The Last Dress from Paris(101)
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Dinner is roast turkey breast with chestnuts, bought and cooked for two and spread too thinly across three plates. Anne has decorated a small Christmas tree that Alice deliberately sits with her back to, not needing the reminder of the last tree she decorated. As they all clear their plates of the final course, three cheeses and a simple salad, Sébastien collects a small gift from under the tree and hands it to Alice.
“A little something for you. I hope you like it.”
How completely thoughtless of her not to bring a single contribution, Alice scolds herself. “My goodness, how incredibly kind of you, thank you.”
She pulls the gift tag with her name written across it from the parcel and unwraps it. It’s a fine-milled soap, bluebell scented, exactly the fragrance Anne loves and always smells of. The gesture makes Alice’s throat contract. Anne has sacrificed one of her gifts from Sébastien so that Alice can feel included. She stands from her seat and kisses Sébastien warmly on both cheeks, making him color and look down at his shoes. Then she moves around the small oval table and embraces her friend.
“You are wonderful, Anne, and so precious to me. I will never forget your kindness as long as I live.”
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As the weeks tumble forward, and Alice’s body starts to swell to a size she never thought possible, the three of them develop a neat routine.
Anne is always first up, preparing breakfast. Sébastien kisses his wife’s forehead before he disappears for another long day at the bank. Alice helps Anne to clean, shop, and cook, enjoying her instruction, always so sensitively delivered. Everything works. There is a harmony to their little arrangement, the way the three of them—soon to be four—inhabit a space clearly designed for two.
But no one can ignore the fact that Anne has so far failed to secure another role. Ten interviews in as many weeks, and not one of them has resulted in an offer of employment.
“Please will you let me write you a full reference, Anne?” Alice pleads. “Take it with you and force them to read it. Don’t wait to be asked.”
Anne slumps down at the dining table, all her usual stoicism replaced by a grim acceptance of her fate that is entirely at odds with the woman Alice knows.
“There is no point. Albert, I believe, has seen to that.”
27
Lucille
TUESDAY
LONDON
I’ve never once felt nervous in Granny’s company. But today my throat is dry, my head aches with tension, my shoulders feel clenched. As I sit by the fire and wait for her to join me, I can feel the acidic churn of my own stomach. I realize it’s more than nerves. I’m scared of everything I am about to hear and my own reaction to it. The significance that has been placed on this moment by the time it took to get here.
I see the same feelings on Granny’s face as she joins me, so I do the only thing that feels natural. I hug her. As firmly as I can, registering how little of her there is to hold these days, before I guide her into her usual chair. I take hold of her hand, allowing my thumb to move gently back and forth across the papery creases of her skin, wondering how to ease her into the conversation we need to have.
Do I ask the question, or do I present it as a statement of fact? Was there a baby? Or, you were pregnant, Granny. I’m watching as her eyes close. She has the ability to drift into the lightest sleep and then come back into the room moments later, still smiling, still the grandmother I love so much.
She’s silent, and I realize she is waiting for me to speak. She isn’t going to reveal a thing until I tell her what I think I know. Maybe she has no words for this, but then I’m not sure I do either. I ease my way into it.
“I went to the V and A. I saw the final dress, Granny.” As soon as I say it, her grip strengthens around my fingers. Her lips seal a little tighter together. This conversation is going to take real courage.
“Then you know, my darling. You know what I have been hiding all these years.” She closes her eyes again briefly, and next time she opens them, they are full of tears and a look that pleads for me to do the talking. She nods, as if confirming my understanding.
“I’m not sure I understand everything though, Granny. The baby . . .” The mere mention of the word and all its implied defenselessness sends those tears spilling over, dropping onto my own hand, where I let them sit, knowing there are probably many more to come. I try again.
“It couldn’t have been Mum. The timings aren’t right, are they?” I feel my lips curl inward. I’m not at all sure how she will cope with me sliding back the doors to her past so presumptively. I register the smallest nod, telling me to go on, and my heart aches with the pain of all that she must have been through. She wants to have this conversation, however hard it will be, and I feel my lungs inflate with the almost unbearable sense of anticipation. The days have all been building to it, not that I understood that at all when I first set off for Paris—but she did.
“It was a different baby.”
She opens her mouth and lets some of the pain seep out through a slow, splintered breath.
“Yes, there was another baby. A child that brought a change in my life, one that needed to happen—a change that in many ways saved me. A little girl I hope can help us heal our broken family again before it is too late.”