The Last Dress from Paris(3)

“What a brilliant suggestion, Marianne.” Alice looks down at the employer references still untouched on the desk in front of her. “How soon can you start?”

“Whenever is best for you.” The two women instinctively stand and reach across the table to shake hands. “But please, call me Anne—all those closest to me do.”





1





Lucille


   THURSDAY


   OCTOBER 2017, LONDON


I could resent being here. A lot of women my age would. This job, as they’d see it, would sit on their to-do list, toward the bottom, just below order food online and clean bathroom. Everything else would get a line satisfyingly struck through it, but this entry would be pushed into next week, maybe even the week after that. A fresh list would be made, and still it would be at the bottom.

But visiting my grandmother is honestly the highlight of my week, every week. I look forward to it the way other women look forward to a cocktail or an hour in the bath alone. I love her more than any other person on this planet. Granny Sylvie has outlived Concorde and Woolworths. In two hours of chitchat, we can hop from the first episode of The Archers to the moon landing, via the death of Elvis and the Queen’s coronation.

Even now she’ll surprise me. Like the time a couple of months back when she suggested we play a game of chess. I was aware of the board, tucked in the corner of her sitting room, on an elegant antique table with gently curving legs, but to my shame I’d always assumed it was my grandfather’s and she couldn’t bear to part with it.

It took her about twelve minutes to beat me, her mind three moves in the future, mine still warming up. So, she might look old—and I say look because I certainly don’t think she feels it—but she’s razor sharp. Unlikely as it sounds, I have to raise my game for a trip to Granny’s.

I stand undetected, studying her for a few moments, wondering what scene is playing out behind her resting eyes. She sits, as usual, in her favorite wingback chair, close to the open fire, its flames dancing in the sparkle of the dragonfly brooch she never gets dressed without. I wonder if instead of staring I should be rushing to move her backward before the crocheted blanket draped across her lap catches an ember and goes up. Her slim hands, nails beautifully manicured as always, are gripping the wooden arms, but her head is relaxed backward and there is the faintest smile painted across her lips. I wonder where her subconscious has taken her today. Back to the fleeting weeks in postwar Paris when she first met my grandfather? Or perhaps to that hot midsummer afternoon when she married him in a tiny English countryside church? There is a black-and-white photograph that sits on her mantel of the two of them locked in a kiss. I used to think it was a strange choice to frame. My grandfather’s back is to the camera, and he is leaning over her slightly. But he always insisted it was his favorite shot of them from the day. Her eyes are peeled wide open, full of sparkle; she is laughing through the kiss, as if she can’t quite believe her luck.

I start to silently remove my wool hat and gloves, placing them on a small round trestle table near the sitting room door I’ve entered through. Despite my best efforts, the jangle of my keys twitches her right eyelid open. It’s the only part of her that moves. She’s like a poised guard dog, deciding if it needs to bare teeth. Her mouth relaxes into a smile when she sees it’s me. It gets deeper, warmer, so by the time I’m at her side, it’s like I’m staring into the sun.

“Lucille, my darling. Come and sit with me. Happy birthday!” She starts to pull herself up in the chair and I step forward to help. As soon as I take hold of her, I’m reminded how there is barely any flesh on her. She’s all layers of warm clothes, and I feel my grip reduce as my fingers search for something solid beneath the wool. I try not to think of the one battle this incredible, strong-minded woman will never win: her spirit versus the force of time her body will one day soon succumb to.

I bend over and plant a kiss on her smooth forehead, which despite the heat from the fire feels cool beneath my lips, and I smirk at the lipstick imprint I leave there. She smells of woodsmoke and the more delicate scent of bluebells, the fragrance she has worn for as long as I can remember.

“How are you doing, Granny? Are you warm enough? Has Natasha been in again this morning?” Natasha is the local lady who comes and helps Granny. What started as a bit of cleaning has grown over the years, and Granny is reliant on her now to help her wash, dress, and prepare all her meals for the day ahead before Natasha returns in the evening to get her ready for bed. Mum picks up the bill, but I like to make sure I visit at least three times a week.

“Oh, never mind all that. How does it feel to be, gosh, thirty-two?” The words shudder out of her, her intonation rising and falling with little control. Her small hazel eyes are watering, and she reaches for a tissue to wipe them.

Despite the generous size of the room, Granny has arranged everything she needs within an easy two-meter radius of herself, effectively shrinking it to the small semicircle that surrounds the fire. Books, glasses, a small bone china plate full of telltale biscuit crumbs, the TV remote, the phone, a pad and pen.

“Well, I can’t say I feel a whole lot different from yesterday, but . . .” I remove some magazines from a low square ottoman at her feet and take a seat on it, holding her hand. “Look, I brought you some birthday cake.” I hold a napkin-wrapped slice aloft so she can see it.