The Last Dress from Paris(24)
“My family has owned this shop for more than eighty years. It might not look like it now, but back in the fifties, it was a thriving business. My grandfather’s contacts book was unrivaled. His knowledge of the different couture houses even more so. Every well-dressed woman in Paris—and those aspiring to be—knew of him and his shop. Trust me, I’ve listened to his stories over and over again since I was a little boy—I’m not exaggerating.” He remains standing, studying my face to check I am paying attention.
“But what does this have to do specifically with the Maxim’s? You said he knew it.”
“Since he had to step back from the business and I agreed to help him out temporarily, he has occasionally talked about a specific dress, although I’m sorry to say I never paid too much attention. Everyone in the family has heard the story.” He pulls a second stool in close and sits facing me, creating a level of intimacy he seems to think matches the importance of his tale.
“One afternoon, back in the midfifties, a young woman entered the shop sobbing and clutching a gown. She was distraught at having to part with the dress, and vowed she would be back for it as soon as she could afford to buy it back from him.” This must be Veronique’s mother, just as she told me. I nod, encouraging him to go on.
“She assumed, naturally, that he would sell it to the first person who made him a decent offer. And according to him, he could have sold it ten times over in the first week alone. It was Dior’s time, he said—postwar Paris, and women’s clothes were feminine again. The demand for his work was huge, according to my grandfather. His popularity in America was really taking off.” He leans forward, his eye line directly matching mine, and smiles broadly like he knows good news is coming.
“But what I didn’t know, until I spoke to him yesterday, was that my grandfather was so moved by the woman that the dress was never put into the shop. He was determined it should never be sold and that one day she would return for it.”
I immediately feel my back straighten. “Are you saying he’s kept it for all these years? Really! My goodness, what an incredibly kind thing for him to do. It’s still here? And I can see it?” I’m firing questions at him now, mirroring his smile because this could be it, a genuine breakthrough.
“Yes. Although I never knew it. He told me it’s locked in a wardrobe in the back room, one I assumed must have contained old accounts and paperwork that he wanted to keep safe. When I saw him on Saturday night, he said I looked stressed. I was explaining that I’d left the shop a little late and it had set me back for the day. When I told him why I was late leaving—that was you, I’m afraid—he started to put two and two together. It wasn’t until he mentioned the name of the dress—the Maxim’s—that I realized you had used the very same name.” I suppose it is reassuring that he was at least partially listening to what I was saying that day. “He has insisted that I help you. Practically ordered me to, in fact.”
And he doesn’t look unhappy about it. This is more like it, and I can’t help but lift a knowing eyebrow at Leon.
“Quite something, isn’t it? But, listen, there was never just one Maxim’s dress made. It was couture, and so each dress was specifically tailored to precisely fit the woman buying it, but lots would have been made. How can we possibly know for sure this was your grandmother’s dress? There is a chance this is all just some strange coincidence, isn’t there?” I can see in his face, the way his eyes are widening, that the slight downturn of his mouth is preparing for disappointment, but that just as much as I do, he wants this story to end well, the way it should. He wants to give his grandfather the news he has waited so long for.
“If you’ll let me see the dress, I will be able to tell you if it’s the one.” I think about my call with Granny. Her duplicitous plan in sending me here, knowing I couldn’t simply collect what I had been sent to—and why on earth she felt the need to be so secretive. I think about Veronique, who said if the dress isn’t here, we are looking at a dead end, or at least a much bigger research job with the near-impossible task of identifying a starting point. And I think about how much I want a win, something to go my way so I can tell Granny I did it, even if I’m not entirely sure what the bigger it is yet. Please just let this be the dress. I can see from Leon’s wide eyes that he’s hoping it is too.
“Come on.” He leads me through to the back of the shop, where there is even less space to move. We are surrounded on all sides by floor-to-ceiling box files, and I can see the daunting task we would have faced had the name of the dress remained a mystery too. On the back wall, facing us, is a small whitewashed wooden armoire.
“It’s in there. I’ve unlocked it for you.” He looks like he doesn’t want to be the one to open the door, so I step forward and do it myself.
And there it is. One dress, hanging all on its own, its exterior loosely swathed in brown paper. I can feel the expectation of the moment climb up the back of my throat. All this time. In a nondescript corner of Paris, in this tiny unassuming shop, where there is barely room to move and this precious dress has been given its own wardrobe. How much longer might it have hung here if Granny had never bought my Eurostar ticket?
“I need to touch it,” I say as I look back over my shoulder to where Leon is standing respectfully back where we entered the room.