The Last Dress from Paris(53)

“I won’t make this evening. Something has come up.” Then he wiped his mouth on the pristine white napkin, tossed it onto his plate, and left the room. His unscheduled visit to the barber’s later this afternoon confirmed, in Alice’s mind at least, that it is female company he will be enjoying tonight. It just won’t be hers.

Now she is looking at the dress, thinking only of what could have been. The reaction it might have caused if Antoine had ever got to see her wear it. What would he have said to her? Something that might reverse her agonizing decision not to respond to any of his messages? Not seeing Antoine is the only way, she has reasoned, to completely trust herself not to do something that will cause the kind of hurtful exposure that none of them might recover from. She has deliberately removed his name and that of his parents from future guest lists, knowing Albert won’t question her on it. How, quite the opposite, he will appreciate that his point has been listened to.

Alice is putting as much space as possible between herself and temptation. She is determined to erase the memory, to take herself back to those days, two months ago, before Antoine walked into the Salon Bleu and threw a metaphorical grenade into her marriage. And how she made little attempt to stop him. Because as much as her feelings for Albert have shifted from dutiful tolerance through indifference to something that closer resembles loathing, she is still his wife. She can’t ignore the many obligations that places on her. And regardless of how he chooses to behave, shouldn’t she come out of this able to respect herself?

But the dress. Only now that she is wearing the gown for the very first time can she truly appreciate the complete cleverness of Dior in creating a piece of clothing that is statuesque, womanly, modest, and sensual all at once. Alice stands in front of her full-length mirror and angles her body to the left, checking her side and rear view. The strapless bodice drops away low under her arms, showing off her beautifully toned décolletage and the glow of her freshly moisturized skin. The dress nips immediately inward at the waist, accentuating the shape of her bust before it flares into a hand-sewn bead-and-sequin-scattered train. It is nothing short of total perfection. That the one person this dress is intended for won’t see her in it is something she must push to one side.

She has invited Anne to join her this evening, and the pleasure of wearing the Debussy has been eclipsed only by the joy of their earlier role reversal. It was Anne who stood statue still while Alice dressed her in a gown of her own choosing this time, a respectfully understated navy silk coatdress. Alice knots and bows it at the front, retying it several times until she is happy it makes the very most of Anne’s figure. Then she adds enough jewels to absorb Anne in her own reflection in the mirror, her eyes widening appreciatively while Alice steps back to admire her work. She watches as Anne moves from side to side, not quite believing she will step out into the Paris evening looking every inch Alice’s equal.



* * *



? ? ?

The traffic is so bad they’re late to arrive, racing inside past a bank of photographers all snapping away. They are handed a glass of champagne each and slip into the first of two rooms where Monet’s groundbreaking work is displayed. They are just in time to catch the tail end of the curator’s talk.

“So please take your time this evening to enjoy this great decoration, as Monet himself described it. It was some thirty years in the making and inspired by the water garden he built at his Normandy estate. There are eight panels, all practically seamless, one hundred linear meters of the finest impressionist art you will see.” There is a soft ripple of applause, and Alice and Anne start to move through the room, making their way closer to the panels. Alice recognizes several faces in the crowd tonight but blissfully feels none of the usual obligation to offer anything other than the briefest acknowledgment. She wants to enjoy her evening with Anne, who she knows would never ordinarily have the time or connections to secure such an invitation.

The vast artwork seems to bend around the walls of the egg-shaped rooms, enveloping them within it. Alice feels she could stand and stare for hours at the way the colors and textures expertly capture the movement and varied depth of the water, the lilies floating on it, the reflections of the clouds on its surface, the bending willow branches breaking the stillness. It’s captivating, and she is completely lost in the sheer size of it.

She follows the path of the painting around the room, faintly aware that Anne is tracing her footsteps. They pass in and out of the arches that link the two rooms, enjoying the increasing feeling of space as people are gradually leaving, benefiting from the snatched pieces of information they overhear on their way. Monet wanted to create the illusion of an endless whole, of a wave with no horizon and no shore, a refuge of peaceful meditation. He even dictated the shape of the rooms the paintings are hung in, creating a double ellipse, the mathematical symbol of infinity.

And Alice feels it. She feels for the first time in weeks that there is a sense of peace descending upon her, that her lungs are opening, and she can breathe easily. Being in the presence of something so magnificent has taken her above and beyond the agony of her own reality. She breathes it in and enjoys the briefest feeling of pure calm until the sound of a shattering champagne flute on the stone floor jolts her out of herself. She hears her name being repeated by Anne and realizes to her horror that it is her glass that has fallen from her hand. She can’t look down to assess the damage or mess because her eyes are fixed on him, at the far end of the room, now making his way slowly toward her. Antoine has found her, and she knows before he reaches her that she will not be able to resist him tonight.