The Last Dress from Paris(47)

And she really has no idea. No idea how hurtful what she’s saying is. How empty and worthless it makes me, her only daughter, feel. That she doesn’t consider for one moment the upside of having more time on her hands. That we might finally get to spend some of it together. That she might bring some joy into her own mother’s final years on this earth. We are both so far from her thoughts, and I can’t even excuse it as the result of the first punch of her rejection. She’s had twenty-four hours to absorb the news.

I’m also surprised there isn’t a part of her that saw this coming. Maybe she saw it too late and that’s why she’s angry. Weren’t the warning signs there every weekend she was required to work with no apology or time off later? If they truly valued her and wanted her to stay, wouldn’t they have treated her better? Has that realization finally dawned, too late to be useful?

“Mum, you’ve been a brilliant, hugely accomplished management consultant for thirty-five years, you’ve dealt with far bigger problems than this. You can work it out. When I get back, we can sit down, and you can tell me all about it and what plans you’ve made.” Because I can guarantee there will be a strategy document in the house somewhere that she’s already working on.

Now she gives me the silent treatment.

“I’m not coming back home yet, I can’t. Not until I have finished what Granny has asked me to do here.”



* * *



? ? ?

I say goodbye and reluctantly end the call. I know she’s hurting, but I also know she has to accept some personal responsibility for the position she finds herself in. I’m confident she is strong enough to get through this. As I hang up, I see a text message, written entirely in capitals, and impossible to ignore.


AT THE AIRPORT. NO SEAT BOOKED FOR MY MOTHER-IN-LAW. THE WRONG LUGGAGE ALLOWANCE. IMAGINE THE JOY. GET IT SORTED!



I think the phrase blood runs cold was probably invented for moments like this, because I feel my body drain of all its heat and vitality. All I can see is a furious Dylan, arguing at the check-in desk, convinced initially it’s the airline’s fault and not mine. The excruciating moment witnessed by his mother-in-law when he realized otherwise. He only reminded me about the booking changes yesterday.

It’s not until I am exiting the hotel that Dylan’s name pops up again, and I barely have the courage to look. He’s still using caps.


I’VE SORTED IT. NO THANKS TO YOU. DO YOU EVEN CARE ABOUT YOUR JOB?



It’s a good question. I decide for the sake of both our stress levels not to answer him.



* * *



? ? ?

Given the choice, why would anyone come here to shop, I wonder as I approach the sprawling mall where Veronique and I have arranged to meet. It’s the least Parisian thing Paris has shown me so far. I know from the bit of background reading I managed on my phone on the way here that back in the fifties it was central to city life. Famous for its personality, its life force. The very place that fed and sustained its people, bringing them all the culinary delicacies they longed for after years of enforced wartime deprivation and rationing. But the original buildings were torn down in the seventies, and now the high street conglomerates have taken over. All its uniqueness has gone. Today you can buy the same nylon knickers in Victoria’s Secret here as you can anywhere else in the world. Trying to reimagine the working market I’ve seen in images online, A wearing the Esther dress here among the sweat and dirt, is impossible.

Try to love me a little, because I already love you too much.

What an incredible thing to have said to you. As I look skyward, back up to the neighboring Saint-Eustache church in all its Gothic glory, I think about everything this beautiful building might have witnessed back then. How the same stained-glass angels may have watched over A and her lover, seen something I am trying so hard to piece together now. Did they know why she wore such a dress to the market? Having touched the dress and studied the market, it’s still a mystery to me. Did she know she was coming? Perhaps not. One thing is for sure, that dress does not belong naturally in this location—then or now.

I’m still standing there with my mouth hanging open when Veronique’s hand gently takes my elbow.

“Sorry I’m late. Oh, you look like you need a glass of wine. Am I right?”

“You may never have been more right, Veronique. Just not here? It’s a bit soulless, isn’t it? I reckon I’ve had enough of that for one day.”

“Have you eaten? I know the perfect place if you haven’t.”

“Lead on!”



* * *



? ? ?

We order two glasses of ice-cold white wine and a plate of different cheeses and cold meats that come with (what I would call stale) bread and no butter. But somehow, it’s exactly what I need. Veronique’s company is, too, and I don’t wait for an invitation to off-load the morning’s events.

“The thing is, Veronique, Mum and I have just never been close.” I don’t want to sound mean or uncaring—it hurts every single time I acknowledge the fact, privately or aloud. It feels shameful. How can a mother and daughter not be close? By mere definition, shouldn’t there be some unbreakable bond between us, one that can outlast any personality clash, generational difference, or teenage drama?