The Paris Secret

by Natasha Lester

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Wow.” Kat shook her head. “They’re amazing. This place is amazing. And in return for all the amazingness, I hope I can answer the rest of your questions. Did you . . . ?”

  She didn’t have to finish her question. Elliott reached into his jacket pocket. “Does this look like her?”

  He produced a black-and-white square photograph. The quality was excellent. Pictured there was a beautiful woman, a model, a little on the thin side—her waist in particular was tiny—standing in a salon beneath a chandelier. She wore an extraordinary bridal gown that Kat suspected was a very early Dior—the salon certainly looked like Dior’s. The bodice of the dress was like the one Kat was wearing now in the way it elongated the waist, emphasizing the body’s curve down to the top of the hips. The model smiling for the camera could easily be, with just a little imagination, a much younger and very glamorous version of Kat’s grandmother.

  “Where did you get that?” Kat asked slowly.

  “From Josh. He’s an agent. He represents Jessica May’s estate. I was in France a fortnight ago and I spoke to him about what I was researching. When I mentioned Margaux Jourdan’s name he said he might be able to help me; he has an encyclopedic mind for his clients’ work. Anyway, I was supposed to be meeting him tomorrow to see what he’d found, but I got your text and went straight over to his hotel. Jessica May took this shot of Margaux Jourdan at Christian Dior’s first showing in 1947. It was published in Vogue Paris. Luckily May had kept the program notes for the showing too and in them it says that Margaux worked bravely for the WAAF in England during the war and returned to her homeland of France in 1945. That makes this woman my Margaux.”

  Kat stared at the photo. Because it also made the woman her grandmother, her Margaux. It was not possible to imagine that there might, somewhere in the world, be two different women named Margaux Jourdan who had worked for the WAAF during the war and who had a connection to Christian Dior.

  Her grandmother was the woman Elliott had been searching for. Her grandmother had, therefore, been a spy.

  Nineteen

  Kat couldn’t look away from the photograph. Because, while it seemed to answer some questions, it created still more.

  “But,” Kat tried to protest. “How did a spy become a model for Christian Dior? She’s wearing the wedding gown.”

  Elliott frowned, obviously not understanding her point.

  “The wedding gown is always the showstopper,” Kat explained. “It would only be worn by the very best mannequin. And this was Christian Dior’s first-ever showing. So he would have chosen a mannequin who was even better than the best—he would have wanted the show to finish in a way that made everyone gasp.”

  And, of course, being a model for Christian Dior in no way accounted for the dresses in the cottage: sixty-five of the premier pieces. The Met museum had a Venus dress, for God’s sake. The V&A held a Soirée de Décembre gown in its permanent collection. Both of those pieces were also in her grandmother’s wardrobes. A model would never have been able to afford them. And couturiers, especially long-dead ones like Christian Dior, did not pay their models in gowns.

  Kat realized that Josh and D’Arcy, unentwined now due to the drinks they were carrying, were nearly upon them. She knew she had to say it despite how much it hurt to acknowledge that she knew nothing at all about her grandmother. “My grandmother has a cottage in Cornwall. I’m going there on Saturday.” She stared at the magazine picture of Margaux Jourdan modeling in Christian Dior’s salon. “If you’re free, you should come and take a look. Then I can tell you what I know of the Dior link—which isn’t much.”

  “That’d be great,” Elliott said. Then, before D’Arcy and Josh sat down, he asked Kat, “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, although she wasn’t sure if she really was.

  But in the swirl of stimulating conversation that followed, Kat pushed her grandmother’s secret past to the back of her mind. She even found herself laughing and having more fun than she’d had in a long time, especially when D’Arcy began to quiz her about her work.

  “My job is basically to make sure that all the fashion objects held by the museum—fans, clothes, shoes, hats, wigs—deteriorate as little as possible, while still ensuring they can be displayed to the public whenever and wherever possible,” Kat explained. “One day I might be reshaping a mannequin—literally cutting off its breasts and thinning the waist to make it the right shape for the era and the dress to be displayed on it. Or I might be taking a mold of a button to have a new one made as a replacement for one that’s damaged. Or I might be in the lab analyzing a plastic that a contemporary acquisition is made from to work out if it needs to be stored in a moisture-and-temperature-controlled environment. Everyone thinks it’s the oldest garments that require the most care, but actually cotton and wool and silk are very stable. It’s the modern designs, made of everything from polyurethane to balsa wood, that are the most challenging to preserve.”

  Soon, the negronis had disappeared and Elliott stood up. “I’ll get more drinks,” he said. “And show my face to everyone on the way.” He grimaced.

  “I only had about a dozen people ask me where you were when I went to the bar,” Josh said. “So be prepared.”

  As Elliott walked away, D’Arcy leaned over to Kat. “Elliott is a thoroughly decent human being, one of the best—besides my husband, of course.” She smiled at Josh. “He regrets everything he did when he was younger, except having Juliette, his daughter. I also have a past I somewhat regret, so I know exactly how it can make one a better person. He stays with us in France twice a year to run writing workshops for which he charges attendees only enough to cover costs, and each time there are several women who would willingly give up their writing practice to enjoy a fling with Elliott. But he never so much as flirts with any of them. He is a consummate professional, even though his past would suggest otherwise, and not at all the kind of person to engage in random affairs simply because he can. I was amazed—and very pleased—when Josh told me he was bringing someone with him tonight.”

  “But . . .” Kat protested. “I’m just . . .”

  “Helping him with research.” D’Arcy smiled. “I know. But from my side of the table, the way he looks at you is as more than research material.”

  “It’s the dress,” Kat said dismissively.

  “It’s you,” D’Arcy replied.

  “D’Arcy,” Josh said, shaking his head but with a half smile on his lips, “leave Kat alone. She’s a grown-up and can form her own opinions about people.”

  “But sometimes even grown-ups need a little help,” D’Arcy said, bestowing an intimate smile upon her husband.

  “Excuse me,” Kat said, deciding now would be a good time to find the bathroom and leave Josh and D’Arcy to themselves.

  On her way past the bar, Elliott stopped her. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “No . . .”

  He reached out a hand, which found its way into hers. “Good. I don’t want you to leave.”

  Someone squeezed past and she had to step in a little closer to him, close enough that she could feel the thrum of heat from his body, close enough that her own body began to behave in an alarming way. It was hot suddenly. And there wasn’t enough air, or her lungs weren’t functioning the way they ought.

  “Kat,” Elliott said, voice low, and she had to lean her head in even closer to hear him. His eyes were fixed to hers with the kind of intensity she’d just, not coveted, but yearned for, she now realized. He touched her cheek. “Kat . . . I’d really like to kiss you but I can’t tell if you want me to. You’re very hard to read.”

  Her stomach leapt and her mind fluttered wildly: I haven’t kissed a man since I separated from Paul; and, before that, I hadn’t kissed any man other than him for nearly fifteen years.

  She shook her head, then realized Elliott might interpret the gesture as a no, when a
ll she was trying to do was banish the killjoy voice in her mind. For once it would be nice not to be sensible; nice not to behave the way she thought a responsible mother should. She didn’t reply, just tilted her head up and moved her mouth onto his.

  That first kiss was so slow and so soft and so good that she stepped in still closer, snaking her arms up to his neck, deepening the kiss. It took only a moment before she lost herself in it so fully that the room and the people and the party fell away. Her stomach clenched and she felt his hand at her back tighten, as if he too wanted it to go on forever.

  “Are you still after drinks, mate?” The barman’s voice, coming from behind Elliott, made them both reluctantly disentangle.

  “I’ll see you back at the table,” she whispered before continuing in search of the bathroom. Once there, she sank onto one of the very comfortable chairs in the anteroom. Her mouth was incapable of doing anything other than smiling. Before she left the privacy of the bathroom, she tried to settle herself into a slightly less exhilarated state but her face refused to comply.

  Back in the supper club, D’Arcy was laughing at something Josh had said and Elliott was distractedly scanning the room. His eyes met Kat’s with a delicious friction: silk on skin. She slid in next to him and he wound his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in. D’Arcy beamed as if the whole thing had been her doing.

  Josh took his wife’s hand as if worried she might punch the air with delight, and began to ask Kat more questions about her work, which she answered gratefully.

  All too soon it was after midnight and D’Arcy looked reluctantly at Josh. “We have meetings tomorrow, as well as two sons who love to get up at five in the morning, so we should probably go.”

  “We should,” he agreed. “I don’t suppose the babysitter will have found a way to magically make them sleep in until seven.”

  “If she has, give me her number,” Kat said. “I have two who wake up with the sun as well.”

  “Hopefully you’ll have something more enjoyable to wake up to tomorrow morning,” D’Arcy said cheekily, at which Josh groaned and stood up.

  “It’s definitely time for us to leave,” he said. “Thank you, Kat, for being so good-humored in the face of D’Arcy’s very unsubtle attempts at matchmaking. And, Elliott, we’ll see you soon, I hope? You know there’s always a room for you.”

  There was a flurry of kisses and handshaking, and then it was just Kat and Elliott, alone. She was very aware of his leg against hers, the drift of his hand on her shoulder, the way he made her feel: bold, alive and even desirable.

  He leaned over and, without asking this time—which was fine with Kat—kissed her again. It was all the better the second time, and even though the booth was relatively private, the kiss was quickly becoming something inappropriate for a public place.

  Kat forced herself to move away and leaned her forehead against his. “That’s just a little bit too tempting.”

  “It is,” he breathed. “Why is it that when you’re grown-up and these things should be so much easier, it actually becomes so much harder? I mean, when you’re twenty you don’t really care how inappropriate it is to kiss someone in a bar; but when you’re an adult, there are all these rules. Now that I’ve kissed you twice, I really want to do it again, but I absolutely cannot kiss you the way I want to here. And if I suggest going back to your hotel room, it sounds like I’m suggesting something else entirely, and it’s the same if I invite you back to my house.” He laughed. “And now I’m talking too much.”

  She laughed too, aware that neither had let go of the other, that they were sitting close and whispering like lovers. Then she confessed.

  “This is going to make me sound like a boring old maid, but you’re the first person I’ve kissed since I separated from my husband. Having a three-year-old and a five-year-old and working full-time doesn’t allow much time for kissing,” she added lightly, pulling back, embarrassed now by her candor.

  “You’re definitely not a boring old maid, Kat. You should ignore anyone who’s made you think that.”

  “Let’s go for a walk,” she said impulsively. “Surely there must be a sheltered path somewhere outside.”

  It took far too long to extricate themselves from the party—everyone wanted to speak to Elliott—but they finally achieved the footpath, where he took her hand. “How about we cut through Green Park? Then we can walk up Pall Mall and I can drop you back at the hotel.”

  She liked the way he didn’t assume anything, while at the same time being disappointed at the thought of him going.

  They walked hand in hand and she asked him more about the book he was working on. He told her he was at an outline stage, where he planned each chapter and started to conjure up a story to go with the facts.

  “I thought storytelling was for fiction,” she said.

  “I try to write history in a way that makes people feel as if they are reading a story. Anyone can list facts and figures, but that’s not what history is about. It’s about . . .” He stopped walking and looked around, eyes settling upon St. James’s Palace. “Take the palace there. Anyone can tell you who built it, how long it took, when the kings first lived there. But I want to tell you what it was like to be the man straddling the tower as he hung the clock right at the top, most likely without even a rope to harness him. I want to tell you how wondrous it might have been, but how dreary and backbreaking it most likely was. I want to make you see the palace as animate, rather than just an assemblage of red brick.” He stopped and Kat thought he might be blushing. “Now I’m ranting.”

  “Not at all,” she insisted. “I could listen to you talk all night.”

  Elliott lifted his hand to her face and stroked a finger lightly along her jaw, tracing the bare skin at the top of her back. This time when he kissed her, their bodies molded into one another. She shivered.

  “Cold?” he murmured.

  “No. This just feels very . . . good. Which is an exceptionally poor choice of words when in the company of a writer.”

  He laughed softly. “I’m not sure I’m capable of anything more erudite at the moment.” His fingers kept moving, running over her collarbone now, and then lower, to the top of her dress. “Kat, I’m not sure I want the night to end yet. But I’m also happy to drop you back to your hotel and see you again on Saturday if that’s what you’d prefer.”

  She knew what he was asking her. And she wanted to say yes, so much, but she also wanted to be honest and give him the chance to reconsider.

  “Elliott, I look much better in this dress and with makeup on my face than I do naked and without adornment. Nearly forty-year-old women who’ve borne two children can be a little underwhelming at close quarters.” He started to speak and she held up her hand. “You’re a very good-looking man who attracts a lot of female attention. I’m not saying this because I think you’re shallow but because I’d much rather have you say goodnight now than be disappointed by what you will find hiding under this glorious red dress.”

  Instead of replying, he kissed her even harder than before. “Kat, I don’t even need to see you naked. I’m attracted to you, not naked-you. Although I definitely wouldn’t object to seeing you naked.”

  He grinned and she laughed in spite of herself. And that moment of lightness decided her. She took his hand and they hurried back to the hotel.

  When they stepped into the lift, she prayed that nobody else would enter so she could kiss him again, but a whole party of people raced in, taking up all the room. Elliott had to shift back against the wall and he pulled her into him, the back of her body held tight against the front of his. She could feel the fast beat of his heart, the way his hands gripped her hips, that he really did want her and she decided that was the best thing of all: to be wanted.

  Once inside her room she placed a hand on the light switch and then stopped, still thinking that darkness might be the most flattering option for her once her dress had been removed. But Elliott reached out a hand too, covering
hers, turning on the light. She could see his face now and the way he was looking at her made her stomach swirl extravagantly and her hand fly up to touch his face.

  “Elliott.” She whispered his name, mouth near his, the most tantalizing space of about two inches separating their bodies.

  “I’m terrified of ruining your dress if I try to undo anything,” he murmured, keeping that gap between them, letting the anticipation smolder there.

  She smiled and solved the problem by unfastening it herself and letting it fall to the floor. Then she kissed him exactly the way she’d wanted to but hadn’t been able to in the bar. It was the best kiss she’d ever had in her life. As was everything that followed.

  * * *

  She expected that, afterward, Elliott would jump out of bed, get dressed and leave. But he didn’t. Instead, he kissed her slowly and incredibly sensually, as if even after everything they’d done, he wasn’t ready for it to be over.

  She was even more surprised when he said, “That was definitely the best night I’ve had in a very long time.”

  “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “Please? I feel as if you’re likely to run away, even though it’s your room. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He rolled over and went to the bathroom, and she still expected that he would get dressed and leave when he returned. But he climbed back into bed and gathered her up in his arms. “Is it your ex-husband’s fault or is it just you? You should have much more self-confidence than you do. Yes, I had a very good night—and I hope you did too?” He looked almost worried now.

  She couldn’t help laughing. “I may be low on self-confidence but I’m definitely not as good at faking things as Meg Ryan. I enjoyed myself. A lot.”

  And she had. Elliott had been unafraid to take his time, to ask her what she liked, to talk to her rather than follow a set pattern of moves designed to bring the thing to an end as quickly as possible—which was how she remembered sex during at least the last year or so of her marriage to Paul.