The Last Dress from Paris, page 6
A&A
Debussy
Musée de l’Orangerie
November 14, 1953
The kiss that saved me
“Saved her from what?” I practically yell. “My God, what was happening to her?”
“We can’t possibly know, can we, but things seem to take a sinister turn for the worse next.” Veronique’s face is suddenly grave. She couldn’t be more invested if the scene was playing out in front of her in wide screen. “Something bad happened the night she wore the next gown, the Mexico dress.”
I almost don’t want to look down, but how can I not? As the tiny lettering sharpens into focus, I read the words aloud.
A&A
Mexico
The garden
November 15, 1953
“I can make all this go away.”
I actually feel the words catch in the back of my throat. To think of A, whoever she was, sitting alone, doing what? Quietly predicting the end of something that seemed so potent just over a month ago. What could possibly have happened? It’s all so sad. I look at Veronique, willing her to deliver answers.
“Not good, is it?” She looks just as perturbed as I feel. “But then another twist comes with the final card. This one is different because it tells us so little—but perhaps will reveal a great deal. Unlike the others, there is no dress name and no location. We don’t know what kind of dress it was or where it was worn. And look, the handwriting—it does not match the others.”
A&A
Toile de Jouy
Off-white, puff sleeves, full length, high pleated collar
January 9, 1954
“I continue to hope.”
“Well, that’s not much use, is it?” I sulk. “It tells us nothing, then.” For someone who claims to be an aspiring journalist, I realize I could probably do with being a little less defeatist.
“Well, yes, I think it might, actually. The date means it came after the others—it is the final dress in the sequence. But there is no piece to match the card. It’s one of two dresses that are missing.” Veronique doesn’t look half as gutted as I expect she might, now that we have no way of knowing how the story will end.
“Urgh! This is so frustrating.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I believe the key will be finding out more about the name of the fabric it was made from, the toile de Jouy.” Veronique lifts the card closer to her face. “The description gives us a good sense of the dress, but the fabric used will define how special it was, the kind of occasion it might have been worn at. It needs more research.”
I focus back on the words, written in beautifully neat writing: I continue to hope.
“Okay,” I say slowly, more optimistically. “She had hope. Whatever it was, it wasn’t over. This is not the end of the story. But hang on, you said two dresses were missing. What’s the other one?”
“It’s the Maxim’s, I’m afraid. Unfortunately, Maman hit some hard times back in the fifties and was forced to sell it. I know she regretted it deeply for years and always felt awful about letting it go. She told me she cried the day she handed it over.” Veronique hangs her head and sighs, and I’m not sure if it is the sad memory of her mother or the brick wall my challenge just hit that has depleted her enthusiasm. “Of course, I did tell your grandmother when she got in touch that the Maxim’s is missing, but obviously she has sent you anyway to collect the other dresses, and you can take them all.”
“She knew the Maxim’s wasn’t here with you?”
“Yes, I couldn’t let her book an expensive Eurostar ticket without knowing the one dress she named is not in fact in my possession. Is something wrong?” Veronique looks nervous, like she has said the wrong thing, exposed Granny in some way, which is exactly what she has done.
“She only told me about the Maxim’s yesterday, Veronique, knowing full well I wouldn’t find it here. And she sent me anyway, because wherever it is, she doesn’t want me to leave Paris without it.” I can’t help but smile at Granny’s cunning.
“Okay, so now what?”
“I can’t disappoint her, Veronique. I can’t go back without it. I promised her I would return this dress to her, and I can’t fail her—or myself.”
I am suddenly overwhelmed by a need to find this dress, to hold it in my own hands, to complete the circle and try to get a sense of my grandmother’s connection to it. How did she end up owning these dresses after A wore them? Why did she then give them to Veronique’s mother? I feel compelled to find out. But what are the chances of locating the Maxim’s after all this time?
“Who did your mother sell it to? Do you have any idea?” Veronique is my best and only chance right now. If she doesn’t know, then the trail will be dead before it’s even started.
“If it went to a private buyer, then no, I have no idea, and I’m not sure I could even suggest where to start. It could be anywhere in the world. But at that time in Paris, there was really only one other place it could have gone. There was a famous old dress agency called Bettina’s in the Quartier du Sentier, where lots of the old fabric shops and factories were based at the time. It was very well known for stocking high-quality ready-to-wear collections. But occasionally a piece of couture would pass through its doors. Those pieces never stayed for long. The women who shopped there visited regularly, and I’m sure customers looking for specific items would have been tipped off the second they arrived.”
“There’s no chance it will still be there, then.” How bloody disappointing. I’m surprised at how gutted I am, and Veronique senses it immediately.
“When I learned you were coming, I checked and, Lucille, the shop is still there. It’s open until noon on Saturday, closed on Sunday, and reopens again at eleven Monday morning. I’ve no idea if it operates in the way it used to, but it’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it? If it was ever there, there is a slim chance they will have a record of who bought it.”
“Yes! You’re right.” And I don’t care how hard I have to beg Dylan to let me extend my stay a little, I’m not going back to London until I have checked. And isn’t this exactly the kind of story he always claims to be looking for? A journey to a new destination, exploring the hidden corners that only those deeply embedded in the place could reveal, an uncompromisingly personal piece that might start with a train journey somewhere obvious but teases with the promise of something more memorable. Isn’t there a slim chance my boss might actually be impressed with the story I bring home?
I also need to speak to Granny as a matter of urgency. Obviously she knows more than she told me yesterday.
4
Alice
OCTOBER 1953, PARIS
THE NEW LOOK JACKET
Alice should be examining the chic black wool day dress; it’s exactly the kind of thing she might order. Instead she is thinking about the job she has done since arriving in Paris after her midsummer wedding. Has she worked hard enough? Would more hours spent perfecting everything win back the more charming, attentive Albert, who woke her with a kiss every day on their honeymoon, generously paid for by her parents, but who seems emotionally distant now that he’s slipped back into his bespoke work suit? That Albert was, along with the honeymoon luggage, swiftly packed away for the seriousness of Paris and all its demands.
Is she worthy of today’s front-row seat at Dior’s show, where loyalty to the designer is prized more highly than wealth? Would she call herself loyal? She certainly respects commitment. That’s how she is made. The lesson she was always shown. Didn’t her own mother show determined commitment to a man who didn’t always deserve it? Whatever her father was doing until the early hours, she knew her mother would never let mention of it enter their everyday lives, breathing life into it. It was her mother’s reaction that kept the wheels turning forward. To Alice’s young eyes, her mother had a resilience, an inner strength she hoped she would never have to cultivate herself.
The movement of the mannequin crossing the room, coming dangerously close to knocking over one of the pillar ashtrays that are dotted around the front row, breaks her thoughts, and that’s when Alice sees him.
Everything about his slouched body language suggests Antoine has been here for some time. His dark wool suit isn’t freshly pressed, the toe caps of his shoes don’t gleam as other men’s do, as if he is trying to communicate he doesn’t want to be here. But only, perhaps, until he sees her?
Because the second their eyes connect, he mouths, “Hello,” sits up a little straighter, and relaxes into a broad smile. Alice’s mind empties of everything she has been worrying about this morning. Albert filters from her thoughts, like smoke weakening on the breeze. The crowded discomforts of the room fade so she is barely aware of them. Now it’s a sense of anticipation she feels, and a pleasure that’s making her surprisingly self-conscious. She smooths her hands down her gray wool flannel jacket, appreciating how it’s molded to the perfect hourglass shape, the gently rounded collar, the pleated bust, the fine pearlized button at each pocket and cuff. Then her hands find the heavy black pleated skirt that hangs as if it were stitched to her this morning.
Neither of them is watching the show. A second mannequin cuts across Alice’s line of sight, gifting her the opportunity to break the hold between them, but still she doesn’t look away. Has this become a contest? A declaration of some sort? The corners of Antoine’s mouth turn up naughtily, like he’s seeing in her something he’s feeling himself.
A warmth is spreading inside Alice. It’s deliciously self-indulgent and she can’t switch it off. It tugs at her belly, making her shift in her seat. Still their eyes remain connected, even though she senses his mother, seated beside him, has noticed Alice and lifts a hand to wave. Alice returns the greeting but offers no further acknowledgment. As the show swirls on, Alice is loosely aware of movement around her, people fidgeting, a nose being powdered, a shifting of body weight in a chair beside her. Only an outburst of rapturous applause finally forces her eyes to disconnect from him. Alice diverts her attention back to the show program in her lap, grateful of the opportunity to collect herself, to take a few deep breaths. What will happen when the show ends? She knows Madame du Parcq will seek her out and she and Antoine will have to speak, to acknowledge whatever it is that has passed between them.
A regular at the shows now, she starts to circle everything she likes that she will order: more sculpted wool suits with hip-hugging pencil skirts, a white raw silk taffeta and velvet midlength cocktail dress with a daring halter neck, full-length furs, and at least three fully embroidered ball gowns. She wills her eyes to remain downward, but there are too many moments of weakness. Alice’s resolve falters and her eyes move against her will in the direction of Antoine, seeking him out again and again. She doubts he has seen a single ensemble from the show. Every time, his smile deepens beyond playfulness. There is intent, even admiration. She can see it in the darkness behind his lashes and in the confidence of whatever he is trying to silently communicate, not caring that he is touching elbows with his own mother.
One hour and nearly ninety looks later, the announcer bellows, “Grand Mariage,” as a multilayer wedding gown, the show’s finale piece, brings everything to a close and the room erupts into chaos. Alice wants more time to appreciate this gown. The way tiny metallic threads pick out the silhouette of flower and leaf motifs, its elegant high neck and neat three-quarter-length sleeves. But it’s no good. Chairs are hastily scraped backward, waiters appear with trays of champagne, and there are very loud protestations and verdicts of “dazzling,” “his best yet,” and “magnificent” flying from all corners of the salon. Everyone is kissing.
As Alice reaches for her bag, she is suddenly confronted by Monsieur Dior himself.
“It’s a greatly controversial piece, you know, the wedding gown, Madame Ainsley.” He’s holding her gently in his gaze, a look so different from the other she has enjoyed this morning. This one, she is confident she can cope with.
“Surely nothing you present can be deemed anything other than an absolute success, Monsieur Dior,” Alice offers, acutely aware of the number of people all jostling around them, ready to pounce and interrupt the second their conversation presents the slightest opening.
“It is not so much in the finished ensemble, but in the making of it, you see. The girls who work on the dress sew a lock of their own hair into the hem in order to find a husband during the coming year.”
“What a truly romantic notion.” And a wonderful definition of hope, thinks Alice. That a woman would trust the universe—and not her parents or society’s will—to deliver the most wonderful husband to her.
“Yes, but the mannequins pretend that it is unlucky to wear the dress. They say that the girl who shows it will never be a bride in real life. Anyway, I am so glad that you came, and I look forward to dressing you more this season.” He cradles her hand in both of his for a few moments, then releases her.
Before Alice can even offer her thanks, Monsieur Dior is engulfed in kisses and handshakes and all manner of frankly quite undignified behavior. It is Alice’s cue to leave. She starts to make her way across the salon, toward the door and her waiting driver, but is intercepted by Antoine and his mother, as she predicted she would be.
“Oh my goodness, have you ever seen anything quite like it?” gushes Madame du Parcq. “How are any of us supposed to decide? I would wear nothing but Dior if I had the resources. Oh, what will you select, Madame Ainsley? The beautiful strapless sheath evening gown? It would be perfect to show off some of your exquisite jewelry and with one of your fur stoles.”
“You know, I never decide on the day.” Alice forces her eyes to remain with Antoine’s mother. “Far too much pressure. I will go home, have a glass of champagne, and spend a glorious hour with my program and my notes. Then Marianne and I will return when the decisions are made.” Alice can already see she has lost Madame du Parcq’s attention to Monsieur Dior. She’s watching him circulate the room, trying to quickly assess if he is likely to pass her way or if she needs to adjust her own position to stand the best possible chance of an introduction.
But Antoine’s focus is entirely on her.
“Apart from this one,” he offers with a nod toward the program she is still holding. It is open at the page that features a quite spectacular sequin-covered gown, one that is belted at the waist with the neatest blue tulle ribbon before it feathers gloriously at the top of the bodice, mimicking a bird’s luxurious plumage. Alice’s pencil had hovered over it, a special piece from the Dior archives and not the new collection, one that had caused a collective intake of breath from the audience. It was only the inevitably high cost of such a gown that had prevented her from allowing her own excitement to overcome sense. She settled for a question mark instead of a tick.
“I think you should order it.” Antoine holds her eye contact. “There can’t be many women in the room worthy of it. The layers, the intricacy, its complicated construction. And yet it’s so easy to read, its beauty immediately translatable. I think it will suit you perfectly.”
Alice feels him press something hard into the palm of her right hand. A tightly folded piece of paper. As her fingers close around it, she looks to his face to see him gently place a finger to his lips, silencing her, before his mother’s attention is back with them.
“Well, I must be on my way,” says Alice, stepping out of the group. “I think I’ve kept my poor driver waiting quite long enough.” She kisses Madame du Parcq, offers her best wishes to Antoine, the absolute most she feels she can do while his mother’s eyes are on her, and makes her swift escape.
As she reclines back heavily into the rear passenger seat, Alice slowly unfurls the paper and reads his scrawl. Meet me tomorrow, the Church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, noon. I’ll wait all day if I have to.
A flicker of something ripples up through Alice’s entire body. Nerves, fear, horror . . . excitement? She can’t define it. She knows the church. It’s one of the oldest in Paris, across the Seine on the Left Bank, and somewhere she has planned to visit. As her driver begins the journey back to the residence, she tries to rationalize a decision. Of course she shouldn’t go. It’s one thing to exchange a few furtive looks across a crowded room, quite another to meet independently and alone. Isn’t it a little juvenile to squirrel a secret note to someone in her position? Disrespectful even? He knows very well that she is married. But then . . . For now, she squeezes the note back into the slim internal pocket of her purse, somewhere it won’t be seen, somewhere there is no chance of it falling from.
5
Lucille
SATURDAY TO MONDAY
PARIS
By the time Veronique and I finished indulging our romantic fantasies last night, it was far too late to call Granny Sylvie. But she is top of my list this morning. I need to find out how much she knows about the identity of A&A. Why she sent me here, knowing full well the gown she asked me to return is lost. I need her to tell me how she came to own those incredible dresses and then why she gave them to Veronique’s mother, because I’ve slept on it, and none of it makes any more sense this morning.
I dial Granny’s number and wait an age for her to answer, running through a few horror scenarios in my head (fallen into the fire, starved to death) before the line connects. No one speaks, and I picture Granny trying to talk into the wrong end of the handset, mouthpiece pressed to her ear.
“Granny, it’s Lucille!” I bellow.
“Lucille! Is that you?” All those miles away and I can still detect the excitement in her voice.
“Yes! I’m calling from Paris.” I deliberately quicken the speed of my speech so as not to sound patronizing, which I know infuriates her.
