The Dress Thief (27 page)

Alix left work, her back aching. Her heart too. What else had the Comte de Charembourg lied to her about? His affection for her? His compliments on her looks and her talent? Did that mean she had none after all?

On Rue Boccador, Verrian stepped out in front of her with the greeting, ‘Is this you ignoring me?’

‘I can’t stop, I’m late.’

‘For?’
He matched her pace.

‘My other job. I’m starting work in a sort of fashion house, helping out.’

‘After a full day at Javier? And what about after that?’

‘Home. My grandmother has a meal waiting for me.’

At the junction with Montaigne, Alix stopped, too tired to make the crossing.

Verrian took her arm. ‘How will you get home?’

‘Métro or bus.’

He said, ‘I’ll pick you up and will do so every
night – buy you a glass of wine, a bit of conversation, then drive you home.’

‘You don’t have a car.’

‘True, but I’ll get one.’

She sniffed like a girl who’s heard that one before. ‘Go to Billancourt and buy a small Renault.’

‘That’s a thought. So, it’s a deal?’ They crossed the road together. ‘We meet every day and I see you home?’

‘I’ve never seen anybody every day, except my grandmother.
We might argue.’

‘I should think we will but—’ He stopped. ‘Alix, you’re limping. Is there something in your shoe?’

‘No.’ It came out too quickly.

‘Well, you’re a different person entirely today. Are you trying to tell me something?’

She denied it, adding, ‘Only that you’ll get bored with me, find me frivolous.’

‘Your frivolity has depths. Nothing will stop me admiring you except –’

‘There’s
always “except”.’

‘War or death. How’s that? What time do you finish this extra job?’

‘About nine.’

‘Where shall I wait?’

‘The Champs-Elysées, the Concorde end. I’ll find you,’ she finally conceded. After all, Verrian had proved his feelings could last a whole night and day this time.

*

It took Alix a while to find the discreet green door beside the tailoring shop on the Champs-Elysées that
was Una’s associate’s place of business. As she raised a hand to knock, a familiar voice hailed her.

‘My, you look like you spent a day up the rigging. Couldn’t you kill a rose macaroon? No time, more’s the pity.’ Una Kilpin waved her driver off, watching the Rolls-Royce nose into the traffic. ‘Is that my Lelong dress?’ She indicated the garment bag over Alix’s arm. ‘You left in a rush last night.
Anyone I know?’

Alix muttered something unintelligible while Una gave three short raps on the door followed by a heavy one. ‘One day I’ll summon up the ghost of Beethoven. Now listen, Alix, the lady you’re meeting upstairs knows every New York apparel manufacturer worth knowing. We go back a long time, but I warn you, she’s hard on the ears.’ A female voice behind the green door demanded identification.
Una called, ‘The talent, honey.’

Letting them in, the receptionist asked for the code word. Alix wasn’t sure she’d ever been told it. Una said, ‘Mariette. Twice – in case we forget next time.’ They climbed the stairs to a door with a spy grille where the words ‘Maison Godnosc’ were displayed on a brass plate. The receptionist unlocked that door and Alix wondered how many times a day the girl
went through this procedure.

The girl melted away into a side office as Alix followed Una into a large room with drawn blinds. From the far side, a woman
scurried towards them with a cry of, ‘Is this her?’ She was wishbone thin, of indeterminate age, with hair dyed the colour of a burning bush.

Una made introductions. ‘Alix, this is my business partner, Mabel Godnosc, and these offices are by
writ and custom American soil. In other words, we shake paws, no kissing.’

Mabel Godnosc demonstrated, pumping Alix’s hand. Because she wore five bracelets per wrist, she clanked. ‘What sort of day have I had?’ she said, though nobody had asked. ‘Three Lanvins ordered and a Patou “maybe”. Every customer without appointment, so we dragged out the house models till we saw the colour of their money.
Does this kid understand me?’ Mrs Godnosc demanded of Una. ‘Did you tell her? No French spoken, English only.’

‘I understand perfectly,’ Alix replied and thought ‘No French’ was probably the reason this woman wasn’t in jail – Mabel Godnosc’s dress and jacket were a bullseye copy of a Chanel. By ‘house models’, Alix presumed Mabel meant the dresses she whisked out in emergencies to give the front
of being a legitimate fashion house. Seeing Alix’s interest, Mabel did a twirl.

‘Forty-five dollars, including washing instructions and fancy wrapping. Whaddya say, petal?’

Alix was to learn that Maison Godnosc worked everything in dollars.

*

While the older women bantered, Alix began the work she’d
come to do. Sooner finished, sooner out. All she wanted was to be with Verrian again.

Sitting
down at a table, she took off her shoe and retrieved the folded paper hidden inside. It resembled a mad professor’s jotter. Mabel peered over her shoulder.

‘These squiggles are clothes?’

‘Please understand, Madame, I have to memorise the dresses and draw them quickly. I’m going to translate the squiggles for you now.’

Mabel turned to Una. ‘Have I offended her?’

‘You have not offended me, Madame.’
Alix was itching to get started. ‘Will you bring me paper and coloured pencils?’

‘You’ve not brought your own?’

‘I cannot go to work with drawing materials sticking out of my bag. Of course you must supply them.’ Alix’s patience was cracking. Una nodded to Mabel, and Mabel dashed out, haring back into the room with an artist’s box and block.

‘So, petal, how many today?’

‘Five models, Mme Godnosc.’

‘Only five?’

Una cut in. ‘Mabel, we’re not canning peas. Five, but five accurate to the last thread. Could your girl mix me a Gin Alexander? Alix will have tea.’

‘The girl can’t make tea; don’t ask her. Anything with gin.’

‘Alix will have milk.’

Five copies, accurate to the last thread … While Una and
Mabel clinked glasses, Alix sketched Oro, then evening gowns one to four from the mid-season
collection. Unlike the Spanish-inspired gowns that would crown the show, dresses one through four were intended for evenings in Cannes or Cap d’Antibes. For watching the sun go down from the rails of an ocean liner, cocktail glass in hand. They were a silk-linen blend with a pattern of Moorish fretwork and orange blossom. A Lyon manufacturer had made the fabric for Javier as an eleventh-hour favour
and it was unmatched anywhere in the world. Alix had taken samples in the stockroom, cutting absolutely straight so the next person handling the cloth would notice nothing. She reckoned she’d lost a pound in weight from fear.

She drew front, back and side views, adding vignettes of the detail – a self-fabric belt with a buckle in the shape of orange leaves; a puffed sleeve with a squared-off
top; a wide collar showing a plain revere. Tomorrow she’d give them Lune de Minuit and Seguidilla. She’d give these women the whole collection, hem by hem, sleeve by sleeve. And when she’d earned her payout, she would never do it again.

Mabel Godnosc hovered over her. ‘How d’you manage it? Did you sneak a look at Javier’s sketchbook?’

‘Never. Only the designers and premiers are allowed in the
studios alone, and only they see the full collection before it’s shown.’

‘Alix has the eye,’ Una chipped in. She was perched on a desk, displaying a slender calf and knee. ‘Knew it first time I saw her.
Most women look at clothes and imagine them on themselves, and most men look straight through them. Alix soaks them in. She has the savvy to know why a garment is put together the way it is.’

Mabel Godnosc made a thoughtful noise. ‘If Javier’s mid-season kicks off middle of May, our factories need sketches and samples by last week. They need to be on to it now.’

Una and Mabel begin to fling dates and schedules at each other. Alix listened impatiently before cutting in with, ‘Wait! Nothing must be released until after Thursday 12
^th
May, which is the day the collection is previewed.
You understand?’ She put down her pencil to show she was serious. ‘These drawings must not travel until Javier has shown the originals in Paris.’

Una shrugged ‘sure’ and looked at Mabel, who said, ‘Don’t fret, petal. We keep schtum at Maison Godnosc. Any sign of you-know-who coming in to order?’

Wearily Alix picked up her pencil. ‘Who, Madame?’

‘Mrs Simpson. The future queen.’

‘The king abdicated.
She won’t be queen.’

‘Future duchess who oughta be queen. Don’t those English know how hard the lady works to look like that? Hips that slim, they’d save a fortune on thrones.’

‘She bought a few pieces from Javier,’ Alix murmured, not looking up, ‘but she likes Mainbocher best.’

‘Maybe she comes up the side stairs when nobody’s looking.’

Una said, ‘Mabel, let Alix work.’

‘Sure, but listen,’
Mabel persisted. ‘If Javier made her wedding dress and we got it two weeks early, we might as well be printing dollars. If she wore Javier to marry the king—’

‘She isn’t marrying the king,’ Alix snapped. ‘She’s marrying the ex-king.’

‘Una, is she always so grouchy?’

‘Always, Mabel, and it’s why you’ll get your collection. Leave her be.’

Not the whole collection, Alix decided on an irritable
whim. They weren’t having Seguidilla, because she wasn’t handing over Mémé’s shadow work, nor would they get Midnight Moon, in which she’d danced the tango with Paul. She shaded in the last detail … now she could go and find Verrian.

But Mabel had other ideas. She gripped Alix’s arm. ‘Why don’t you knock out a little original for me?’ When Alix echoed her question, she nodded hard. ‘We have to
keep up the front of being a legit house and I’m no hand at designing. My niece was doing it, but she’s gone back to New York and I’ve tried to recruit, but getting the right person …’

‘Go to it, Alix,’ Una urged. She was on her third gin. ‘You want to be a couturier and here’s Mabel giving you the go. She’ll give you a commission on any frock of yours she sells, won’t you, Mabel?’

The Godnosc
eyebrows contracted over the Godnosc nose. ‘Sure, why not? Make it a day dress, an easy-wear, million-seller. Just one. One little one.’

Vey ist mir
. Woe is me. Alix studied the blank sheet in front of her, then the clock on the wall. Verrian Haviland had better like waiting.

*

When Alix looked within for that million-seller frock, all that appeared was an uninspiring tube. She gave it a crossover
front. Ugh, that was what Mme Rey wore because it accommodated her bosom. She added buttons. Now it reminded her of school domestic science. New page, start again. Bold, puff sleeves à la Javier, a stand-up collar with a vivid lining. A diamond shape under the bust, defining the stomach, skirt falling from the natural waist. Now, that felt different. For years, fashion had made a smooth curve
of the waist. The 1930s had given women back their figures after the drop waists of the previous decade, but the prevailing look had been willow-wand, the emphasis on the shoulders. The diamond midriff she’d just drawn was out of step. Too radical? Probably, but it was already twenty past nine.

Fabric … safe black crêpe. Reveres and cuffs picked out in patterned crêpe, crimson perhaps, hand-printed
with a black motif. A flower … a Pugin-style rose like those she’d embroidered on her poor ‘Schiaparelli’ coat. There, done. She drew a back view and four small vignettes of the dress’s detail, scribbled in the fabric notes and said to Mme Godnosc, ‘I must go.’

Una picked up the drawing. ‘You have to do your floor exercises to get away with that look. Not that you have to care, Alix. I’ll be
your first taker, but change the colours.’

‘The dress is the colours,’ Alix said.

‘Not when I’m the client. Dog black and blood red? You’ve been reading the papers again. What are you going to call it?’

‘I don’t know.’ It was half past nine. ‘Wait, call it “Rose Noire”.’

It took Alix only a few minutes to find Verrian, but one look at his face told her he very much disliked waiting. She took the seat he pulled out for her. He’d chosen an outside table near the junction of the Champs-Elysées and Place de la Concorde. She’d have walked right by had he not hailed her, because the avenue was hidden in the conflicting
glare of café and car lights and two women had been standing right in front of him.

As Alix approached, they’d sashayed away, casting glances over their shoulders.
Only a streetwalker would wear a suit two sizes too small unbuttoned to the bosom
, Alix thought. ‘Friends of yours?’

‘No – as you perfectly well know.’ Verrian had a glass of beer in front of him, which was propping up a broadsheet
newspaper. ‘Would you like one?’ he asked, tapping the rim.

‘Wine, please, red.’ She added, ‘I tilt my hats, but I don’t stick them to the side of my head like a custard pie. Why do those girls do it?’

‘A discreet form of advertising. Simpler than carrying a banner. You’re late, Miss Gower.’