by Lucy Hepburn
“An auction house,” he said as if that explained everything. “This is the place I was so desperate to come to…until Delametri instructed me to accompany you to Venice.”
“Really?” Molly exclaimed, peering more closely at the place “Why did you want to see it?”
“Oh, I did not want to see the auction house, I wanted to see the auction,” he trilled. “And I cannot believe my good fortune—our timing is perfect!”
“What for?” her mother asked, looking intrigued.
“A Charles Frederick Worth vintage gown!”
Molly gasped. Had she just heard correctly? Charles Frederick Worth?
“And not just any Charles Frederick Worth vintage gown, either; it is one of his earliest and most influential ones—a real collectors’ item—I thought I had missed my chance to bid for it, but by amazing good luck, it seems I have not! The auction commences any moment!”
Molly was beside herself. “Crikey Pascal, why didn’t you say? Sod the wedding, let’s go to an auction!”
“Molly!” Her mother wagged her finger at her, but she was smiling.
“Sorry mum.” She turned back to Pascal. “Can I see it?”
“Of course, it will be on show inside. I have wanted this particular gown for my collection for as long as I can remember—it has inspired much of my career, and I have been saving so hard so that I might, one day, have a chance to make it mine!”
“How much are you going to bid?” Simon asked Pascal. “Couple of hundred?”
Pascal’s face told that he planned to bid very much more than mere hundreds. Molly knew that vintage Worth gowns sold for thousands, tens of thousands, all over Europe and beyond.
“A little more, I fear. Maybe thousands.”
Simon exhaled loudly. “Sheez. For a frock? You could feed an African village for a month on that!”
Molly gave him a rueful, sidelong glance. “Cheers for the guilt trip.”
“Sorry.”
“Excuse me,” Molly’s mother said in a small voice, “but there’s another dress to worry about today as well, isn’t there?”
“What other dress?” Molly asked before remembering. “Oh! Caitlin’s wedding dress!” The idea of a Worth gown made a Chevalier pale into insignificance.
But just then, all sounds were drowned out by the roar of a motorcycle engine. They turned to see a motorcycle courier, dressed head to foot in black leather, with a huge cardboard package strapped to his back, execute a gravity-defying turn through the tunnel that led to a courtyard in the center of the building.
Molly clutched her mother’s arm. “Could that be it?” she whispered.
“I think that Lady Luck is on our side,” Pascal smiled. “Here comes the bride!”
“Thank goodness!” Molly’s mother exclaimed.
“About time,” Simon muttered. “Can’t believe yet another dress is worth all this hassle, mate,” he said to Pascal. “Heck of a detour just for that!”
“Simon,” Pascal said patiently, “you have been what the English call a ‘tower of strength’ these past two days. And you have every right to be impatient. But you must understand, sometimes things are worth going in search of.”
“If I’d known, I’d have insisted we come this way anyhow,” Molly said stoutly, looking pointedly at Simon. “It’s all about being true to yourself, isn’t it?”
He gave her a searching look, which made her wiggle her toes with glee.
“My goodness, suddenly I have no idea which dress to go after,” she gasped. “The one my life depends on, or the one I’ve dreamed about seeing for years.”
Pascal laughed. “Why don’t I escort your mother to a comfortable seat in the auction room, and you two can pick up the dress? That way we can…ah yes, another English expression, kill the two chickens with one rock?”
“I think that’s a very good idea,” Molly’s mother said with feeling.
They parted company, Molly’s mother and Pascal to register at the door of the auction room, Molly and Simon toward the tunnel the motorcycle had roared through.
“You really don’t cut the fashion world much slack, do you?” Molly chided as they walked.
“Sorry,” Simon replied. “I’ll try harder, in future.”
Molly thought, but refrained from saying, that it wouldn’t matter much in the future, as she’d be out of his life by nightfall.
The courier, head-to-toe in tight black leather biker’s gear, was pacing the courtyard, his helmet under his arm, and seemed relieved when Molly bounded up to him.
“Bonjour! Buon giorno! Hello!” she flustered. “Delivery for Chevalier? Or is it Marino? Or maybe Lafayette?”
“Pascal Lafayette?” the courier said.
“Yes! Yippee!” Molly clapped her hands and did a little air-punch. She pointed to the box. “Wedding dress?”
She was met with a blank stare and a shrug.
“Here comes the bride? Tra-la-la-la?”
“Une robe?” Simon ventured, giving Molly a panicked look and hissing, “does ‘robe’ mean ‘dress’? Or is it ‘fork’ or something?”
“Oui, une robe,” the courier replied, relief all over his face that at least one of the bedraggled couple before him appeared to be sane. “Pour Monsieur Pascal Lafayette.”
“Ooh, merci! Merci!” Molly was officially over-excited. What a day for couture!
The courier produced a delivery note and pen from a pannier on his bike and thrust them toward Simon. “Monsieur Lafayette, s’il vous plait?”
“Ah,” Molly sighed, darting a glance back toward the auction room, which by now had a queue of people waiting to enter.
But Simon merely nodded and signed the note in a flamboyant and completely illegible scrawl, which could have been anything but looked a bit like Chinese.
“Merci.” The courier began to unfasten the box from the back of his bike.
Molly nudged Simon. “Look how securely strapped on it is!”
“One more word like that from you,” Simon hissed and nudged her playfully back.
She checked the label—Caitlin Wright. This was it. “Thank you! Grazie! Merci beaucoup!” She called after him as he roared off, giving her a rather sexy salute with a leather-clad arm.
“Steady,” Simon muttered, “he’s only doing his job!”
“Which today has involved preventing my eyes from being scratched out by my own sister—no biggie!”
But then she stopped, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. She looked at Simon. “We’ve got it, Simon. At least, I hope we have, they can’t make a mistake twice, can they?”
“I sincerely hope not. Your nerves wouldn’t stand it. Nor could mine.”
“Come on, let’s go track mum and Pascal down.”
“Better stow this in the car first, don’t you think? Reckon we can tie it to the roof?”
Molly glared up at him. “I’d put you on the roof before I’d put Caitlin’s wedding dress up there,” she said in warning tones. “We’ll manage.”
After locking the dress on top of the other one in the car, they entered the auction room. An austere, medieval hall, its high stone walls were pierced by tiny windows just below the wooden vaulted ceiling. The walls were hung with colourful rugs and tapestries, interspersed with oil paintings of long-dead lords and ladies. At the far end of the room, the auctioneer’s platform was surrounded by a wooden balustrade, and in the front rows, smartly dressed men and women sat behind desks with telephones and notepads.
Behind them, rows of bench seating were crammed with eager buyers. Molly looked at them in awe. She realized how different Italian elegance was from French; somehow, the fashion here was edgier but still not brash. Suits were razor-sharp, dresses spare and lean. And sunglasses! So many pairs of sunglasses indoors, and when it was almost dark outside!
Doesn’t get much more Italian than that, Molly decided.
Behind the auctioneer’s platform and dotted around the
open spaces on the floor, was a wide assortment of objects—all up for auction, Molly assumed. Antique birdcages, a plush chaise longue, a grand piano, as well as cabinets filled with tiny, and presumably very expensive, treasures.
Molly looked around. “I thought it’d be all clothes, but there’s all sorts of expensive-looking stuff up for grabs here! You’d think a vintage Worth gown would have an auction all to itself, wouldn’t you?”
“Personally? No,” Simon replied. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Molly rolled her eyes. Well, if Simon wanted to get huffy, so be it. She was about to see an original Charles Frederick Worth gown! And just think, if Pascal was successful with his bid, she’d be hugging it in the back seat of the Cinquecento, all the way to Venice—along with not one, but two Delametri Chevaliers!
And things didn’t get much better than that.
Chapter Sixteen
Hours until wedding: 21.5
Kilometers to wedding: 179
The auction was in full swing. A pretty bone china tea set was being held aloft by a grim-faced woman dressed in a button-through brown overall as the auctioneer took bids from all around the room. Two hundred, two hundred and ten, two hundred and twenty…discreet, practiced hands flickered and were gone, but each one was spotted by the auctioneer, who must, Molly thought, have eyes like a hawk. It all seemed terribly exciting. Molly had never been to an auction before, the car boot sales she’d attended on rainy Yorkshire Saturdays with Reggie weren’t quite in the same league.
Although the room was full and many people were standing at the back, Molly spotted Pascal and her mother sitting on benches at the side of the room, so, without thinking she took Simon’s hand and began weaving her way through the crowds toward them.
“Oi!” A stern-looking lady in towering heels and the obligatory sunglasses scowled at them as they jostled past.
“Sorry!” Molly chirped, giving the lady her best apologetic grimace. “Oh, Simon, there’s a little dog ahead, mind you don’t stand on it.”
“I’ll do my best,” Simon said wearily. “But if it bites my ankles, no promises.”
Pascal and Molly’s mother squeezed up and made room for them to sit.
Pascal’s face was a vision of anticipation.
Molly reached across and patted his knee. “You okay?”
As though not trusting himself to speak, he nodded vigorously.
“You haven’t missed it, have you?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “But it will not be long—look!”
He pointed excitedly at the program, his hands trembling. Sure enough, there it was—Molly translated the words in her head:
‘Charles Frederick Worth silk ball gown, circa 1885, a rare example of a late nineteenth-century Worth original, this daring green hand-woven silk ball gown is believed to be the earliest example of Worth’s influence upon the early Art Nouveau Movement. Estimate: 50,000 euros.’
Molly was not surprised when she saw the estimate; in fact, she was surprised it was so cheap. Although such sums were way out of her league, she knew that some of the finest couture creations in today’s fashion houses sold for that much—and more—to those who could, and did, afford them. But it was now clear why Pascal was so tense. He was about to part with seriously big bucks. And Molly loved anything Art Nouveau too; she couldn’t wait to see the gown.
They settled down to wait. Pascal’s eyes were darting between the program and the auctioneer, but Molly was scanning the crowd, taking in more details, trying to spot who Pascal’s competition might be. She began to see that it wasn’t just the Italian fashion-pack who were in attendance. All walks of life were there; an eclectic mixture of languid aristocrats, stony-faced dealers, and ordinary people, perhaps just here to bid on things like the box of pretty silver teaspoons, which had just been snapped up by an elderly lady for what seemed like the bargain price of twenty-five euros. In the front row, a mother was unpacking sandwiches from her basket and passing them along to her three bored-looking children.
Just then there was a slight commotion as a newcomer made his way inside, jostled politely through the scrum of people by the doorway, and stood at a vantage point at the back where he could get a good view. Molly thought for a second how he bore a striking resemblance to someone she knew, from photographs, maybe? In magazines…
She shook her head at yet another coincidence; her exhausted mind was playing tricks on her.
But then she looked again. That regal, almost haughty face, the immaculate silver coiffed hair, the tailored suit that was without a doubt from the Chevalier bespoke flagship collection this year—it couldn’t be! Another close look. People around the room were beginning to recognize him too and were surreptitiously pointing and murmuring to each other. It was!
Wide-eyed, she leaned toward Simon. “See that guy who’s just come in?”
Simon looked. “Flash suit, oily hair?”
“It’s Delametri Chevalier!”
Simon took a moment to process the information. “What, the designer? Pascal’s boss?”
Molly nodded. “I’ve never seen him in the flesh before, just in magazines and photos—ones I used in my final year dissertation.”
She could see Simon was making an effort to look impressed. “What’s he doing here?”
“No idea. I thought he was with his sick mother somewhere in France.” She looked at Pascal, engrossed in the sale, then back across at his boss. Excitedly, she half-stood and waved at Delametri, forgetting that he had never actually met her. Given the intensity of the last couple of days, she felt they were practically related. But naturally, he ignored her. She sat down again feeling a little foolish.
“Fifty euros from the lady there!” The auctioneer pronounced, pointing at her.
“Molly!” her mother hissed, “did you mean to bid for an eighteenth century humidor?”
“Oops,” Molly gulped.
She was immediately outbid by a stern-looking man with a monocle and a singed handlebar moustache.
“Phew,” she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she turned to Pascal and tapped him repeatedly on the shoulder. “Pascal!” she hissed, “do you see—”
“Please!” he snapped, flapping her away with his hand as though she was an irritating mosquito. “Allow me to concentrate!”
“But look who’s—”
“Molly, do not make me have you removed from the room,” he warned.
Her mother caught her eye, and they made faces like chided schoolgirls then giggled. Molly settled down to divide her attention between the auction and the face of her hero standing there, in the flesh, in the same room as her.
She wondered whether Pascal knew Delametri was going to be here. But then surely if that was the case, he could have asked him to bid for the gown on his behalf? It was strange.
Simon, meanwhile, had zoned out entirely from what was going on around him. He was leaning back against the wall, once again reading his book on his phone. Molly looked at him, and weirdly she remembered resting her head against his chest, how warm and blissful it had felt.
Aware of being watched, he looked up from his reading and smiled at her. And Molly’s tummy did that inconvenient flip again.
“There are some lovely earrings coming up,” Molly’s mum whispered. “Look at the photo here.”
Molly looked. They were lovely: little amber drops in a silver mount. Caitlin loved amber; it always seemed to make her olive skin glow. She caught her mother’s eye and felt a rush of excitement. She hadn’t bought her sister a wedding gift—she suddenly remembered that she’d planned to pick something out in a little Parisian flea market. And there they were; the very next lot. Molly couldn’t see them close up, but they seemed to wink encouragingly at her under the stark lighting of the auction room.
She raised her hand and found that she had made an opening bid of fifty euros.
Simon looked up from his reading. “Did you mean
to do that?”
She nodded without looking at him. “Present for Caitlin.”
She held her breath. Nobody moved. The auctioneer was cajoling people in rattlingly rapid Italian to raise their hands. But nobody did. He raised his gavel.
“Sixty!”
A woman’s voice from the back, a raised hand.
“Seventy!” Molly yelled, leaping from her seat and waving frantically at the auctioneer. She was getting into this. A ripple of laughter went round the crowd, and she sat down embarrassed.
Again, nobody moved. Molly willed the auctioneer to bang his gavel and point at her…
…and he did.
“Yippee!” Molly squealed, putting her arm around her mother and giving her a squeeze. “The perfect present!”
Then she had a realization; she’d spent all of her money on buying the car. She leaned over and whispered to her mother. “Err… Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Could you lend me seventy euros, please?”
Her mother laughed. “Of course, darling.”
There were only five more items to go before the Worth gown. They watched as a dollhouse was heaved into view and a furious bidding war broke out between a huge man in a cowboy hat and an elderly lady. Molly thought they might actually come to blows—so evil were the looks they threw at one another—until, with a shouted expletive and rude gesture, the man gave up and stormed from the room. The lady remained in her seat composed, though her face was alight with triumph.
And then Molly and her mother each gave a little gasp.
“Look!” Molly hissed. “Look what’s next!”
“I see it,” her mother whispered.
It was a music box. Carved and intricate with a silver clasp, it was quite different from the one she had hurled to the ground so spectacularly all those years ago, but when the lady in the brown overalls grumpily lifted the lid, and a little ballerina popped up and began to twirl to a tinkling waltz, Molly thought she might burst into tears.
“Oh,” she gasped, “isn’t it pretty!”
Her mother raised her hand, and the auctioneer accepted her bid. Molly looked at her without a word. Another bidder raised a hand then another, but after no more than a minute, her mother had secured the box.
