The Last Dress from Paris(89)
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Alice lies on the bed, alone in her room, looking at the ceiling, waiting for a sleep she knows won’t come. Willing herself not to do the one thing Albert wants, to question Antoine’s love for her. Hours pass as she goes over and over what Albert claims has happened in the course of a day that started with such promise and is ending with her feeling more isolated than ever. Can Antoine really already know about the baby? Why hasn’t he responded to her letter? Why hasn’t he come straight to her and forced his way into the residence if necessary?
Eventually, the morning light starts to inch back into the room, bringing with it the cold chill of realization.
Antoine isn’t coming—and she can’t stay with Albert.
23
Lucille
SUNDAY
LONDON
“No pens, just pencils. No food or drink, obviously, and all your bags and coats need to go into the locker, please. Nothing is allowed to go in with you.” The security guard at the front desk of the V&A is leaving nothing to chance, and his brusque efficiency is only escalating the nervousness pumping through me as Veronique and I prepare to be taken up to the study room.
“I need to see photo ID from both of you, then you can sign in here”—he flips open a black leather notebook—“and I’ll issue you both a wristband.” Veronique and I exchange a look. This is it. The day we will see dress number eight, the final one in Granny’s collection. The one with the beautiful toile de Jouy fabric and the metaphorical full stop at the end of Granny’s story.
I am about to discover, I hope, why she sent me to Paris.
“You’re very lucky to get a Sunday appointment, they’re like gold dust,” he adds with a smile, becoming a little more human, a little less official. Perhaps he senses our apprehension. “You’ve got two hours, no longer, so make the most of it.”
“Are you ready for this?” asks Veronique.
I am so pleased she is with me today. I don’t want to be alone when I see whatever is waiting for me in there. And, let’s face it, she has been much better at unraveling this story than I have. I might well need her to make sense of this final clue too. It feels right that it should be Veronique, given how close her own mother was to Granny back in their Paris days. It’s like we’re closing the circle together, and that both Granny and Veronique’s mother would love the idea of us joining forces, helping each other reach the final twist of this mystery.
“I guess so.”
A cheerful older lady checks in with the security guard and then turns to face us.
“Hello, I’m Margaret. I’ll be helping you today. Have you signed in yet?”
“Just finishing up now,” answers the security guy while he directs our faces to the small camera on top of his computer screen. While Veronique has her picture taken, I wonder if the knot of tension that is tightening in my stomach will still be there when we leave. What will we find?
Margaret leads us through a series of wide, tiled, hospital-like corridors that are completely deserted. The stark strip lighting flickers above us like it might give up at any moment. It reminds me of one of those chilling movies that ends with someone being wrongly institutionalized for a crime they didn’t commit. I get the feeling Margaret has walked these lonely corridors many times before. She doesn’t look spooked like we do. Her eyes are darting ahead of her. There is a keenness to her pace that I’d like to slow. I’m not sure I am ready for this after all.
We take the lift to the third floor and finally emerge into the silence of the study room. It’s a relief to see other people. There are several large, high wooden tables grouped together that mark different visitors’ research areas. Each is covered with a stretch of protective white paper, the items placed carefully on top. As we walk past some students, I steal a look at what they are viewing; there’s a regal furlined medieval robe, something more modern that’s made from black leather and punctured with hundreds of metal studs, and an incredible feathered tutu that I imagine might have danced across the stage at the Royal Opera House. A girl is slumped over one of the tables, looking thoroughly bored, like she’s been here for days making notes she’ll never bother to read again.
“You mustn’t touch anything yourself,” says Margaret. “If you need something adjusted or moved, then just call for one of the archive experts, please, and they will do it for you. We’re easy to spot, we’re all wearing the protective purple gloves.”
Our table is on the far side of the room, the only one set with just a single item beneath a layer of thin white cloth. As we approach it, I see there is a sheet of paper giving us the bare minimum of the dress details.
Object: Dress
PLACE OF ORIGIN: Paris, France
ARTIST/MAKER: Dior, Christian, born 1905, died 1957 (designer)
MUSEUM ITEM NUMBER: T.45-1954
OBJECT NOTES: Donated by anonymous
GALLERY LOCATION: Storage
PUBLIC ACCESS DESCRIPTION: Toile de Jouy pattern, silk
DESCRIPTIVE LINE: From no known collection of designer
“It looks like everyone is busy, so I’ll just pop some gloves on myself and remove the cloth for you.” As Margaret disappears, my eyes pause over the word anonymous, wondering again what might have driven Granny to such levels of secrecy. I hand the sheet to Veronique, who seems to study it more closely. I’m not sure what either of us is expecting to see under this cloth. It’s been ten days since Granny handed me the Eurostar ticket that took me to Paris, and so much has happened. Meeting Veronique, kissing Leon, peeling back the layers of Granny’s life, and taking a few small steps closer to Mum. And what else? What more is to come in the next hour or two? I’m not sure how much of this Granny ever intended to happen, but I hope I’ll always be grateful I went.