The Last Dress from Paris(55)

Then we are shown into the first of two bright oval-shaped rooms where a series of giant Monet water lily paintings wrap around the walls in one continuous colorful curve.

Leon’s camera is clicking away, snapping me as much as the paintings, as we instinctively separate, him circling right, me left. The temptation to reach out and touch the canvas, this piece of history brought to life in front of me, is almost overwhelming. There is nothing to stop me, other than a trust that I won’t. Nothing dominates the image. There is no great central water lily, as you might expect. Some parts of the painting require me to stand back and take in the broader view of the water and its lightness and shade. Other sections demand closer inspection, and I bring my face toward the paint strokes that shift from deep to bright blue, through light green, muddy orange, pale pink, and the clouded white of the flower’s distinctively shaped petals.

“I’d never have seen this if it weren’t for you,” I tell Leon as we are reunited at the top of the room. “It’s just incredible. The patience and devotion. It must have taken years to complete!” With no warning, he lifts his camera and snaps me while I’m mid-gush.

“Hey! Why did you do that?” I mock complain, because I am actually quite flattered that he wants to. He’s taken so many of me these past few days.

“Because you look so happy, and I don’t want to forget how special your smile is.” He moves the camera away from his eye and looks at me for real. I mean, really looks at me.

“I wonder if our secret lovers felt the same way when they stood in here. Were they as moved by it as I am? Either way, I bet they didn’t get the entire place to themselves, did they? Thank you.” That Leon cares enough to organize tonight with everything else he’s juggling is more than a little heart melting.

“You are very welcome. Listen, I spoke to my grandfather today and he remembers the Debussy dress very well.” Leon has stepped closer to me.

“Really? All these years later? Although, you’ve seen it, it would be a very difficult dress to forget.”

“It’s more than that. He was invited to a private exhibition held here in the early fifties. He told me this afternoon how Monet’s paintings had hung in this museum for years, since the midtwenties in fact, but public interest in them just wasn’t there. People cared so little that the museum used to cover the panels with the work of other painters. Can you imagine? That all changed after the Second World War, when the Americans started to appreciate the impressionists and private buyers started seeking out Monet’s work. That’s when the exhibition was held. A sort of relaunch, I suppose.”

“Okay, go on. I’m not quite sure how this helps us.”

“He specifically remembers a woman wearing the dress. There was some sort of scene apparently, glasses were dropped, a bit of a commotion—and an almighty fuss between a young man and a beautiful woman in the Debussy. They kissed. It’s got to be her, Lucille, the woman we have been following all over Paris. We know from the card that she was at the Orangerie and wearing that dress. I can’t think of another explanation, can you?”

I feel everything inside me tighten and still. “You told me yourself, she wouldn’t be the only woman to buy any one of these dresses . . . but what are the chances that more than one woman bought it and then both wore it to the same exhibition? It has to be her.” My heart is thumping against my ribs. This is definitely progress!

“It gets better.” Leon can’t contain his excitement either. He’s gripping my arms now. “There were photographers here that night. It was a special evening, and my grandfather is sure there is a picture of the lady in the Debussy somewhere in the shop, in Bettina. It’s exactly the sort of thing he collected over the years. He was going to have a look for it himself, but he might not get back there for days. I say we go there now—I have the keys—and see if we can find it for ourselves. What d’you think?”

I can’t quite believe it. “If we find it, we will be looking at A. It will be her, won’t it? Perhaps then I will understand why my grandmother was so keen for me to come to Paris and follow this trail.” I feel excited and edgy and fearful, but also cautious about getting my hopes up.

“Yes!”

I throw my arms around him. “You are amazing, Leon. I would be nowhere with this without you.” And then, in a moment of utter abandon, I kiss him. I aim for his cheek, but he turns his head and our lips meet each other. There is the slightest pause when I think neither of us is quite sure if this is what the other one intended, and then, without breaking our connection, Leon pushes his camera over his left shoulder and pulls me in tighter to him. Our bodies are touching and his hands slide from either side of my face and up into the back of my hair. Then, in a moment worthy of the finest Hollywood producer, every light in the place goes out. I jolt slightly, but he refuses to let me pull away, and in the total darkness of the museum, with only Monet as our witness, the kiss goes on and on.



* * *



? ? ?

I text Veronique from the taxi to Bettina.

I think she will want to be there for this. It seems wrong to exclude her when we might be about to have a major breakthrough. She’s going to meet us there and claims to have more information to share herself too. It’s all starting to come together! Then, just when everything seems pretty bloody perfect—I’m curled up on the back seat of the taxi, speeding across Paris, with Leon’s hand in mine—my phone rings and it’s Mum. I consider bumping the call, but then I think about the number of times she’s bumped mine and how it made me feel. I answer it.