The Last Dress from Paris
Jade Beer
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 be the first to sit at her dining table. She averts her eyes from the glare of the spotlights and the chandelier overhead, the rising heat climbing up her neck with every minute that passes, and still the show doesn’t start. Chairs continue to fill, and bodies pile up around the room, filling the windows where it is standing room only. Dense cigarette smoke is scratching at the back of Alice’s throat, and she has to focus on the pretty clouds of ivory roses and carnations to stay calm. She pulls off her gloves, feeling the heat across her palms, and with a panic it occurs to her she can’t leave now, the path to the exit is blocked by women who are still swarming through the door. Someone hands her a paper fan—which she snaps open, desperate to feel some relief across her cheeks—and a small hard fruit sweet. She will never make the mistake of arriving on time again.
“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.