The Last Dress from Paris(72)
“Could it be simply that Albert is the other A?” asks Veronique. “We have been looking for a secret love affair, but perhaps she wore the dresses with her husband. Alice and Albert. A and A?”
“He isn’t the other A,” I say with some relief. I don’t want this hulk of a man to be the one Granny was passionate about. “Granny told me the A stands for Antoine.” As I say his name, we both shift our eyes back to the screen, scanning the images once more, wondering if he might be here somewhere before our very eyes. Are we looking at him?
Even if we are, we have no way of knowing it. But one image suddenly stands out. It’s grainy and slightly out of focus, but it’s definitely my grandmother, and she is in a passionate embrace with someone who is definitely not Albert. And she’s wearing the Mexico dress—I can just make out the black-and-white pattern and its scalloped edges. We missed it before because it wasn’t posed like the others. In fact, it looks snatched, like neither of them knew it was being taken.
“I’d say that’s our man, wouldn’t you?” asks Veronique, pointing at the image.
“Yes,” I add quietly, because something seems off. There is something unpleasant about this picture that I can’t quite put my finger on. Something not entirely happy about the way they are clinging to each other.
“I’ll ask Leon to do some digging for me while we’re in London,” I say, “to see if he can find out anything more about Antoine.” But Veronique isn’t listening to me.
“You haven’t spotted her yet, have you?” she asks.
“Who?” Oh, for goodness’ sake, now what am I missing?
“Maman.”
“What? She’s here too?”
“Yes, look.”
Veronique points to a group shot, taken in what looks like one of the grand embassy reception rooms. Albert is holding court at the center of the shot, an array of important-looking people fanning out around him. Granny has chosen to position herself toward the back, or been pushed there, and is somewhat swallowed by the volume of people. But I can just make her out, and the woman next to her, who is giving her a look of total support.
There is something in the tautness of Veronique’s mother’s shoulders and the determined fix of her smile that says, We will get through this together. Then I see as I search a little deeper into the image that the two of them are holding hands, and it’s so moving that my eyes completely glass over.
Whatever else was going on, however unpleasant it might have got for Granny, it looks like she had someone to share her problems with, someone she could call a friend.
* * *
? ? ?
We shut the laptop after that. It’s all a bit draining, and we need a switch-off. A few gulps of fizz, some artificially flavored, breath-destroying crisps, and half an hour of silence to reflect. When I do finally pipe up again, I am surprised at what comes out of my own mouth.
“I’m going to resign when I get back to the office.”
“Good!” It’s not what I was expecting to hear from Veronique.
“Really? Is it a good thing?” I love the show of support, but I’m surprised that she’s so emphatic about it.
“Yes, it’s good! You don’t like the job. You don’t respect your boss, entirely reasonably, and you are far too young to be wasting your years doing something you don’t want to do. It’s not like you have three children to support, is it? Make the changes now, while you can.” She slaps the table as she finishes speaking, like the subject shouldn’t even be up for debate.
“There is still the small matter of rent to pay and bills to cover.” I want to leave, but I don’t want to romanticize the problems it will cause.
“I’m sure your mum will help you out in the short term. Or take in a lodger? Or better yet, apply for the job I mentioned at the Museum of Decorative Arts!” Her eyebrows shoot skyward, tempting me to love the idea.
“The Museum of Decorative Arts in Paris, you mean? Because as determined as I am to escape Dylan, that is one beast of a commute by anyone’s standards.” I drain the last of the fizz and pinch open my second packet of crisps.
“Obviously you could stay with me, at least until you got yourself sorted. It’s an amazing job, Lucille, and you are qualified for it, even if you don’t think you are. You’d get to travel, which I know you really want to do. The museum has many partner locations across the world, and yes, it would be a lot of admin at first while they train you, but they will cover the cost of the extra studies, and then you will be qualified to do something really interesting, something you would look forward to every day.” She has clearly given this plenty of thought. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m absolutely useless at it and it reflects really badly on you for ever recommending me?”
“I’m not going to recommend you.” She shakes her head.
“Oh.” That’s slightly awkward. “Well, then I stand little chance of getting it.”
“We’re going to keep me right out of this so that I can tell you everything you need to put on the application form to ensure you at least get an interview. And when you do, it’s up to you. But, Lucille, the worst that can happen is that you come to Paris, give it a year, get qualified, and then return home. Doesn’t sound so bad to me.” She reaches into her rucksack and pulls out a tiny mirror, which she flips open and uses to touch up her rosy lips. I see her sneak a sideways glance at me, smirking, knowing she is right.