The Last Dress from Paris(41)
“I’m afraid you’re on your own tomorrow, Lucille.” Leon slumps back in his chair, looking a little disappointed, I think. “I have to be back at the shop, or it won’t open. There is no one else scheduled to help out on Wednesday.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve already given me so much of your time.” I’m trying to look cheerful and grateful about this, but really, I haven’t forgiven myself for the clanger I dropped earlier today, almost ruining it for both of us. I want to apologize again to Leon, but there hasn’t seemed to be the right moment yet.
“I can come,” offers Veronique. “I’m not working tomorrow and there’s nothing else in my diary. I’d love to, if you don’t mind?”
“Okay, great, thank you!”
The three of us all dig into the remaining food and manage to see the bottom of a third bottle of wine. This results in Veronique trying on the Esther dress, which fits her perfectly. She parades back and forth across the room while Leon and I sit on the end of the bed as if watching a model in a fashion show. She pulls it off quite beautifully. By then it’s getting late and we’ve all had a bit too much to drink. While Leon is getting his coat, Veronique plonks herself down next to me on the sofa.
“Maman kept all her letters from your granny Sylvie. They’re all tied up together somewhere in among her belongings. I haven’t sorted through much of it yet, but . . . I’m wondering whether to read the letters when I find them. Do you think I should?” she asks.
“Most people probably would read them, I think. Theirs was obviously a very close relationship, and I can see it will be a wonderful opportunity to connect to your mum again. Did she ever share any of them with you when she was alive?”
“No. Not once. I often saw them arrive with their London postmark and thought how much I’d love to read them, but she never left them lying around, not that I would have dared to read them without her permission. But I can’t ask her for that now, can I.” It’s the first time since we met that I see her mood really dip, and I’m reminded of how recently she lost her mother.
“I think it has to be your decision. I’m not sure I would, but I completely understand why you would want to.”
“I’m worried about how I might feel when I’ve read them all. Because that will truly be the end then, won’t it? I’ll know as much as there is to know about her, all the tiny nuances that never got communicated between us. There will never be anything new . . . and the process of forgetting her might begin. As long as those letters remain unread, there are still parts of her to discover.” I notice her eyes have glassed over at the precise moment she does too. “Oh, ignore me, Lucille, it’s the wine.” I give her hand a squeeze, and a brisk shake of her head tells me she’s okay.
I see them both to the door of my suite, and we all say our goodbyes before Leon asks if we can catch up later tomorrow, when he’s finished at the shop, so I can update him on any developments.
“I’ve got to visit the Pompidou late afternoon to edit some work. It’s very close to where you’ll be. If you’re still there, call me. You’ve got my number.”
“Okay, I will, thanks, Leon.” Perhaps I’ll get my chance to apologize properly tomorrow.
* * *
? ? ?
The room feels too big and lonely once they’ve both gone, so I get into my pj’s and climb into bed to scroll through my messages. Then I remember I haven’t listened to Mum’s voicemail yet. Perhaps it’s a little selfish, but I decide it can wait until the morning. I want to hold on to this happy feeling just a little longer.
10
Alice
NOVEMBER 1953, PARIS
THE ESTHER
Does it make her a bad person to admit that she loves the way the dress feels next to her skin? The softness of the expensive silk lining as it gently lifts and rotates with the movement of her hips is exquisite—at least twenty skilled artisans will have worked on the piece she is wearing this evening. For the previous week, every woman in this room will have been guessing what she would wear tonight. Some will have gone to the effort of placing a perfectly timed phone call to their own contact at the house of Dior—Alice’s well-documented designer of choice—or to Anne under the ruse of checking timings, to try to elicit an answer that would then guide their own choice. How to shine, without outshining your hostess? Alice knows the wives gossip about her perceived disloyalty of favoring a French designer over a British one. But she will not waver. Anne’s recommendation was the right one. These dresses are Alice’s armor, her enhanced reality, placing her outside time and far beyond the reach of the society gossips.
Alice is pondering all this as she circulates the salon, a coupe of fine French champagne in hand. She’s angling her pretty face left and then right, avoiding the bores while also acknowledging as many of their guests as she can in one well-plotted route to the door Antoine has just entered through—flanked, as always, by his mother. Alice’s is a practiced expression. One that says, I am delighted you are here, but that also gently warns, Not now, I am needed elsewhere and delays will not be appreciated. She deliberately does not make Antoine her first focus when she reaches him.