‘You could manage a frisson of delighted surprise, surely? I need no excuse to come to Paris, but among other things, I wanted to see you. And dare one say it … a show?’
She looks how I feel, Alix thought. Una’s glow had dimmed. Still chic though. She carried a tiny handbag against the back of her hand, presumably with a strap through which the palm slid. It was the same tan colour as her suit and gloves.
‘Oh, kiddo, why the funeral face?’
‘My mannequins have quit,’ Alix said. ‘The agency supplying them rang to say they weren’t available after all. Four days’ notice.’ She gestured to the rails. ‘Everything finished, just the last few bits … I have to cancel. Again. Una, I don’t know why this keeps happening to me.’
‘I do.’ Una flicked the popper on her handbag and pulled out a letter. ‘It was sent me by the fashion editor of the London Times – a friend of mine.’
Alix read:
To whom it may concern,
Haute couture is the flower of French culture, a flower cankered by copying and theft. Those of us who patronise the finest fashion houses of Paris pledge to support their integrity. Our first move is against ‘mushroom houses’ such as Modes Lutzman, whose proprietor Alix Gower was convicted for counterfeiting –
‘Reached the part where you could sue?’
Alix ignored Una.
– and whose endeavours to undermine French couture we will resist. Should you receive an invitation to a showing by this house, we beg you tear it up.
‘We’ was Rhona de Charembourg and other aristocratic leaders of fashion.
‘Her ladyship’s been sending that letter out for weeks,’ Una said. ‘It’s gone to every fashion editor, buyer and well-dressed female south of the Arctic Circle. Have you had any press interest, editors returning your calls?’
‘Not much,’ Alix admitted. ‘No French press. I have Americans. The New York Post is sending someone and—’
‘You’ll have to tell them it’s off.’ Una put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll break it to Gregory and his bean-counter Pusey. I’m sorry, kiddo, but Gregory will pull the plug.’
Alix studied Una’s face and thought, She cares but she doesn’t quite understand. ‘You were always kicking my backside for being afraid. “No reward without risk” – remember?’
‘I never prescribed suicide. You’ll be mauled if nobody comes.’
‘Then how can they maul me?’
‘Alix, get real. Rhona de Charembourg has shot your horses and broken your wheels. You’ve got no audience and no mannequins. What are you going to do? Have the waiters show the dresses while the cleaners applaud? Do the sensible thing – cut your losses.’
‘Thank you for bringing this.’ Alix meant the letter. ‘I’m glad Rhona de Charembourg’s malice is out in the open.’ She held her hand out to Una. ‘I hope to see you in the audience on Wednesday. Mr Kilpin too. Oh, I heard Mrs Fisk-Castelman is in Paris – your fellow American, the one who almost reduced poor Javier to tears? Find her and bring her too.’
‘You’re mad. How will you pull it off?’
Alix recalled a foggy walk over the Seine with Verrian the morning after they’d first made love. ‘Friends. You only need one or two good ones.’
*
Alix leaned down. ‘You will say, in Spanish, “Good evening, Monsieur.” You will hand him the invitation and that is all.’ Having given this instruction to a solemn Pepe, she turned to the employee behind the desk. ‘Did you get a reply?’
‘Yes, Madame. The gentleman will see you, if you would kindly take the lift to the second floor. Suite number six.’
There were mirrors in the lift and Alix turned her back. She regretted wearing her grey-green suit, wished she’d gone for something safer. In the corridor she counted the doors, took a gulp and knocked. She was pushing courtesy to its limit, calling on a Sunday afternoon when most people might expect to be left in peace.
‘Alix, your hand is shaking,’ Pepe said.
‘I know.’ Footsteps, a slight cough. She gripped Pepe’s small hand harder and his dark gaze rose reproachfully. Then the door opened.
Javier regarded her without emotion.
‘Monsieur, I hope you don’t mind …’ Her throat dried. This was a study in pointless humiliation. Why hadn’t she listened to Una?
‘They telephoned from downstairs to say a pretty, dark-haired woman was on her way up with a child. I did not imagine it was you. This is your son, Alix?’
‘Oh, no, a friend’s … Pepe, give the gentleman the card.’
Pepe thrust a printed invitation towards Javier and said in Spanish, ‘Señor, will you please come to Alix’s show and see her dresses and my paintings?’
Javier thanked him gravely and studied the invitation. He stayed silent so long Alix’s awkwardness bubbled out – ‘I mean to go ahead with it. I don’t know if anyone will come. I’ve been ambushed, you see. I mean, blacklisted.’
Javier narrowed his eyes. ‘Nobody will come, you say? You are asking me to be the only person sitting on the golden chairs? Then the world will say, “Ah, poor Javier has dropped so far, he can assure himself of empty seats wherever he goes.”’
She blushed. ‘Forgive me. I hoped you might like to see what I can do, and this show is my last hope. If I fail—’
‘You will owe a great deal of money, no doubt.’
‘This will have won.’ She gave him Rhona de Charembourg’s letter, and before he could speak, took Pepe’s hand and walked away.
As they crossed Parc Monceau, Pepe remarked, ‘I think the man was very pleased to be asked to see my pictures.’
*
She waited all the rest of Sunday for a call from Javier. By midnight she was tearful but resigned. It had been a wild dream, the notion of Javier riding to her rescue. Actually it had been a brazen impudence, asking a man of his standing to associate himself with her at all. Locking up her premises, she took a taxi to the Polonaise, where she and Verrian stayed most nights. Alix had only a single bed at Rue Jacob, and with Mémé and Celestia also in the flat, it was not a place for lovers. Verrian was awake in the Apricot Suite, reading. He threw his book down. ‘Well?’
‘Not a word. I didn’t expect anything else.’ She got ready for bed. ‘I’m going to have to make the toughest decision of my life.’
‘Well, don’t make it now.’ Verrian pulled down the covers for her. ‘Get in here with me.’
*
She prepared her speech the following morning in the taxi back to Rue Jacob and delivered it to her staff at nine sharp. ‘And so, while I am eternally grateful for your work and support and believe this collection to be the best we’ve produced –’ she swallowed the pebble in her throat and checked Verrian’s expression. He stood at the rear, giving nothing away ‘– I could not let today unfold without telling you—’ there came the ring of a bell from downstairs. Verrian went to answer it. ‘—telling you that I have decided—’
‘You’re not throwing in the towel?’ An aggrieved Rosa overpowered Alix’s explanations. ‘I haven’t come back to work to get the boot on day one, surely?’
Alix closed her eyes. This was hard. She didn’t need hecklers. ‘With enormous regret I will be closing –’ She stopped, hearing Verrian’s voice in the corridor –
‘Keep going, Monsieur, Madame. You’ll find everybody in one place.’
Alix stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of her women. She couldn’t see who Verrian had brought in, just that it was a man with dark, oiled hair and a woman in a red hat. Her staff turned, parting down the middle and she saw –
‘M. Javier!’ She stepped forward, then gasped as she recognised the lady in the hat. ‘Mme Frankel. You? Here?’
A gabble of excitement drowned their replies. Mme LeVert looked as if she might curtsy. Alix caught Verrian’s eye and detected a ghost of a smile.
Javier looked around, nodding in greeting. ‘Mesdames, I believe a very great injustice has been perpetrated against this house. I am
here, and my former première is here, to reverse that wrong.’
‘You’re going to help?’ Alix stammered in disbelief.
‘I offer my talent and influence, Alix, if you wish it.’
She threw her arms around him. ‘Oh, yes, please!’
*
A little later they convened a meeting of four. Alix said, ‘It may be too late. That horrible letter has done so much damage.’
Javier closed an eye. ‘If a letter can do damage, cannot also a letter do good? We will write one to send to every newspaper for publication tomorrow morning. Can you do that?’
‘Leave it to me,’ Verrian answered. ‘You write it, I’ll have it typed and delivered in time for today’s deadline.’
Javier gave his elegant bow. ‘Good. So, unveil your collection, Alix. I hope it justifies my faith.’
Dear God, she hoped so too. Shaking with nerves, she drew back the covers on the rails and was gratified, not by whoops of delight, but by intense scrutiny. Javier and Mme Frankel looked. Touched. Consulted. Nodded. They admired her suits; Alix had kept her to her signature shape but had opted for vibrant colours – scarlet, sunflower, swimming-pool blue. They would be worn with blouses, hats and shoes that matched each suit precisely. ‘You have borrowed from that great couturier M. Worth,’ Javier said. ‘When he dressed ladies in one colour top to toe, Paris woke up.’ He looked at her rail of evening gowns and chuckled. ‘The audacity to print your own cloth – such spirit, petite.’
Afterwards he said, ‘Do you know what inspired me to come here?’
‘That hateful letter?’
‘Inspired, petite. Malice does not inspire, it merely disgusts. Yesterday, when you turned away from my door, I had a moment in which to inspect the back of your suit.’ He described it to Mme Frankel – ‘A pleat to the centre of the jacket, a “pinch” belt, just so. Two darts in the shoulder seams, perfect sunrays. Many couturiers care only for the front. To care for the back shows the illogical passion that is the stamp of the artist.’
Verrian, who had listened tolerantly so far, interjected. ‘Alix, you haven’t mentioned your biggest problem. No girls.’
‘The mannequins cried off,’ she explained. ‘I have the collection, but nobody to wear it.’
She had a moment to wonder at Javier’s inscrutable smile when she heard a door crashing open and a youthful voice crying, ‘Where is everybody? Is this the right place?’
Then another; ‘I’ve been here before. They’ll be in the salon.’
Verrian left and came back with an eye-catching haul. Expectant faces beneath a cluster of stylish hats – Heloïse, Zinaida, Claudette, Nelly, Marie-Josèphe and Arlette.
Javier clapped his hands. ‘We have brought these ladies from their beds before noon, so let us see who can wear what.’
28th February 1939
We the undersigned pledge our allegiance to excellence in Parisian couture, but understand that for this industry to flourish, ‘the new’ must be allowed to breathe. For this reason, we will be attending the collection to be shown by Modes Lutzman at the Hôtel Polonaise on 1st March at six in the evening.
This letter, prominent in Le Figaro and other daily papers, was undersigned by Javier and Mme Frankel. Other names too. Over the years, Pauline Frankel had advised some of the most powerful females in France how to dress for public display and she had gone above and beyond for Alix, spending much of the previous afternoon in the 16th arrondissment knocking at glossy doors, discreetly requesting a return of favour.
Afterwards she showed Alix the letter, saying, ‘Nine signatures, but ten would be perfect. Do you know anybody of rank who would be prepared to support you?’
Alix was answering ‘No’ when it dawned on her that she did.
1st March
In four hours these chairs would fill, or not. By the end of the day her future would be decided.
The mannequins were dressing in a makeshift cabine created from cloth-draped rails. Rosa was in charge, assisted by Marguerite and Pauline Frankel. Rosa had expelled Alix, telling her, ‘Your nerves are as useful here as an elephant in a lifeboat. Go and get a cup of tea.’
Alix didn’t know where to take herself. The last three days had merged into formless hours with minimal sleep. She, Pauline Frankel and her staff had remade every garment to fit the new mannequins, a task that had seemed unachievable. They had done it, though, with only one casualty – a mutiny among the exhausted sewing girls had broken the limits of Mme LeVert’s authority and she had walked out. Pauline Frankel stepped into the breach, and from that moment Alix knew they would have a collection.
Javier came to stand by Alix as the mannequins began their rehearsal. ‘How have you done this?’ he asked, as those risqué beach pyjamas sashayed past him. ‘Your textiles are a fairy tale born from the madness of an opium den.’
She told him about the day her muse came back. ‘Jewel colours on snow. Children laughing. Three little children were invited to paint whatever they wished on a canvas the size of a wall. Every colour at their disposal, no adults to impose their will.’
‘You have fixed the dyes, Alix? Else they will run.’
She laughed. ‘We steamed every length, Monsieur. In my flat. It was like living in a laundry.’
Pauline Frankel heard the tail end and said, ‘How on earth will you meet all your orders, Alix? You can’t possibly hand-paint for every client.’
She’d prepared for that, telling them proudly, ‘There’s an orphanage behind St-Médard and the children there will paint for me. I have technicians to transfer the designs onto silk and the older children will infill by hand. I’m paying them of course.’ She enjoyed the look Javier and his première exchanged.
‘So every piece will be unique. Clever Alix, but not so clever Alix.’ Javier shook his head. ‘Your little orphans will delight in their work, but will not meet demand. Believe me, you will have to bring in professionals. Whatever you intend to charge for each dress, you must double it.’
*
Double it. She’d give the figures to Pusey who would rub his hands and say, ‘Most gratifying.’
Three hours to go. A vast bouquet of peonies arrived with a note: ‘Everything’s crossed, kiddo. I’ll take the ball dress in bordello pink with the suggestive orchids.’ An identical bouquet was handed to Javier: ‘New York loves Monsieur J. If ever you need a fast boat out, call me’
‘Never will I trust Mme Kilpin.’ Javier dropped the card.
‘You don’t have to.’ Alix picked it up and put it in his pocket. ‘But she has a good side, and you must never close off an escape route. And you wouldn’t be the first of my friends to go.’
Alix was thinking of Marcy Stein. After their brief meeting in Rue St-Denis, Marcy had written to Alix to say that she and her family were leaving France for a new life in America. No chance of a last meeting as the letter had been posted just hours before her departure. Alix remembered Verrian saying something about war erasing friendship. In this case, the fear of war had been enough. Would Marcy pine for her beloved Paris, Alix wondered? No time to ponder, because the show flowers arrived just then. Fragrant lilies and gardenias. She’d chosen white to let her collection shine.
Two hours. The band arrived and tuned up noisily, then ran through the numbers Alix had specified. The mannequins walked out to each tune and Alix noticed how they responded to the music. How the bandsmen responded to them.
One hour. Celestia arrived with the children, dressed in their best. Pepe’s hair was oiled, Lala and Suzy’s plaits were so tight they squeaked. Alix allotted them seats and then said, ‘You won’t be able to sit still until it starts. Go and draw at one of the tables.’
Twenty minutes. Verrian arrived, looking, to her eyes, utterly gorgeous in a black tuxedo, bow tie and stiff-fronted dress shirt. She walked into his arms.
He yelped. ‘Needles in your jacket! It’s like hugging a pincushion. Get behind those curtains and turn into a mannequin.’
She dashed away and
was told off by Rosa for running.
Noise was building. People were coming. When Verrian pushed a note through the curtains that said, ‘Sixty-four and counting,’ she let out a breath. She was not to endure the nightmare of empty chairs. The band began to play the sort of music that wafts people to their seats without disrupting the ambience. Another note was handed to her –
‘The mouse is arrived. J.’ Before Alix could puzzle this out, yet another note came from Verrian. ‘The red-faced man in the back row is my father. The lady fanning him with her programme will be my mother. That dress with the red and pink roses, will you marry me in it? Je t’aime.’
‘First girls, make ready!’ ordered Rosa. ‘Alix, you’re shaking like a jellied eel on a tractor.’
The band struck up the opening music – ‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off’ – and the first four girls swung out between the curtains. Alix heard a sort of snake-hiss and thought, People hate it.
Rosa nudged her. ‘They just got the joke. “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off”? Like you nearly did … Isn’t that why you chose it?’
‘I chose “A-Tisket, A-Tasket”,’ Alix said, bewildered. ‘Wait a minute, I saw Una talking to the bandleader. That woman – always gets the last word.’
Then it was her turn to step out, and all she could see was blur. She felt the heat of the room, the eyes upon her. Programmes tilting as people checked the model number. Saw Celestia, Pepe, Lala and Suzy waving to her. Mémé, in a cyclamen dress and a new hat. Behind them, the Comte de Charembourg. She hadn’t seen him in person since the day of Bonnet’s confession. Hadn’t wanted to … but his smile was so tender she returned it, picked up her stride and carried on. Now she understood Javier’s note. Mousy Christine de Brioude sat next to her father. They’d both signed the letter supporting her. She thought, If Christine will let us, Javier and I will make her the most stylish woman in Paris.
Javier and I? There he was, her dear, forgiving maestro, near the back. He gave her a quiet nod. Good God, was the scowling man a few seats along Verrian’s father? The woman beside him had to be Verrian’s mother. There was Gladys Fisk-Castelman taking notes, and beside her, Una Kilpin. Beside Una, the reverse of a ray of sunshine, Mr Kilpin. Ah well. Some people had to stay the same. Verrian … where was Verrian? She saw him on her walk back, standing beside a window. They locked eyes.
The Dress Thief Page 41
