The Russian mannequin emerged from the shadows to embrace Yvette, kissing her warmly on each cheek. “Ah, but you are a woman now,” exclaimed Tania, stepping back to look her up and down. “So pretty. And so thin!”
Yvette blushed and stammered like an idiot, praise from her idol reducing her to an awkward delivery girl once more. The two women who had been so quick to ridicule her seemed to melt away. No one was foolish enough to get on the wrong side of Tania.
“Come!” said the mannequin, taking Yvette’s hand. “Inside, out of the cold.”
Seeming to take Yvette’s presence as a matter of course, she swept her into the relative warmth of the house. Yvette jumped at the sound of banging overhead. Tania laughed and waved an elegant hand. “They are still laying the carpet. Can you believe it? Ah! Here is Madame Raymonde.”
“Oh good, Tania, you’re here.” A woman dressed in black hurried down the staircase toward them, her large, bright eyes brimming with excitement. “I need to talk to you about the Bar Suit.”
Leaving the two women to an intense conversation, Yvette took the opportunity to explore a little. In a nook off the foyer, she spied a miniature boutique, the most charming little kiosk imaginable, papered in toile de Jouy. Accessories cluttered every surface—hats and scarves and feathers, belts and purses, silk flowers and velvet bows, satin cushions studded with jeweled hat pins, necklaces of jet and pearls and brooches of marcasite. An apprentice stood on a ladder, filling a high shelf with hatboxes and rectangular garment boxes, all in pristine white, with “Christian Dior” printed on them in the palest shade of grey.
A tug at her elbow pulled Yvette from this delightful oasis. “Come!” said Tania, shepherding her toward the stairs. “We must make sure everything is ready.”
She hustled Yvette up to the cabine, where several mannequins were having their hair styled and various attendants buzzed around to assist them.
“That is Madame de Turckheim,” said Tania, indicating an imposing woman with large bright eyes who presided with calm good nature over the mayhem. “She is the chef de cabine. The senior staff call her Tutu but we call her La Baronne.” Tania dumped her makeup case and purse on the section of mirrored dressing table allotted to her, then stood on tiptoe to check through the hats on the shelf above her head.
“Do you need me to do anything?” Yvette asked.
But the mannequin seemed to have forgotten her existence already and began sorting through accessories, her attention dagger-sharp.
Well, that was Tania. One would be stupid to take offense. Every inch the artist that any couturier might be, she approached her work with complete focus and dedication.
Tania had gained Yvette admittance to the House of Dior. Now Yvette must make the most of the opportunity.
The cabine was slowly filling with mannequins undressing and donning their robes, white-coated apprentices bringing gowns and outfits to hang on designated racks. It was a wonder that so many people could work efficiently in such a small space. The ravishing gowns and ensembles held Yvette transfixed. Fabric and femininity seemed to have been Monsieur Dior’s watchwords when he designed this collection, the full calf-length skirts and nipped waists creating an hourglass shape supremely flattering to the female form. Yvette had not seen hemlines this low since before the war. Had they lifted the fabric restrictions here in Paris?
A leopard-print dress with a straight skirt, belted at the waist, caught her eye, then a white halter-necked evening gown with a ruffle at the bosom. Exquisitely soft and effortlessly chic, these were truly the designs of a master.
But she must remember why she was there. She watched for opportunities to help and soon joined the swim of people moving back and forth between the cabine and the workrooms, until it was as if she had always been a part of La Maison Dior.
“I don’t think we’ve met.” Yvette started, turning to see Madame de Turckheim standing behind her, a gleam of challenge in her eye.
“I am Yvette Foucher, madame,” she said, awkwardly plaiting her fingers together. “I used to work at the House of Lelong, so I offered to come tonight and lend a hand.” She hoped madame would not demand to know precisely who had authorized Yvette to be there.
La Baronne’s thin eyebrows lifted. “That is kind.” She gave Yvette a quick, appraising scan from head to toe. “Monsieur would approve of your look, mademoiselle. Have you worked as a mannequin before?”
Every cell of Yvette’s body danced with excitement. “But yes, madame. For almost two years in New York.”
La Baronne nodded. “Come and see me after the show. There might be work for you here.”
Yvette gasped. “Really? Oh, thank—” She broke off. La Baronne had already turned away to resolve a small crisis over shoes.
Though giddy from madame’s praise, Yvette did her best to focus on the tasks she was given. What was Monsieur Dior doing right now? While his creative force pervaded every corner of the maison, she had yet to set eyes on the man himself. He was holding aloof from the madness, it seemed, which was probably wise. He must be riddled with anxiety at this moment. Anyone in his position would be, but from what Yvette had seen of the collection he was about to present, le patron had nothing to fear.
Would he approve of her look? Or would he still see the ragamuffin tomboy with windblown hair who used to fetch and carry for him at Lelong?
Come, Yvette, she told herself. This could be your big break.
The hours flew by. Nothing mattered but dresses. Not the war, not the Nazis, not the testimony that would surely break Yvette if she thought about it too much. She could hardly believe it when Madame de Turckheim said they had started letting guests in. The salons were slowly filling; the excitement in the cabine reached a fever pitch.
“You can stay for the show if you promise not to get in the way,” La Baronne told Yvette. The offer was too good to pass up.
As she waited for the show to start, she noticed that one of the mannequins was shaking so hard, she could not fit her lipstick back into its tube. Yvette went over to her and removed the lipstick from her grasp, slotted it back together. “All is well,” she said softly. “You will be perfect.”
“Is everything good with you, Marie-Thérèse?” Ever vigilant, Madame de Turckheim hurried over.
“Just nerves,” said the blond mannequin, trying to laugh off madame’s concern, but the laugh became a hiccup and then a shudder. “I—I don’t know if I can do it. All those people. And I am so very tired, Baronne.” Tears filled her eyes, but she tilted her head back and pressed a handkerchief carefully to each corner, blotting them before they ruined her face.
Yvette eyed her in astonishment. Imagine weeping over taking part in such a triumph. Tired? What did this girl know of true exhaustion, the kind that made you wish to die on your feet before you took another step? But she said nothing and left Marie-Thérèse to madame’s soothing.
The next time Yvette entered the cabine, the mannequins had shed their white coveralls and were being dressed. So many bodies in such a small space—they didn’t need Yvette crowding them further. She just managed to glimpse Monsieur Dior as he addressed a comment to Madame Raymonde over his shoulder, then turned back again to adjust the fit of a jacket, tugging and tweaking at the fabric to make it sit smoothly over the mannequin’s torso.
At last, it was time for the show to begin. In the narrow corridor that led to the first salon, Yvette watched with mingled envy and pride as each mannequin passed her, then stepped through the pale grey curtain and entered the show. This was as much as Yvette would glimpse, but she could hear the compère announce each model, and the reaction of the crowd was as appreciative as Monsieur Dior might have wished.
The curtain twitched aside, and Marie-Thérèse stormed through, her hand to her mouth. Tania hissed, “What’s wrong?” But the mannequin shook her head and ran past. Yvette stared after her. Marie-Thérèse was a nervous one, that was for sure.
Putting the incident out of her mind, Yvette watched for
any last-minute problems she might solve. She was helping one of the mannequins adjust her hat when Madame de Turckheim caught her by the wrist. “Oh, thank goodness! There you are, Yvette,” she said. “Come quickly.”
“What is it?” She followed Madame de Turckheim back to the cabine, where a glance told her that Monsieur Dior sat in a corner with his fingers in his ears, only taking them out to listen to the returning mannequins’ reports on the acclaim his designs had received.
Yvette yelped as Madame de Turckheim practically fell upon her and began unbuttoning her jacket. “Madame?”
“There is no time,” the older woman muttered. “No time at all.”
“Wait! Please, what are you doing?” Madame wrenched the jacket from her shoulders, spinning her around with the momentum, ignoring her protests. Her jacket hit the floor.
Hope blossomed inside Yvette. “I can undress myself, but only tell me why.” Moving out of reach, she unhooked her waistband and stepped out of her skirt.
Madame spoke rapidly in a low voice. “Marie-Thérèse stumbled on her first walk. She is having hysterics and vows she cannot go back out there. But you . . .” Madame set her hands to Yvette’s waist and nodded, as if she had sized up her figure to pinpoint accuracy. “Yvette, you must take her place.”
GABBY
Gabrielle Foucher hurried along the rue Royale, the wooden soles of her shoes clipping the pavement, her breath puffs of vapor in the freezing air. If she never accomplished anything else in her life, she must reach the House of Dior in time for the fashion show. It was a twenty-minute walk to avenue Montaigne. She needed to be there in ten.
She sped past old Abelard, who was sweeping the sidewalk under the red awning of Maxim’s, cap pulled low over his forehead, a cigarette attached to his lower lip. Answering his good-morning wheeze with “Sorry! I’m so late,” she did not stop for their usual banter.
Even now, at nearly ten in the morning, delicious scents from the famous restaurant filled the air, following her up the street. They were baking something sweet—pastries, perhaps, or brioche? Her stomach murmured. She hadn’t even drunk her morning tisane. There’d been no time for that.
She’d crammed a full day’s work into a few hours, rising well before dawn. Gabby’s duties as concierge of the apartment building at number 10 rue Royale did not stop for a fashion show, of course—not even the premiere of Christian Dior’s first-ever collection. But her mother could take over for the couple of hours she was away. All that was left to be done was to peer out the window of their little ground-floor apartment, see who desired admittance, and press the button that released the street door to the building. Maman could manage that much. She’d been concierge there for many years until Gabby took up the reins.
The tall, pointed obelisk at the Place de la Concorde loomed ahead, spearing into the sky. Gabby turned the corner. She would cut through the gardens to the Champs-Élysées to save time.
Then she spied one of her tenants, Madame Vasseur, leading her apricot poodle out of the gardens and turning toward her. Ah, no! Madame would be certain to delay her with endless complaints, from the state of the plumbing in her apartment to the state of the nation under de Gaulle. Gabby put her head down and veered left, taking the long way around. The long way would be quicker than an encounter with madame.
The Champs-Élysées stretched before her, stripped and bleak, its leafless trees reaching skeletal fingers toward the dirty white blanket of cloud overhead. Far in the distance, at the end of the avenue, stood the Arc de Triomphe. Gabby’s chest gave that familiar clutch of panic and her stomach began to churn.
“Stop it!” she muttered. It was 1947. They were free. Yet, every time she glimpsed the monument, a vision would fill her mind’s eye: the spiderlike swastika flying from Napoléon’s triumphal arch, mocking France’s celebrated military power.
She clutched her purse tighter and squared her shoulders. This morning was about beauty and glamor, not past ugliness. At the House of Dior, she would revel in the shining promise of the future, even if her own reality would never match those silken dreams.
An ordinary woman like her would never wear Dior. But she was alive. She had a job and a roof over her head. She hadn’t suffered in any significant way during the war—not like countless others who had been rounded up, sent away, some never to be seen again. Not like Catherine Dior.
Had it not been for Catherine, Gabby never would have been invited to witness the first showing of her brother Christian’s premiere collection.
Had it not been for Catherine, Gabby might now be content. Mademoiselle Dior had tossed a challenge into Gabby’s existence like a resistance fighter lobbing a hand grenade. For that brief period in 1944, Gabby’s world had exploded into danger. But when the dust had settled, she’d found herself completely alone.
As she hurried down the avenue, weaving in and out of other pedestrians, Gabby glanced again at her watch. Ten o’clock already! She was supposed to be there now. Lungs burning from the cold air and exertion, she put on an extra burst of speed.
At last, she reached avenue Montaigne and her shoulders sagged with relief. The pavement outside the House of Dior teemed with people still waiting to get in. She need not have worried she’d be turned away at the door for being late.
Slowing as she approached, Gabby looked up, scanning the impressive structure as she tried to catch her breath. Monsieur Dior had chosen a most elegant building for his atelier, constructed of that buttery limestone peculiar to Paris. The tiny foothold balconies outside its long windows were girded with iron railings so delicately wrought they looked like black lace.
As she came closer, she saw the pale grey awning over the entrance with the name “Christian Dior” printed in white. Vicarious pride flooded her chest with warmth. He had done it! Of course he had. And there was monsieur’s name again, carved into the stone walls on either side of the door, speaking of quiet confidence in its permanency.
Unable to stop the stupid grin that spread over her face, Gabby joined the waiting crowd. Guests were being admitted in an orderly fashion, in groups of three.
She knew a little about what happened at shows like these. They would all be packed together like sardines in a tin. She did not expect to be given a good vantage point. Those were reserved for far more important people than she.
Today, everyone who was anyone would be there. And she was there. She, who was no one at all.
Covertly, Gabby studied what the other women were wearing under their sleek fur coats. Mostly black suits like hers. Although, not like hers, really. Even she could tell the other women’s clothes were of a superior cut, their hats infinitely more fashionable than her simple beret. Their hair was cropped or pinned up, not worn long down the back and rolled up at the front as she’d styled her thick black tresses today.
She lifted her hand to her lapel, rubbed the pad of her thumb over the pin that nestled there. It was a bird made of platinum, with a diamond-dappled breast and a small, round sapphire for an eye.
With a nervous half smile, Gabby showed her invitation and was waved through. The salons of number 30 avenue Montaigne were filled to bursting, and by the time Gabby entered, every one of the chairs provided for guests had been filled.
It was like stepping into an expensive cloud, she thought, peering around her. Monsieur Dior had outfitted his domain as elegantly as any of his beautiful mannequins. The walls were the most exquisite shade of pearl grey, the moldings picked out in white, like piped icing on a cake. Swathes of grey satin at the windows whispered of luxury; crystal chandeliers and brass light fittings shimmered and gleamed. Everywhere, there were flowers—white lily of the valley (monsieur’s favorite), sweet peas, roses, blue delphiniums. The beauty was almost overwhelming and somehow utterly right.
And through it all, the salons breathed a new fragrance, a most exquisite scent, fresh and floral. The one Christian had named after Catherine. He had called it “Miss Dior.”
Remembering Catherine as she h
ad been before the war, so joyous and full of life, Gabby’s throat swelled with emotion. The perfume was a fitting tribute to her spirit. Gabby accepted the program the attendant handed to her and looked about for somewhere to sit.
As she edged through the throng of people greeting each other like long-lost friends, Gabby tried not to gape. There were so many famous faces here, she did not know where to look first. She recognized Jean Cocteau and Henri Sauguet and an extremely stylish woman who might have been the British ambassador’s wife.
And there was Catherine herself, seated in the very front row. Gabby stood on tiptoe and tried to wave, but Catherine didn’t see her, and Gabby had to keep moving with the flow of the crowd or risk being trampled.
There was no getting a chair in the salons at all now. People were beginning to sit on the stairs that led to the ateliers above. The staircase was a work of beauty, its bannister supported by a wrought iron fantasy of scrollwork. Having picked her way up, stepping over the guests already seated on the lower steps, Gabby perched as elegantly as she could on a vacant tread. The step was cold and hard beneath her bottom, but she didn’t care.
A very businesslike woman with a notepad and pencil took the place beside her.
With a little nod of acknowledgment, and feeling pleasantly businesslike herself, Gabby took out her little sketchbook and flipped to the next blank page. Drawing gowns and costumes was something she had never done before. She had only ever illustrated little stories for the children in the apartment building. But it was for her own pleasure, after all. This was an experience she was never likely to repeat, so she wanted to capture it on paper.
Excitement bubbled up. The show was about to start. Gabby gripped her pencil tightly and waited for the magic to begin.
Chapter Three
Paris, June 1944
GABBY
I don’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all,” said Gabby’s mother. She sat in her armchair by the window of the loge, a tiny set of ground-floor rooms at the entrance to the grand apartment block at number 10 rue Royale. Many years after her husband’s death, Danique Foucher still grieved for him, dressing all in black with her salt-and-pepper hair scraped severely from her forehead and pinned in a bun. “The tenants will never treat you like an equal, no matter how much you do for them.”
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