The Gown(54)

“You and everyone else,” Zahra confirmed with a grin. “It’s one of the biggest Chihuly sculptures in the world. Is this your first visit to the V and A?”

“It is.”

“Well, a warm welcome to you, and here’s a map. Are you interested in any of our special exhibitions? There’s a fee for them, but otherwise entrance to the museum is free of charge.”

“Thank you. I actually came to see the Vél d’Hiv embroideries by Miriam Dassin. Can you point me in the right direction?”

A regretful frown replaced Zahra’s smile. “I’m terribly sorry, but they were taken off exhibit last week so they could be sent over to the Tate Modern for the upcoming retrospective of her work.”

No. It couldn’t be possible. “I did know about the retrospective, but it doesn’t start until September fifth.”

“You’re right, but they built in a window. Just in case the curators here or at the Tate have any concerns about the condition of the embroideries.”

“Oh, right. I guess that makes sense.”

“Is there anything else you might like to see?” Zahra asked. “We have a bit of everything here.” With that she unfolded an illustrated map of the museum on the desktop. A list of highlights was printed along one side of the map, and one immediately caught her eye. Explore centuries of fashion at the V&A.

“Do you have any dresses by Norman Hartnell?” Heather asked.

“We do. I’m not sure how many are being exhibited at the moment. We rotate them off and on display for conservation reasons. Would you like me to check?”

“That’s okay. I’m here already, so I might as well try to see some of the museum. Thanks again.”

“No worries. Here’s a copy of the map.”

Heather didn’t know much about the history of fashion, but the V&A’s selection of clothing and footwear was an excellent introduction. She lingered for a long while in front of a case containing several examples of Christian Dior’s New Look designs from the late 1940s. Compared to the clothes women had worn for most of the 1940s, all spare and squared off and looking like uniforms even when they weren’t, the Dior dresses were . . . she couldn’t find the words to describe how they made her feel, and she hadn’t lived through a long and terrifying war. They were impractical and ridiculous and must have been uncomfortable as hell with their enormous skirts and built-in corsets, but they were undeniably beautiful.

At last she moved on, still a little dazzled, and that’s when she came across the Hartnell gown. It was from 1953, an evening dress made of pale turquoise silk, and trailing over its strapless bodice and narrow skirt was unusual greenery that Heather couldn’t at first identify. She took a step closer, her nose almost touching the glass case, and realized it was seaweed. Long strands of green-gold seaweed, and here and there golden seashells and coral-colored flowers, or perhaps they were anemones? It was unusual and not at all pretty, not when compared to the Dior dresses, but it was eye-catching, and the embroidery, even at a distance, was incredibly fine and ornate.

She came to the end of the fashion galleries, and after that she spent a further hour wandering around the museum. Before long, though, the beauty of the ceramics and furniture and jewelry and paintings and metalwork began to blur together. Her eyes, not to mention her brain, had had enough.

As she was leaving she passed by the information desk, wanting to thank Zahra again for her help.

“Did you enjoy your visit?”

“It was amazing. Almost too much to take in, if that makes any sense.”

“I know. I’ve worked here for two years and I’ve only scratched the surface. I’m sorry again about the Vél d’Hiv embroideries.”

“That’s okay. I ought to have checked first. Maybe one day I’ll get to see them.”

“Are you a student of her work?” Zahra asked.

“No. I don’t know much about her at all. Only that she might have been friends with my grandmother. That’s why I’m here. In England, I mean. I’m trying to find out more about my nan. She died in March.”

“I am sorry,” Zahra said, frowning in sympathy. And then, as if she had just made up her mind, “I do know someone who is involved with the retrospective. I could speak to him. Let him know why you came to see the embroideries. I can’t promise anything, but he might be able to help.”

“That would be fantastic,” Heather said, her spirits soaring. “Can I write out a note or anything?”

“Just your name and email address, and perhaps your mobile number, too? I’ll explain the rest to Dr. Friedman. He was one of my favorite lecturers when I was an undergrad. I’m sure he’ll do his best to help.”

When Heather emerged from the museum, the afternoon was so beautiful and sunny that she abandoned her plan to take the Tube back to the hotel. It wasn’t so very far back to Soho, only about an hour’s walk according to the map on her phone, and she didn’t want to risk being underground if Dr. Friedman called.

It was almost five o’clock when she arrived back at her hotel, having made a lengthy and expensive stop at Fortnum & Mason. Room service beckoned, and a hot bath, too, but first she needed a nap. It had been a long, long day.

SHE DIDN’T WAKE until almost nine o’clock, and then her first reaction was panic. What if Dr. Friedman had tried to contact her when she was asleep?