The Dress Thief Page 27

  *

  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 3rd 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 29th 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 san
g ‘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 …

  She wrinkled her nose because champagne bubbles had whizzed up. She could feel them in her forehead. Wind back the film. Verrian would get halfway across the floor to find Serge in front of him – Alix is mine now. I’ll take care of her.

  ‘May I have this dance, Miss?’

  She turned in surprise. A fresh-faced young man stood a couple of feet away. American by the sound of him. ‘No,’ she said, keeping it short because she would slur anything more complex.

  He backed away. ‘Didn’t like seeing you on your own, Miss Muffet. Sorry I bothered.’

  Miss Muffet. Sat on a tuffet. There came a big spider … Alix drank down her champagne. Today’s date was a very special one. Today was 11th June. Today, she turned twenty-one.

  She’d dropped hints about her birthday. Obviously not loudly enough. Serge was still with his black-market friends at the bar, not even looking her way. The band began to play ‘C’est à Robinson’, a lilting tune that tore at her heart. Then the lights went out. Laughter and little screams greeted it, though this was such a regular gimmick, people must surely be used to it by now. When the lights came up again, balloons would fall from the ceiling … or petals, or feathers. Alix squirmed irritably. She heard squeaking wheels. Whispers. She saw a wavering candle flame in the dark. Then another flame, then another. Men in white waiter’s jackets were coming towards her. Each carrying a candle …

  They surrounded her. It felt pagan, those candles in the dark. And then, in harmony, they began to sing first in French ‘Bon anniversaire, nos vœux les plus sincères –’ and then in hilariously bad English –‘Happy birthday to you …’

  Applause rippled, the lights came up and she saw that a platform had been wheeled into the middle of the dance floor. It supported an edifice of champagne goblets six tiers high. Serge was on a ladder, grinning as he trickled champagne into the topmost glass, which overflowed into the glasses below. And the glasses below … and below. Her own birthday champagne cascade. As he emptied each bottle, another was passed up. He poured a seamless plume of champagne. People left their tables to cheer at the spectacle, making a path for Alix, who stood where she was, enthralled.

  Finally Serge picked off the top glass and carried it down the ladder. He handed it to Alix, but before she could put the glass to her lips he pulled her to him, kissing her hard. Holding a glass full to its brim, she could do nothing but comply, and then the band was playing ‘Rendez-vous sous la Pluie’ and people were cheering. As the fashionable crowd clustered around the fountain for their share, she and Serge danced. The band speeded up and, knowing Serge was about to whirl her around, she knocked her champagne back in one. She shouted, ‘Catch, Félix!’ to the head sommelier and tossed the glass over her shoulder. Félix made a perfect save and a roar of approval greeted her wildness.

  Serge began laughing and she caught his mood. They whirled and laughed through ‘Rendez-vous’, ‘St Louis Blues’ and ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’.

  *

  She was drunk by the time they reached his bedroom. So drunk the fancy four-poster bed had no straight lines. And what was that on the side table, next to the lamp? A blue glass bottle-thing with pipes attached … it looked awfully like the vaginal douche the nurse at Maison Javier had shown her during her pep talk on the perils of pregnancy. Only this one was terribly pretty. Was she supposed to use it later? Why did it have two pipes?

  She heard Serge swear as he tripped over the threshold after her. He turned off the main light and switched on a silk-shaded lamp, turning the room into a rosy chamber. She arched as he stood behind her, threading his arms round her, stroking her stomach, hips and breasts. Why’d she got so worked up about this moment? She was ready. She was … wasn’t she? Only she wished the room would stay still. One moment she was losing herself to caressing hands, to Serge’s lips, which found all the flesh her dress left bare. Next moment the floor sagged and everything started spinning.

  A ripping sound brought her back to her senses. Her dress was under attack. Shaking Serge off, she sat on the bed, kicked off her shoes and angled herself so Serge could undo her fastenings. ‘Extra, extra careful,’ she told him. ‘I like this dress.’

  He was hauling it over her head, giving her no option but to stick her arms in the air. She mumbled a complaint as it hit the floor. He didn’t hear; his breathing was harsh, his hands raking her. This was not the Serge who had laughed them upstairs. The new Serge was pushing her into the middle of the bed, where she had a lapse of consciousness. She came round to find her knickers being pulled off. All she was wearing now was her slip, a waist girdle and stockings and she felt suddenly conscious of her nakedness. ‘Careful,’ she slurred, meaning, ‘Be careful with me.’ Shuddery conversations in school locker rooms had warned of this first time, and Alix had also overheard young female shop assistants at Arding & Hobbs whispering about ‘giving in’ to their admirers, ‘going all the way’, and the need for special
caution. She tried to articulate this, but Serge was on top of her, his mouth covering hers. He was pulling at his trouser buttons, his breath hot against her face. She’d have liked to put her arms around him and to hear words of reassurance, but she couldn’t get her arms free from her sides. It was like being trussed.

  Panic took her. Last time she’d felt like this, she’d been on the floor at St-Sulpice, a slimy rag in her mouth. She struggled as Serge pushed her legs apart, alternately kissing her and murmuring indistinct words into her neck. Something hard struck between her legs … A moment of stunned realisation was followed by the sharpest pain she’d ever felt in her life. She’d have yowled if she’d been able to open her mouth. Every muscle tensed in defence, but he was already inside her, pushing, and his movements became powerfully rhythmic. The pain grew almost unbearable and tears welled up, her fingers closing into fists. She was going to die.

  And then, thank God, he shuddered, grinding and roaring incoherent passion into her hair. A second later he collapsed, spent.

  Alix lay in shock. Raw pain between her legs, bruised breasts, burning where his chin had rubbed. Worse, a sense of loss. That something had been taken but not valued. This was lovemaking? Weren’t you supposed to fly into the outer realms of physical rapture? Be caressed and told you were beautiful? Obviously not. That must be a big lie to make women agree to do it.

  Perhaps Serge realised he’d been rough, because he rolled off her. Reaching for her hand, he said, ‘First time’s always bad, best to get it over with fast. You’ll learn what to do, so don’t worry and, anyway, it’s your fault.’

  ‘Mine?’

  He leaned over her and nibbled the tip of her nose. ‘That sexy body of yours … I couldn’t hold back. First time Serge Martel’s ever come first, so consider yourself special.’

  The mattress creaked as he got up and she heard him removing the rest of his clothes. A double clunk told her he was only just taking his shoes off …

  Tears still rolling down her cheeks, she told herself he’d been frantic because she’d denied him too long. He got into bed and lifted up the covers so she could get underneath with him. She wanted to go to the bathroom, not liking the sticky sensation between her legs. She’d like to gargle away the taste of the night’s champagne. And was she supposed to use that douche-thing?