by Lucy Hepburn
“Well done,” Molly whispered, her face flushed with pleasure. She hadn’t expected her mother to make such a sweet gesture. She blinked back a tear of happiness.
Her mother smiled across at her. “Caitlin,” she whispered back.
“Shh!” hissed Pascal.
Molly felt like she’d been slapped in the face. Caitlin? After the conversation she and her mother had just had only a couple of hours ago? All of the happiness she felt about the earrings, all of the blossoming confidence that had been growing since her heart-to-heart about her childhood, evaporated into the stifling air of the crowded room. How could she have just done that?
The answer was obvious, she fumed. Whatever her mother had said in the car was nonsense—platitudes to make her feel better, a short-term fix in a cramped space. She would always be clumsy, hopeless Molly. She would never be forgiven for breaking Caitlin’s music box, and she would never be as loved as Caitlin was.
She’d just have to get used to that all over again. Molly shifted a little away from her mother until she was pressed up against Simon’s leg again. Simon raised his head for a moment but did not budge to give her more room. The warmth of his body was a small comfort for how low she felt.
“Mon Dieu!” Pascal leapt to his feet, and the grumpy woman in the brown overalls shooed the people standing at the front out of her way to make room for the star attraction—the Worth gown.
Molly, too, stood up, her breath caught in her throat, as the gown was brought in. Here it comes…
It had been placed on a mannequin and was being carried in to its place, center-stage at the front, by two burly, overalled men wearing protective gloves.
Pascal whisked his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow as he set eyes on the gown. Molly’s mother rose to her feet to steady him, as for a moment it looked as though he might actually pass out, overcome.
“It is even more beautiful in reality,” he breathed, fanning himself with the program.
It was indeed beautiful. The shimmering, bright green silk was the color of fresh spring forests and showed no signs whatsoever of having faded over the last hundred years. The tightly-stitched bodice plunged to a tiny, pointed waistband and was edged with silver braid, which in turn was embroidered with seed pearls. It must have been dazzling, swishing around a dance floor to the strains of some fabulous orchestra in a grand hall, picking up the glints of a thousand candles…
Even from a distance Molly could see that the construction was flawless. The sleeves were set in to the bodice with perfect pintucks, and the cuffs, edged with the same braid, had embroidered, art nouveau lilies snaking upwards toward the elbow. That was the only sneaking nod toward art nouveau that Molly could make out—though she was no expert in the field, but it touched her heart nonetheless. The gown gave her the sensation that it was at the forefront of something, ahead of its time even. The full skirt swept into a short train at the back, protected from the slate floor by ugly linen dust sheets. Molly longed to go over to it and examine it in fuller detail—how must Pascal be feeling right now? No wonder he wanted it so badly.
She flapped her arm to attract his attention.
“The lady there, ten thousand euros!”
“Molly!” Her mother scolded. “I can’t lend you that much!”
“Oops, done it again,” she muttered, plunging her hands between her knees.
Simon looked up, amused, and turned his phone off to watch.
Fortunately Pascal had not noticed. His hand shot into the air and before long he was bidding furiously against three or maybe four other people. Fifteen thousand, sixteen thousand, seventeen…
The room fell silent as the bidding climbed. Eventually, at forty-nine thousand euros, only Pascal and a flint-faced woman in a black beret remained in the hunt.
Pascal raised his hand.
“Fifty thousand!” The auctioneer called out, pointing at him.
“Fifty thousand five hundred!” The woman barked from her seat near the front.
Pascal hesitated. Molly’s fists were clenched, her knuckles white, willing him to go on. Surely he knew from the estimate that he would have to pay more to secure it?
The auctioneer was casting round the room, inviting fresh bidders. Silence.
He raised his gavel just as Pascal raised his hand, “Fifty-one!”
A ripple of applause as everyone turned to look at the mystery man with the sweaty face. Molly wanted to whoop with glee. Instead, she clutched Simon’s knee. Simon, leaning forward with interest, laid his hand on hers and squeezed it tightly.
With a smile of relief—after all—his estimate had been reached, the auctioneer looked around the room again. The woman in the beret shook her head, and once again he raised his gavel.
“Cinquante-deux!”
The booming voice at the back of the hall spoke in French. A gasp went round the room as everyone turned to see who the new bidder was.
Molly instinctively knew.
Delametri Chevalier had taken a step forward and was standing magnificently in a space which had been created all around him.
“Mon…Dieu.” Pascal had turned to look at his boss. Molly registered the sheer horror on his face and knew at once that his presence was a complete shock to him.
Delametri Chevalier cast a languid, confident gaze around the room and when it settled on Pascal, he gave him a sly grin and a wink. Pascal looked as though he had been punched.
“Fifty-three thousand euros,” Pascal stuttered in a small voice before sitting down and once again mopping his brow.
“Fifty-four,” Delametri boomed without so much as a moment’s delay.
“Pascal?” Molly hissed. “Are you all right?”
“I am finished,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. That is all I have. Five years’ savings for nothing.”
“Monsieur?” The auctioneer barked, obviously recognizing Pascal’s French accent.
And then, a woman: “Fifty-five thousand euros.”
It was her mother. She gave Pascal a wink. His mouth fell open.
“Fifty-six thousand.” Delametri seemed entirely unconcerned by the development.
Pascal tried to protest but her mother spoke up again. “Fifty-seven thousand euros.”
Molly’s mind was whirling, caught in a vortex of anger and pride at her mother. She may have just broken her heart by buying Caitlin that replacement music box, but now she was showing such kindness to a man she had only just met…she only wished that she could show some solidarity with a bid of her own, but she was, to all intents and purposes, broke.
“Fifty-eight thousand Euros, s’il vous plait.” Delametri’s voice sounded a touch bored with the game now. He was checking his watch and dusting a speck of dust from his perfectly-tailored lapel.
Molly’s mother laid a hand on Pascal’s arm as the auctioneer fixed her with a beady stare. “I am sorry…”
Pascal kissed her cheek tenderly. “Thank you,” he whispered as a tear plopped onto his lap.
“Fifty-nine thousand euros!”
Molly whipped round. “Simon!” she cried as he stood and faced down Delametri. “You can’t!”
He looked at her. “I don’t have to fix my washing machine. It’s fine—I’ll use the laundrette.”
Full of gratitude, Molly felt an overwhelming urge to say she’d happily do his laundry for him by way of a thank you but luckily stopped herself just in time.
Delametri’s suave mask appeared to slip a tiny bit as he met Simon’s steady gaze. The entire room seemed to be holding its breath as the auctioneer scanned the room, then pointed his gavel at Delametri. Pascal was leaning over trying to tell Simon to stop, but Simon ignored him.
The gavel was raised. Molly shut her eyes tightly.
“Sixty thousand euros!”
Another gasp ricocheted around the room. Molly opened her eyes to see Delametri, his program waving in the air, smiling confidently at the people on e
ither side of him.
With a small shrug of defeat Simon sat down. Pascal shook his hand while the gavel came down, taking with it his dreams.
Sold. To Delametri Chevalier.
Molly watched miserably as Pascal glared across the room at his boss. Delametri looked back, folded his arms, and smiled smugly.
Pascal covered his mouth with his hand. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. He began to make his way toward the exit.
“Oh, Pascal,” Molly said, touching him on the arm, “I’m sure there’s some reason…”
“Enough, please.” He turned and held his hand up, gently encouraging her to stop talking. “I would like to be alone.”
Molly watched him push past the crowds of people and rush from the room. She was left, trance-like, wondering what had just happened.
How could Delametri Chevalier have been so mean? It didn’t make sense.
Chapter Seventeen
Hours until wedding: 20
Kilometers to wedding: 179
Molly’s mind was still whirling as she, Simon, and her mum reeled out of the auction room.
“Unbelievable,” she breathed.
“What was that all about?” Simon asked. “Why on earth did Delametri outbid Pascal?”
“He must have wanted the dress very badly,” her mother said. “Do you think he knew Pascal did too?”
“He must have done!” Molly burst out. “He must have… Hang on… Surely not…”
She stopped dead in the middle of the ancient courtyard.
“Molly?” Simon said. “Spit it out.”
“He wouldn’t have sent Pascal off with me deliberately…oh, my word—he must have done! It all makes sense!”
“It doesn’t, actually,” Simon said patiently.
“Yes! Yes it does! Back in Paris, Pascal said he didn’t have time to come to Venice to fit Caitlin’s dress because he had an important appointment, which was this auction, obviously.”
“Yes?”
“But Delametri insisted, saying he’d lose his job if he didn’t go, and Pascal could hardly refuse then, could he? He was just getting him out of the way so that he could bid for the dress himself.”
“No way,” Simon exhaled.
“But if your plane hadn’t been diverted,” her mother cut in, “Pascal would have had plenty of time to travel from Venice to attend the auction as well as fit the dress on Cait…oh…”
They were all looking at one another, realization spreading like a cloud over each one of them.
“Not if Delametri had deliberately directed Pascal toward the wrong dress in his apartment,” Molly moaned. “It’s like a spy thriller.”
“He wouldn’t be that calculating, would he?” her mother asked, though it looked, from where they were all standing, that he most certainly could. “Never trust a man with hair as slick as that, I’d say.”
Simon shook his head. “What a creep.”
“But…” Molly was crushed. She wanted to find an alternative explanation, but there didn’t seem to be one. Delametri was a hero of hers, an icon! She’d looked up to him and idolized everything he did and everything he stood for, for years…her college thesis was on him for goodness sake!
“How could he jeopardize Caitlin’s wedding!” her mother burst out. “And do that to Pascal—I can’t believe my ears! What a horrible man!”
“I feel like I’ve just found out something bad about Father Christmas,” Molly said miserably.
They were rudely interrupted by the urgent beeping of car horns and had to dodge out of the way as a small convoy of cars and motorcycles drew up in the courtyard. Immediately the car doors opened, the bikers dismounted, and all around people began unloading mounds of cameras, recording equipment, and big, fluffy microphones.
“This Delametri guy,” Simon asked, “Pretty famous, then?”
“Oh, he’s only the third or fourth most influential designer on the planet, depending who you listen to,” Molly deadpanned. “Nothing special.” She looked at the journalists as they jostled around the doorway. “Probably here to photograph the great man with his magnificent purchase.”
“Go and find Pascal, Molly,” her mother urged. “See if he’s okay. I’ll collect your earrings and the music box.”
The music box had slipped Molly’s mind in the commotion but mention of it brought her fury crashing back.
“Mum, how could you buy that for Caitlin, after all I said to you in the car?”
Her mother looked astonished to be confronted. “What?”
“Isn’t it a bit…insensitive, or do you think I’ve got no feelings as well as being clumsy and useless?”
“I…I had to…I can’t say…. Listen, Pascal needs you. Please. Let’s not discuss it now. I’ll see you back at the car.” She turned away without meeting Molly’s eye.
“Is that all I get?” Molly called after her. “Thanks, mum, thanks a bunch!”
“Go easy on her,” Simon said, laying a hand on her arm.
She wheeled round angrily. “Why should I? You don’t know the history here Simon, so would you please give me the benefit of the doubt in this one? It’s not like mum and Caitlin ever have!”
Simon backed off, making a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay, but your mum’s…had a long day…”
“Oh, and we haven’t? Excuse me.”
She turned around again and stomped off to find Pascal leaving Simon, hands on hips, following some distance behind.
Pascal was sitting on the stone rim of a fountain, weeping. Molly broke into a run when she saw him.
“Pascal, I’m so sorry,” she said breathlessly, pulling him into a hug.
He clung to her, sobbing on her shoulders as Simon halted a short distance away and watched them for a few moments. Then he turned and walked away.
“I have been betrayed by that man in the past,” Pascal sobbed, “but never like this. Never so…personal.”
“Shh,” Molly soothed, though she couldn’t think what to say.
“Delametri, sure, he has a small collection of pieces, but Charles Worth—Charles Worth! Worth is my great passion, not his. I know more about that man than Delametri knows about himself!”
“You poor thing.”
“I told him about this auction, you know? I was excited, I showed him pictures of the gown on the internet, even told him how much money I had been saving so that I might have a chance to buy it…and this happens!”
“That’s awful.”
Molly stroked Pascal’s back as his sobbing eased off to coughs and sniffles. He pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Maybe there’s an explanation?” Molly ventured. She was still finding it hard to believe Delametri could be so treacherous. Maybe there was another side to the story?
A small crowd had gathered around the doorway; the reporters and cameramen were trying to herd them over to one side so they could get an uninterrupted view. Then the noise levels increased, and the crowd began to applaud wildly as Delametri stepped out into the courtyard in front of the two men in overalls who were carrying the mannequin and his prize: the Charles Frederick Worth gown.
Pascal sat up, rigid with fury, and watched. Flashbulbs were going off; people were crowding round, thrusting microphones under Delametri’s nose and bombarding him with questions. He couldn’t stop beaming with pleasure, turning sideways to offer a regal profile to the cameras, waving at people he recognized, and generally behaving like the global superstar he was.
“This is too much,” Pascal spluttered, getting to his feet.
“What are you going to do?” Molly called after him.
“Je ne sais pas,” Pascal shouted back without looking round. “But I am going to do it anyway.”
Molly leapt to her feet and ran after him. They arrived to see Delametri graciously agreeing to pose beside the gown. Molly couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though he had just elbowed a very la
rge, elderly lady out of his way and pulled a young, slender blonde girl closer—had she imagined that? Some stunt to make the pictures look better? The young girl wasn’t complaining, smiling and pouting for the cameras.
“Delametri!” Pascal shouted. “How could you!”
A hush fell. Everyone turned to look at Pascal, hyperventilating on the edge of the crowd. Some of them were pointing and muttering, perhaps recognizing Pascal as the man Delametri had outbid.
“Not now, Pascal,” Delametri said like a parent scolding a child. “Can’t you see I am busy?”
“How dare you do this to me!” Pascal continued, his eyes ablaze with fury.
“Enough!” Delametri smiled, though the warning glare was unmistakable. “Please, Pascal. Go back to the studio. I’ll deal with you there.” Then, turning back to the reporters with a simpering look, he continued: “I have always been passionate about Worth—he was the father of couture, and I am merely his adoring son, if you will…”
“You are a traitor!” Pascal spat.
“Who is that man?” One of the reporters called out. Some of the cameras swiveled round and focused in on Pascal’s face.
“Tell them!” Pascal said. “Tell them who I am!”
Molly felt a surge of embarrassment for Pascal. What good would it do him, telling the photographers that he was an employee of Delametri’s?
“This man—my assistant—is of no importance,” Delametri snarled. “But he is in need of some training, I fear. Now, where were we?”
The cameras all swung back onto Delametri and the gown.
“No importance?” Pascal repeated incredulously. “Are you sure about that?”
Molly was confused. What on earth could this be about? It seemed to her that Pascal was daring Delametri to say something and Delametri, for his part, was imploring him to keep quiet.
The two men were staring one another out. Pascal put his hands on his hips. “Well, I will say it then.” He turned and addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen—”
“Pascal…” The warning note in Delametri’s voice was unmistakable.