The Last Dress from Paris(22)
“They might make sixty toiles before they started eliminating the ones they weren’t happy with. Only once they were satisfied did I have to walk back and forth in the toiles, so Dior himself could check the movement and if the proportions were right. I can still do the walk.” She’s up again, hands wedged to her hips, snaking across the carpeted floor with an elegance and confidence I don’t think anyone in her audience today is expecting.
“Then different fabrics would be draped across me. I saw Dior ask for thirty different samples of black wool once before he settled on the best one. And all the while I had to stand absolutely still, which is an awful lot harder than it sounds. The following day, he might change his mind and we’d start all over again.”
I’m enthralled. All this, to make one dress.
“People thought we mannequins had a glamorous life.” She slides back into her seat, folding her legs at the ankle. “But it was incredibly hard work. In the weeks leading up to a show, we’d start at ten a.m. and rarely finish before eight p.m., sometimes as late as midnight. We’d eat, sleep, and smoke all squashed up together in the cabine, the dressing room, gossiping and writing our love letters. But not one of us ever complained, we were the ambassadresses of fashion, and my goodness, did we know it!” No one, least of all me, is about to contradict her.
“Did you ever model a New Look jacket, Nancy?” I ask.
She closes her eyes. It’s the first time she has fallen silent since I sat down with her.
“I certainly did. A truly unforgettable piece of magic. Was your grandmother lucky enough to wear one?”
“She owned one, yes.”
“My goodness. If it comes your way, look after it well. It will be imprinted with memories and secrets that have remained silent for decades—I hope you are intuitive enough to hear them.”
I feel my skin prickle as I thank Nancy for her time.
* * *
? ? ?
I kill a few hours on the hotel’s pretty enclosed sun terrace with my book, sipping strong French coffee and listening to Camila Cabello’s “Havana”—why does everything have to be a reminder of all the places I haven’t been to? My thoughts turn to Mum. How much I would love a hug right now. Some words of encouragement. I decide to call her, something I should really do more often but don’t for fear of trespassing on her precious time. But I decide it’s worth a try on the off chance she is between meetings and might have a few minutes to spare.
Her assistant answers the phone, and I have to give my full name before she realizes it’s her boss’s daughter calling.
“Oh, right. I’ll see if she’s free.”
I imagine Mum then, visible to her assistant through her glass office wall, shaking her head or wagging her finger, silently signaling not to connect my call.
“She’s quite busy, Lucille. She has asked if it is something specific, or can it wait?”
How many seconds of the day would it cost her to just take the call and ask me if I’m okay?
“I’ll hold if I need to, but I would like to speak to her, please.” I flick the handset to speakerphone, predicting this won’t be a short wait.
Twelve minutes she keeps me listening to the nauseating hold music before finally she’s there.
“Yes, Lucille? It’s a manic day, I’m afraid. You’ve picked a bad one. We aren’t all lucky enough to get our weekends off.”
“Is there any such thing as a good one?”
“Probably not. How can I help?” I can hear the stress in her voice. How tight she sounds from not breathing deeply. I imagine the half-eaten sushi on her desk, abandoned to impending deadlines. I hear other voices, people filing into her office and pulling up chairs. Whatever meeting is about to start, she has chosen not to delay it to take my call.
“Are you joining us, Genevieve?” The question isn’t intended to be one, I can tell that even from where I am.
“I’m going to have to go. Sorry.”
“Before you do, Mum, I just want to say, you have worked for that company for a long time. You’re very senior and you deserve some respect, and if your daughter calls in the middle of the day, it’s probably for good reason. You should be able to spare her five minutes without judgments being made about your professionalism.”
“You’re right,” she says sadly. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Genevieve?” More irritated now, the speaker may as well just order her to hang up.
“I’ll try to call you later,” she sighs in a quiet voice, clearly not wanting her private life to intrude into the corporate world, “but I’ll be here way past nine p.m. Bye.”
* * *
? ? ?
I finish my coffee and think about whether there was ever a moment for Mum—maybe after I was born or when her marriage was falling apart or as the promotions rolled in and the workload swelled—when she questioned if her life choices were the right ones. Maybe the first time it was made clear her family life and how happy she was in it were of no interest to her bosses. A fleeting moment of opportunity when she could have altered the course of her life and our relationship. Said no. Or just no more.
I wonder why a woman so outwardly strong seems so incapable of using that word at work. Why there was never a breaking point that didn’t need to mean the end of professional ambition, just a reimagining of it to make room in her life for love. For me.