The Last Dress from Paris(57)
“Do you have any idea where it might be now? A dress that important must be documented somewhere, mustn’t it?” Leon is looking for the much-needed good news that he knows will cheer me up in the absence of any photograph.
“I know exactly where it is.” Veronique beams. “You are right, a dress that important has been documented, and somewhere much closer to your own home, Lucille.”
“What? Where?!”
“It’s being held in the archives of the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. They wouldn’t tell me much over the phone, but we are right about one thing. Whoever had the dress made, at great expense by Dior, later donated it. But with one strict caveat.”
“Really? What is it?” Blimey, this is getting really intriguing now.
“That their name must never be published or listed anywhere in connection with the dress.” Veronique’s eyes are blazing with excitement.
I’m trying to piece all this together in my head. I deliver my thoughts slowly out loud, hoping they will make more sense that way. “So, we know the owner was A, the card tells us that. But we still don’t know who A is. How are we going to . . .” I trail off, realizing I am no further along with knowing the answers.
“They can pull it from the archive for you, Lucille. You can go and view it. I went ahead and made an appointment for you on Sunday. I hope that’s okay? I felt sure you would want to see it.”
“Yes, I do, I absolutely do.” I look back toward Leon, who is still hunched over the desk, listening closely to everything that is being said. I wonder if he might like to come with me to London. My eyes shift off to the noticeboard on the wall behind Leon’s head.
“Did you check the noticeboard yet?” I ask, motioning behind him.
“No, let me do that.” He starts to carefully remove every piece of paper pushed under the crisscross of once-white ribbon that’s holding everything in place. My eyes are fixed on a small black-and-white image at the very bottom right-hand corner, buried so only a very small corner of it is visible.
The beautiful hem of an evening gown.
I wait patiently while Leon continues around the board until, finally, he has removed nearly everything. There is one last postcard to lift away before the image is fully revealed, but I think I already know what I can’t bring myself to say out loud. Not until I am 100 percent sure. Leon has his back to us, and as he lifts the postcard, I see his shoulder blades tense together. He can see it too. He spins to face us both, holding it aloft.
“Here she is!” he shouts, far louder than necessary in this tiny shop, and Veronique and I both lunge forward toward him. He places the photograph on the counter in front of the three of us, and I honestly think my heart stops beating. There she is. The woman we have been looking for, wearing the beautiful Debussy that is currently hanging in my hotel wardrobe. And while the years have been stripped away, her skin blended back to its youthful best, her features are unmistakable to me.
It’s my grandmother.
14
Alice
NOVEMBER 1953, PARIS
THE DEBUSSY
The kiss is intense.
Not the kind of kiss that should be seen by others.
A kiss that is never going to stay just a kiss.
It’s leading somewhere it shouldn’t, and Alice can’t stop it. Antoine doesn’t say a word before he places his lips on hers, but she can feel his passion flowing into her mouth and in the strength of his hands at the small of her back. It’s like everything else in the room is falling away. Nothing else matters. Alice doesn’t think about Albert, or Anne. She doesn’t think about anyone else in the room and how they might retell this story. Whom they might retell it to. She doesn’t even think about the photographers still circulating and whether this kiss is being captured. Every cell in her body is tuned perfectly to Antoine. His familiar smell, the low moan he makes as the kiss moves deeper and deeper into her.
It is Anne who interrupts them.
“Alice, please. This is not a good idea. We need to leave.” Her words are whispered but urgent enough to break the two of them apart.
All three of them move swiftly toward the exit. Just as they are about to make it to the relative safety of the darkness outside, they come face-to-face with Antoine’s mother, one hand wedged at her hip. There is no way to exit the building without dealing with her first.
“This really has got to stop, don’t you think, Madame Ainsley? I mean, really. Is it your ambition to be the subject of every gossip in Paris?” There is no deference being shown to Alice now. They are a long way from the social hierarchy of the residence salon. “What on earth will Monsieur Ainsley say when he finds out? It’s not just your reputation you’re ruining, you know. It’s my son’s.”
Before she can say a word, Antoine jumps to Alice’s defense. “No. It isn’t going to stop, Maman. Not unless Alice wants it to.”
“Your father is going to have a great deal to say about this, you realize. Why can’t you just be more like your brother?” Her words are thrown at Antoine with an air of malice that makes Alice stiffen by his side and provokes a level of anger in Antoine that she has not seen before.
“You’re never going to forgive me, are you? I’ll never live up to your impossible expectations!” he hisses, brushing past her, Alice and Anne trailing with him, out toward Alice’s waiting driver.