The Last Dress from Paris(49)

I turn my focus back to Veronique, who is delicately hoovering up all the salami. “But you must have such great knowledge and expertise in your area, just like Mum?”

“So do lots of other people. Younger people who don’t cost as much as we do. I own Maman’s place now and so I can afford to slow down a little. Your mum sounds like she has never known another life and, trust me, I think she could be a little frightened by that, despite her success.”

“Really?” It’s hard to imagine Mum being frightened of anything.

“Give her the time, now that she has it, to realize the impact her actions have had on you. But remember, something will have made her the way she is, and until you know what that is, it’s unwise to judge.”

Veronique is probably the most reasonable person I have ever met, and it’s hard to imagine someone hasn’t fallen deeply in love with her. And since we’re sharing so much, I decide to ask the question.

“Did you never marry, Veronique?” I have to assume she has not, or surely it would have come up in conversation. There was no evidence of a husband or wife at her apartment on Friday night, no ring on her finger.

“No, I never desired it, to be honest. I still don’t. Although I’m glad to say there have been offers!”

“How many offers?”

“Four or five.”

“Bloody hell!” Not that I should be surprised. She’s beautiful and clever and great company, but I laugh and say, “Bit greedy, isn’t it?”

“Very! But I was never inclined to accept any of them. Not even close.” She’s leaned in a little over the table to emphasize the juiciness of her confession.

“But you never got lonely when everyone else was pairing off and settling down?”

“Not for a second. My life has always been very full. I spent most of my twenties traveling around Europe when my friends were getting serious about their boyfriends, and my thirties were all about building my career. Now, while they’re celebrating milestone wedding anniversaries, I’m dating three different men. They’re all interesting, in their own ways. They all have their stories to tell. It’s the variety that I love, Lucille, not the monogamy.”

Okay, I was not expecting that. And it’s a bit of a wake-up call. She’s well into her sixties and having way more fun than I am, it seems.

“I’ve always loved to wander. The travel ignited a free spirit in me that tipped into my romantic life too. I never wanted to be tethered, in any sense. Even when I eventually returned to Paris, I explored every inch of the city, I was always moving to a different apartment in a new district.”

It is now blindingly obvious that Veronique saw more of the world by her midtwenties than I probably ever will.

“And the best bit is that I’ve found all sorts of reminders while I’ve been looking through Maman’s things. Souvenirs and collectibles, items I sent home from my travels that I can’t believe she kept all these years.”

“What kinds of things?” My own mother used to bin the childish birthday cards I drew for her on the same day I handed them over, optimistically standing there waiting for praise.

“So many things. A faded menu from a restaurant I worked at in Ravello, still stained with red wine rings. A program from an open-air opera festival in Verona. Oh, I remember that night so well. The evening I met the only man I ever truly loved, who never loved me back. That’s Italians for you, Lucille. Never date one.” She wags a finger at me by way of a warning.

“Okay, noted!” Although the mere thought seems so unlikely.

“There was a handmade fan I sent her from Madrid, still perfectly concertinaed in its original box. She had a trio of small unused ceramic bowls I’d completely forgotten I sent back from Porto. It was so wonderful to be taken back there, Lucille, to those ancient, cobbled backstreets I would wander alone hour after hour with only myself to please. The city that inspired a career that would fulfill me for decades. It has been the most joyous meander back through my twenties, and I wish I could thank her now for holding on to all those memories. It’s made me feel young again—but also incredibly grateful that I had that time. I have those stories to tell.”

“Will you stay in Paris? Is this your forever home?”

“For now, yes, but I imagine there is a little farmhouse for me in the south, with crumbling stone walls and white wooden shutters. Somewhere I can see the sunflowers. Not because I’m stopping, Lucille, but because soon it will be time to meet new people, seek fresh adventures.”

We order another couple of glasses of wine, and then she moves the conversation back to our task.

“I’ve read the first letter your granny wrote to my maman.” She studies my face, hoping I think that she’s made the right decision.

“And . . .”

“It was written in September 1954 and Sylvie had just moved to London. I think it was a very unsettled time for her, because she talks about losing contact with her parents, something she seemed to regret, but she doesn’t explain why. My maman presumably already knew the reason.”

“How did they know each other?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but it struck me as odd that she signed the letter off as ‘your new friend Sylvie.’?”

“Why?”

“My maman met your grandmother about two years before this letter was written. They weren’t new friends at this point, so why describe herself as such?”