The Last Dress from Paris(18)
One hour and nearly ninety looks later, the announcer bellows, “Grand Mariage,” as a multilayer wedding gown, the show’s finale piece, brings everything to a close and the room erupts into chaos. Alice wants more time to appreciate this gown. The way tiny metallic threads pick out the silhouette of flower and leaf motifs, its elegant high neck and neat three-quarter-length sleeves. But it’s no good. Chairs are hastily scraped backward, waiters appear with trays of champagne, and there are very loud protestations and verdicts of “dazzling,” “his best yet,” and “magnificent” flying from all corners of the salon. Everyone is kissing.
As Alice reaches for her bag, she is suddenly confronted by Monsieur Dior himself.
“It’s a greatly controversial piece, you know, the wedding gown, Madame Ainsley.” He’s holding her gently in his gaze, a look so different from the other she has enjoyed this morning. This one, she is confident she can cope with.
“Surely nothing you present can be deemed anything other than an absolute success, Monsieur Dior,” Alice offers, acutely aware of the number of people all jostling around them, ready to pounce and interrupt the second their conversation presents the slightest opening.
“It is not so much in the finished ensemble, but in the making of it, you see. The girls who work on the dress sew a lock of their own hair into the hem in order to find a husband during the coming year.”
“What a truly romantic notion.” And a wonderful definition of hope, thinks Alice. That a woman would trust the universe—and not her parents or society’s will—to deliver the most wonderful husband to her.
“Yes, but the mannequins pretend that it is unlucky to wear the dress. They say that the girl who shows it will never be a bride in real life. Anyway, I am so glad that you came, and I look forward to dressing you more this season.” He cradles her hand in both of his for a few moments, then releases her.
Before Alice can even offer her thanks, Monsieur Dior is engulfed in kisses and handshakes and all manner of frankly quite undignified behavior. It is Alice’s cue to leave. She starts to make her way across the salon, toward the door and her waiting driver, but is intercepted by Antoine and his mother, as she predicted she would be.
“Oh my goodness, have you ever seen anything quite like it?” gushes Madame du Parcq. “How are any of us supposed to decide? I would wear nothing but Dior if I had the resources. Oh, what will you select, Madame Ainsley? The beautiful strapless sheath evening gown? It would be perfect to show off some of your exquisite jewelry and with one of your fur stoles.”
“You know, I never decide on the day.” Alice forces her eyes to remain with Antoine’s mother. “Far too much pressure. I will go home, have a glass of champagne, and spend a glorious hour with my program and my notes. Then Marianne and I will return when the decisions are made.” Alice can already see she has lost Madame du Parcq’s attention to Monsieur Dior. She’s watching him circulate the room, trying to quickly assess if he is likely to pass her way or if she needs to adjust her own position to stand the best possible chance of an introduction.
But Antoine’s focus is entirely on her.
“Apart from this one,” he offers with a nod toward the program she is still holding. It is open at the page that features a quite spectacular sequin-covered gown, one that is belted at the waist with the neatest blue tulle ribbon before it feathers gloriously at the top of the bodice, mimicking a bird’s luxurious plumage. Alice’s pencil had hovered over it, a special piece from the Dior archives and not the new collection, one that had caused a collective intake of breath from the audience. It was only the inevitably high cost of such a gown that had prevented her from allowing her own excitement to overcome sense. She settled for a question mark instead of a tick.
“I think you should order it.” Antoine holds her eye contact. “There can’t be many women in the room worthy of it. The layers, the intricacy, its complicated construction. And yet it’s so easy to read, its beauty immediately translatable. I think it will suit you perfectly.”
Alice feels him press something hard into the palm of her right hand. A tightly folded piece of paper. As her fingers close around it, she looks to his face to see him gently place a finger to his lips, silencing her, before his mother’s attention is back with them.
“Well, I must be on my way,” says Alice, stepping out of the group. “I think I’ve kept my poor driver waiting quite long enough.” She kisses Madame du Parcq, offers her best wishes to Antoine, the absolute most she feels she can do while his mother’s eyes are on her, and makes her swift escape.
As she reclines back heavily into the rear passenger seat, Alice slowly unfurls the paper and reads his scrawl. Meet me tomorrow, the Church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, noon. I’ll wait all day if I have to.
A flicker of something ripples up through Alice’s entire body. Nerves, fear, horror . . . excitement? She can’t define it. She knows the church. It’s one of the oldest in Paris, across the Seine on the Left Bank, and somewhere she has planned to visit. As her driver begins the journey back to the residence, she tries to rationalize a decision. Of course she shouldn’t go. It’s one thing to exchange a few furtive looks across a crowded room, quite another to meet independently and alone. Isn’t it a little juvenile to squirrel a secret note to someone in her position? Disrespectful even? He knows very well that she is married. But then . . . For now, she squeezes the note back into the slim internal pocket of her purse, somewhere it won’t be seen, somewhere there is no chance of it falling from.