The Gown(91)

“But instead you picked the poetry.”

“I did. And I can’t say I regret it.”

“So you became a historian because of your grandfather.”

“Yes, but also because of Mimi and the murder of her family. My family. I’ve been studying and writing about the Holocaust in France for close to twenty years, and even if I keep on for another century I’ll still have questions to ask. I’ll still be searching for answers.”

“Isn’t it depressing?”

“At times, yes, but that’s true of a lot of jobs. And I only live with the shadow of what happened, whereas Mimi’s entire life has been marked by it. Scarred, if I’m honest. So I cannot bring myself to turn away.”

Their food arrived, and their talk turned to lighter, softer, easier things. Daniel’s students and the courses he was teaching. Heather’s little apartment, her cat, her friends. Places they’d been on vacation and dream destinations they aspired to visit. Nothing to make the food in her mouth grow tasteless, or the wine she swallowed turn to vinegar. Nothing to make her worry about what was to come when she went home to Toronto and what she would do with her life.

They cleared their plates and Daniel refilled their glasses, and the silence between them was comfortable, and for the first time in her life she didn’t mind that a man was staring at her, since she was doing exactly the same to him.

“You,” he said finally. “I can tell you’re a journalist because you keep asking me questions. But I want to know more about you.”

“I’m game. Ask away.”

“Did you always want to be a journalist?”

She shook her head. “Historian.”

“Really?” He was leaning across the table now, his plate pushed aside, his arms folded in front of him. His wrist and its compelling lines of script were so close to her hand.

“Really. It was my favorite subject in school, and university, too. But I didn’t want to teach, and my marks weren’t high enough for graduate school. So I did a postgraduate diploma in journalism. I found a job right away, and that was ten years ago, and in all that time I never really took a moment to stop and ask myself if I loved my work. Until a few weeks ago, that is.”

“What happened?”

“I was made redundant, and I probably should have jumped into a job search right away. That would have been the smart thing to do. But I felt like I had to come here first.”

“To find your nan. And now? What will you do when you return home?”

She was leaning forward, and their heads were all but touching. They were whispering to one another.

“I have no idea,” she admitted. “I hope that doesn’t sound pathetic.”

“Not at all.”

“I know I can keep the wolf from the door. I can pick up work as a copywriter, or I can go the public relations route. Except I can’t stand the idea of writing puff pieces that I don’t care about. I want to write stories that interest me. Stories that keep me up half the night because I can’t turn off my brain. Does that ever happen to you?”

“All the time.”

“I want that, too.”

“Then do it. Tell me, now—what would you write about if you could choose any topic at all? Don’t think—just say it.”

“I’d write about the gown. Nan and Miriam. What it was like to work at Hartnell and create a wedding dress for a princess. How it felt to make such beautiful things and never be acknowledged in any way. I remember thinking that after William and Kate’s wedding. Everyone was talking about her dress and the designer and I don’t think I saw a single article on the people who made it. How hard they must have worked on that dress, and how they couldn’t breathe a word to anyone, not even their best friends.”

“If I were a magazine editor I’d be interested.”

“It needs a hook, though. I wish I were brave enough to ask Miriam. No editor in the world would turn down an interview with her.”

“Why don’t you ask?” he suggested. As if it would be no big deal.

“You told me she hates to talk about herself. I don’t want to upset her.”

“It won’t. She avoids publicity because she tends to attract the attention of hatemongers, to use a polite term for an especially loathsome group of people. That’s why she has no email address or website, and that’s why everyone who knows her is so evasive.”

“Oh, God. I feel like an idiot for not thinking of that before.”

“If you hadn’t included your grandmother’s name in the message you left with my former student, I probably wouldn’t have emailed you back. God knows I get enough of that shit in my own in-box because of my own work. But compared to the vitriol that’s been aimed at Mimi over the years? It’s nothing.”

“I’m sure it’s awful.”

“I’m sorry. I’m ruining our dinner. Once I get started, though—”

“Talk about it as much as you like. I’m happy to listen.”

“Another time, maybe.”

“Sure. Maybe when you’re in New York? Miriam was telling me all about it.”

He looked down and began to fiddle with the stem of his wineglass. “I expect she made it sound as if they’ve decided to award me the inaugural Nobel Prize for history.”