The Last Dress from Paris(17)
“There’s no chance it will still be there, then.” How bloody disappointing. I’m surprised at how gutted I am, and Veronique senses it immediately.
“When I learned you were coming, I checked and, Lucille, the shop is still there. It’s open until noon on Saturday, closed on Sunday, and reopens again at eleven Monday morning. I’ve no idea if it operates in the way it used to, but it’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it? If it was ever there, there is a slim chance they will have a record of who bought it.”
“Yes! You’re right.” And I don’t care how hard I have to beg Dylan to let me extend my stay a little, I’m not going back to London until I have checked. And isn’t this exactly the kind of story he always claims to be looking for? A journey to a new destination, exploring the hidden corners that only those deeply embedded in the place could reveal, an uncompromisingly personal piece that might start with a train journey somewhere obvious but teases with the promise of something more memorable. Isn’t there a slim chance my boss might actually be impressed with the story I bring home?
I also need to speak to Granny as a matter of urgency. Obviously she knows more than she told me yesterday.
4
Alice
OCTOBER 1953, PARIS
THE NEW LOOK JACKET
Alice should be examining the chic black wool day dress; it’s exactly the kind of thing she might order. Instead she is thinking about the job she has done since arriving in Paris after her midsummer wedding. Has she worked hard enough? Would more hours spent perfecting everything win back the more charming, attentive Albert, who woke her with a kiss every day on their honeymoon, generously paid for by her parents, but who seems emotionally distant now that he’s slipped back into his bespoke work suit? That Albert was, along with the honeymoon luggage, swiftly packed away for the seriousness of Paris and all its demands.
Is she worthy of today’s front-row seat at Dior’s show, where loyalty to the designer is prized more highly than wealth? Would she call herself loyal? She certainly respects commitment. That’s how she is made. The lesson she was always shown. Didn’t her own mother show determined commitment to a man who didn’t always deserve it? Whatever her father was doing until the early hours, she knew her mother would never let mention of it enter their everyday lives, breathing life into it. It was her mother’s reaction that kept the wheels turning forward. To Alice’s young eyes, her mother had a resilience, an inner strength she hoped she would never have to cultivate herself.
The movement of the mannequin crossing the room, coming dangerously close to knocking over one of the pillar ashtrays that are dotted around the front row, breaks her thoughts, and that’s when Alice sees him.
Everything about his slouched body language suggests Antoine has been here for some time. His dark wool suit isn’t freshly pressed, the toe caps of his shoes don’t gleam as other men’s do, as if he is trying to communicate he doesn’t want to be here. But only, perhaps, until he sees her?
Because the second their eyes connect, he mouths, “Hello,” sits up a little straighter, and relaxes into a broad smile. Alice’s mind empties of everything she has been worrying about this morning. Albert filters from her thoughts, like smoke weakening on the breeze. The crowded discomforts of the room fade so she is barely aware of them. Now it’s a sense of anticipation she feels, and a pleasure that’s making her surprisingly self-conscious. She smooths her hands down her gray wool flannel jacket, appreciating how it’s molded to the perfect hourglass shape, the gently rounded collar, the pleated bust, the fine pearlized button at each pocket and cuff. Then her hands find the heavy black pleated skirt that hangs as if it were stitched to her this morning.
Neither of them is watching the show. A second mannequin cuts across Alice’s line of sight, gifting her the opportunity to break the hold between them, but still she doesn’t look away. Has this become a contest? A declaration of some sort? The corners of Antoine’s mouth turn up naughtily, like he’s seeing in her something he’s feeling himself.
A warmth is spreading inside Alice. It’s deliciously self-indulgent and she can’t switch it off. It tugs at her belly, making her shift in her seat. Still their eyes remain connected, even though she senses his mother, seated beside him, has noticed Alice and lifts a hand to wave. Alice returns the greeting but offers no further acknowledgment. As the show swirls on, Alice is loosely aware of movement around her, people fidgeting, a nose being powdered, a shifting of body weight in a chair beside her. Only an outburst of rapturous applause finally forces her eyes to disconnect from him. Alice diverts her attention back to the show program in her lap, grateful of the opportunity to collect herself, to take a few deep breaths. What will happen when the show ends? She knows Madame du Parcq will seek her out and she and Antoine will have to speak, to acknowledge whatever it is that has passed between them.
A regular at the shows now, she starts to circle everything she likes that she will order: more sculpted wool suits with hip-hugging pencil skirts, a white raw silk taffeta and velvet midlength cocktail dress with a daring halter neck, full-length furs, and at least three fully embroidered ball gowns. She wills her eyes to remain downward, but there are too many moments of weakness. Alice’s resolve falters and her eyes move against her will in the direction of Antoine, seeking him out again and again. She doubts he has seen a single ensemble from the show. Every time, his smile deepens beyond playfulness. There is intent, even admiration. She can see it in the darkness behind his lashes and in the confidence of whatever he is trying to silently communicate, not caring that he is touching elbows with his own mother.