The Last Dress from Paris(67)
Alice isn’t sure what to be most horrified by. The fact that Albert thinks he can exert control over her like she’s an unruly pet, the startling level of planning that has gone into today’s ultimatum, or the speed with which he has responded to last night’s events.
“I am working on something . . . something bigger, Alice, that will change our lives. Something that will help put this horrible mess behind you. You’ll hear more about that, when I’m ready.” He stands, drains the rest of his drink, and hitches his trousers up by the belt, seemingly satisfied with his performance today.
“One hour, Alice. Go and make yourself presentable. You look a mess.”
* * *
? ? ?
Anne helps Alice into her gown, being careful to capture every one of the fastenings that secure the internal corsetry. It takes several minutes for her to work her way through the layers of the boned bra, the bodice, the silk overlay, and the lower band of mesh that will pull everything together as it sits undetected below the skirt’s waistline. The two women negotiate each other in companionable silence, a sense of gnawing dread growing inside Alice with every tightening of the fabric around her. Anne sweeps a hand under the skirt’s silk organza tiers, ensuring they float up and settle exactly as they should, before she straightens the blousy red silk flower that sits on the waistband.
Of all the dresses Alice owns, this is the one that makes her feel the most womanly. Not sexy, exactly, but the heavier, hidden layer of crinoline that is structured outward from her waist to her thighs gives the illusion of rolling, curvaceous hips. The second-skin fit of the corset has been designed to make the absolute most of her décolletage, and the neckline has been cut daringly open so the prim cap sleeves seem to almost defy gravity, clinging unsupported to her shoulders. In any other fabric it might be too much, but Dior’s choice of translucent silk in cream and black with delicate scalloped edging will hold Alice, giving her the confidence to say the words she knows she has to.
“I will be here waiting when you return,” says Anne. “And I will stay for as long as you need me. You will get through this, Alice, we will find a way, together.”
* * *
? ? ?
As she steps out into the garden, Antoine is already waiting for her, presumably as instructed. He looks nervous and confused; clearly whoever collected him did not enlighten him on the exact nature of his visit.
“What’s going on?” He throws his arms wide and pulls Alice into the warmth of his coat, burying his face in the softness of her exposed neck. She has deliberately chosen not to wear one herself, despite the temperature. She wants their exchange to be as brief as possible. She knows Albert will be watching from the shadows behind an upstairs window, and she won’t give him a second more pleasure than absolutely necessary.
“Albert knows everything. He has demanded that it ends, that we must never see each other again or he will do everything in his power to destroy both of us.” The facts have had time to settle on her. She can deliver them with much less emotion than she felt an hour ago.
“Do you think I care what he wants? Leave him, Alice. Take away his power. You can come with me now and all this will be over. He doesn’t own you, no one does.” He’s pulling her toward the back gates he entered through, just as she knew he would.
“I can’t, Antoine.” She shakes her head, determined. “I need to think this through. It’s not that easy. There is so much to consider.”
“Come with me and I can make all this go away. You never need to be bullied by him again.” He’s taken hold of both her arms now and is walking them both to the gates, to the exit from her marriage and everything she despises about Albert and their life together. She can see the tears filling Antoine’s eyes, the distress in every one of his sweet features, and hopes Albert can too.
“Kiss me.”
“What?”
“I want you to kiss me like it is the last time you ever will. Then turn and walk through those gates and don’t look back.”
“I can’t. Please, Alice, please do not ask me to do that. I’ve already lost the person I loved most once—I can’t lose you too.” His tone is more desperate now. The two of them tussle as he tries to pull her closer again, to physically remind her that he’s stronger than he might look, that he can protect her from all of this.
“You don’t have a choice. Do it. Please, trust me.”
Their lips connect, and she is immediately swallowed by the intensity of his longing. Shocked by how gentle and yet how passionate his mouth feels against hers. As the two of them blend into one another, their bodies connected at every possible point, she can hear the repetitive click of a camera lens somewhere back over her shoulder toward the house. Albert clearly felt it was important to record the moment.
“Go!” She pushes him, forcing some distance between them, then turns and marches back to the house, glancing briefly upward to see her reward, Albert’s smug smile framed in the first-floor windows. She looks backward just once, to see Antoine finally disappear through the metal gates, his shoulders rounded, his face buried in his own hands.
Alice waits until she has dismissed Anne and closed the bedroom door behind her before she allows the tears to fall hot and fast down her face. Then she takes last night’s Debussy dress from its hanger in the dressing room and sits at her desk, and slowly, carefully, lovingly begins to sew her and Antoine’s initials into the deepest layer of the gown.