The Dress Thief (36 page)

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.

*

The Pavillon d’Elégance was a plastered pink grotto under a tented azure sky, housing the cream of Parisian couture. Alix had supposed there would be daily parades,
each house providing a favoured mannequin to exhibit their creations. But no. Gowns were displayed on faceless seven-foot figurines made of lumpy plaster. Elsa Schiaparelli hated them so much, she’d covered her exhibition space with flowers and Alix applauded her for it. Those surreal scarecrows upset her too.

Even so, she was keen to examine the offerings from Chanel, Patou and Lucien Lelong,
but Serge kept dragging her back to Oro. So keen to parade ‘his girl’, he shoved in front of a man and woman quietly discussing the dress’s merits. Alix recognised them, premières from a competitor house whom she’d met at one of the Expo’s opening parties. She saw their astonishment, their covert examination of Serge’s suit. She blushed to hear one of them whisper, ‘Chicago chic.’

As she slunk
away, a girl she recognised approached her. It was Zinaida, Javier’s Greek mannequin, who whispered, ‘Isn’t that Solange’s old flame? What’s the story?’

‘No story.’

‘You know why she went? Solange, I mean.’

Zinaida must have heard rumours that Solange was the couture thief. Alix muttered an affirmative and turned away, then jumped as Serge’s arm came around her.

‘Any chance of you borrowing
that gold dress? We could have
a special night at the club, you and me dancing. Then afterwards I’d make love to you while you wear it.’

She told him, ‘Let’s go before you get any more mad ideas.’

*

While the Pavillon d’Elégance was a place of hushed reverence, the Spanish pavilion was a jostle with one focus: a stark monochrome panel.
Guernica
had been painted by Pablo Picasso in the weeks
following the bombing and had acted as a magnet for Paris’s grieving Spanish and Basque population, as well as for artists of all nationalities, men and women voicing their opinions all at once – arguing over the composition and the politics behind it.

Bonnet had told Alix she must see
Guernica
. Javier had said the same. Alix privately felt she must because, had he been here, Verrian would surely
have brought her. One day he might ask her what she thought of it and she must have a ready answer. But wait – why was she behaving as if Verrian would come back to her?

It took some minutes to worm to the front of the crowd. Serge took one look and complained the panel wasn’t finished – it was a mess, something a child of two could do in his painting book. Why was it called Guernica. What was
Guernica?

‘A town, but really an event. A bombing.’

‘Doesn’t look like a bombing to me. Looks like someone’s gone mad in an abattoir. What’s that eye doing? I like surrealism when it’s funny. That’s not funny.’

Alix tried to see the panel through Bonnet’s eyes, then Javier’s. And, though she tried not to, through Verrian’s. And then through the eyes of the bearded men who shoved up close to
her and poured out their thoughts – admiration, condemnation, she had no idea – in streams of impenetrable Basque. Serge had a point, Alix thought. It
was
a mess. But a mess inspired by rage. She saw a man’s attempt to translate an afternoon’s atrocity through simple forms: a bull; a dying horse; a woman with a dying child; a dove; a blazing eye … or was it a bomb exploding, or the eye of God?
It seemed to her that Picasso had created the moment any hope of peace exploded and humanity perished. She heard Verrian’s voice in her head: ‘A single German bomber circled over the town at low altitude, then dropped six heavy bombs … thenceforward the bombing grew in intensity, ceasing only with the approach of dusk …’

Dusky bergamot stole into her nostrils and, as she stared at the panel,
she saw a new face. Strong features, bearded, in pain … She felt herself sway.

Somebody behind her caught her. A paternal voice said in her ear, ‘I think you forgot to breathe. I’m not surprised. Come outside for air.’

‘M. Javier. What are you doing here?’

‘You think I should be with the dresses?’

‘No. You’re an artist; you needed to see this painting.’

‘
Muy cierto
. I have come ten times
now and always, I see something new. But you are pale, Alix. Should I fetch you a glass
of water?’

‘Leave her.’ Serge barged forward. ‘We don’t need your help. Get lost.’

‘Serge!’ Alix choked with embarrassment. ‘This is M. Javier.
The
M. Javier, Oro’s creator and my employer.’

‘Oh.’ Serge brushed his nose with his palm. ‘My apologies – I’ve been in your salon a dozen times, watching the girls,
but I never saw you there.’

Javier regarded him quizzically. ‘I too watch my parades, but always from behind a column so as not to distract my young ladies. Haven’t I seen you before – escorting Mlle Antonin from the premises?’

‘Maybe once or twice. Look, I’ll take care of Alix now. She’s fine. It got too hot in there. Too many Spaniards. We were admiring her dress a little while back – the
gold one? I tell you, M’sieur, you’re good.’

‘And you are far too kind.’ Javier gave his impeccable bow and left.

*

Alix gasped when Mabel Godnosc showed her photographs of the Mainbocher gown Wallis Simpson had worn for her marriage on 3
^rd
June 1937. She saw a close-fitting dress on a woman without hips. Square shoulders and a buttoned panel under the bust, which drew the eye to the middle.
That feature was strikingly similar to her ‘Rose Noire’.

‘Half New York’s wearing the Wally dress already, and you had it on paper before she did,’ Mabel enthused. ‘You tell me – is the old-fashioned corset about to make a comeback?’

Alix had no idea. But maybe she did possess the designer’s muscle, that skill of leapfrogging the obvious, of capturing a bit of the future.

Una brought her back
to earth. ‘Don’t get starry, Alix. Copying’s where the money is.’

‘I hate it,’ Alix retorted. ‘Every time I come here I betray a man I respect. If it weren’t for my grandmother, I’d walk out.’

Rosa had let her have Verrian’s old room at a fair rent, so her living costs ought to be manageable. But a week or so back the St-Sulpice landlord had sent her a bill for ‘dilapidations’ to his property;
damage to the apartment walls from kerosene fumes and ‘unauthorised hammering in of picture hooks’. He wanted the equivalent of three months’ rent to put things right. That, on top of Mémé’s weekly bills … Alix now knew why Paul always looked so haggard. You put a little money by, then bam! Fate picks your pocket.

Thanks to the ‘Collection Too Sexy’, Alix had finally been paid for her copying.
After Mabel took her cut and Una hers, there’d been thirty thousand francs each for Alix and Paul. A long way from the riches they’d dreamed of in the Jardin du Luxembourg. Alix’s had gone on bills. Paul’s boat still leaked and Suzy’s speech therapy continued once a month with a lady who did it for charity. Alix picked up the glass by her elbow and
knocked back its contents. Una had recently taken
to mixing her Gin Alexanders. She’d hated the taste at first, but now she craved the bitterness.

Today Alix sketched the Scottish-inspired suits from Javier’s autumn–winter collection, her pencils going so fast, they practically steamed. Funny, the more she hated this game, the better she got at it. After an hour she sat back. ‘I’m done for tonight.’

As always, Mabel gathered up the sketches
and locked them away. First thing tomorrow they’d be couriered to Cherbourg or Le Havre, where they’d catch the fastest ocean liner to New York. Javier’s autumn–winter show was fixed for 29
^th
July, a full seven weeks away, and Mabel had promised on the lives of all her nephews and nieces that no pirate Javiers would appear in New York until mid-August at the earliest.

To help Mabel remember,
Alix had circled Sunday, 15th August 1937 on the calendar. ‘Not a seam to be stitched before, you understand?’

‘Boy scouts’ honour.’ Mabel had even given the salute.

*

Onstage at the Rose Noire, Lenice Leflore sang ‘Body and Soul’ and conversations died away. Cigarette holders stalled on their way to lips. Alix let her eyes drift closed. Serge didn’t want to dance tonight. He was keeping her
warm for later, he said. First he had to talk with some men about an investment. ‘Investment’ was code for bootleg absinthe brought in from Spain, Alix had learned.

Serge had picked her up from the Champs-Elysées and taken her to dine at his favourite place, a restaurant in Pigalle. Ardennes pâté, then a slow-cooked chicken casserole. He had ordered for her as he liked to do … as Jean-Yves had
liked to do.
Jean-Yves
. On the day Christine’s wedding photograph had been taken, Alix’s parting gift to the comte had been a look of utter scorn. She hadn’t let him know her new address, and with his wife now banished from Javier, there’d been no opportunity for them to bump into each other. Come to think of it, the family must all be in Alsace, with Christine’s wedding so close.

Alix drank
the last inch of champagne in her glass, and looked around for a waiter. After they’d eaten, Serge had driven them back here, his hand on her knee as he flicked in and out of the traffic. He’d wanted to make love to her the moment they got inside the club – he’d have taken her on the foyer carpet had they not been disturbed by staff coming in to work. She’d run upstairs, locking a door behind her,
and changed into an evening dress.

Tonight’s was a black faux Chanel with a keyhole back that Mabel had sold her cheap because a customer had returned it, used. It was the kind of dress that made you feel magically grown-up. Alix sat alone at Serge’s table by the dance floor. This table was never given away, no matter how crowded the Rose Noire became. To sit here made a girl a queen – a lonely
queen.

A waiter refilled her glass without a word. None of the staff ever got familiar with Serge’s women. Not that she’d exactly
chosen to be Serge’s woman. He’d simply assumed it, talked it into being and taken her life over. While she had chosen to play along, it was why she hadn’t yet succumbed to him sexually – she wanted that to be her choice, not his. But tonight felt different. There
was no reason to hold out any more, was there? She watched him greeting his visitors, shaking hands, clapping shoulders. People here liked him. Women loved him. She’d seen them actually shake with passion when he stood close by. Some said it was his reputation for violence that excited them, though she’d seen no evidence of violence. True, he didn’t like drunks. He’d have his doormen tip them on to
the street, and once a boy who’d snuck in to steal evening purses had been rammed against the bar until his nose ran scarlet. That had been horrible to witness. But Alix had never seen Serge personally hurt anyone.

Would Verrian ever walk in here again? Heavens, where had that thought come from? Well, would he? Approach with that half-smile that never quite delivered its message? She imagined
him leading her to the dance floor, explaining what had kept him away for more than a month. A heartbeat of silence as the bandleader paused before swinging his music men into ‘My Blue Heaven’. Their tune, their universe. The dance floor would shimmer with silk and lamé, sequins and satin, and she would melt like fondant …