The Last Dress from Paris(87)

“Please will you ask someone to drive this over to his apartment immediately? It says I need him to contact me as soon as possible. Then please let Patrice know that when he calls, he needs to be put through to me straightaway, whatever I’m doing. If I am asleep, please wake me.”

“Yes, I’ll do it immediately.” But there is little pleasure on Anne’s face, just a grim concern for what the day will hold.

While Anne busies herself, Alice starts to lightly sketch the outline of a dress, with a full skirt and ruffled neckline, next to the words toile de Jouy. Her drawing is basic and crude, and she’ll be relying on the masters at Dior to turn her fantasy into something truly special, something worthy of the day she intends it for. She shows it to Anne.

“What do you think?”

She takes a moment to appreciate the gravitas of the gown she is looking at.

“I think it might just be the most beautiful dress yet.” She smiles as she takes it from Alice. “I’ll keep it safe for you.”



* * *



? ? ?

Alice barely touches her lunch. How can she, when she has still yet to share the news with Antoine?

There has been no word from him all morning, despite her near constant reminders to Anne that his call must be put straight through to her. She remains in her bedroom, pacing the same patch of floor, back and forth for hours, alone and ready, just as she needs to be for this conversation. But nothing.

By four o’clock, she can tolerate her own company no longer and ventures from her bedroom. As she approaches the small anteroom on her right, she notices a soft throw of light under the door and slows her pace. It can only be Albert; no one else uses this room. She lightens her footsteps, hoping to make it past unheard, but he suddenly steps out onto the landing, causing her to reel backward.

“A minute of your time, if you don’t mind.” He’s standing in front of her, blocking her route along the corridor, and she has little choice but to step toward the doorway he came from.

“I’m really not feeling great, Albert. Can this wait, please?”

“No, it can’t.” He herds her into the room, so close behind her they’re practically touching, and she can smell the tang of alcohol on his breath. She sees the open bottle of whiskey on the desk, and a cold tingle of nerves passes down her spine. Then he closes the solid oak door behind him, sealing them both into the confined space.

Being alone with him is a mistake, she knows it. She wants so desperately to turn and leave the room but fears how he will respond, how it might escalate into a situation she may not be able to talk herself out of. She knows she’ll never be able to heave the door back open quickly enough. The room is lined with dense wood paneling, an effective soundproofing, and as she feels the space constrict around her, she realizes he has chosen his location deliberately. Whatever he wants to say to her, he has planned to do it away from the eyes and ears of the staff this time.

He moves toward the desk that sits under an imposing portrait of the Duke of Wellington, chest puffed, comfortable with his own authority. The painting is flanked by a run of small oil sketches, the solemn men of the war council, and just as she is wondering if they have inspired Albert to whatever confrontation he is building to, the silence is shattered by a sound, almost roar-like, of his deep-felt frustration, rocketing out of his lungs toward Alice. Then she hears the splintering of his whiskey glass against the wall behind her, so close to Alice’s face she feels the ends of her hair lift as it travels through the air past her.

“My God, Albert, please!” She starts to cry and cradles her arms protectively around herself. He can’t possibly know today’s news. It is only she and Anne who are privy to it, and there is absolutely no way on earth her friend would have shared it. Surely this can’t be about the letter, days after its discovery?

“Do you know what your father told me before we were married, Alice? Do you?” He bellows the words, as if she were standing at the opposite end of the corridor, not two meters from him, sending hate-fueled spit into the air between them.

“No.” Her voice is barely audible, and she knows this will only anger him further, but she can’t force the words out of her mouth with any conviction.

“Speak up!”

“No, Albert.” She’s anchored to the spot and can feel the quiver through her knees, strong enough to make the hem of her skirt flutter.

“He said I had made a good choice, because you would never cause me any trouble. He said you only ever wanted to please.” He’s tripping over his words, so angry he can’t correctly pace what he wants to say. Alice knows she must choose her words very carefully. That he needs to feel in charge and in control of her. She understands that he wants to see her fear.

“I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, Albert. You deserve better.” She lowers her eyes and hangs her head, trying to demonstrate submissiveness.

“Now you’re contrite! Well, your father was right to a degree, wasn’t he? You have been so very keen to please. When you’ve been running across the city with the scent of your lover still fresh on your skin, the pair of you couldn’t be more pleased. But it was never your husband, never me, who you thought worth pleasing. It’s not me you save yourself for.” He’s perched on the edge of his desk, arms folded across his chest, legs wide, facing Alice, keeping her standing in front of him, knowing she’ll be too scared to move.