The Dress Thief

by Natalie Meg Evans

  ‘I won’t,’ she said huskily. ‘But you don’t have to grip the back of my head like a dentist about to pull a tooth out.’

  He laughed in reply, a sound mixed with a groan. ‘I’ll trust you.’

  ‘Yes. Let me.’ Alert for any signs of shock or revulsion, she knelt beside him, pushing aside his robe, kissing a trail from his throat, moving lower. She adored the texture of flesh and hair, the faint taste of soap, of skin. She found the marks of Serge’s knuckles just under his ribs. She kissed each of the lesions and continued downward. Opened her lips and let her soft warmth envelope him. Without the weight of obligation or of pleasing a careless heart, she was able to give herself to the intimate act, this most private token of love. Never doubting she could trust Verrian, she enjoyed herself, tasting and caressing and feeling his arousal grow with her.

  ‘You’d better stop,’ he said thickly, running his fingers through her hair.

  She kissed her way back upward, drawing her tongue over his belly, gently teasing each nipple. He groaned and the satin bed cover whispered. She pushed his robe off his shoulders and he shrugged it away. She’d thought a lot about his torso, picturing it before she went to sleep every night in those first weeks of meeting him. She’d always imagined it rearing over her, keeping her sweetly trapped, but Serge had given her a horror of being pinned, so maybe it could happen in reverse. Half expecting to be thrown off, she sat astride him.

  His shoulders were honed, with hollows just the right depth for lips and tongue. His throat stretched as her tongue drew a line along it. Teasing his mouth with hers, she absorbed the sensation of a body held captive beneath her. How different a man felt when he wasn’t trying to control, when he was allowing himself to be seduced, his whole body a sigh, his breath deepening. Moist readiness lay between her legs, betraying her desire. She rolled off him, quietening his protest with two words, and stripped off, throwing the camiknickers into the dark. He reached for her, finding her breasts and caressing her nipples to buds. She cried out as he put his mouth around one then the other. She threaded her legs around him and moved against him, flesh against muscle until his control broke. He entered her first with his fingers, exploring her core, soft as velveteen until she begged, ‘Now, inside me now,’ and opened for him, crying out as he invaded.

  She climaxed fast, the reality of Verrian on her, in her, more erotically potent than she’d believed possible. His rhythm grew frantic, and in the last moments, as he withdrew, a tide of words and kisses broke against her lips.

  They shared the shuddering pleasure. Shared heat and lips. She lay in his arms and thought – I am happy.

  They woke at some indistinct hour and reprised their joy slowly. Verrian followed the trail she’d laid with her perfume to show her at languorous length her capacity for pleasure. They fell asleep, wrapped about each other, until daylight clapped its hands. The brief holiday, over.

  *

  ‘You’re convinced Rhona de Charembourg sabotaged your last collection?’

  They were crossing the Seine at Pont Neuf, on foot. Verrian had ordered a taxi to Rue Jacob, explaining the Hispano was leaking oil. At Alix’s suggestion, they’d got out on the Right Bank to enjoy the novelty of crossing the river in a blanket of fog. They held hands and murmured ‘excuse me’s’ to other pedestrians.

  ‘Somebody sent that Charboneau woman. And how else would Rhona have got an identical suit to mine? That grey-green cloth was a short run a Manchester manufacturer decided to pull from production, and Una thought I’d like it. I made myself a suit and cut out another which never made it into the collection. It was among the stuff the police confiscated which proves Rhona got access to the boxes they took away. Wearing it was her way of showing that she has more power than I have.’

  Verrian put his arm round her. ‘Unspeakably vulgar, as my mother would say.’ He asked her if she still meant to close Modes Lutzman.

  ‘No – I’ll kick it into life somehow. Though it’ll be like flying over a desert with no fuel. Oh, and so you don’t have to disapprove of me, I’ll post those francs back to Una. She’s staying at a hotel in Hastings … she can change it to pounds and spend it on cocktails and fish-and-chip dinners. I’ll scrape by.’

  Verrian made a testing noise. ‘You could sell your grandfather’s paintings for cash. Knowing what you know of Alfred Lutzman, surely you don’t want to keep them?’

  Alix looked towards the river where fog made ghosts of the boats and wharfs. ‘I couldn’t without Mémé’s consent and she’s not really able to give it. Besides, I need time to see if I still admire my grandfather’s work, or if I was deluding myself about him. Do I sound mad?’

  ‘No – scarily rational.’

  She shot him an appealing look. ‘If my business fails, you won’t despise me?’

  ‘You’ll be flying prayer-born, as my good friend Phipps would say, and I like courage. But you’ll succeed. Rhona de Charembourg likes your stuff—’ He laughed as Alix elbowed him. ‘Theft is the sincerest form of flattery, all the more believable when it comes from one’s sworn enemies.’

  As they walked down Rue Dauphine, Alix said, ‘I don’t want enemies. I want friends.’

  He stopped to kiss her. ‘Well, you always have me.’

  11th November 1938

  She’d thrown two sketchbooks into the wastebasket and ripped up more metres of muslin than she cared to calculate. She was discarding yet another drawing when Verrian came into her studio, looked at the bin under its avalanche and said, ‘I’ve just had a stand-up row with my brother … if one can have such a thing over the telephone. Did you know there’s been a shooting at the German embassy?’

  She stared at him. ‘In Paris?’

  ‘A Jewish lad took it out on a German official. I filed a sympathetic report, pointing out that the boy had just heard his parents had been deported from Germany. My brother refuses to run it, so I’ve resigned.’

  He looked down at Alix’s sketchbook, which was covered in desperate hieroglyphs. He was still wearing his overcoat because Alix was economising on paraffin. Fishing an envelope from an inside pocket, he said, ‘As you sent Una’s money back, I thought this might be useful.’

  The wad of money was more than Alix had ever seen in one place. ‘Your pay-off from the Monitor?’

  Verrian gave a sardonic laugh. ‘I quit, so no pay-off.’ He hugged her. ‘The money’s from the Hispano. I sold it.’

  ‘Sold … Oh, Verrian. I thought it had oil problems.’

  ‘A red herring.’

  ‘You loved that car.’

  ‘No, I liked it. I love you and I want you to bring out a blazing collection in the new year because I agree with Mrs Kilpin in one respect – clouds are gathering. Soon it’ll be on with the raincoats and sensible shoes.’

  ‘You mean war? I thought so once, but the Munich Accord gave Hitler what he wanted, didn’t it? He has his Sudetenland and his re-militarised zone. Why should he want a war now?’

  ‘He blackmailed France and Britain very deftly and, as we know, blackmailers always come back for more. The Munich agreement is only as good as Hitler’s word, and signing it alienated a vital ally, the Soviets.’

  ‘Oh, them.’

  ‘Yes, them. Munich only moved the chess pieces around.’ Noting her dispirited expression, he suggested they go and spend time with the children. ‘They’re painting as only children can. Let them inspire you.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  It snowed on New Year’s Day 1939, making the windows shine like frozen milk. White shantung silk lay in swathes across the salon sofas and, because the floor and walls were white too, Alix felt she had walked into her own blank page.

  She’d got halfway through a collection in December then abandoned it. Verrian had asked, ‘But why? Nice shapes, nice legs … am I missing something?’

  She listened … his typewriter had fallen silent. He was working on a freelance article for an American newspaper, and he’d probably finished it. Verrian chiselled at
a job until it was done. Unlike her, he produced results. As he said, ‘An editor would rather have the piece that’s ninety-five-per-cent good than the hundred-per-cent-perfect piece that never arrives. Now you know why it’s called “hack”.’

  She looked at the clock – nearly eleven – and took a note from her pocket.

  Meet me by the lion, Jardin du Luxembourg, 11.03.

  11.03 would mean 11.30. Paul must have something important to ask her. Something to do with Una? To do with copying? This time she had a simple word ready. No.

  Alix couldn’t work out why Paul had written when he could easily have spoken to her at Rue Jacob. Since returning from his English holiday, he’d been coming here every day, dropping his sisters off and picking them up. It had been agreed that Suzy and Lala should stay in Celestia’s care until Paul got back into some kind of routine with his work.

  At the lion statue, Alix tramped through pristine snow until she heard her name called. Paul was striding towards her. They shook hands, an element of constraint still between them. Paul’s face was leaner, his mouth harder. Una’s lover had grown up.

  ‘Are we freezing for old times’ sake?’ she teased.

  He took her arm and they walked. ‘I wanted to tell you somewhere private – Alix, I have news that will shock you.’

  She thought instantly, Bonnet’s back in Montmartre.

  ‘Serge Martel was arrested for an attack on a girl, one of his singers. He hurt her very badly and they’re talking about prison. I thought you should know.’

  ‘I see.’ What could she say? ‘Poor, poor girl.’

  ‘You were lucky to get away when you did.’ They walked in silence until Paul said, ‘I hope my sisters aren’t driving you mad. Did you know, Suzy speaks to me now?’

  Alix seized upon this happier subject. ‘That’s Pepe’s doing. Nobody could explain to him that Suzy didn’t speak, so he bom-barded her till she gave in. You got your speech therapist in the end. Course they aren’t driving me mad. Celestia is wonderful with them and Mémé loves having them.’

  ‘Good.’ He made an awkward movement. ‘Because, Alix, there’s something else I have to tell you. Something that will change my life and theirs.’

  Una. The name sat between them as he lit one of his pungent cigarettes. Alix predicted his next words – he and Una were going to live together, would Alix care for the girls while they settled themselves?

  ‘I want to join the navy.’

  Her mouth dropped and his smoke drifted into it. ‘What?’ she spluttered.

  ‘I’d rather sign up than get conscripted.’

  ‘You’re talking as though we’re actually at war.’ From a distant corner of the park came children’s voices and Alix felt a formless pain. Please, not war. Not here. Not poor France again.

  Paul put his arm around her. It was snowing – large, lazy flakes. ‘When we were staying in Hastings, Una and I hired a car and drove along the south coast of England. We stopped at a place called “Lee-on-Solent” – am I pronouncing it right?’

  ‘It’ll do.’

  ‘We saw ships out on the water and there was one, a battle cruiser. Somebody said she was HMS Hood. She was magnificent. We bumped into sailors every place we went, and you know how it is when suddenly you know what you want to do with your life?’

  She did of course. ‘What about the girls? And Una?’

  ‘Una …’ Paul sizzled a snowflake with the tip of his cigarette. ‘She won’t leave Kilpin and I won’t live in her pocket. The girls will live at Bobigny, with their great-aunt. Gilberte is strict with them, but she loves them in her way and with decent wages, I can pay their keep.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve decided to sell the Katrijn.’

  Alix nodded sadly. So, an era was over. ‘Suzy and Lala can come to me any time, Paul. Every holiday.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They said their goodbyes. They kissed cheeks, then lips. A brief, smoky kiss. ‘I do love you, Paul.’

  ‘I love you too, Alix.’

  ‘Will you come to my show in February?’

  ‘If you make it a happy one. No black.’

  They parted and she walked as fast as the snow would allow, wanting to get back to Verrian. Children’s voices grew louder, and as she rounded a corner she saw a group dressed in motley clothes, mufflers and headscarves. They were playing a game with a streamer of scarves. An older child ran with it, the others chasing to catch its end. They were shouting in German … goodness, weren’t they the gypsy children from St-Sulpice? This must be their playground. Enraptured, Alix’s eyes followed the kaleidoscope of colour they made against the snow and the knots in her mind gave way.

  *

  Verrian met her on the front stairs. He noticed the snow on her boots but asked no questions. ‘The children have been trying to find you. Be prepared to adopt a surprised expression.’ He took her to her flat, where she stopped, poleaxed. One entire wall was a vivid mural.

  ‘This is our gallery.’ Pepe beetled over to them, pulling her and Verrian towards the vast painting. Lala came up to sell them a ticket. ‘Ten francs each.’

  It took Alix a moment to realise that one of Bonnet’s rolls of blank canvas had been opened out and nailed up in the living room. Verrian must have done it, and the children must have stood on tables to paint. And such painting. Trees and flowers, strange animals, herself, Verrian in his hat, a princess or two, fairies, aeroplanes, houses and cars and more flowers, all in riotous colour. It took her back to Picasso’s Guernica – she felt the same awe, but this was the antidote to Picasso’s monochrome depiction of atrocity.

  Verrian mistook her reaction. ‘I haven’t damaged the wall much.’

  ‘You’re good with hammer and nails?’ she asked him, reaching up to kiss him. ‘Because I’ve just realised how I’m going to create my next collection.’

  *

  Her staff thought she was mad. Hand-paint three hundred metres of silk?

  Yes, she told them. It would be stretched over frames, like an artist’s canvas. She would cut the children’s painting into stencils – with their permission of course – and trace them on to silk, outlining each shape in gutta, a rubber resist. After which, let the painting begin. Anybody capable of holding a brush could help.

  The children were early recruits, and soon Mémé and the other staff from Modes Lutzman joined in enthusiastically. Celestia and Verrian couldn’t escape and M. Hubert, the sleepy accounts clerk who had guarded Alix’s front office until his dismissal, was invited back. Even Paul spent his evenings daubing on shantung. Once he’d shed his inhibitions, he began adding his own designs of ships and river boats, which, Alix confided to Verrian, were almost as good as Pepe’s.

  Designs poured from Alix’s pencil. All she needed was to produce clothes that showed off the fabric. ‘I’m going to make peacock tails,’ she told Verrian.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ‘Madame?’

  A desk clerk broke Alix’s trance. She’d been mentally rehearsing the opening moments of her show, when her mannequins would walk out four in a line, in beach pyjamas – flared pants and halter-neck tops, a casual style first introduced by Coco Chanel and now creeping into daily wear. Alix’s version in printed silk was substantial enough for lounging at home – or risqué enough for a night out. This whole collection involved risk, but that felt good …

  ‘A telephone call for you in reception.’

  She allowed a smile. She was now ‘Madame’. Not because she was married – yet – but because she had gained the status of a businesswoman. ‘I’ll be just a moment.’ The girls would walk down a gangway between tables to a roped-off area where they’d turn and pose. A swing quintet playing from the raised area currently dominated by a grand piano would provide the rhythm.

  When Verrian had suggested hiring the Polonaise’s Alexandra Lounge for her show, she’d thought he’d missed the point. ‘People need to see the clothes. I can’t have my mannequins jostling through tea-drinking dowagers.’
/>   ‘We’ll hire it privately, in the evening. Tell me a better location.’

  She couldn’t. Place Vendôme was inner-elite Right Bank. She wouldn’t have to persuade people to schlep out to Rue Jacob. Wouldn’t have to worry about refreshments, flowers, wine. Wouldn’t even have to hire chairs.

  And the clincher: ‘It can go on my father’s bill. It can be his wedding present to us.’

  ‘Are you proposing marriage, Mr Haviland?’ she’d asked.

  He had left that question dangling, telling her he had an article to finish.

  Around the same time, the Comte de Charembourg had written to Alix describing a meeting he’d had with Adèle Char-boneau, whose true address he’d found in his wife’s contact book. ‘She was shocked to find me on her doorstep,’ the comte wrote, ‘and quickly confessed that my wife paid her to trick you into making an illegal copy. If it helps, Mlle Charboneau is ashamed of herself as you were so kind. I will show contrition in a more practical way –’ His company, he declared, would provide any remaining fabric Alix needed for her new collection, free of charge. ‘Things come full circle, dear Alix.’

  Her collection now had a date; 1st March, four days away. Verrian’s Hispano money had disappeared on labour, mannequins, accessories and rent. She was back in business. She’d snatched herself one last chance.

  In the hotel lobby she was handed a telephone receiver. ‘Alix Gower speaking … ?’

  When she put the receiver down two minutes later, all her hope was gone. Luck and courage were not enough, it seemed. Not when you had enemies hell-bent on bringing you down.

  *

  A caramel voice called, ‘Knock-knock, may I come in?’

  Alix was in her salon, staring at the rails of clothes that, for a second time, would not be shown. She turned to see Una Kilpin. ‘What are you doing here?’