The Last Dress from Paris(109)
“Your letters?”
“Yes, from her mummy. They have kept me going over the years, telling me everything. Her first words, first steps, the day she started school. It was all there for me to experience too.”
I feel a slow dawning start to spread across my chest, a connection being made. A feeling of space opens up inside my head, my subconsciousness making room for something that I am not quite ready to let in.
“I owe her a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid, God rest her soul. She was the key, in the end, to me forgiving myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I gave her the freedom to raise the baby as she wanted to. I gave her the family she always wanted. And in return she gave me a reason to feel some good about myself. That some happiness could rise from all the sadness.” She pauses, looks deep into my eyes like she is searching for a level of understanding there before she continues.
“She confessed much later that she was the one who secretly ordered the christening dress. She knew how much I wanted it for the baby, and I suppose it was also her way of trying to ensure I had a presence the day it was worn. But some wires got crossed, and in all the rush of Albert leaving for America, the box was accidentally shipped back to Norfolk with the last of my belongings, and never worn.” She smiles to herself then, like that might have been the best possible outcome.
“I only ever asked one thing of her, that she kept the pretty French name I gave my daughter at birth. I always felt Veronique suited her so well. She was raised by Anne, my dearest friend and confidant from my time in Paris.”
My body seems to instantly cool, so that I can feel the warm pulse of my blood moving through me, the beat of my heart in the back of my throat.
“Veronique? The woman I have been in Paris with for a week? The one who came to the V and A with me? The one who is helping me to find a new job? Her? They are the same woman? And you knew all along, from the day you sent me to Paris?” My heart rate rockets, and I am instantly torn in two, veering wildly between sheer joy and frustration.
Joy that it is Veronique, that the closeness I have felt to her is real and genuine—we are connected. We are family.
And a red-hot frustration that Granny didn’t just tell me this while Veronique was here, or I was there in Paris, so we could have sat together and talked it all through. So that I could have been there to help at the moment when Veronique realizes the woman she called her mother for her entire life was not biologically so. That the woman she so recently buried took this enormous secret with her.
Why does everything have to be so late?
“But she’s on her way back to Paris as we speak. And she doesn’t know? Has she been told any of this?” I’m standing now, knowing that I need to act before it is too late and she gets onto the tube. She’ll be underground with no signal and I won’t be able to stop her before she boards the Eurostar. I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone.
“No. Anne loved her enough for both of us. We agreed there was nothing to be gained from telling her the truth, unless she raised suspicions or started asking questions, but that was so unlikely under the circumstances.”
“Hang on. Anne? ‘My dearest Anne . . . ’ That’s the name you said yesterday when you were holding the Debussy dress. But you told me the initials stood for Alice and Antoine.”
“It started that way, darling. At a time when I believed Antoine was the one great love of my life, I wanted to record how he made me feel. The dresses were the best way of doing that. The cards and the initials, it was something so personal and intimate I could hide deep within the layers, the perfect place to bury my secrets.” She smiles at the memory.
“But of course we know now he wasn’t the hero of my story. She was. My wonderful, loyal, brave Anne. We were two women with so little in common, it seemed at first, we might have passed each other on the street without feeling the vaguest hint of a connection. But we came to rely on each other in a way perhaps only two women can. She had everything to lose, but still she stood by my side. Even when there was nothing for her to gain, she never deserted me. I’m not sure you or I would be sitting here now if it wasn’t for her.”
“That’s incredible,” I manage through my tears.
“She was incredible. My love affair with Antoine was ephemeral by comparison. But my feelings for Anne never diminished. They never will. Alice and Anne. A and A. She was the only person I could have trusted with the precious gift of my daughter.”
“She’s still in London, Granny. Veronique. I can stop her from going back to Paris. Wouldn’t you love to see her again?”
“More than anything, yes, I would. But I have no expectations, Lucille. Veronique has lived her own life, many miles from here. She may not want to see me, and I have to understand that. And so do you.”
“At least let me try. Can I just try to call her, please?” I look at my watch. She’ll have made it to the bottom of the hill by now and, saving any major delays, she’ll be on the train, I know it. But the first half dozen stops are overground. Maybe her phone will connect, maybe I can just say enough to get her off the train.
“If you think it is the right thing to do, Lucille, I won’t stop you.”
I grab my mobile from my bag and head toward the door, knowing Granny’s unreliable phone reception will be stronger if I’m in the garden. My heart is hammering against my ribs as I throw the door open with one hand, phone balancing between my ear and left shoulder, simultaneously trying to force my right arm into my jacket.