The Last Dress from Paris(61)
It feels like we are long overdue for a chat. I want to hear her confirm what I already know. That she is the woman in the photograph at Bettina. That she lived this whole other life beyond everything I thought I knew about her—a life I’m not even sure her own daughter is aware of. Because when I think of her and my granddad, I remember two people so comfortable in their companionship, their relationship spectacular in its simplicity. On frosty mornings he was always the one to brave the cold. He would sit in the car at the end of their garden path, rubbing his hands together until the heater made it warm enough for my grandmother to join him. He always carved a Sunday roast and, later, he washed while she dried the dishes, always together. I never recall seeing them hold hands. They preferred the proximity of being arm in arm. Sometimes, when I was staying the night, I was allowed to join them for dinner at a friend’s house, staying up way past my bedtime. On the walk home later, Granddad would keep me awake by getting me to chase my own shadow. I never got bored of the games he invented. There was never a limitation on the attention he would give me. It makes me shudder to think two people so suited to each other so nearly never got together. I like to think the stars aligned in some otherworldly way to ensure their paths crossed the day they first met in Paris, when they so easily might not have.
It’s all a long time and a great distance from this beautiful suite where my stay is nearing its end. As I lie in splendor, there is a long and highly unappealing list of jobs clouding my thoughts. Ones I must do, each one making me more anxious than the last.
Number one: Call the front desk of this hotel and find out what on earth my room bill is. That one is truly terrifying. I know Granny is supposed to be paying for this trip, but there are limits to anyone’s generosity, and I’m not sure she expected me to be here quite this long, or to live quite so lavishly.
Number two: Say goodbye to Leon. This is the one I want to do least of all.
Number three: Go home to Mum and try to fully understand the complexities of her life and the decisions she has made, a job I feel woefully underqualified to do.
Number four: Face the music at work—assuming I still actually have a job at all.
Perhaps this is the most surprising present to me from Paris. Nothing can compete with Granny’s story for drama and intrigue, that’s for sure. But I can see now how I have allowed myself to drift—into a job I don’t want; through a relationship that didn’t make me feel anything, that was coasting when it should have been soaring; moving in silent circles with my own mother, never once having the courage to tell her how she makes me feel, to make the necessary effort to understand how she feels.
Even with Granny. All those hours spent in front of the fire with her playing chess and chatting, and I never really knew her, not all of her. The things we could have been talking about and sharing. The stories she could have told me that might have inspired me. And now there is so little time left together.
So, I’m going home tomorrow, carefully packing up these gowns and taking them back to the woman they belong to and confronting everything else. What a week that’s going to be. Veronique has offered to join me, so we’ll visit the Victoria and Albert archive together. I can’t think of a more fitting end than her helping me put the final piece of this jigsaw in place. Dress number seven, the Mexico, was worn in “the garden,” which isn’t specific enough to be able to locate, so we’ll finish with dress number eight. Then I can sit down with Granny, hear her retell the whole story, and know that I did what she asked me to do.
But first I need to hear her say it. I need to hear her say that she is the woman who owned these dresses, that this is her great love story. I want her to tell me I am right, she is A, that I haven’t somehow misunderstood the whole thing—and how it ended. I pick up my phone by the side of my bed and dial her number. But it isn’t Granny’s voice I hear when the line connects.
“Natasha?”
“Oh, hello, Lucille, yes, it’s me,” she whispers. “I’m afraid your grandmother is still asleep. Can I help with anything?”
“But it’s . . .” I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s very late for her to still be in bed.” Granny has always been an early riser, and I know that any other day she would be up, dressed, and finishing her breakfast by now.
“Yes, it is. She was sound asleep when I arrived this morning and it took some time to rouse her. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, but she does seem to be a little low on energy this week. I’ve left a couple of messages for your mum, but I haven’t been able to chat with her yet.”
I feel a shot of anger at that and try my best not to react. More than anything, I just desperately want to talk to Granny, to see her again.
“Okay, please will you call me, rather than Mum, if anything changes, and I’ll be there myself as soon as I can.”
“I know you will, Lucille, thank you. I’ll let her know you phoned. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you.”
* * *
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Leon texts after I’ve hung up with Natasha to say there’s something he should have told me. I’m too worried about Granny to spend much time thinking about what that might be, and quickly arrange to meet him in the hotel lobby in an hour.
Having him in my room feels like it might be asking for trouble. The memory of his kiss is still fresh on my lips. I don’t need any more temptation, not when I feel this mentally weak. Then I call Veronique and make sure she is still okay to meet at the Gare du Nord tomorrow afternoon to catch the five p.m. Eurostar back to London. She’s booked a hotel nearby for a few nights. We’ll see the dress together and she’ll have a couple of days hanging out with some old friends in London before heading back to Paris.