The Last Dress from Paris(76)
“Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. But I have to be able to see you.”
“He has only just started to relax a little. This was the very first morning he didn’t grill me as hard on my whereabouts for the day. And, who knows, that could be because he knows, Antoine. Maybe he is downstairs speaking to Anne at this very moment.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.” Alice cups his face with both her hands and draws it a little closer to hers. “Please, I know him much better than you do. Trust me on this. I don’t want to spend a second longer with him than I need to, but we need to get this right.”
Alice is overwhelmed with a feeling of such utter exhaustion. All those days tiptoeing around Albert, second-guessing his next move, carefully considering and editing every word she says to him, playing the part of the woman he wants to see and all the while so desperately feeling the absence of the man she wants to be with. Is it any wonder she is physically and mentally shattered? Her eyes slowly close, her head dipping from the sudden weight of it all, the difficulty of what they need to achieve to be together. And how? How can it be done in a way that Albert will feel less threatened or mocked by? She has none of those answers yet, and it’s obvious Antoine doesn’t either.
Antoine scoops her up into his arms and carries her to Dior’s chair, cradling her across his lap, his own head falling back against the headrest. She feels the weight of her body melt into him. As he smooths her hair back from her face, she senses his purpose, his determination to protect her, even if he has little idea how to, now that she is finally back in his arms.
Before her lids close, she notices how his eyes have fallen onto the roll of fabric that caught her attention when she entered the room with Camila.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
She nods. “I agree.” Then she snakes her arms around his shoulders and buries her face in his neck, finally feeling held and loved.
19
Lucille
FRIDAY
LONDON
It’s past nine p.m. by the time I get back to my flat in Putney after seeing Veronique safely into a black cab to her hotel.
I run the shower as hot as my parched skin can possibly bear. I stand there and let it power down over me, burning my flesh bright pink, making my whole body swell with the heat, but brilliantly cleansing myself of the journey home. Then I dry off and smother my face in moisturizer, watching as my skin greedily drinks it in, before I throw on a robe and give Mum a quick call.
“Are you back?” is how she answers the phone.
“Hello, Mum, yes, I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”
“Don’t be so sarcastic. Are you back or not?”
“I’m back.”
“Are you coming over now?”
“No, I’m not. I’ve just walked through the door from Paris.”
“What else have you got to do?” The idea that I may have a life beyond her needs has obviously not occurred to her.
“Well, you know, eat, sleep, catch up with work. There’s the small matter of seeing my boss on Monday morning, and I need to prepare . . .”
“Well, at least you have a job to go to.”
“Not for much longer, I don’t.”
“Have you been sacked?” It’s classic Mum to assume the decision has been made for me. Not the other way around.
“Nope. I’m resigning.”
“To do what? Have you got a new job?”
“No, I haven’t. I just can’t keep working somewhere I’m not appreciated, for a man I don’t respect, being constantly passed over for the best opportunities.”
She laughs. It starts small at the back of her throat, where she tries to muffle it with a cough, and then when she realizes she can’t, she stops trying and lets go until it’s so loud I have to move the phone away from my ear.
“Oh, Lucille, sorry, I know I shouldn’t laugh,” she says, continuing to laugh. “But honestly! Welcome to the working world and the plight of every woman before you.” Her gut reaction is so wildly different from Veronique’s, it makes me want to slam the phone down on her. Instead I grit my teeth and plow on.
“I appreciate I’m not alone in this, Mum, but I am going to do something about it and take some control of my career while I still have the time to influence what my future looks like.” I wait for the softest hint of a good for you or to register even the vaguest pang of self-awareness from her. But there is nothing.
“You’re not going to resign, Lucille.” She mollifies her tone, like she’s patronizing a teenager. “You’re going to go in there Monday morning and play the game, like the rest of us have to. Show him you’re grateful for what you do have and then work ten times harder than you have been. Put in the hours, be better than everyone else. It’s the only way.”
“Is it?” I try again, hoping it will make her think.
“Yes, hard work will always pay off. It will always get you noticed.”
“Will it, though, Mum?”
“Yes, of course it will.” She’s starting to sound exasperated. “You can’t just walk away from something the second it gets difficult. That’s the time to dig deep and battle through.”