The Last Dress from Paris(74)
“With?”
“Anne. We should be back by early evening.”
“Ah, yes. You mentioned it last week. I confirmed it with . . . Camila, isn’t it?”
There is the slightest pause while Alice registers the inquiry he has made to confirm her plans are genuine. While she processes how Camila must have interpreted that intrusion.
“Yes. I’m seeing Camila.” Her humiliation stings, but she chooses to look serious and contrite, like a woman who has learned her lesson and is grateful to be given another chance. “And you? What are your plans today?” Is it possible to sound cheerful when your heart is full of hate? She hopes so.
Albert folds his newspaper precisely, slowly, until it is almost the size of a pocket diary.
“Very busy, as usual.” Deliberately vague. He can question her. It doesn’t work the other way.
But for the first time in weeks, that’s where his questioning stops. Is it a trap? Or is he as bored of the relentless accounting for her every movement as she is of being monitored? He didn’t drill down on precise timings, her planned journey, who else she might encounter, as he usually does. Will he question her again on her return later, to check that her account remains consistent? Will he arrive unexpectedly early, hoping to catch her out?
She must not get complacent. Not until there is a plan in place. She does not want her memories of Antoine to be all she is left with. Because in the weeks of their forced separation, Alice’s addiction has become all-consuming. In the safe darkness of her dreams, his body is as familiar to her as her own. The only thing keeping her going is the knowledge they will be in each other’s arms again today and her patience will be rewarded, and there isn’t a damned thing Albert can do about it. Of that she is almost sure.
“We need to get going, Alice. This will only work if we stick to the timings.” Anne looks frightened. Perhaps she is right to.
* * *
? ? ?
They are almost at the bottom of the staircase when Alice hears Albert’s voice booming out across the hallway.
“Why?!” he demands of someone.
As Alice descends the final few steps, she can see it is Patrice that Albert is shouting at.
“I’m afraid she didn’t say, sir.” His voice is calm, monotone.
“No message at all?” Albert’s is getting louder with every second. She can hear the questions hoarse in the back of his throat as he tries to contain his anger.
“I’m afraid not.”
“And you didn’t think it appropriate to seek some reasoning?” Alice notes how unattractively flushed his face is, how his chin is thrust forward in annoyance.
“I didn’t feel it was quite my place to, no, sir.”
“Fucking useless!” With that, Albert stamps toward his study, leaving Alice and Anne standing in silence, waiting for the right moment to question Patrice.
“The plans he had for later have been canceled.” Patrice mouths the words as quietly as possible.
“Oh, I see.” Alice guesses immediately whom those plans might have involved. “She’s canceled him for the second time this week, and now it’s everyone’s fault but his own?”
“That is about the size of it, yes, madame.” Hats off to Patrice, who is as composed as ever, not easy with a brute like Albert spitting expletives at you.
“Okay, well, not much any of us can do about that,” says Alice, but she feels the unease low in her stomach. An angry, rejected Albert is not the one she wants to contend with today. He will be looking for someone to blame, and she will be top of his list.
* * *
? ? ?
Anne stays in the car with the driver and with strict instructions to remain alert, while Alice rings the polished black doorbell of Dior. Once inside, she feels her nerves gently dissipate, the irritation and frustration beautifully morph to excited anticipation. The reassuringly calm and muted color palette of dove grays and caramels, the luxuriant depth of the spotless cream carpets beneath her heels, the light that bounces off every mirrored surface, and the gentle floral scent that hangs in the air briefly lift her up above the unbearable sadness that haloes around her.
Dior’s world is polished and refined, and everything has an exquisite simplicity—something wholly missing from her own life—a simplicity that reveals nothing of the elaborate industry behind the scenes. The “thousand hands” that transform Dior’s early sketches into elaborately detailed gowns. Just like the plotting and planning, as well as the sustained and studied performance that has brought her here today.
“Madame Ainsley, my darling! What a pleasure to have you with us this afternoon.” Madame Beaufort glides forward, taking both of Alice’s hands in hers before whispering two of the softest kisses, which just fail to land on each of Alice’s cheeks.
“Look at you, Camila, as chic as ever, naturally. How do you do it, when I know you have been working around the clock these past few months?” The pretense of normality has become easy, second nature.
Alice stands back to admire her friend and fleetingly longs for the days when she would simply have enjoyed the way her black wool pencil skirt pours like liquid down over her slim contours, its matching suit jacket buttoned tightly enough to ensure it rests perfectly at the point her hips subtly curve outward, its sleeves cut just below the bend of her elbow to reveal her delicately proportioned wrists, where neat rows of pearls lie. How her friend is elegant without effort. But now she is also wondering if Camila has fully understood Alice’s position—what will happen shortly in one of the rooms above where they are both now standing, engaged in polite conversation.