The Last Dress from Paris(112)
So, while it’s almost unbearable to stem the flow of my tears today, I will, for her. The three of us stand together, my left hand in Veronique’s, my right in Mum’s.
Sylvie Alice Lord
Loved, admired, strong—until the very end.
Just as she wanted it. Just as we all agreed it should be.
* * *
? ? ?
We head to the cars parked on the edge of the common, and as we climb in, I see my mum starting to fuss about something. She is rooting around in her handbag and insisting that Veronique sit next to her, that she has something she wants to give her before we arrive back at Mum’s place. As we pull away, I look back over my shoulder and see it is a bundle of letters, and I understand.
“I found them in her cottage, afterward,” offers Mum. “They were left out on the sideboard in her bedroom. I think she did it deliberately to be sure they would be seen. They’re the ones that Anne wrote to her from Paris, after my mum returned to England.”
“Oh, that’s so wonderful. She kept them all?” Veronique’s face lights up at the prospect of another opportunity to hear both women’s voices.
“There’s quite a few, so yes, I think so. And I hope you don’t mind, Veronique, but I did read several of them.” Mum frowns, afraid she has done the wrong thing and caused disappointment.
“My goodness, of course not. How could I mind?”
“I’m so thankful that Mum and I got to talk as much as we did before she died, but there is something about the letters that can’t be re-created or retold. They are so authentic, so representative of Anne and Mum’s relationship at the time. But more than that, they reveal all the questions Mum asked, all the answers she sought. Not just the big things, but every little detail. She wanted to know everything about you. She never stopped asking.”
“Thank you, Genevieve. I’d love to read every one of them. Maybe we can sit down and look at them all together one day?”
“I would love that.”
“You know, I still have the letters your maman wrote at the time you were born too. You’re very welcome to take a look. It’s obvious how much love she felt for you too.”
Mum bites down hard on her bottom lip and nods. It’s all she can manage for now.
* * *
? ? ?
We pull up outside Mum’s place, and I can’t quite believe she has relaxed enough over the past few months to allow the party (as Granny specified it should be) to happen here.
There are going to be crisps down the back of her expensive sofa, shoe smudges on the marble. Someone might actually upend a drink or—heaven forbid—forget to use a coaster. But she doesn’t care. Bizarrely, it’s the happiest I have seen her in ages. Her sense of purpose has returned, and she is embracing it. She circulates effortlessly with none of her old stress and irritation, making sure champagne flutes are full, nibbles are dispersed, and introductions are made, and then she curls up on one of her giant sofas with Veronique—without even taking her shoes off, I notice—and the two of them are inseparable for the rest of the afternoon. I wish I could stay longer, but Mum is visiting me next weekend. We can chew over everything together then.
“I hate to say it, but we better make a move.” Leon appears at my side with our things. “If we miss the Eurostar, we’ll be staying the night in London and you’ll be late for work the day your exhibition opens.”
I see the pleasure he still gets from repeating my achievements. And I’m going to allow myself to feel proud too. All of Granny’s dresses and the accompanying cards will go on show tomorrow, with the full story, as told by me, including some of the reportage photographs Leon took of our hunt across Paris together and some of the long-forgotten treasures from Bettina. “Is it okay, today of all days, to be really excited that you are coming home with me, to our place?”
“I think so. She would have appreciated you appreciating me, don’t you think? I just need to say my goodbyes.”
I head to the couch where Mum and Veronique are sharing a joke. Mum sees the coat draped over my arm and knows that I haven’t got time to linger.
She stands and takes my face in her hands, a small act of intimacy that has never existed between us before, then draws her face a little closer to mine.
“She was so incredibly proud of you, you know, and so am I. I’m only sorry it has taken me all this time to tell you that.”
“I’m proud of you too, Mum,” I tell her—and I mean it. “I’ll see you next weekend in Paris!”