The Dress Thief (20 page)

‘Sleep easy’ – he was telling her that he’d paid her attacker and she need not fear any more. But why
not state plainly what he meant? Everybody bamboozled her with half-facts, or gave her a truth so diluted it wasn’t worth having. Or disappeared, like Verrian. Only Bonnet treated her as an adult with a brain. Crossly she dug into her handbag for her door-key. It wasn’t there. She tipped the bag’s contents on to the floor and felt the lining. Definitely not there. She’d put her bag down at Mother
Richelieu’s, which one should never do as Montmartre was notorious for bag-snatchers. Her purse was there, so maybe the key had just fallen out. She knocked and Mémé let her in, giving her granddaughter a disgruntled look, telling her to sit down while she made black coffee.

It was much later when Alix got round to writing the comte a short thank-you, which she addressed to Rue du Sentier. She
signed it ‘Mathilda’, a gesture she knew was both provocative and childish.

*

Monday arrived and, with still no word from Verrian, Alix accepted that Bonnet was right. Verrian Haviland was an experienced man for whom a kiss in the rain meant nothing. But when, eleven days after their parting outside the Deux Magots, Pauline Frankel came to her workbench and said, ‘Alix, take off your smock and
come to the salon, somebody wishes to speak with you,’ her heart still bucked like a spring lamb. It could only be Verrian.

Why hadn’t he warned her? Disaster! She was wearing her dowdiest skirt and
ugh!
flat shoes. Mme Frankel showed her into one of the trying-on rooms off the salon, telling her to wait. ‘You may not appear in the salon itself, you understand?’

Alix perched on a sofa, bubbles
popping inside her. Would Verrian bring flowers? Use that sexy, amused voice? Would he want to kiss her? On balance she’d rather he didn’t, not while she was wearing these clothes. She’d rather be kissed in a cabaret,
wearing her favourite evening gown. Well, her only evening gown.

The door opened and Alix leaped up. It wasn’t Verrian who entered, but a woman whose hourglass shape came wrapped
in a beige suit. A white cone hat was pinned to her blonde hair. Pale fur swathed one shoulder. Good God – it was the American from Hermès, the one who’d given her six out of ten. Alix sagged. No sexy smile, no flowers. But something was about to happen. A telling-off, maybe?

Mme Frankel made introductions. ‘Mme Kilpin, this is Alix Gower. Alix, Mme Kilpin called into my office the other day,
expressing a desire to meet the girl who sews so neatly and fast. I was delighted to agree as it’s always the salesgirls and the fitters who get the praise when an order is delivered on time. Seam-stresses are the poor cousins. I should know; I was one once. Mme Kilpin, do please sit. Ah, good, tea has arrived. You will take refreshment?’

As Alix tried to make sense of the woman arranging herself
on a sofa of cream damask, a junior saleswoman laid out fine china and slices of lemon on a salver. Mme Frankel poured. Mme Kilpin stared at Alix.

‘Recognise the skirt, kiddo?’

‘The trellis silk, Madame. I sewed it for you.’

‘It arrived two hours before my husband did, and I wore it to meet him at the airport. He didn’t notice. I might have been wearing a grain sack to him, but the point is,
I was wearing an
ensemble I’d put together in my mind, so I was happy. I like my plans to work.’ Mme Kilpin’s French was riddled with errors and her accent was a crime, but Alix guessed she didn’t care. Why should she? ‘Madame’ had no need to please anybody. But still, Alix couldn’t fathom this meeting – no lady ever thanked her dressmaker.

‘I’m glad I put my mark on you, Mlle Gower.’

‘Mark,
Madame?’

‘Oh, shoot, she hasn’t guessed. Put her in the picture, Mme Frankel.’ The American raised her teacup to her lips.

‘Mme Kilpin goes by a different name occasionally, to amuse herself. Not so?’ Pauline Frankel threw the visitor a quizzical look.

‘Sure. I give myself a laugh three times a day.’

‘She calls herself sometimes … Mme Shone.’

‘Shone – oh.’ Blood hammered into Alix’s cheeks.
It was ‘Mme Shone’ who worked with Paul. Who wanted Javier’s collection dropped in her lap. Not the same ‘Shone’, please no.

‘Before her marriage, Mme Kilpin designed clothes in New York. She had her own business.’ Mme Frankel’s smile was so bland it was impossible to tell what her opinion might be.

‘Pretty successful, tell her that. I called myself “Shone” as in
Schön
, German for “beautiful”–
“Fashion Modes by Mme Beautiful”. I always say, if you don’t clang your own bell, nobody’s going to do it for you.’

‘No, Madame,’ Alix muttered.

Mme Frankel frowned. ‘Alix, Mme Kilpin is not only a leader in fashion, she is respected for her knowledge of couture. When she approached me in March, asking me to interview a young protégée who wished to work here, I agreed immediately. Why do you
think, when I was detained, that you were interviewed by Javier? D’you think every girl who walks in here is treated with such distinction?’

‘I suppose not,’ was the best Alix could offer. From the sound of it, Mme Kilpin had as good as
placed
her here. She must really want something in return.

‘I do love tea.’ The American drained her cup. ‘I’m not the greatest Anglophile – and I know you’re
half Brit, Alix, so pardon me – but I admire them for their tea. I used only to – oh, I nearly forgot –’ She turned to the première. ‘My vendeuse–’ she pronounced it ‘ven-doose’ – ‘mentioned that Javier has created a Scottish tartan for his autumn–winter season and some of it is in my colour? Would you fetch me a sample, dear Mme Frankel? Mr Kilpin is taking me to Scotland in the fall and I want
some sporty little suits. Alix will entertain me while you’re gone, won’t you, dear?’

‘If you wish, Madame.’

The moment Pauline Frankel was out of the room, Mme Kilpin leaned forward, saying in English, ‘We’ve got five minutes. Let’s get this hog roped and tied.’

‘Hog, Madame?’

‘Don’t piffle with me, Alix. I know you and you know me. Here –’ She dug into a suede handbag and a moment later
was flourishing silk at Alix. ‘Take it. As a gift.’

It was the Hermès scarf. The genuine article. Alix shook her head.

‘Sure you can.’

Alix sat back, her whole body saying no.

Mme Kilpin sighed. ‘Pride rarely earns a buck, but all right. I’m going to say a few things very fast. One, Paul le Gal is a doll. He’s worth ten of any man you are likely to meet in the next decade and if you don’t
know that … oh, look at your face. Your funeral, but the boy’s in love with you. Two, the boat he lives on is a floating disgrace.’

Alix nodded. That she could not refute.

‘Those dear little girls. What’ll get them first, dysentery or the nuns? Three, he needs money, I need money –’ a knowing glance at Alix’s brown stockings and shoes, ‘I guess we all need money.’

‘You need money, Madame? I
don’t believe it.’

‘Well, believe it. Four –’ her voice fell soft as snowflakes – ‘you’re unable to steal Javier’s spring–summer line. Paul’s explanation involved raspberry desserts and an angry head chef, from which I gather you couldn’t get enough detail to make proper sketches. I hate waving goodbye to money, but I accept that you were finding your feet. I want the mid-season stuff that’s
coming out next month. I’ll want Javier’s autumn–winter
collection, which he’ll show end of July, start of August. And he’s sending a dress to the Expo—’

‘Expo?’

‘The World’s Fair, the Exposition of Arts and Technology that’s to open at the end of next month, if they finish building the pavilions in time. I want that dress.’

Alix shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Honey, you can because thousands
already do. You think your little seamstress friends don’t copy the muslin
toiles
they sew? Think they don’t drop the odd one out the window so a friend can catch it? You imagine the fitters and cutters don’t sketch on the sly? Think the saleswomen aren’t on the take? Think the mannequins go home and forget about the clothes they’ve worn all day?’

‘Perhaps—’

Mme Kilpin ploughed on. ‘You imagine
customers don’t “lend” the models they buy, so that copyists can make more of the same, cheaper? Hell, honey, some women
rent
their new clothes to counterfeiters. Just long enough for patterns to be cut, fabric to be sampled, embroidery to be copied. It’s dog-eat-dog-eat-cat out there. I have the contacts, but I’ve always needed a smart girl right inside a couture house. That girl is you, and
if you hold your nerve, we’ll make a tidy living. You, me, Paul – we’ll be the Three Musketeers, all for one and one for …’ She’d taken off a crochet glove to drink her tea and withdrew a card from inside it. ‘Call me.’

Alix took the card reluctantly.

‘Ring first, speak to my maid. She’ll tell you when to come and see me.’

Mme Frankel returned, sample in hand. She said to their visitor, ‘I’m
afraid I cannot let this cloth leave the room. It is a special commission.’

Mme Kilpin held the tartan to the light. ‘Very pretty. Based upon Black Watch. Undercheck of … sand, auburn, saffron, auburn, sand. You listening, Alix? Auburn tramlines run single, double, single, double-double, single, which makes it look complicated. Yet it’s woven from just three colours.’

‘I am amazed,’ Pauline
Frankel said.

‘That I can read a tartan? My husband’s a Scotsman – thought it would be a blast for us to spend our honeymoon in a weaving shed. He’s a Campbell on his mother’s side and I was a Miss McBride, so he had a plaid designed for us. I watched the threads being counted on to the loom.’ Mme Kilpin frowned, patting the back of her head. ‘What did that wind outside do to my hair?’ She took
a mirror from her handbag, then unpinned her hat. ‘Mme Frankel, I hate to ask, but would you tidy me at the back? I have a comb, here.’

Alix smothered a gasp. As Mme Frankel obligingly combed the blonde locks, the American used her hatpin to separate threads in the tartan cloth. With a deftness that suggested regular practice, she liberated a strand of each colour, dropping them into her bag.
All without the première suspecting a thing.
‘All done?’ The smile turned on Pauline Frankel held no shame. ‘Was I hideous?’

‘Not at all, Madame.’

‘Well now, I’m away to be bullied by my vendeuse. Do allow the young lady to finish her tea.’ Mme Kilpin smiled at Alix as she re-pinned her hat. ‘She needs to keep her strength up.’

*

The day after that meeting, Alix was leaving through the side
door at Javier. It was twelve o’clock lunchtime,
midi
, the hour that gave ‘midinettes’ their name, because that was when they could be found bolting down their lunch in cheap cafés. Alix heard a shout.

‘You – wait!’

She turned, thinking,
What now?
But it was Solange Antonin, the swan-necked mannequin Mme Albert had spoken of, hobbling towards her in a tight skirt. Alix and Solange had spent
the morning together. Javier was creating the dress he intended to show in the Pavillon d’Elégance at the forthcoming Paris Expo. Now that Alix understood what the fair entailed, she could appreciate the excitement and secrecy around the project. Thousands of visitors would come to the fair and there was global interest in the gowns the top Paris couturiers would create. Javier was making his exhibit
directly on to Solange, and Alix – freshly gilded by Mme Kilpin’s praise – had been called from her workroom to sew the
toile
as he draped it. He was on his third attempt. All morning he’d torn length after length of muslin cloth, cotton sparks flying
from his fingers as he struggled to translate the design in his head into reality. Mme Frankel was working alongside, advising on the fabric’s strengths
and limitations, and the atmosphere had run hot. Solange had borne it without emotion and her expression was no warmer now as she thrust a stiff white card towards Alix.

Alix took it and read:

The proprietors of the Rose Noire cabaret request the pleasure of

MLLE GOWER and ESCORT

at our gala opening on 29th April 1937. Dress formal.
Frazer Hoskins and his Smooth Envoys will play.
Lenice Leflore
to sing
.

‘What’s the Rose Noire?’ Alix asked.

‘It’s my boyfriend’s club and he said you were to come.’

Alix looked at the card with new eyes. Solange’s boyfriend … the man who drove the wine-red Peugeot. Who waited in the rain.

A few days ago, Alix had bumped into him again as she left work for the day. She’d dropped her bag and he’d picked it up, holding it above her reach, the way prefects
used to do at school. ‘You can have it back if you come for a drink with me,’ he’d laughed.

She’d reminded him that he was waiting for his girlfriend.

‘So I am.’ He’d handed her the bag, his eyes never leaving her. ‘Wave a wand and you might be the prettiest girl in Paris.’

She hadn’t liked that, the implication that she needed a wand. She didn’t like
him
. Thickset, that pale hair combed back
over a broad brow. His eyes were the lightest she’d ever seen, like gin on ice. Straw-coloured lashes completed an unnerving stare. Everything about him looked expensive – his suit, his watch, his car – but his shoulders were too padded, the jacket waist too waspy, for her taste. She put him down as a mobster or, more likely, a working-class boy swaggering the flash.

She’d stalked away and his
mocking laugh had followed her. She couldn’t imagine why he wanted her at his nightclub.

Solange clearly thought the same. ‘It says “formal”, and that
means
formal. You won’t have anything to wear and you’d have to bring a man who’s presentable and he’d have to wear black tie and know which glass to drink from. You won’t know any men like that.’

‘I might,’ Alix flung back. She suddenly wanted
very much to go to this gala opening.
Rose Noire
 – Black Rose. It sounded edgy and exciting. A dive? A squeeze? And she’d never heard a top-flight American jazz band. She checked the date … the 29
^th
was one week away. ‘Where is it, this club?’