The Last Dress from Paris(37)
“It’s very good, Antoine. The shape is entirely in proportion. You only had a couple of minutes to do that.” And it is. He’s captured the way the collar sits high up on her slender neck and the two front pleats are angled over her breasts, defining her shape. The sharpness of his pencil has cut the bracelet-length sleeves off at just the right spot before her gloves begin. From her refined waist, two deep pleats drop down the front of the skirt in perfect symmetry. It’s one of the most complicated day dresses Dior has created, according to the vendeuse at avenue Montaigne, with one single piece of cloth performing the near-impossible task of forming the front of the garment, and another the back. And yet, Antoine has reproduced it in mere moments.
But what of the woman wearing it?
There is no smile on her face. Her eyes are cast off the page, looking lost, as if they belong to someone else. How can she look so polished and yet so detached, so soulless? The way he has drawn her lips, tight and determined, is more severe than she imagined, and she immediately parts her lips to relax her mouth. Her hands, she notices, are stiff, her fingers outstretched, not as fluid as they should be. He sees someone who is coping, not living.
“Thank you. I have a very good memory. But I try to look deeper, to see the person underneath the clothes that hide them.” He says it so nonchalantly, like he expects the words to have little impact. But for Alice, they are causing a deep swell of longing.
There has never been a moment like this in her life. Not even right back at the beginning with Albert when he was trying his best to impress her. It was never uncontrollable, as if her desire were moving beyond her. She enjoyed Albert’s attention, she was flattered. He made her feel grown-up, like she was progressing with her life, no longer the superfluous third person in the house. But did he ever make her breath catch in the back of her throat? She doesn’t remember it. She answered his questions at those dinner parties with a cool detachment, never believing they would lead anywhere. Not really understanding then that he wanted them to. Or that her parents did. What were her interests? Did she like travel? What foreign languages could she speak? Not once did her stomach flip, but the pleasure his attention seemed to bring her parents kept her just engaged enough. It was an opportunity to gain their approval.
The fun they had together on honeymoon, away from all the interested observers, when he loosened up wonderfully, seemed to suggest she’d got it right. But was there an undeniable moment of passion that convinced her they simply had to be together? Wasn’t that what more frivolous women looked for, those not serious about their future? It was more a slow, informed understanding that everything about her and Albert was beneficial and a sensibly good choice, undercut by frequent reminders from her parents that she couldn’t hope to do better. What else was there for her to consider? It wasn’t like she needed to be sure he would support her career ambitions. In hindsight, it was more about his assuring himself that she was up to the task of being a future ambassador’s wife.
“Do you speak to other women like this, Antoine?” Saying his name out loud, so close to him, feels wonderfully personal and intimate. “Are there other women that you sketch and try to convince to fall in love with you?”
He lowers the sketch pad into his lap and allows a deep frown to form across his forehead. “You shouldn’t undervalue yourself like that. I can’t think why I would need to.” He catches her eye and holds it.
“Even if you never let me touch you, Alice, this is enough. To be in your company. At least that’s what I tell myself. I want to see you smile more often. I hope to be the one to make you smile.”
And like a fool, she does smile, then tries to halt it, and the two of them laugh together.
“Can you turn around so I can see the back of your dress again, please?”
Alice angles her legs to her right, away from him.
“I need you to stand.”
She does as he asks, and for the first time since she stepped into the park this afternoon, she is aware of everyone around them. Faces that could be watching them, faces that might be known to her. She is about to sit straight back down when she feels Antoine’s hands slide around her waist and meet in front of her. It’s an intimacy she didn’t grant, but it makes the skin beneath her dress instantly warm, and she imagines his hands dipping lower, the pleasure it would give her if they did.
“I want to feel how the fabric fits you.” He runs his fingers gently backward to her hips, then lets them ease down over the folds of her skirt, lowering his head toward her neck. She can hear how uneven his breath has become.
Alice closes her eyes, seeing the imprint of the flowers that border the lake, lemon and orange chrysanthemums. She smiles again, more deeply and just for herself this time. She wants to remember this moment of unguarded abandon. She wishes she could allow herself to be held for longer by him, to feel his arms fold in around her, pull her down onto the bench, where they would stay wrapped up together, drinking tea and kissing for the afternoon, their faces hidden under the brim of his hat. She knows she’s projecting a fantasy onto this moment that is dangerous to nurture, one that can only end in disappointment. But there are other feelings rising up within her that are stronger: desire and an overwhelming need to be touched.
“When can I show you the finished sketch?” Antoine asks as she sits back down, closer to him this time.
“Your parents are coming to the embassy drinks next week, aren’t they? I will make sure you are added to the guest list. You can show me then—if the correct moment presents itself.”