by Lucy Hepburn
Reggie had just walked out of her life. Still she waited for the meltdown to kick in; she must be numb.
At twenty-nine, Reggie was five years older than her but in many ways, a lot less mature. An often infuriating, swaggering study in contrasts, he liked drainpipe jeans and granddad shirts. Sharp haircuts and shaggy stubble. Champagne and fish fingers. Sunday country pub lunches and New York penthouses—he’d vowed to own one someday—once his fortune was made.
She smiled at the thought before realizing:
I won’t be there to see that happen…
“Reggie?” She called aloud, wheeling round.
The Metro station was out of sight, and Reggie was not there.
She began to stumble back in the direction of the Metro, where Reggie had gone. Questions were crowding into her mind, and she had to get to him. Why couldn’t she follow him out there! Or at least, she could go out for a visit, as soon as he’d found his feet? Maybe, in new surroundings, they’d recapture some of the freshness which had been missing for the last, what, months? A year? Two years?
And if tonight was the first time they’d admitted to one another that things had become a little humdrum in their relationship, maybe they should work on fixing that? Why hadn’t she fought for him? How could she have given up on four years so easily?
What if he’s The One, and I’ve become too complacent to notice?
Her silver strappy sandals did not like their enforced jog along the bank of the Seine. After fifty meters or so, she had to swerve to dodge the bow of a violinist who was serenading yet more lovers. Her tiny heel caught on the edge of the curb and she tripped.
“Argh!”
She fell to the ground.
The soft grass between the pavement and the road broke her fall. It would be just her luck if she smashed her head open tonight of all nights.
“Mademoiselle!”
The violinist and several other passers-by rushed to help her to her feet.
They helped her up so gently, so kindly, that she started to cry. “Sorry, I’m fine, merci beaucoup, thank you…”
Embarrassed and grassy, she reassured the kindly Parisians that she was unhurt and slumped down onto a nearby bench. She sobbed as she checked the damage. She recalled putting the dress on earlier, smoothing out the skirt and wondering whether it may work better in a tulip shape rather than a fifties, floaty style. By the looks of it the torn hem was easily repairable. Well, now she had the perfect excuse to re-make it. Though right now she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to set eyes on it ever again. Her break-up dress.
Wiping away the tears which had escaped down her cheek, she looked from left to right.
She didn’t want to run any more.
The Metro station was that way. The lonely apartment, the other way. Molly looked over her shoulder and caught her reflection in a darkened shop window. She frowned.
My heart is not breaking.
I am sad. I am lonely.
But my heart is not broken, merely…torn a little, like my dress.
And these things, I guess, can be mended.
Without even consciously making up her mind, she found that she had stood up and was walking back toward the apartment, holding the ragged hem of her dress clear of her shoes, letting her mind roam where it pleased. She thought back to just an hour or so before, when she’d though she was about to become engaged, and it seemed as though the whole idea had belonged to some other girl.
Since then, Reggie had done a really quite spectacular runner, and she was on her own, not engaged to be married. She no longer even had a boyfriend.
Weird, she thought. “I’m free.” What do I do now?
She had no idea beyond getting back to the apartment and making a start on some serious crying. Beyond that? Well, she was going to have to hold her head up, go to Caitlin’s wedding alone, try to be happy for her. Beyond that? Move on with her own life. Because Reggie was gone.
She needed to get back to the apartment. To throw herself on the huge bed and try to get her head to stop spinning. Then, hopefully, ten hours’ sleep.
But when her mobile rang moments later, just as she was recalling the softness of her final kiss, she thought she might faint with fright.
Reggie! He’d realized he’d made a big mistake, was desperately searching for her, wanting everything to go back to how it was.
She fumbled desperately in her bag. Her fingers had turned to thumbs. She pulled the phone out and…
…it wasn’t him
Instead, Caitlin’s name and madly grinning photograph shone out from her phone. Molly’s heart plummeted. She took a deep breath to prepare herself to take the call: Caitlin’s fourth to her so far today. No doubt she was having some sort of crisis about the roses not being the correct shade, or the sun shining in the wrong direction for the photographs.
She knew that as soon as she told Caitlin about Reggie, the tears would come, however hard she tried to hold it all together.
With a deep breath, she took the call. “Hey, Cait, how’s it going?” She surprised herself at how normal her voice sounded. A promising start. “Listen, I have something I need to tell—”
“Molleeeeee!” her sister wailed so loudly that Molly had to hold the phone away from her ears.
“Whoa!” Molly said with a wince. “Are you drunk?”
“Molleeeeee, it’s all gone wrong!”
To her horror, Molly realized that Caitlin wasn’t drunk, but crying rather hysterically.
“Cait…what on earth has happened?”
“It’s all gone wrong! The worst thing ever has happened! I can’t bear it!”
Caitlin’s sobs grew fainter; she’d obviously lowered the phone so that she could get on with crying properly. Molly was horrified. The worst thing possible? Surely both of the Wright girls hadn’t been dumped by their men on the same evening?
“What’s he done to you?” Molly growled. She’d never actually met Francesco, so the jury was still out, as far as she was concerned, as to whether he was good enough for her sister—despite his immense wealth and admittedly exceptionally good looks.
But the only response was Caitlin’s sobs.
Little sister to the rescue. “You’re better off without him, Cait,” she said, thinking of the words she’d be saying to herself for the next few months. “I know you had your future planned out, but we’ll fix it and make a better future. So what if he’s richer than Gates…” Molly scowled at the thought of Caitlin’s fiancé. She had seen enough pictures of him in newspapers and celebrity magazines to form her own opinion. “Whatever he’s done, we can fix it, babe. Who needs a multi-millionaire anyway?”
“Done to me?” Caitlin said, the sobbing slowing. “Don’t be daft, Molly!”
“But you said—”
“Francesco hasn’t done anything to me!” Caitlin guffawed. “He’s my perfect fiancé, as always. And I most certainly would not be better off without him.” She sounded a bit huffy now.
“Oops, sorry.” Molly fervently hoped her sister was too distraught to remember what she had just opined regarding the love of her life.
“It’s my…” Caitlin gulped back several more sobs before wailing, “It’s my…my…dress! It’s not here!”
“What!” Molly shrieked. This was serious. Terrible. Catastrophic! “Why on earth not? Where is it?”
“The courier rang to say that…” more gulping sobs robbed her sister of speech.
“Caitlin?” Molly had to steady herself against a lamp post. “Has it been stolen?” The dress was worth thousands. It was, if Caitlin’s breathless accounts were anything to go on, a work of genius. It was bound to be a target. Maybe there’d be a ransom note. They’d pay it, of course.
“N…no, not stolen.”
Phew! That was something.
“The courier hasn’t been allowed to pick it up from Delametri Chevalier’s shop!”
Molly’s couldn’t think why. �
�Did he have shifty eyes or dirty hands? Because that’d be fair enough…”
“No! Because…because…it wasn’t ready!” Caitlin dissolved into more sobs.
“You’re kidding,” Molly gasped.
“I wish I was! After all they said—they knew the date, they knew how important it is—I had the final fitting just last week. It looked fine then!” Caitlin was talking at a pitch that only canines could register. “All these important people are going to be there, and I’ve got no sodding dress! Molly, I think I may very well just run outside and kill myself!”
“Don’t do that,” Molly snapped more harshly than she intended. She was trying not to join in with Caitlin’s blind panic, but it wasn’t easy. “At least, don’t do that yet. Did you get any more details? Like, how nearly finished is it? There are still four days to go…”
Caitlin took a moment. Molly could hear her sniffing and taking deep breaths. “They said it’s done now, but I’ve missed my slot with the couriers.”
Okay. They could work with this.
But Caitlin was still fuming. “They’re saying they won’t be able to pick it up until tomorrow afternoon. And won’t get it down here until Monday!
“Monday!” shouted Molly. “But that’s…”
“The morning of the wedding!” they said together.
“Are they crazy?” asked Molly.
Caitlin talked over her. “Do they think I’m going to just sit back and go ‘oh, that’s fine then, just get it to me when you can, the day of the wedding will be great…’” And Caitlin gave in to another burst of miserable sobs.
“I would expect more professionalism from them,” Molly agreed. She wanted to make a snide remark about how this would never have happened if she’d asked her to design and make her dress for her, but she bit her tongue. That whole issue was over and done with—it had to be. That ship had well and truly sailed.
Up until that moment, Molly would have had to admit that Caitlin’s choice of Delametri Chevalier to design the dress was pretty darned good. His was, after all, one of the world’s most celebrated labels. And despite beating Molly to the coveted role of Caitlin Wright’s dress designer, Delametri Chevalier himself was still a major hero of hers. Molly had even written her thesis on him during the final year of her fashion degree at Newcastle. And if Francesco had the sort of money to afford a couture Chevalier gown for his fiancée’s wedding, then, well, good luck to them. She was totally over it. Totally. Over. It.
She shivered. A chilly breeze was rising off the river. All around her, people were beginning to walk more quickly, hands in pockets, coats buttoned. It was getting late. But she had reached the narrow street of her apartment building. Quickening her pace, she walked toward it.
“Do you know something, Molly?” said Caitlin, still snivelling.
“Tell me.”
“They have actually set up crash barriers opposite the chapel already, to hold back the crowds and the press on Monday!”
“What? You’re kidding! That is seriously scary.”
Caitlin had told Molly that Francesco Marino was famous in his native Italy, but she hadn’t realized to what extent. Despite her love of everything to do with fashion she wasn’t a big fan of celebrity magazines and gossip. Apparently Francesco Marino was a well-known figure on the European Celebrity Circuit, owing to his high-profile job in the Italian media. Molly didn’t know much else about him apart from that; until just this moment and the dress disaster, it had been her main source of worry about the wedding.
“Scary’s not the word!” Caitlin’s voice was rising in panic. “What if it doesn’t get here in time? The courier could crash! Or what if it’s not right? There’ll be no time to fix it! Scary? I’ll give you scary! This is apocalyptic! Four hundred and eighty of Francesco’s friends and family, Molly—most of whom will be arriving by helicopter or private plane. And I hardly know any of them…”
“Okay, we’re not going to fix anything by freaking out.” At last, Molly had reached the steps of the apartment and was unlocking the door, trying to think what to say next. “Calm down and—”
“I can’t calm down!” Caitlin bellowed. “My life is over! What will Francesco say? I’ll be an international laughing stock if my dress doesn’t fit—or if it isn’t there at all!”
Molly privately thought that if Francesco was any sort of a man he’d love her sister for who she was, and not for what the press might think about what she was wearing.
“What am I going to do? Walk down the aisle in jeans and a tee?”
Molly closed the door on the city of her dreams for the night with a sigh of relief. “Okay, Caitlin, this is what we’re going to do…”
“Kill ourselves?” Caitlin wailed.
“Didn’t I say, not yet?” She allowed herself a smile. But this was action stations time! “Do you want me to pick the dress up for you and bring it to Venice with me?” she asked as she threw herself down onto the double bed, which was suddenly mockingly huge.
“How on earth are you going to do that?” Molly’s unexpected offer seemed to have surprised Caitlin into stopping her sobs.
“Well…I am in Paris tonight.”
Now there was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. Molly shook her head. Caitlin had been so wrapped up in her wedding preparations that she’d clearly forgotten all about Molly and Reggie’s Parisian stopover. Quelle surprise!
“I knew that, of course,” Caitlin said in a small voice.
“Sure you did,” Molly smiled again. “So, would that help? I could pick up the dress and take it with me on the plane down to Venice tomorrow? It’ll be in your loving arms by the afternoon. Problem solved!”
The silence which followed Molly’s offer was quite different. Molly could hear it, and a wave of old sadness suddenly washed in.
“I…I guess…that might be okay…”
Molly sighed. “You don’t trust me…”
Another sigh, this time from Caitlin. “It’s not that…”
“Course it isn’t.” Molly rubbed her forehead and clenched her teeth. To think, after all these years, Caitlin still didn’t trust her.
“It’s just…” Caitlin started. “You and I have got history with dresses, don’t we?”
Now Molly was definitely annoyed. “This? Really!? How many more years do I have to hear it? Were you by any chance just about to mention music boxes as well—we’ve got history with those, too!”
“Molly—”
“Ancient history! Listen, just forget I offered, okay?”
That got her! Caitlin was rattled. “No, no, I’m sorry, kiddo, really. Blame my bride-brain.”
“Bridezilla brain,” Molly muttered.
“I heard that.”
She meant her to. “So. Would you like me to pick up the dress and bring it down with me or not? It’ll need to be tonight though; the flight’s quite early in the morning. Would that help?”
“Yes. Yes please. It would help. Yes.”
The relief in Caitlin’s voice soothed Molly’s ruffled feathers. Honestly, what a night! A failed proposal. A successful break up. And held up as untrustworthy by her own sister—wonderful!
“Thank you Molly. Thank you, thank you.” Caitlin was clearly beaming. “I’ll ring Delametri and tell him you’re on your way, is that okay? You can go now?”
“Now?” Molly echoed, aghast. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to bury herself under her bedclothes and cry herself to sleep.
“Oh, you’ll need directions…”
Molly sniffed and heaved herself to her feet. “I know exactly where it is. I had my nose pressed against the window just this afternoon, practically dribbling drool down the glass at all the gorgeous stuff.”
“Nice, sis,” Caitlin laughed.
Molly felt strange. She was exhausted and wrung-out, but the realization was just beginning hit her—she was actually going to step inside the sumptuous world of haute couture and mee
t the man himself! The great Delametri Chevalier!
“Oh, Molly?”
She’s going to tell me to guard the dress with my life.
“Yes, Caitlin?”
“You will, you know, guard the dress with your life, won’t you?”
Molly rolled her eyes. “I shall strap the dress into my own seat on the plane and throw myself into the hold with the rest of the baggage… just for you.”
“Excellent. Oh, and Molly?”
Molly shook her head and smiled. “You’re welcome.”
She left more or less straight away, only pausing to wipe the mud off her shoes and make sure she had no mascara halfway down her face after her tears earlier on. She was going to meet Delametri Chevalier! The thought made her giddy with excitement.
I shouldn’t be this happy—I have just been dumped…
She wondered whether her brain may have put her grief into some sort of suspended cold-storage while she concentrated on the emergency at hand. A sort of self-preservation mechanism. There would be lots of time for crying on the plane tomorrow.
Perhaps it was Paris. Being in the city of her dreams, so close to so many of her lifetime heroes. Dior! Chanel! Chevalier…
As she retraced her steps from her afternoon’s window-shopping, down the boulevards which only this afternoon had been bursting with people and romance and Parisian charm but were now—fittingly, she thought—closed down and lifeless, she tried to focus on what was to come.
Delametri Chevalier was a tall, well-built man, with very short, salt-and-pepper hair, which he wore slicked back with old-fashioned pomade, small almond eyes, and a thin moustache which was always tended to perfection. This much she knew from the pages of Vogue and Tatler. She knew that he always wore his own bespoke suits and that he spoke four languages.
Fortunately, one of them was English. She screwed up her face in excitement planning what to say to him.
So, Mr. Chevalier—no, that wasn’t right—so Monsieur Chevalier, as a student of fashion and as someone whose dream it is to one day own an atelier like yours, may I ask you some questions? I have been a passionate—no—a devoted admirer of your work for many years. Would you agree with the critics—no—admirers who say that your creations have gone from strength to strength over the years? The last five years’ collections have been the most outstanding of all! And would you care to hear my views on the ongoing evolution of the Chevalier signature look? And please may I send you over my CV and some drawings?