by Lucy Hepburn
Annabelle, nodding, walked over to an ornate, inlaid bureau which stood in the corner of the room, opened one of the many tiny drawers, and drew out what looked like a suede wash bag. She closed the drawer and brought it over to him.
He nodded his thanks. “Delametri? Allo?”
He began talking urgently into the phone. Molly’s French was not good. Amidst the anxiety-laden staccato of Pascal’s voice she could only make out a couple of names, like ‘Marino,’ ‘Italy’.
“C’est pas ici.” – it is not here.
Molly, star-struck, was thrilled to think that the one and only Delametri Chevalier was actually on the other end of the line. He would sort this out easily. She was only one step removed from greatness, separated from her hero only by a jumpy Frenchman called Pascal Lafayette who, clamping the phone between his chin and his shoulder appeared to be…threading a needle?
And he was using a dark orange thread.
Whatever Delametri was saying, it wasn’t going down well with Pascal. Molly tried to stay calm but she felt the knot in her tummy returning—whatever her mother thought, it totally was a big deal if the dress was lost. Any couture Delametri Chevalier gown was a work of art but this one went further still—Caitlin had been involved in the planning from the outset, and Molly, despite her sadness at not being asked to design it herself, longed to see it with all her heart. Besides, Caitlin would be inconsolable and if Molly was to have any room in her life for her own problems, an inconsolable Caitlin was completely out of the question.
Pascal stood up and, still talking, crossed the room and sat beside Molly so that their thighs were snugly aligned. It felt most peculiar. But before Molly could politely move away, he had picked up the hem of her dress, and, balancing the phone between his chin and his collarbone, he caught up the edge of the torn hem, folded it over, and began to sew.
Molly was speechless. Her personal space was being thoroughly invaded and yet the act was so kind. She felt very English all of a sudden.
“C’est impossible,” Pascal said at last, sitting up. “En Anglais, s’il vous plait,” he said before handing Molly the phone. Surprised, she took it. “Please will you take his instruction? I cannot hold the phone and sew.”
He slid from the sofa, crouched at her feet, and got on with mending her hem, leaving Molly holding the phone.
Yikes!
Trembling, she pressed it to her ear. “M…monsieur Chevalier?” she faltered. “I am Caitlin’s sister…” and your very very very biggest fan…
Don’t gush, she scolded herself. Do. Not. Gush.
“Mademoiselle. A pleasure. Your sister has been a joy to work with; her wedding gown will be a worldwide sensation!”
Molly’s hands were shaking. His voice was rich and deep, loaded with syrupy charm—exactly as she had imagined it to be.
Excitedly, she seized her chance and gushed: “I…I adore your work! It is so technically perfect! And it’s so thrilling that my sister has chosen you to design her dress!”
“Thank you,” came the reply as, below her, Pascal rolled his eyes.
“You are such an inspiration!” she went on. “I…I must ask—”
“And I must not take up too many moments of your time! I have been hearing about the little misunderstanding about your sister’s gown.”
“Oh. Yes.” There it was. That unmistakeable sensation of being fobbed off. Molly could have kicked herself for her stupidity. Why did she have to gush? She’d just succeeded in irritating her hero.
“As I have been telling Pascal,” Delametri continued smoothly, “the gown is safely hidden in my apartment.”
“Oh!” Relief washed over Molly. “That is such good news! I knew there wouldn’t be a problem, Monsieur Chevalier! Thank you for sorting it out!”
She heard a little snort of satisfaction at the other end of the line. “I did not want to take any chances, you understand. The wedding day of a man such as Francesco Marino is of huge significance. Nothing must go wrong.”
Despite the thrill of being on the phone to the great man, Molly narrowed her eyes. She was growing a little tired of hearing how wonderfully important her future brother-in-law was.
Pascal, stitching deftly, looked up, his expression unreadable. “Would you ask him where the key to his apartment is, if you please?”
Delametri overheard the question. “It is in the top drawer of the bureau. And tell him, when he’s at my apartment to feed my little Mimi, if he would be so kind.”
Molly was delighted to offer this small service to the great man. She beamed down at Pascal. “It’s in the top drawer of the bureau. And could you feed his little Mimi when you’re there?”
Pascal said nothing.
“Oh, and Mademoiselle?”
“Yes?” Molly breathed.
“Tell my assistant that he must accompany you to Venice, to fit the gown on the bride.”
“I’m sorry?” Had she heard that correctly? Was Caitlin so important that she got a personal fitting on the day? This was amazing! She relayed the instruction to Pascal.
“Impossible,” Pascal replied immediately, tying off the ends of the thread and smoothing down Molly’s perfectly mended hem. “He knows very well I am required in Bologna this weekend. I booked it off months ago. I’ve been talking about it for weeks. It is out of the question to go to Venice.”
Molly was about to tell Delametri, but again he had overheard. “I am afraid that the House of Chevalier prides itself on the concept of perfection. I am not able to make the journey, though nothing would have made me happier. Pascal simply must carry out this task if he values his position here.”
Gloomily, Molly passed on the threat. Pascal got to his feet, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, clearly absolutely livid, as Delametri went on, the voice as syrupy-sweet as ever, “Every piece from the House of Chevalier must be flawless, I insist upon it.”
“He says every piece must be perfect,” Molly muttered, now squirming in discomfort.
“Every piece is perfect,” Pascal hissed. “As we both know.”
“Mademoiselle,” Delametri Chevalier said, dropping his voice to an even lower timbre, “my assistant will be your travelling companion. For Francesco Marino and his bride, I will accept no compromise.”
Such desire for perfection! Molly was blown away by the fact that one of the world’s greatest designers would go to such lengths to ensure her sister looked perfect on her wedding day.
Pascal gently took the phone from Molly’s hands and stalked to the other side of the room and commenced a long argument with his employer in a loud whisper. Molly and Annabelle looked at one another and grimaced.
The outcome was obvious. Pascal threw the phone down, stalked over to the coat stand, and snatched a sharp little fedora hat and an umbrella from one of its hooks.
“I go,” he said primly.
Annabelle had taken the keys from the bureau and handed them to Pascal.
Pascal turned to Molly. “I can only apologize for the scene which you have had to witness.”
“Don’t worry,” she replied, “I’m actually just really excited to be here—and thank you for fixing my dress. It was so kind of you!”
“It was nothing. I will not be long.”
He made for the door. Molly took a step forward. “Please may I come?”
He looked at her, not unkindly. “Mademoiselle, I think it would be best if you did not. I can see that you are a great admirer of…of the label and…”
He tailed off, embarrassed, and made for the door. Molly’s face grew hot. What he’d meant was, no way am I letting a crazy fan girl like you get a private viewing of Delametri Chevalier’s apartment—back off!
“You fly to Venice tomorrow, is that correct?”
Molly nodded.
“In the morning?”
She nodded again, feeling inexplicably as though she had done something wrong.
“Then please will yo
u give Annabelle your flight details, and I will meet you at Charles de Gaulle airport.”
“Oh. Okay.” Molly felt more than a little rattled, like she was being professionally handled. She didn’t want this—the prospect of spending an entire day in the company of this odd, angry man filled her with gloom. Meanwhile Pascal was rattling off instructions to Annabelle, who stood like a patient maiden aunt in the company of two rather petulant and over-tired children, making notes on an expensive-looking pad.
And then with a theatrical click of his heels and half-bow in the ladies’ direction, Pascal flounced out of the door.
“Don’t forget to feed his little Mimi,” Molly called after him before turning back to Annabelle and shrugging in defeat.
“Who is his little Mimi?” she asked, thinking what a wonderful nugget this would have been for her thesis.
“His parakeet,” Annabelle answered. “A filthy bird.” She handed Molly the pad and pen. “Your flight information, if you would be so kind?”
As Molly gave Annabelle the details, she started to get excited. Tomorrow she would travel just over a thousand kilometers, and in just less than three days later she would see Caitlin get a proper professional fitting. What brilliant experience for a dress designer!
Chapter Four
Hours until wedding: 54
Kilometers to wedding: 1140
“Are you sure? Name of Reggie Pine? R-e-g-g…”
The flight attendant’s lips pursed in irritation. Her perfectly-sculpted white-blonde hairstyle stayed rigidly in place as she shook her head.
“Mademoiselle, there is no mistake. There is no ticket booked under that name. And there have been no recent cancellations for this flight.”
“I…I see. Thank you.”
The airport was filling up despite the early hour. A tetchy queue was forming behind her. Molly glanced over her shoulder and sighed. With a heavy heart, she completed her check-in and stepped away from the desk, feeling completely hollowed out. So, Reggie had never even bought himself a ticket to Venice for the wedding. Just how long had he known about his plan to shake her off and head for the States? She felt like a fool.
Around her the huge, impressive terminal building of Charles De Gaulle airport throbbed and hummed with busy travellers. Molly made her way to the middle of the concourse to look out for her new travelling companion: not her fiancé or boyfriend Reggie, but the reluctant and moody Pascal. She stood motionless, forlornly clutching her handbag and the handle of her suitcase as trolleys, prams, businesspeople, and holidaymakers dodged round her, most with only millimeters to spare.
She had spent a sleepless night alone in the apartment, imagining Reggie reclining on some jumbo jet over the Atlantic, each passing second taking him roaring further and further from her and from their life together. Would he be taking it all in stride, she wondered, or would he be morose and moody with regret? Or (and somehow this seemed likely) would he be plugged happily into some in-flight gangster movie, eagerly planning his stellar new future which evidently had no room for her? Laughing at her for being duped so easily.
She thought she had known him pretty well. Four years, after all, is a long time. She’d always understood his vaulting ambition to reach the very top of his profession and to embrace the fame and fortune that went with it, but never for a second had she suspected he’d be capable of executing such a spectacular escape without her having so much as an inkling.
Reggie needed distance sometimes. She’d just never realized quite how much.
She hadn’t cried yet, not really, really cried. And as she smiled away the apology of a chic young woman whose young son had just driven his scooter over her foot, she wondered whether it was time to admit to herself the true nature of the strongest emotion she had felt since last night’s parting:
Relief.
“Mademoiselle.”
Molly turned. Pascal, stony-faced and tense, looked extraordinary. Still ridiculously handsome in an older, catalogue model sort of way, he was encumbered by an enormous, 7 foot long, zipped white plastic parcel—Caitlin’s dress. He’d hooked the dress holder over his shoulder with his fingertips so that it hung down his back like a freakish waterfall.
Molly suddenly became a wedding dress zombie, arms out front and eyes glazed over with the dress holder as her target. She wanted to see the creation.
“Mademoiselle Wright,” said Pascal. “Hello?”
Molly shook herself and looked at Pascal.
“Please,” she said. “You have got to call me Molly.” In her obsessing over the dress, she had forgotten to be in awe of him.
“Very well. And you must call me Pascal.”
“Deal.” They held one another’s gaze, neither sure what to make of the other, until an inquisitive sniffer dog jostled his way between them and broke the moment. Molly, who adored dogs, crouched to scratch its ears but was warned off with a hiss of disapproval from its surly handler.
Pascal was also pulling a suitcase which Molly recognized instantly as a hand-tooled bespoke piece from Delametri Chevalier’s summer Cruise Collection and which retailed at approximately the price of a small family car. On his wrist hung a butter-soft leather man-bag in a totally now shade of marine blue. Both the suitcase and the man-bag were discreetly marked with entwined ‘D’s and ‘C’s, hand-stitched in 22-carat gold thread.
“The Cruise Collection,” was all Molly could think of to say. “How…luxurious.”
Pascal nodded gruffly and despite the momentary thrill of seeing the wedding dress, albeit in its cover, Molly’s spirits sank. Pascal was obviously in a bad mood. The day seemed interminable already.
Pascal clutched her arm and leaned in very close to her ear.
“Have you seen the weather?” he whispered. “That storm!”
Molly peered beyond the crowds toward the huge glass windows. It did indeed look as though the people emerging from cars and taxis were being buffeted by strong, whippy winds. An elderly lady took to her heels to run after her extravagant straw hat, only to be rescued by a gallant taxi driver, who leapt from his cab to retrieve her hat for her. Molly smiled at the scene.
“Surely they would not send aiplanes into the sky in such conditions? It would be madness!”
Molly looked up out of another window, watching a plane descend gracefully and smoothly towards the runway, and realized.
“I take it you don’t like flying very much?” she smiled.
His ashen face was all the reply she needed. But he patted the cover of Caitlin’s dress. “This,” he said. “For this, I come. I make the trip.”
And at that, Molly found herself beginning to warm to him.
“That’s very decent of you, Pascal. Especially when you had plans.”
“I am sorry you heard me say that I did not want to come,” he went on. “I have, I mean I had, an assignation in Bologna which was very important to me, and it was a shock to realize that it was not to be any more. But please do not think I cared less about your sister’s gown.”
“It’s fine,” Molly smiled.
“I thought Delametri would be a guest at the wedding—that he would attend to the final fitting. It is too important to leave to chance. The fit must be perfect.”
Molly gazed covetously at the cover. “Do you think I could see it?” She could feel herself salivating at the prospect of see the dress.
Pascal looked aghast. “Here? In this filthy place?”
It was a fair point. There were people everywhere.
“The little dogs! The little children! The dirty feet!”
“Of course! How stupid of me.” Molly smiled then leaned toward him conspiratorially. “At least give me a clue as to what it’s like?”
“Ah,” Pascal tapped the side of his nose, “do not think you will get me to reveal the secrets of the House of Chevalier!”
“Spoilsport.” Molly was pleased to see that he appeared to have forgotten about his fear of flyin
g.
“But I would just say that this, and you probably will not understand, but it makes me happy: your sister’s gown has captured essences of the Great House of Worth.”
“No way!” Molly gasped. “Charles Worth?”
“You know the label?” Pascal narrowed his eyes.
“Know it? I love it!” Some English girls go mad for Take That or One Direction—for me it’s Mr. Worth, all the way!
“Impressive for an English girl to know her couturiers!” Pascal smiled.
“Are you kidding? Charles Frederick Worth is English, as you well know—he was born in the county just next to where Caitlin and I grew up! Just because he made his name here in Paris, don’t you dare try to claim him as a Frenchman!”
Pascal laughed. “I am sure that he would have been nothing without Paris!”
Molly did privately think that yes, Charles Worth would have been unlikely to have earned the accolade ‘the father of haute couture’ if he’d stayed home in Lincolnshire, but she certainly wasn’t prepared to give any more ground on the matter to Pascal. “I used to wish I could travel back a hundred years to watch him work and see some of his pieces for real,” Molly sighed.
“You have never seen his work?” Pascal eyed her pityingly.
“I’ve seen a couple in museums and old movies. Do you know the Sage in Gateshead?
Pascal’s face was blank.
“There was the most amazing retrospective of his work there, a couple of years back—I went four times! My goodness, those knockout gowns! He was so far ahead of his time he was out of sight!” Then she grew wistful. “Apart from that, it’s just what I’ve found in photographs. You know what? I’d have worked for nothing for that man, picking pins off his floor, whatever he wanted.”
Pascal smiled and nodded slowly. Then their eyes met. “I think I am going to enjoy my day with you, Mademoiselle Molly Wright!”
He caught hold of her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. Molly, unaccustomed to such gallantry, blushed.