I frown. “That’s just silly. ’Course I’ll be here again.”
“Maybe, maybe not. There are a lot of cities to cover in a lifetime, Bean Machine. Don’t play Russian roulette with Paris.” She puts down her mag and stands over me. “And don’t make me drag you into the shower. Move!”
After breakfast (I manage half a croissant and some hot chocolate), Clover and I leave Mum and Monique sipping their third cups of coffee and discussing waxing versus shaving (fascinating stuff — not) and hit the shops. We promise to catch up with them later for bridesmaid-dress shopping.
After mooching in and out of some so-so boutiques, we find this cool place that sells end-of-the-line designer clothes. Clover finds a stunning Jean Paul Gaultier waistcoat for twenty euro and a pair of red skinny jeans with the label ripped out for next to nothing. We try on some eye-wateringly expensive leather jackets in another shop, parading up and down in front of the mirror and pretending to be rock chicks.
We just have time for a quick café lunch before we have to dash to meet Mum and Monique at the Place des Abbesses Métro sign. “There you are, girls.” Monique beams at us.
Mum looks a little agitated. “You’re ten minutes late.”
“Loosen up, Sylvie,” Clover says. “We’re on holidays, remember?”
Before Mum has a chance to say anything else, Monique takes my hand and leads me down a quiet cobbled backstreet. “Keep up, you two!” she shouts at Clover and Mum.
“I thought we were supposed to be looking for bridesmaids’ dresses?” Clover grumbles a few minutes later, after stubbing her big toe on a protruding cobblestone. “I don’t see any shops.”
Monique laughs as Clover grabs my arm and adjusts the strap of her shoe. “I did warn you not to wear heels.”
Clover scowls. “Wedgies aren’t heels. And I wanted to look my best for our visits to Chanel and Sonia Rykiel.”
Mum frowns. “Clover, I don’t have that kind of money. You know that.”
“I wasn’t suggesting
buying
our dresses there, Sylvie,” Clover says. “I’m not
that
delusional. I just thought we could have a look, get wedding ideas, inspiration.”
“For my simple not-too-much-fuss wedding?” Mum says, her eyebrows arching.
Monique claps her hands together. “Girls, do stop squabbling. We are here: L’Atelier Clair de Lune. In English: the Moonlight Workshop. Owned and run by one of my dearest friends, Odette Lune. Ta-da!” She throws her arms out theatrically. “What do you think?”
We all stare at the shop front. It is painted midnight blue, and sparkling white fairy lights frame both its plate-glass windows. “L’Atelier Clair de Lune” is written in curling white letters across the glass, and silvery-gray velvet curtains hide what’s inside. It looks magical.
Monique pushes the door open, and there’s a metallic click as the old-fashioned bell attached to the top of the door frame gives a
ting-a-ling-a-ling
.
It’s just as enchanting inside — a work desk runs the whole way along the right-hand wall, and two large sewing machines sit proudly on the wood, like gunmetal swans. Above the machines is a shelf crammed with spools of rainbow thread and glass jars packed with buttons. On a second shelf are stacks of clear plastic boxes full of multicolored ribbon, velvet bows, silk butterflies, tiny metal clasps, and snow-white and owl-brown feathers. It’s like a fashion candy store.
On the sound system, a strong, gravelly woman’s voice is singing about regretting
rien
— which I think means “nothing.”
“Amazing,” Clover says, running her finger over a miniature gold top hat perched on top of a dressmaker’s dummy.
The dress on the dummy is out of this world — a buttercup-yellow bustier encrusted with a delicate lacy pattern in gold embroidery sits above a skirt of pale-yellow chiffon layers that are shimmying in the slight draft.
The left-hand wall is alive with even more incredible dresses, mostly delicate pastel colors, with the odd dash of hot pink or turquoise, all dancing on a steel rail.
“Wow, wow, wow!” Mum parades up and down the frocks, lost for words. She looks like Alex at the model-train museum, her eyes bugging in their sockets. Stopping in front of a delicate shell-pink dress, she unhooks its hanger from the rail and holds it up against me.
“You suggested pink for Amy, didn’t you?” she asks Monique.
Monique nods. “Pink for Amy and green for me and Clover. But you have the final say, of course, Sylvie.”
Mum looks me up and down. “I know you don’t normally wear pink, but the color suits you perfectly. Look.” She spins me around to look in the old-fashioned floor mirror by the work desk. Her eyes fill with tears.
I take the dress out of her hand, and holding it up against me, I stare in the mirror. For a second I don’t recognize myself. It’s not a shade I would have chosen, but I have to admit, it does make my skin glow. The boned bodice is a pale-pink raw silk, while the chiffon skirt, ballerina length but not too full, is a slightly darker pink.
As I’m looking at myself, a curtain twitches at the back of the shop and a blond girl steps out. She’s even smaller than Clover, which is saying something, and is dressed head to toe in black, from her lacy shirt to her patent brogues. Her neat chignon and the slash of ruby red on her lips make her look like a 1930s movie star. She smiles at me.
“Vous voulez l’essayer?”
And then she notices Monique. “Monny!” She throws her arms around her friend.
“Ça me fait bien plaisir de te voir!”
“Detty!” They hug and hug and hug, laughing and dancing on the spot and prattling away in French.
I grin at Clover. “Think that’ll be us when we’re ancient?”
She smiles back. “I hope so.” Then, lowering her voice, she asks, “Do you really like the dress?” (She knows it’s not my usual style.)
“It’s pretty,” I whisper back. “And it’s Mum’s day.”
Odette finally draws away from Monique, and turning to Mum, she smiles. “And you must be Sylvie. I ’ear much about you from Monny. And you’re getting
married
. How wonderful!” Her eyes sparkle and she looks genuinely thrilled for Mum. “Monny say you look for bridesmaids’ dresses, yes?”
“That’s right,” Mum says. “For my daughter Amy.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “And Monny and Clover. Clover’s my sister.”
Odette looks surprised. “Yes? You look very different.”
Clover grins. “Thanks.”
Mum gives her a thump on the arm.
“Hey!” Clover squeals, rubbing her skin.
“So three dresses in total,” Mum adds, ignoring her. “And I just love this one.” She points at the pink dress I’m still holding. “Can Amy try it on?”
“Of course.” Odette leads me into the changing room and leaves me to get undressed. Once I’ve slipped the dress on, the silk soft and deliciously cool against my skin, I stare in the mirror. The bodice is way too big, my boobs don’t go near filling it, but the waist fits perfectly. The dress dips low at the back to just below my shoulder blades. It’s not only my nose and chin that have broken out in spots, there’s a new crop tattooing my right shoulder blade, and the way things are going, my skin will be even worse by Mum’s wedding on New Year’s Eve. I can wear makeup on my face, but what about my back?
“Ready, Amy?” Mum calls through the changing-room curtain.
I take a deep breath, part the curtain, and walk out, my shoulders hunched a little in embarrassment.
Mum doesn’t seem to notice. Her hands flutter to her chest as she practically swoons. “Amy, you look beautiful — like Cinderella.”
I grin and pull at the bodice. “I could certainly keep a coach team of mice and lizards down the front.”
Odette laughs. “That is easily fixed. When do you leave, tomorrow?”
Monique says, “Sadly, yes. Tomorrow evening.”
“Boo!” I add.
Odette smiles at me. “You like my city?”
I nod eagerly. “It’s amazing.”
“That makes me very ’appy. Now, a few tucks and the dress will be perfect. And I will ’ave it ready tomorrow afternoon, yes?” Odette slips a small velvet pincushion on a thick black elastic band onto the back of her hand and ushers me into the changing room. “Come, come.” Once inside she begins gathering and pinning the bodice. (I’m afraid to move in case I get prickled in the chest by one of the pearl-topped pins.)
When she moves around to the back, I wince and my shoulders stiffen. Odette will be appalled by the state of my skin. Her dress deserves better. And I’ll be even more exposed walking up the aisle in front of Mum. Absolutely everyone will see my spots then. It’ll ruin the day for me, I just know it. Oh, why did I agree to be a bridesmaid in the first place? I blink frantically, trying not to cry.
Odette smooths the back of the bodice with her hands, puts in two more small tucks, and then stands in front of me again and smiles. “Looks good. Nearly done.” Then she notices my wobbling lips. “My dear, what’s wrong? You ’ate my dress?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s gorgeous. It’s just . . . I feel uncomfortable showing so much bare flesh. . . . My skin’s so bad. . . . I’m sorry.” I start to cry.
Odette digs in her pocket and hands me a pale-blue cotton handkerchief, with a tiny moon embroidered in one corner. She folds it into my hand. “I made it myself. Is yours now. Clean, I promise.” She smiles.
I smile back and use it to mop up my tears. “Thank you. I’m so sorry. You must think I’m being ridiculous.”
“Not at all. I tell you a story. When I was about your age I ’ad terrible acne, all down ’ere. And ’ere.” She runs her fingers down her neck and then points at the top of her chest. “And all over my back. I ’ated it — so embarrassing. I made my mother give me a note to get off games and gym so I wouldn’t ’ave to change in front of the other girls. That makes me sad now — it was so extreme. But it seemed like the only option at the time.
“I was desperate to ’ide my skin. I couldn’t find any clothes I liked, so I started to make my own. I got quite good at it, and now you see I ’ave my own shop. So to every dark cloud there is a silver lining. You ’ave a few spots, my dear, but they are ’ardly noticeable. To you they seem unsightly, ’ideous, yes?”
I nod. “Yes. Revolting.”
“Really they are very small. And your skin will clear up in time. But for now, be clever with what you wear. And for this dress, I ’ave a solution.” She disappears out of the changing room for a second and comes back with a cute green silk cropped jacket dusted with darker green sequins, which she pops over my shoulders. She then ties a matching sash around my waist.
“For good luck,” she adds, fastening a tiny gold-and-green frog brooch onto the right-hand side of the bodice. “Now take another look.”
I stare in the mirror again. The bodice fits like a glove, and now that I’m not fretting about people staring at my back, I feel like a million dollars.
“We show the others?” Odette says. “Yes?”
“Yes! Thank you, Odette.” I give her a hug.
“My pleasure. You make my dress come to life, Amy. Thank
you
.” She shakes her head. “I am so glad I am not a teenager anymore. Is difficult, yes? But fun.”
I laugh. “You said it.”
When I walk out of the changing room, even Clover is impressed. She whistles. “Not bad, Beanie. And the jacket and sash really funk up the whole look. I love Kermit.” She fingers the tiny frog, then turns to the silver rails and pulls out a mint-green version of the same dress. “What do you think of this one for me?” She holds it up against her chest.
“I like it,” I say. “It suits you.”
“Try it with this.” Odette hands her a hot-pink jacket and sash. Clover doesn’t look all that convinced but toddles off to try it on.
“Stay in your dress, Amy,” Mum says, “and we’ll see how they work together.”
“How do I look?” Clover asks, sashaying out of the changing room a few minutes later. She’s flicking the skirt around with her hand, and unlike me, she fills the bodice beautifully.
“Stunning,” Odette says.
Again, Mum is so overcome she can barely speak. She waves her hand in front of her face, smiles, and nods, her eyes damp.
“Amy?” Clover turns to me. “Be honest.”
“Like a princess.”
Clover looks at Monique.
“Très chic,”
Monique says. “Both of you. Now, stand together, girls, so I can take some photos. Vogue, darlings. Like real models.”
Clover straightens her back, tosses her hair around, and pouts for the camera. I copy her, and Monique laughs.
Meanwhile, Mum is wiping away the last of her tears and hugging Odette. “I thought finding a dress for Clover would be a nightmare. She’s so hard to please. I had visions of her trooping up the aisle in a Lycra mini or a pair of shorts. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’m so grateful.”
“Sylvie!” Clover complains. “That’s charming. I don’t wear Lycra minis.” (Which is a total lie.)
Mum and I swap a knowing look.
“And for Monny.” Odette whips a dress off the end of a rail and peels back a layer of plastic. There is a red ribbon on the top of the hanger, Monique’s name dangling off it on a brown luggage label. (Mum has some ideas about her own dress — she doesn’t want it to be too fussy — but she’s refusing to commit to anything yet.)
Odette holds the dress up in front of Monique, and we all gasp. The unusual moss-green silk, sprinkled with dark-pink sequins, suits her pale skin tone perfectly. It has a sleeker silhouette than our dresses, but the three colors work beautifully together. Odette is a genius.
“I ’ope you like it, Monny,” she adds.
“Like it?” Monique gives Odette another hug. “I love it!”
Monique tries it on immediately, and when she stalks out of the changing room like a supermodel, head held high, we all clap and cheer.
“It’s stunning, Monny,” Odette says. “If I do say so myself. You do it proud, my dear friend.”
Monique kisses her on both cheeks.
“What do you think, Sylvie?” Monique asks.
Once again, Mum’s lost for words — but judging by the blissed-out look on her face, I think it’s safe to say she approves. It’s only after Monique has changed and come back out of the changing room that Mum finds her tongue.
“So we can collect the dresses tomorrow afternoon?” she asks Odette. “And pay for them, of course.” A slight shadow falls over her face — even with the upcoming ghostwriting job, I know she’s worried about how she’s going to afford the wedding.