The Last Dress from Paris(20)

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I spend the next hour lost in a swirl of my own thoughts. None of which make sense. I head to the hotel pool and commit myself to fifty lengths. But I’m so distracted I keep losing count and give up, my lungs screaming from the surprise exertion. I try to force myself to relax in the steam room, but then listen to the sound of my own breath getting increasingly panicked as the fog thickens around me. I can’t bear it for more than a few minutes before I force the door open and suck in mouthfuls of cool, clear air.

I keep coming back to Granny’s words. Stick to the dates, she said. Well, I can’t visit the location of dress number one, the Cygne Noir, because that was “home.” Whose home, and where it is, remains unanswered, but what about number two? The New Look jacket and skirt that A wore to Dior, a boutique I can see from the window of my hotel room. I’ve no idea if it was this Dior boutique that A would have visited, but it seems lazy not to go and have a look, so I dry off and think about the least offensively casual thing I have packed to wear before I head over there.



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The boutique, all six floors of it, greedily claims the block, bending around the corner onto rue Fran?ois, and is swathed in a temporary covering that seems to glow blue and gold. It has a fairy-tale quality, as if suspended in time, untouched by pollution or architectural modernism. Which is all very well and good, but according to the sign it’s also closed for renovations and won’t open again until next year. And I could actually cry. I stand there gazing up at it, feeling like I’ve fallen at the first hurdle, when a smart lady in a neat suit emerges from within.

“Just glorious, isn’t it? The trompe l’oeil facade evoking all the magic of another era, the colors, Dior’s favorites, of course. It’s like being transported back in time to 1946 when he opened, when this was his very first boutique.”

“Really? This was the original building?” If I can’t get inside, perhaps I can at least glean a little information from her. “My grandmother was living in Paris in the early fifties. I was really hoping to get inside for a sense of what life might have been like here then.”

“Not possible, I’m afraid, not for some time.” She’s starting to walk away. “We do have the temporary boutique on the Champs-élysées though. You could head there. There’s a courtesy bus to take you.” She points to the minibus parked a few feet away and overflowing with excited Japanese tourists.

“Thank you, but I’m not sure it would be the same. It has to be this one. I was hoping to chat with someone who knew about the dresses, who might be able to bring them to life for me.” This is what Granny wants, after all, me to work it all out for myself. The way my face has collapsed seems to spark a little sympathy, because she stops, glances back toward my hotel, and adds, “Then head to the Plaza Athénée. There’s a little bookshop on the second floor, run by a lady called Nancy. She was one of Dior’s favorite mannequins back in the day. She knows more than most.”

And with that, she’s gone, heels clacking over the cobbles away from me. I glance back toward the hotel, knowing if I head there now it will only be to seek comfort in the room service menu. I glance at my watch, and it’s one hour until Bettina’s closes. It’s going to require a very sweaty speed walk, but this day needs a positive result, so off I set. Nancy will have to wait.



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I stand outside the simply titled Bettina on rue Montorgueil, thinking this simply can’t be it. It’s tiny and sandwiched between a busy café on the right and a greengrocer on its left, like it’s occupying a narrow alleyway that never should have been built on. It reminds me instantly of one of those dated out-of-town hair salons back home. The sort Granny’s friends willingly spend half the day in. Somewhere I wouldn’t dare set foot in, even if my roots were three months overdue and I had a job interview that afternoon. The window is stuffed full of what looks like a load of old jumble to me. There are posters taped all over the glass advertising various local events, and in between them I can make out the clutter that is spilling forth inside. If I had an expensive piece of couture that I was aiming to resell, would I bring it here? I don’t think so. This has got nonstarter written all over it.

But it’s my strongest lead, and with ten minutes until the shop’s closing time, I clatter through the door, sounding a bell that will immediately alert the owner to my arrival. The shop is indeed no wider than the exterior. It’s little more than one slim corridor that runs through to a curtained changing room, a counter with an ancient-looking till on top—not that I imagine it’s used much—and one high stool. The air is musty and stale, and my breath shallows as I attempt not to inhale any more than I have to. There are rails running down either side of the shop, with probably three times the number of clothes wedged on them than there should be. I can see pulling anything out will take some muscle and probably dislodge several other items. Above the rails is shelving that is piled high with folded pieces, mostly knitwear. Granny’s dress is never going to be among this lot.

If the clothes say nothing of the world of couture, then the man working here also conveys nothing of an appreciation for high fashion. Or my arrival so near to closing time. I watch as his shoulders slump the second he sees me. He actually lets out an audible sigh, tilting his head sideways as if to question why anyone would be inconsiderate enough to arrive at this moment.