the huge spotless wall mirrors and tries to answer her own question, only to settle on another. How is it that a girl who was always happiest in old wellies and a muddy duffle coat now stands in Dior in Paris, wearing one of the designer’s own pieces? She examines the neatness of her cropped dark hair. The subtle nude of her lipstick. Her classic pearls.
Alice is shown to a narrow gilt chair in the front row, feeling every pair of eyes scrutinize her, assessing, no doubt, whether she has accessorized Dior’s look as she should. She can practically taste the envy poisoning the air, secreting from every woman who feels her front-row chair came too easily to Alice. What do they know? Alice takes her seat quickly, relieved that her own catwalk across the room is complete. She smiles, hoping it looks genuine. Her neighbors are yet to take their seats, so she starts to flick through the show program, raising her head every few minutes, hoping to catch a rare glimpse of the famous Dior mannequins in their white backstage overalls before they step out onto the decreasing patch of fine cream carpet in front of Alice, their stage this morning.
She wonders which of the sketches in her program will
“Madame Ainsley, how lovely to see you again.” A tall woman expertly folds herself into the seat to Alice’s left, timing her arrival much better than Alice has. “It’s Delphine Lamar, we met at the welcome drinks a couple of weeks ago. Your first Dior show?” She raises an eyebrow. Clearly there is something in Alice’s demeanor that makes the fact obvious.
“Yes, quite something, isn’t it?” Alice is grateful for the reminder of the woman’s name; there have been so many new faces these past few weeks.
“It takes a little time to get used to the circus. Worth it, of course, but in future, come about forty minutes late and you will find yourself perfectly on time.” She offers a supportive smile. “Tell me, how is the search for your personal maid progressing? You were struggling, I recall, and if you are still yet to find someone, I think I can help.”
“Thank you. Everyone I have seen is expertly qualified and experienced, I’m sure I could hire any one of them and not be disappointed, but I just haven’t felt a particular connection with anyone yet. Maybe I am being too fussy, but . . .”
“No one could accuse you of that, not in your position.”
“Perhaps.” Alice returns the smile, grateful that Delphine doesn’t think her foolish for wanting an emotional connection with the woman she will spend the majority of her time with inside the residence.
“Here.” Delphine takes a tiny leather notepad from a handbag that isn’t much bigger and writes a name and number on it, handing it to Alice. “Marianne comes very highly recommended from another senior diplomat’s wife. Her husband has served his three years in Paris, and they are now being posted to the Middle East. They cannot take Marianne with them. But you will have to move very quickly. She is adored by them, and others will want her. I would snap her up myself if I had the vacancy.” She bends a little closer to Alice. “I thought of you immediately. Marianne is half-British and will understand your preferences and needs without your having to overstate everything.”
“Thank you.” Alice gladly takes the number. “I will see her as soon as I can.”
Delphine’s attention is distracted by the arrival of another guest, leaving Alice to tune in to the talk around her of shopping in Milan and skiing in St. Moritz and the wardrobe essentials needed to facilitate them. Necks are being craned so women can see above the hats in front of them, people are up and down out of their seats waving to late-arriving friends, ensuring they have been seen themselves.
It is only some thirty minutes later, when the announcer calls the name and number of the first model, that silence mercifully falls, and Alice feels she can breathe normally once more.
* * *
• • •
“Marianne, thank you so much for coming, and at such short notice. I appreciate it.” Alice motions for her to take the chair on the opposite side of the desk to her. “May I ask Patrice to get you a coffee?”
“Thank you. I would prefer tea, though, please, English breakfast if you have it?” She smiles, knowing that of course Alice will.
“Absolutely.” Patrice nods and disappears back through the door of the library, leaving the two women alone.
“Delphine, Madame Lamar, mentioned that you are half-English?”
“Yes, my mother met my father in London when he was there on business, and they were married shortly afterward. Consequently, I have spent a lot of time on both sides of the Channel. I am the perfect blend of both cultures, I hope. Always on time, very British, and never afraid to say no, typically French.” Marianne allows herself a small laugh, to let Alice know she is not taking herself too seriously. “I brought some references with me.”
“You already sound like you could be a great deal of help around here.” Alice takes a closer look at Marianne while she is reaching into her bag for the relevant paperwork. She is perched on the very edge of her seat, barely on it at all, in fact. Her back is perfectly straight, suggesting keenness, shoulders relaxed, perhaps not easily intimidated, and her hands are neatly clasped in her lap. She looks naturally and comfortably at ease. “What other essential advice can you offer me, Marianne, as you are years ahead of me when it comes to negotiating the peculiarities of both nationalities?”
“In my experience, the French are incapable of self-deprecation and won’t understand it in you. But they do expect the British to be cold and perhaps a little distant, so it’s always wonderful to surprise them by being nothing of the sort. Equally, it is probably best not to lapse into the well-trodden prejudice that the French are of questionable morality and prone to arrogance.” She pauses before adding, “Although, to be honest, most are.”
The door to the library swings back open.
“Ah, our tea.” But it is her husband, Albert, and not Patrice who has unexpectedly joined them.
“Oh, Albert, sorry, I think I mentioned, I am just in the middle of an interview . . .”
Albert ignores Alice, strides across the room, and starts to pull books from a shelf, loudly discarding each onto a side table after a cursory glance.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” he blusters, “can someone organize this in a way that is actually useful?”
Marianne glances toward Albert, her face expressionless, then back to Alice just as quickly, expecting to continue, despite their interruption. Alice notices how Marianne’s eyes fall to the contoured wool jacket she is wearing today.
“Do you have an appreciation of fashion, Marianne?”
“I think it would be impossible to live in Paris right now and not. My means are modest, but an hour with Vogue is a great way to feel inspired and keep up to date with all that’s new. Do you have a favorite designer, Madame Ainsley?”
“Well, I’ve never needed one before . . .”
“Where is it!” Albert bellows at a volume that neither of them can continue to ignore.
“Can I help, Albert?” Alice tries to drown the irritation in her voice.
“The Government Art Collection anthology, I know it’s here somewhere. I am being questioned out there on the contents of my own home, and it would be helpful if people would put things back where they found them.”
“Third shelf from the bottom, sir. The largest of the hardbacks.” Patrice has returned with the coffee and a solution to Albert’s rudeness.
He locates the book, leaving all the others scattered on the table, and exits without a word of thanks, causing Alice’s cheeks to warm.
“Who do you suggest, Marianne? Whom shall I make my favorite?”
“Christian Dior.” Said without a moment’s hesitation, and if the question were designed as a test, Marianne would surely have passed. Alice agrees, but with several designers vying for her business, she is very glad of the objective steer. “Naturally he’s adored by the French, but a committed Anglophile too. You’ll be in very good company. Nancy Mitford and Margot Fonteyn both wear him. And of course you’ll remember Princess Margaret’s twenty-first-birthday dress. So much tulle! If you can, have a look at the images from his very first show in London last year, at the Savoy Hotel. Vogue covered it.”
“What a brilliant suggestion, Marianne.” Alice looks down at the employer references still untouched on the desk in front of her. “How soon can you start?”
“Whenever is best for you.” The two women instinctively stand and reach across the table to shake hands. “But please, call me Anne—all those closest to me do.”
