The Last Dress from Paris(50)

There’s no obvious explanation that I can think of beyond Veronique being wrong about the dates, or a friendly in-joke between the two women that we can’t hope to understand now.

“I’m going to keep reading the letters, Lucille. I know they are written by Sylvie, not by my maman, but I can almost hear her thoughts and feelings. There are so many of them.”

“Of course.” Because, really, what harm can it do? In fact, these letters may be our best source for clues.

Before we can theorize any further, a text pops up on my phone from Leon.


I’ve finished work. Still fancy that catch-up?



I ask Veronique if she’d like to join us, but she politely declines. Presumably she has a date lined up for later, and is it so wrong that I am pleased about that? Maybe I’m still basking in the glow of Veronique’s love affair with Europe, but I find myself wanting to wander this foreign city with only Leon tonight.





12





Alice


   NOVEMBER 1953, PARIS


   THE DEBUSSY


The embassy buildings are still cloaked in darkness when Alice arrives home just before seven a.m. She asks the taxi driver to pull up at the back of the building so she can walk through the gardens and enter at the less-public-facing entrance at the rear. She scans the building, searching for clues. Which lights are already on, who might be occupied where. Some of the staff will have arrived by now. Patrice certainly. Anne probably. Eloise within the hour. Plus, there will be a good number of cleaning staff already working their way through the salons on the ground floor. And she is still wearing last night’s dress. She knows she has no option if she encounters someone but to act as if this is all perfectly normal. What she doesn’t know is whether Albert is home and, if he is, where he is.

As soon as she is inside, she removes her shoes, only adding to her sense of guilty retreat, and scoots toward the staircase as quickly as seems appropriate. Just as her stockinged right foot makes contact with the very first step, she hears his voice.

“Alice?”

She holds her breath, instinctively drops her shoes, and pushes her feet back into them. She can tell from the faintness of his call that he is not close. It was a question; he can’t yet see her. She checks the clasp on her bag, where Antoine’s sketch is hidden, and prepares herself for whatever confrontation may be coming her way.

“Alice!” Albert’s voice is louder now. “I’m in the billiards room.” In which case, he can’t possibly know for sure that it is Alice who has just entered the building. There is no clear line of sight from there to the staircase. She could still make a break for it and dart up the stairs. She seriously considers it. But what would be the point? He clearly already knows she has been out. He’s obviously expecting this to be her.

Alice walks into the billiards room, where it is dark, illuminated only by the glow from a fire that Albert has had lit. It’s burned down to a deep orange, suggesting he may have been sitting here for some time. There is an empty whiskey glass on the table next to him and the stub of a cigar squashed into a heavy glass ashtray. He makes no attempt to stand as she enters the room, but sits with his hands clasped in his lap, staring at her, waiting for her explanation. Even in the near darkness, she can tell from the controlled rise and fall of his chest that he is holding something in. Annoyance, anger, disappointment? Something he wants to let out.

“Patrice told me you were heading out late last night. Where were you? Did you have fun?” The forced jolliness in her voice makes her cringe. She’s fooling no one, least of all Albert, she suspects.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” His voice is flat, controlled. Too controlled. Alice watches as his arms shift, folding across his chest, his left foot lifting onto his right knee, spreading his legs in a move that seems deliberately masculine and confrontational, almost daring her to be honest.

“Sorry, darling, I would have stayed home if I’d thought you were too. Did your plans change?” She says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world for a married woman like her to disappear in the early hours of the morning with no explanation.

Albert stands, and she knows whatever he says next is going to determine everything. The mood of the day. Her opinion of herself. Where he sleeps tonight. Whether she’ll be able to see Antoine again. She can barely breathe. She feels a sharpness in her fingertips from the strength with which she is gripping her clutch.

He steps slowly toward her, then stops at her side, shifting his head sideways so, while the direction of his body continues to confirm his exit route, his face is angled to her. Then she watches as his eyes slowly run up and down the length of her body in a way that carries none of the pleasure that Antoine’s gaze does.

“Be very careful, Alice. He’s young and probably quite foolish—don’t allow yourself to be played. I can tolerate many things, but I won’t be made a fool of.”

Albert continues past her and out of the door, not waiting for or expecting a response. His verdict has been delivered. Alice feels the nerves trigger through her body, instantly drying her throat. And she’s mortified.

As she stands there, not daring to move an inch, the question of how he could possibly have known is immediately replaced by the realization that of course he knows. He knows everything. He has eyes all over the building, all over Paris probably, and how stupid of her to ever imagine it might be otherwise. And now that he knows, it will be impossible for her to ever snatch another moment alone with Antoine. Every look from this point on will have to be guarded and assessed. Albert will be alert to the slightest hint that anyone else may be questioning his wife’s actions or motivations. And she realizes she’s crushed by the thought—far more so than when she saw the long blond hair that confirmed Albert’s duplicity draped across her husband’s shoulders.