The Dress Thief

by Natalie Meg Evans

  Marcy was sure that Javier would be in his studio, hard at it. He’d be there until Mme Frankel called a taxi and forced him to go home. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘This!’ Mme Markova tore the paper in her haste to open it. Alix recognised it at once. It was the New York Fashion Daily, the American trade paper that was Mabel Godnosc’s bible. ‘I was meeting a friend at the Ritz and some American girls left this on a seat. I can’t read English –’ Mme Markova finally opened the centre spread – ‘but I can see pictures. I think I’m going to have a heart attack.’

  ‘Alix will read it,’ Marcy said.

  Alix took the paper; the date showed it was two weeks old. She read, ‘The Collection Too Sexy for Paris.’ A nasty taste crept on to her tongue as she translated, ‘From Paris to Fifth Avenue, from fifty thousand French francs to one hundred dollars in two weeks, Javier storms New York with a collection that’s just too la-la.’

  ‘Too what?’ Marcy wrinkled her nose. ‘Javier doesn’t sell to New York, except to select buyers, and never at a hundred dollars.’

  ‘He will explode,’ Mme Markova predicted.

  The article was little more than a grid of photographs, each featuring a girl in a dress above a caption. ‘The dress for sexy senoritas in figure-hugging velvet … This swirly silk will ruffle the man in your customer’s life … Cara? You bet! Dear? Not at $75.50.’

  The dresses were all copies from Javier’s cancelled mid-season line. So—not only had Mabel let the dresses go on sale, she’d put time and energy into their promotion. Suicidal.

  Marcy thought they’d better show Javier straight away. Alix made a ready excuse – she had to visit Mémé.

  ‘Of course, you poor thing.’ Marcy hugged her. ‘I’ll go with Mme Markova.’

  As they separated, Alix heard Mme Markova say bitterly, ‘Thieves. Style pirates. I hope there’s a hot chair in hell for them.’

  *

  It was late to be taking a train, but it was three days since she’d seen Mémé. Alix always worried she might miss some vital change in her grandmother’s condition. There never was any, but the nurses said it was good for her to have visitors. Every time Alix went, somebody presented her with a bill for extras. It would be cheaper to buy flowers and paper napkins herself, but she never had time. And the flowers were a waste, benefiting only the nurses and whoever tended the clinic’s compost heap. As Alix passed the News Monitor building on the way to the métro, a car horn made her jump.

  Serge Martel wound down his window and said, ‘Good evening, Belle of Maison Javier. I want to take you to dinner.’ He had a rose in his buttonhole, reminding her that she’d last seen him standing under a shower of petals.

  She edged away as he got out of his car, distracted by recurring images of Javier in his studio throwing the New York Fashion Daily across the room. Go out to dinner? Maybe it was what she needed, a few hours in the company of someone new, someone who would amuse and distract her. But she didn’t like this man, and anyway, she must visit Mémé. She was preparing to refuse when Serge Martel held out his hand and she saw fingernail tracks on it. Looking up, she saw matching tracks down his cheek.

  He nodded, understanding her intake of breath. ‘Solange. I came to pick her up today as usual and found myself opening the car door for a spitting wildcat. She’d been sacked. Did you see the blood on the pavement? Mine, I should tell you.’ He seemed to enjoy her squeamishness. ‘Beneath the surface, we’re all animal. So, dinner?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be comforting Solange?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what she wants but it isn’t me. So … ?’

  ‘I can’t. I have to visit my grandmother. She’s in hospital a long distance away and I’m running late.’

  ‘Then get in, I’ll take you.’ He stepped back. ‘D’you need anyone’s permission to go out for an evening?’

  She thought about it. She’d always had Mémé at home, fretting if she was late, imagining the worst. But now she had nobody. She answered, ‘I can do what I like.’

  *

  The Le Cloître clinic lay west, which meant driving into the sunset. Alix could hardly see the map Serge handed to her. They were an hour into their journey before she realised that reading a map was not the same as following a dress pattern, where you mentally reverse left and right. She’d sent them way off course, and by the time she noticed they were as far from the clinic as when they’d started. Serge found it hugely funny and knocked on the shuttered window of a farmhouse to ask directions. An hour later, turning into Le Cloître’s drive and seeing only dark windows, Alix wanted to cry. Visiting hours were over.

  Serge lifted a hand from the wheel and stroked her knee. ‘Just watch.’

  Half a dozen words at the front desk and the matron who ruled Le Cloître with a rod of disinfected iron was ushering them down corridors as if they were the diplomatic corps. While Alix replaced tired bedside flowers with ones they’d bought on their way out of the city, Serge pulled up a chair and began a one-sided conversation with the patient.

  He told Danielle all about his own ‘darling granny’, who’d practically brought him up. A wonderful cook, famous for her confit of duck leg, made to a secret recipe involving flageolet and haricot beans, smoked garlic, parsley and diced ham seasoned in the best Epernay wine. A little much for Mémé’s digestion, Alix thought privately. Nor would her grandmother be thrilled to find ham on her plate, but the way Serge spoke, as if Mémé were his dearest friend, made anything forgivable.

  The hour, which usually passed so bleakly, flew by and Matron escorted them out in person. Alix, bringing up the rear, heard Serge say, ‘Do you have patrons, Mme Angèle? I’m talking about money – your running costs. Is there room here for a bad man from Paris to do a little good?’

  ‘There’s always room for goodness,’ Matron simpered. ‘And my name is Sister Marie-Andrée.’

  ‘Angèle to me.’

  At the door, Alix watched Serge raise matron’s fibrous knuckles to his lips and doubted she’d ever be told off for arriving late again.

  He took her to a roadside auberge where the fare was simple and good and she let him talk. She learned he came from the Champagne region, near Epernay. Why he adored drinking it, he said, and why he’d taken over a cousin’s nightclub.

  ‘You told me it was your father’s.’

  ‘And a cousin’s too. Think, Alix, a party every night in your own place, people having fun, forgetting their troubles, all because of you. Shall we drink champagne now?’

  ‘I’d rather not, not with Mémé the way she is.’

  ‘Never say no to champagne.’ He clicked his fingers for service.

  She had to ask. ‘Where is Solange now?’

  ‘Ah … poor Gigi – that’s what I call her. On her way back to her people in Corsica.’ He touched his wounded cheek. ‘With her nails trimmed, I hope.’ He raised his glass. ‘To you, rising star. Will we stay together tonight?’

  She choked on her drink. What happened to slow seduction? ‘I’m … not …’ She hurled herself into a safety net. ‘I’m not a rising star; I’m just me. I want to be a couturier, not a mannequin. I loved wearing Oro, but tomorrow I mean to tell M. Javier I want to keep learning the business.’

  ‘You won’t stay with Javier. He’s not famous enough for you.’

  ‘I’m not famous enough for him more like.’

  ‘I mean what I say. You’ve just landed the job every girl in France would die for.’ He leaned forward. ‘And we will be the couple everyone in Paris is dying to know.’

  *

  Serge seemed sincere in his desire to know her better, fast. The next day, Saturday, which was her day off, he took her to the Bois de Boulogne on the western edge of Paris, where they rode through the trees in a horse-drawn carriage. Alix wanted to be distracted, but not even Serge’s chatter, the motion of the carriage, nor the birdsong, could keep her mind off the approaching Monday morning. When Serge kissed her in the shade of a tree, half her mind wa
s on Javier and what might be awaiting her at work on Monday. By now Javier might have figured out who’d sold his designs to America. He might be planning a reception for her at Rue de la Trémoille … one involving the police.

  She spent Sunday alone, sitting in Place du Tertre filling a sketchbook with portraits and fashion drawings, keeping her hands busy while dreaming up slow deaths for the ladies Godnosc and Kilpin. They had ignored her warnings, allowed Javier’s mid-season collection to hit New York and publicised it in a mass-circulation paper.

  Monday dawned, and she walked to work to burn off her nervous energy. She found Marcy in the second-floor cloakroom, pulling on her smock. In an undertone, her friend told her how Javier had reacted to the New York Fashion Daily.

  With dead silence apparently. He’d stared at the pictures for half a minute before throwing the paper towards the bin. He’d then called a taxi to take Marcy home, because he was concerned she’d be late for supper.

  ‘That was it – nothing else?’ Alix couldn’t believe it.

  ‘I don’t know what he said to Mme Markova after I’d gone. He wants to see you though. One of his assistants has already been down to find you, so you’d better go up straight away.’

  *

  As Alix entered the studio, Javier gave her a bow. ‘And how is my new favourite house mannequin?’

  Before she could answer, Simon Norbert walked in and snorted, ‘She’s not my favourite, offending one of our best customers.’

  ‘What my friend means, Alix, is that on Friday, in the salon, you were offered insult for which I apologise.’

  Alix checked Javier’s face for signs of imminent retribution. Finding nothing alarming in his gaze, she turned her attention to what he’d said. ‘Insult … yes. By Mme de Charembourg.’

  A finger to the lips. ‘No names, petite. It is not the first time this lady has abused my staff for their religion or origins, or simply because she is in a temper and they are in the way. But it is the last.’

  Norbert pointed at Alix. ‘She provoked it. By talking to the lady’s husband in a familiar way. I’ve had a taste of her impudence. She gets a look on her face—’

  ‘I do not!’ Alix flared.

  ‘Shush, both,’ Javier replied. ‘In the world now is great evil, and the prejudices of certain figures in society are a painful reminder of it. Sometimes one must make a stand. On Saturday, when she came here for a fitting, I put on my white gloves.’ Javier extended his hands, presumably so there would be no mistake as to where the gloves went. ‘I bowed and said, “Mme la Comtesse will oblige me by leaving my establishment.” Dear me. She was suddenly all open mouth in purest shock. I explained that all outstanding items would be delivered as promised but that I did not expect to see Madame herself ever again. I offered my arm and escorted her out.’

  ‘And made an enemy for life.’

  Javier acknowledged it. ‘As I say, M. Norbert, sometimes one must choose between evils. And now I will tell you why I summoned you, Alix. I have been told your grandmother is very ill. Do you wish for time off?’

  ‘Oh, no, Monsieur. I can’t afford to. In fact, I want keep working as your assistant, to keep learning.’

  ‘Instead of being a mannequin?’

  ‘As well as, if possible.’

  Javier stayed silent a while. ‘That would be most unusual, to work as an apprentice in the morning before retiring to the salon to present my clothes.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do,’ Norbert thrust in. ‘It gives the girl too much exposure to the clothes at every stage. Reaped the benefits of that, haven’t we?’

  ‘Ah, our New York exposé. “The Collection Too Sexy for Paris.”’ Javier flashed a hard smile. ‘Did the headline writer ever come to Paris?’

  ‘Do you know who might have … you know?’ said Alix, wishing she were a better actress.

  ‘Stolen my work?’ Javier nodded. ‘It is a person able to view my designs, who mixes with bad company. A person who we see each day but never suspect. Can you not guess? You shake your head, Alix. You grow pale. Solange, of course.’ Javier touched his heart. ‘She has too much or too little of this vital organ and a boyfriend who makes her miserable.’

  Alix thought, Can I be getting off so easily? ‘Will you sue?’

  Javier gave a broad shrug. ‘Sue a trade paper that lies outside French law? Or the little New York typist who thinks she is wearing Javier for seventy-nine dollars fifty?’

  ‘Makes me sick,’ Norbert spat.

  ‘I say good luck to her. So, Alix, you wish to help me with my next collection? The days will be long. You will never grow your fingernails.’

  ‘I’ll wear gloves in the salon. I don’t mind late nights.’

  Javier sighed. ‘You will expect me to pay you twice?’

  Ignoring Simon Norbert’s objection, Alix said, ‘A small pay rise would be welcome. I will earn it, I promise.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A perfect June day. A breeze skimmed off the Seine, making canvas awnings dimple and flap. It filled the air with sparkling droplets from the fountains. The Paris Exposition, the ‘World’s Fair’, whose pavilions and walkways covered hundreds of acres, was in full swing.

  The site wasn’t finished. But nobody had expected it would be and the crowds were eager to enjoy, not complain. When she looked at the brooding eagle atop the German pavilion and the sickle-wielding man and woman crowning the Russian pavilion opposite, Alix imagined she heard Mémé keening, ‘Vey ist mir.’ She also understood something Verrian had told her: ‘This fair’s a last stab at peace for nations who, in their heads, are already at war.’

  Not that she was left to her own thoughts for long. Serge strolled alongside her, arm linked with hers, giving a running commentary on the swarming crowds. He was particularly contemptuous of foreigners, their oddities and babble, though he was fascinated by the huge cameras slung around the Americans’ necks. He embarrassed Alix because he never lowered his voice and their twelve days’ acquaintance had taught her that Serge voiced every thought in his head. Not for him contemplation or layers of meaning; if he said it, he meant it – though his opinion was likely to change a minute later.

  The breeze wrapped Alix’s skirt around her legs. She was wearing ‘Rose Noire’, her own design. Mabel Godnosc had proudly presented a version of the dress to Alix at the Champs-Elysées office a few days ago. Una had been there and it had been their first get-together since Alix had warned Mabel – in vain – to abort production of Javier’s pirated mid-season line. Una had brought the offending copy of New York Fashion Daily with her, saying with a shaky laugh as she opened it up, ‘I didn’t expect us to make the centre pages.’ Then, as if that closed the matter, told Alix to, ‘Go try on that little number Mabel’s so kindly rustled up for you.’

  The ‘little number’ turned out to be two inches shorter than Alix had drawn it. It was tight across the back and the collar sagged. And it was synthetic silk, not the crêpe Alix had specified. ‘I can’t wear it,’ was Alix’s verdict.

  Mabel answered, ‘Shoot, at fifteen dollars, whaddya expect? Ginger Rogers’s dancing dress?’

  And then it was back to business. Back to copying because, in Una’s words, they were all still poor and still the Three Musketeers. Four, if you counted Mabel.

  Yesterday Una had put a parcel into Alix’s arms. ‘A peace offering. Don’t open it now – your tears of gratitude will overwhelm me.’ The package contained Rose Noire as Alix had intended it; jet crêpe with hand-printed detail – so closely resembling her sketch Una must have scoured fabric warehouses all over Paris and had a gifted seamstress make it up for her.

  Alix stared into the diamond mist of a fountain, relishing the spray of water on throat and face. Most of the time she hated Una, despised and resented her. Then Una would make her laugh or do something so generous Alix found herself almost admiring the woman.

  *

  Serge tugged her arm. ‘Let’s go back to the Pavillon d’Elégance. I want to see you next to
Oro, see if anyone else recognises you.’

  She groaned. ‘I don’t like people nudging each other and gawping.’

  ‘Well, I do. You’re famous. You’re wearing Oro in Marie Claire, the Expo edition.’

  ‘It’s only an illustration.’

  ‘A good one. People still recognise you.’

  ‘It’s the dress people want to see, not me.’ Marie Claire had described Oro as a ‘collision between a star and a comet’, and Serge was deriving endless pleasure from her resulting minor fame. ‘We’ll go back for a while,’ she bargained, ‘if we can go to the Spanish pavilion afterwards.’

  ‘We’ll go and have coffee after. I’m not interested in anything Spanish.’

  ‘Serge, I want to see the Spanish pavilion. There’s a painting there.’

  ‘What painting?’

  ‘By Picasso, part of a set of panels. Bonnet told me about it.’

  Serge’s mouth buckled in contempt. ‘Picasso paints women who look like horses and puts noses on the sides of their faces with both eyes looking out at you at once. I wouldn’t feed my dog off one of his paintings. Who’s Bonnet anyway? How come he tells you what to look at?’

  ‘Bonnet’s a friend. You don’t have a dog, and I’m going. Please let go of my arm.’

  He backed away from the quarrel, nuzzling her neck. ‘All right, but I expect you to be very nice tonight. A bit more than kissing and cuddling, maybe? No more holding out on me?’

  ‘I’m working. I told you.’

  ‘What work?’

  Alix drew a breath. ‘My other job, at Maison Godnosc.’

  ‘You don’t need to work. You’re my girl. Or maybe you don’t want to be my girl.’

  ‘I’ll come to the club afterwards and we’ll have dinner. You choose where. Can we go to the Spanish pavilion now?’

  ‘Pavillon d’Elégance first,’ he said stubbornly and because he’d already treated her to lunch and bought her a butterfly brooch at an artisan stall, she let him lead her there.