by Lucy Hepburn
And… And… You’re amazing.
Hmm. Too much? She had done an entire thesis on him only a couple of years ago. If only she had her portfolio with her! But it hadn’t exactly been high up on her packing list for her sister’s wedding.
Her excitement mounted as she approached the Chevalier store—his ‘atelier.’ Even the outside of the building looked like a tasteful work of art, with its graceful, art nouveau curves and the beautiful drapes which surrounded the elegantly-lit windows.
Her phone bleeped. Once again, Molly jumped. Reggie?
Go! Go! Go!
It was a text from Caitlin. Molly managed a smile and replaced the phone in her coat pocket. Then she walked up to the huge double wooden doors with as much confidence as she could summon up and rang the bell.
Look confident. Smile. Look stylish and employable. Don’t make an idiot of yourself.
The door was opened by a small, white-haired lady wearing a simple black dress. “Miss Wright?” she enquired in a heavy French accent.
Molly nodded. “Molly.”
“Come in, please.”
“Thank you. You have a beautiful front door.” What a thing to say! Molly was already coming across as an idiot and she’s only spoken to Chevalier’s assistant.
It even smelled wonderful inside. Of scented candles, crisp linen, marble floors, and something indescribable to do with beauty and achievement and scissors and needles and thread that Molly couldn’t describe but wanted to keep sniffing forever. She was experiencing a physical tug of longing to be part of a world like this. She wanted to race over to the rails of clothing—not that there were many on show—pull them out and get a really good look and feel of them all. If only she could have an hour here alone! Or a day! Or a lifetime!
She offered her hand to the woman. “My name is Molly.” You already said that! She could have slapped her own face with her palm.
“Annabelle, ma petite chère,” the older woman replied, politely taking her hand in the briefest of handshakes.
“Em, I think Monsieur Chevalier is getting my sister’s wedding dress for me?”
The woman shook her head briskly and shrugged. “Monsieur left many hours ago, Mademoiselle. His assistant will attend to you.”
“Oh…” Of course a man of his standing wouldn’t wait around to meet a no one like her. But she couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. “I hoped I’d have a chance to meet him.”
Annabelle’s eyebrows shot upwards. As if she wondered why anyone would want to meet such a great man. But Molly wondered how many more crushing blows she was to be expected to take this evening. She looked aghast at Annabelle then scraped her manners back together again. “Oh, it’s fine, sorry—thank you for being here!”
A voice from the back of the room spared her from having to think of anything else to say.
“Aha! Here she is! The wonderful sister of the wonderful Caitlin Wright!” She spun round to see an immaculately suited, athletically-built man whirling across the floor toward her, arms outstretched. “Betrothed to the wonderful Francesco Marino! Welcome, welcome, my little flower!” Before she knew it, his hands were on her shoulders, and she was being kissed twice on each cheek. “Pascal Lafayette, a votre service, mademoiselle! Oh, you look so like your sister! So beautiful in that fresh, English way. So natural and unspoiled.”
Molly narrowed her eyes. Natural, huh? Did he think she was a mess? Just because he was groomed to perfection, and she’d had the mother of all tough nights?
He, on the other hand, was insanely good-looking with olive skin, slicked-back black hair, and meltingly beautiful brown eyes. She reckoned he must be in his late thirties or early forties—it was so hard to estimate the age of a Parisian!
“I am Pascal Lafayette, Monsieur Chevalier’s…assistant,” he explained, putting a curious emphasis on the final word.
And did Molly imagine it, or did Pascal and Annabelle just exchange looks? She narrowed her eyes again in suspicion.
“It has been my great pleasure and privilege to have assisted Monsieur Chevalier in working on the gown for the fiancée of Signor Francesco Marino. A wonderful man!”
“Wonderful, yes… you said,” she muttered. Molly wasn’t really in the mood to hear Delametri Chevalier’s assistant talk like such a suck-up about her future brother-in-law. So Francesco was a big-shot, known all over Europe…yeah, yeah, big deal. All she wanted was for her sister to be happy with the right man. The more she heard people singing the praises of the great Francesco Marino, the more he sounded like a player.
“Thank you for waiting for me.” Molly forced a smile. Inside, she felt a little ill with embarrassment that she’d ever imagined Delametri Chevalier would have waited behind to hand over the dress to her in person. How could she have been so naïve!
“My very great pleasure. Now, I shall fetch the gown. A moment please!”
He went off at a jog, disappearing through a doorway marked ‘privé’. Molly and Annabelle were left looking at one another. The silence was thick and uncomfortable—perhaps the room was sound-proofed to dull the traffic noise outside, a clever ploy to make customers feel cocooned in the luxurious world of Chevalier.
“Do you also design?” Molly asked to break up the suffocating atmosphere.
“Me?” Annabelle pointed at herself. “Non. I am the cleaner, ma petite chère.”
“Ah.” Molly nodded. Back in Yorkshire, cleaners did not generally wear black crepe shift dresses, good tights, pearls, and soft suede pumps. “It must be a lovely place to work.”
Annabelle smiled kindly and nodded her head in agreement. Molly gazed over at the clothes on the rails, each piece protected by cellophane. She longed to go and look. Annabelle was watching her, still smiling.
Time ticked by. Eventually Molly, gesturing at the clothes, turned to Annabelle. “Do you think I could…”
“Non,” Annabelle replied, quite firmly. “I am sorry, but please do not touch. Each of the pieces is very expensive and we cannot risk them being marked.”
“Worth a try,” she sighed.
“They are very special,” Annabelle said.
“I understand.”
“And so do I.”
“Which are his favorites?” Molly couldn’t stop herself asking.
“Every item in the collection is of equal importance to Monsieur Chevalier, ma petite chère.”
This was not quite enough to satisfy Molly’s hunger for some nugget of inside knowledge to take away and treasure. “So which pieces take the most time to perfect? Does the silk fray, for instance? It is so very finely woven…”
“The House of Chevalier has many years of experience handling the finest fabrics,” Annabelle cut her off patiently.
Molly shrugged her acceptance. “Fair enough.”
Annabelle softened. “You love couture?”
“I love quality,” Molly answered, realizing her reply had inadvertently made her sound snobbish. But she couldn’t describe her thoughts any other way.
Finally, Pascal returned. Gone was the excitable demeanor, the oozing charm. In its place was a vision of pure Parisian panic. “Do not panic!” He instructed them, a rigid smile fixed to his face, his voice considerably more high-pitched than before.
“What’s the problem?” Molly asked, though it was dawning on her, horribly, that the answer was obvious.
“I have looked everywhere.” Pascal rubbed his face with his hands. “I cannot find the dress.”
Chapter Three
“What?!” Molly took a deep breath. “It must be here somewhere!” Molly strode over to the clothes rails and began rifling through them.
Pascal and Annabelle raced towards her, ready to rugby tackle her if she dared to touch the garments.
“Please, Mademoiselle!” Annabelle cried.
“Signor Marino’s wedding gown is not hanging on the shop floor!” Pascal exclaimed. “That would be crazy!”
; “How do you know?” Molly called back. “It’s not where you think it is, so let’s try the crazy places! And it’s not Signor Marino’s wedding gown, by the way—it’s my sister’s wedding gown!”
She was pulling out every single garment in a pale color, checking whether it might be a wedding dress or not. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Pascal cringing with her every touch. Molly didn’t care. She hadn’t actually been allowed to see any drawings of Caitlin’s dress, much to her annoyance, but she was fairly sure that it was going to be a traditional wedding gown of some description or other. She saw cream silk coat dresses, wonderful liquid satin party frocks in adorable sorbet shades, even a range of dazzling white ski wear, all zipped in cellophane wrappings to keep them perfect. Then she saw the pale ivory column gown, heart-stoppingly wonderful, the one the woman in the restaurant had been wearing earlier. Not Caitlin’s dress—it was a one-off, Caitlin had told her as much often enough.
Molly had a quick look at the price tag and gasped. Three thousand euros…
She couldn’t resist having a sneaky closer look. Just how had it sat so perfectly on the woman in the restaurant’s collar bones? Tentatively, she pulled down the zip, gasping in bliss at its perfection—the only embellishment was in the tiny ruches on the neckline, hand-stitched with silk thread. It was a masterclass in simplicity.
“It is lovely,” said a soft voice at her side, making her jump. Annabelle had crossed the room and was at her side. Gently, she began to sift through the garments, beginning at the other end of the rail. “Now, if you please? We have established that this is not your sister’s gown, have we not?”
Molly re-fastened the zip, returning Annabelle’s understanding smile.
Just then Pascal reappeared, jangling a set of keys. “I will check our storage facility,” he said. “Please, wait here. It is just behind the store.”
“Oh, okay.”
Molly was suddenly consumed with longing to speak to her mother. Reaching into her bag and drawing out her phone, she saw Pascal freeze.
“Please,” he cried, “say nothing to Signor Marino! I will fix this!”
“Don’t worry,” Molly reassured him crisply. She was growing less sure about this man, with his perfect looks and his over-developed admiration for Caitlin’s rich fiancé. Turning away, she hit her mother’s number on her speed-dial and waited.
“Hello?” Her mother’s voice sounded sleepy and far away.
“Sorry, mum, did I wake you?”
“Oh, Molly! No, it’s always lovely to hear from you.”
Vanessa Wright, Molly and Caitlin’s mum, was half-Italian and had moved to the Italian town of Assisi three years ago. When Molly was little her mum had thrown the girls’ father out of the family home after discovering he had been having an affair, and then raised the girls pretty much on her own. Only once her daughters had left home, did she move to Italy. Molly had never been close to her difficult father, and they barely spoke, but she and her mother stayed in close touch using Skype, and she came home several times a year to visit.
“Are you okay? You sound exhausted!” Molly was on her knees, checking underneath the gold sofa, in case the dress had been accidentally been kicked there.
There was a silence at the other end of the line, before her mother replied. “I am pretty tired. But it’s fine. Got a lot to do, you know how it is.”
“Mmm,” Molly agreed. “Caitlin’s kept both of us on our toes these past few weeks, hasn’t she?” She was still only half-concentrating, as she had suddenly remembered Reggie. Her mother didn’t know she’d just been dumped! Should she tell her?
No, she decided, not yet. These next few days were about Caitlin. She’d sleep on it; perhaps do it when they saw each other in the flesh, when Molly could be guaranteed her mother’s undivided attention. Molly could put on a great show of being absolutely fine about it, and they’d be so preoccupied with Caitlin and the wedding that everyone would soon move on and maybe after all that was over and done with she could quietly fall apart? Okay, that seemed to be a good plan.
“How’s Paris?” her mother asked.
“At least you remembered I’m here,” Molly couldn’t resist saying. “Caitlin’s so full of herself at the moment that she’d completely forgotten.”
“Oh, give her a break,” her mother sighed. “She’s getting married in four days’ time. Her head must be all over the place.”
Molly’s heart sank. There it was again, her mother taking sides with Caitlin. She sank down onto the gold sofa and rubbed her forehead.
“Suppose.” Deep breath, here goes. “Listen, mum, something terrible has happened.”
“Oh no! What?”
“It’s the dress,” Molly told her, waiting for the explosive reaction.
“Oh?”
“It wasn’t ready when the courier came for it—Caitlin flipped, she thought she was going to have to get married in her jeans!”
“Well, that’s not likely to happen, is it?” Her mother’s voice was patient; bored, almost.
“So anyway, it was a huge panic, but I’ve offered to pick it up and take it down to Venice tomorrow.”
“Well, isn’t that a stroke of luck? Of course, that’s the obvious solution.” Her mother didn’t sound particularly impressed about Molly’s heroics. “It’s just as well you and Reggie are there! How is he? Have you bored him to death with all your fashion tours?” she teased.
Stung by the lack of interest, Molly was about to change her mind and tell her mother after all that she had in fact just been dumped and was being put to a good deal of inconvenience on her sister’s behalf…but her mother sounded so disinterested that she held her resolve and said nothing.
“Paris is lovely,” she said, pretending to mishear the question. “But you’ll never believe where I am right now?”
The reply was thrown away. “Oh…top of the Eiffel Tower?”
“No!”
She waited for her mother to guess again but she clearly wasn’t in the mood. “I’m inside Delametri Chevalier’s actual shop!”
She paused for a reaction which did not come. Deflated, she pressed on. “His assistant’s gone to look for the dress.”
Still no reaction.
“The trouble is it seems to have gone missing. And I don’t know what to do.”
Nothing.
“They can’t find it anywhere. I’m kind of freaking out right now. Caitlin’s having a canary.”
“Well, I’m sure it’ll turn up.”
“Mum! What if it doesn’t? It’s a disaster!”
She could hear her mother give an exasperated little snort. “Well, that won’t be the end of the world, will it? If it’s gone missing, and I’m sure it hasn’t, then surely Caitlin can pick something up in Venice tomorrow can’t she? We’ll find a pretty white dress from somewhere.”
“Mum!” Her mother might as well have just offered to murder some puppies to run up a new dress out of their fur. “How can you say that?”
“It’s just a dress, darling!”
“Just a dress!?! Mum! This is a couture…”
“There are far more important things in life than fashion, Molly!”
Now that one hurt. To hear her mother pouring scorn over the thing that Molly was trying to build a career out of was like a knife in her soul. Molly couldn’t trust herself to speak. And when her mother broke the silence, at least her tone was conciliatory.
“Molly, love, that sounded bad, what I said about fashion. I’m sorry. I’m just…nervous about the wedding, that’s all.”
This was news to Molly. “Really? That’s not like you. When are you heading up to Venice?”
“Tomorrow, hopefully.”
Hopefully? Like, she had something better planned? But Molly let that one pass. Because Delametri’s assistant had returned from the storage facility—and he was worryingly empty-handed.
“Right, well, I’ll call you tomorrow…” she
tailed off. Her whole body had begun trembling. “Mum?”
“Goodbye, love.”
“Bye.”
Pascal’s face said it all. Annabelle, who had been waiting by the door, crossed the room, picked up a telephone, and handed it to him.
Sighing heavily, Pascal looked over at Molly. “I will have to call Delametri.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” Molly exclaimed, though Pascal wasn’t listening. “Merde!” Pascal’s air of crisp sophistication was growing thin under the strain. “He has gone to visit his mother in Marseilles. He will not be happy to be disturbed. He is a man who—how can I say this—has no difficulty in handing over responsibilities to others.”
“A sign of good leadership,” Molly remarked dreamily. Hearing Pascal talking about her hero made her forget all about her mother’s lack of interest. She was imagining herself working here, shouldering every morsel of responsibility that was thrown her way with flair and good humour, being given more and more creative freedom as a result, then being promoted up and up through the ranks, and eventually leaving even Pascal applauding admiringly in her wake as she introduced elements of her own designs into the fabulous world of Chevalier. And then finally, finally, she would launch her own label, with the blessing of her friend and mentor, Delametri Chevalier himself…
Pascal was looking at her strangely. “If you say so.”
He seemed gutted by the task of making the call, gazing at the phone with distaste before stabbing a number on speed dial. Molly couldn’t help but wonder why ringing his boss was such a huge deal. Delametri Chevalier wasn’t so much of a tyrant, surely, that he’d mind being called in an emergency like this? He’s bound to be delighted to help out!
As he waited for Delametri to pick up, Molly couldn’t help but think that Pascal was staring at her with a rather indecent intensity. She shifted uncomfortably, crossing her legs and moving round so that her body was angled away from him. Then he waved a hand at Annabelle and hissed something that sounded like ‘ma couture cas s’il vous plait’.