The Last Dress from Paris(42)
“Madame du Parcq, how wonderful to see you again.” Alice forces her eyes to remain fixed on Antoine’s mother, despite the grin she knows will be creeping across Antoine’s lips and how his own eyes will have no interest beyond her.
“The feeling is entirely mutual. You do give the absolute best parties. Well, of course you do, everyone knows that.” Madame du Parcq is allowing her gaze to be drawn beyond Alice’s right shoulder, to the woman behind her. Alice can tell without looking from the smooth velvet tones filling the air with confident predictions about the success of the new collection that it is Adrienne from Dior, the woman whose job it is to decide who attends the shows and, crucially, where they sit.
“Dearest Adrienne.” Alice signals with a small wave of her hand. “The lovely Madame du Parcq is here . . .” It is all that needs to be said. The rules of engagement are clear. Alice is confident that Adrienne will pick up the conversation like she and Madame du Parcq are old friends as Alice gently guides the two women into the center of the room together, leaving her and Antoine pushed a little farther to the outskirts. An act that seems to make Madame du Parcq’s evening, if her breathlessness is anything to go by. Adrienne will lose her soon enough, when she has sufficiently satisfied the favor needed.
“Alice.” Antoine bends his head low, allowing their faces to almost touch, breathing her name into her ear as soon as his mother is safely embedded in her new conversation. And maybe it’s the champagne or the fact she feels invincible in the Esther. Maybe Alice just feels protected by the sheer number of bodies pushed up against each other in the salon tonight, but she isn’t the slightest bit inclined to dissuade him. Quite the opposite. She allows their bodies to come together, she feels her hips connect with him, and the effect of it pulses through her entire body.
“I’m hoping you’ve brought a present for me this evening, Antoine?” The urge to take his hand is almost overwhelming.
“I have. When can I give it to you? I want us to be alone when you see it.” His hand hovers above his heart, and Alice doesn’t want to wait the hours stretching out ahead of her to see his finished sketch. Perhaps it’s pure vanity or the thrill of their little secret, but she needs to see it as soon as possible.
“In thirty minutes from now, I’m going to step out of the room and walk across the hall to the bottom of the staircase. There’s a small curtained alcove on the left-hand side with a window seat. Meet me there. But we will have to be very quick or my absence will be noticed. Don’t speak to me again until I see you there.”
Alice doesn’t wait for a response but immediately steps away from him and joins a group of wives who have gathered around the mantelpiece, all trying to outdo each other with their lavish Christmas plans. Why do they crave this rarefied world? she wonders. Probably because they don’t truly understand it, not the way Alice does from her elevated position. She knows invitations from her and Albert are highly prized and there is fierce resentment from those who don’t make the guest list. But do they understand the fragility of it all? How immense popularity, troubled by one quick reshuffle of cabinet or a falling out of favor, might see them pushed to the sidelines and forced to jealously gaze inward from the cold?
Despite his position, Alice is more natural at all of this than Albert. I can’t entertain without Alice, she heard him tell a colleague one evening, just after they arrived in Paris. His tone seemed appreciative of her contribution then, not barbed and full of resentment at her popularity. She looks at him now, across the room and cornered by one of the more junior French diplomats. He’s dressed the part in a perfectly tailored dinner jacket that seems to emphasize his size—his broad shoulders, his solid chest, his imposing height. But the mental commitment—the one thing no one else can do for him—is sadly lacking. She recognizes the inattentive blankness on his face; he’s directed it at her enough times. When his companion eventually stops talking, he won’t have a thing to say in response and will be forced to fall back on excusing himself or making a rushed and inappropriate introduction to someone nearby. The man is of little use to Albert, so he won’t waste his energy on him.
Alice is pleased she’s not close enough to be able to help him this time. She absolutely would have once, but not tonight, when she can’t risk getting stuck herself. She knows if the two of them happen to make eye contact now, Albert will signal for help. His eyes will flare, and there will be the smallest toss of his head backward to summon her. He stated the rule that the two of them should never talk once a party is underway. That by dividing their efforts they can achieve more.
Well, now he will have to rely on his own wits to save himself.
* * *
? ? ?
The hallway is clear. She has dispatched Patrice to the kitchen to check on the rotation of canapés and asked him to prepare the library for later, knowing full well Albert and some of his favorites will retreat there for whiskey and cigars. At least she’s hoping they do. Despite the noise from the salon, she can hear the frantic click-clack of her heels on the polished tiled floor, the speed of her steps beating out her excitement. This is madness. She’ll wait just two minutes and then she’ll have to go back in.
When Antoine appears, he seems to do so with no sense of urgency at all, casually striding across the hall like the night is theirs alone. As he walks, he starts to pull a small piece of rolled paper from his jacket pocket, maintaining eye contact with her as he does. He gently unfurls it and holds it against his chest, the soft pencil lines facing her. Alice is so desperate to see what he has created, how he has fully interpreted her, that she ignores the very slight movement in the background far behind him. Her eyes are too busy greedily searching out her image.