All Dressed Up

by Lucy Hepburn

  But Pascal continued regardless. “I have been the sole designer at the House of Chevalier for the past five years.”

  The stunned silence that followed his pronouncement made Molly’s head pound. What was that?

  “Pascal! Will you be quiet!” Delametri fumed.

  “It is true,” Pascal went on. “My name is Pascal Lafayette, and although this man claims to have designed all of the Chevalier collections, the fact is he has not. His talent dried up years ago, and I stepped in to rescue his reputation.”

  “That is not true!” Delametri had turned white. His jowls trembled, and a wisp of oily hair had dislodged itself, fallen across his brow, and was poking him in the eye.

  “Oh, is it not?” Pascal challenged. “Well—oh yes! You are quite right, how stupid of me to forget! You have been concentrating hard on the coats for the little dogs and the buckles for the suitcases… but as for the couture? All me.”

  Molly thought she might keel over with shock. All that hero-worship, the idolizing, all the slavish, adoring study for her dissertation…for the wrong man. Molly bit her lip. The man behind what she believed to be the most beautiful couture on the planet had been by her side for the past two days.

  “You,” she whispered. “You are the genius.”

  Pascal shot her a swift, grateful look.

  “Monsieur Chevalier?” A reporter shouted, “What do you have to say? Is this true?”

  Every one of them had notebooks and voice recorders at the ready; none had expected a scoop such as this when they’d climbed into their cars or onto their bikes…

  “What do I have to say?” Delametri hissed. “Only this: Pascal, you are fired.”

  Another gasp went around the crowd, and all eyes turned to Pascal. From where Molly stood, close by his side, he seemed to have grown several inches in height in the last few minutes, and now as people melted back to give him some room, she covered her hand with her mouth and watched as he looked Delametri in the eyes and replied, “And you, Delametri Chevalier, are nothing without me.”

  Then he bowed slightly, turned round, and stalked off.

  One or two people applauded, but Molly was worried. She couldn’t be sure who had just triumphed. Reporters crowded round Delametri who had, within the space of a few minutes, metamorphosed from superstar to shifty man with oily hair. To think, he was nothing more than a phoney!

  He was answering their questions with simple ‘no comments,’ telling the porters to take the gown and wrap it up for transport back to Paris. He seemed extremely anxious to be elsewhere.

  Until one bold reporter hopped onto the shoulders of one of his colleagues and, at the top of his voice, bellowed:

  “IS IT TRUE?”

  Delametri turned to him and glared. Then, after an age of pondering punctuated by the snapping of cameras, he turned away again and stalked off.

  The reporters had their story.

  Molly shook her head in disbelief. Poor, poor Pascal. Treated so badly, spending the past five years not getting the recognition he so richly deserved, and finally, swindled and fired by the man whose reputation he had preserved and even enhanced for a whole decade…

  Unbelievable. And what he’d done to make sure Pascal didn’t make it to the auction—a slap in the face to an employee and two days of heartache for a bride-to-be! How could someone be so cruel?

  Suddenly a thought occurred to her. There was something not quite right here. Something that didn’t add up. She knew she had to get an answer. Summoning up all her courage, she pushed through the reporters to the front and squared up to her fallen idol, who was about to get into a sleek white limousine with blacked-out windows.

  “Monsieur,” she said in a clear voice, realizing to her surprise that she wasn’t afraid of him after all. “Why did you work so fast to get Pascal out of trouble at the airport after you went to so much trouble to prevent him getting here today?”

  She wanted to hear that Delametri had a conscience after all, to preserve at least a shard of the respect she once had for him. Maybe he wasn’t a good designer, but perhaps he was, after all, a good man?

  He looked mystified at first, to be addressed by this disheveled English girl. His brow furrowed.

  “Pardon? Who are you?”

  “My name is Molly Wright. Caitlin Wright’s sister. We spoke on the phone, for a moment…” Back when I thought you were king of the world…

  He looked baffled. Molly realized with a start that he didn’t know who she was talking about.

  “You remember?” she persisted. “I called you to tell you Pascal had been arrested, and you made some calls to get him out…”

  He waved his hand as though swatting her away like a fly. “Why on earth would I do something like that? I did nothing to get that man out of jail—in fact, if there was anything I could have done to make sure they kept him in longer, I would have, the, the turncoat!”

  Molly reeled away back through the reporters and stumbled to a quieter part of the court as Delametri climbed into the limousine and was whisked away.

  So if he didn’t get Pascal out of jail—and she had no reason to suspect he was lying—then who on earth did?

  Pascal, Simon, and her mother were standing by the car waiting for her. Darkness had fallen, and the stunning lighting that illuminated the ancient auction house and its elegant fountain seemed to mock the motley foursome who were exhausted and bedraggled from the day’s events.

  Molly trudged over to them.

  “Delametri Chevalier is a snake,” she said, leaning against the car, which wobbled violently against her slight frame. “I can’t believe I used to think so highly of him.” She looked at Pascal. “You are a wonderful designer,” she said simply.

  He walked over to her and embraced her.

  “You know what?” she went on as they drew apart. “I knew I’d seen the House of Chevalier designs change and improve dramatically over the last few years, though I didn’t question why that might be—I guess I thought it was just Delametri reaching his prime or something like that.” She looked Pascal in the eye. “But it was you…”

  Pascal shrugged modestly, and Molly hugged him again.

  Simon, standing a little distance away, coughed uncomfortably.

  “How do you feel?” she went on as they broke apart.

  “I don’t know,” Pascal sighed. “Part of me feels that he is welcome to the gown. It is…tainted now. It will always remind me of his deception.”

  “It’ll always remind him too,” Molly pointed out.

  Molly’s mum touched his arm. “We are all heartbroken for you though. You’ve lost your job!”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I have gained my freedom.”

  “What will you do now?” her mother pressed.

  He shrugged—this time a big, wonderful, Parisian shrug that reminded Molly of the Pascal she had originally encountered a lifetime ago in Delametri’s atelier.

  “Who knows?”

  “You can start your own label,” Molly burst out. “It’s obvious! This will be all over the fashion papers tomorrow, and everyone will be beating a path to your door! House of Lafayette, perhaps? Or just Pascal, how does that sound?”

  He smiled a little sadly. “You are very kind, but I do not think it works like that. And I do not know what Delametri and his publicity machine will have in store for me over the next few days. The media is like…a lion’s den.”

  Nobody spoke for a few moments. Then Molly looked at her watch.

  “We really need to get going. Caitlin will be climbing the walls.”

  Simon pulled back the sleeve of his jumper to check his own watch, but his watch was not there. Swiftly, he let it fall again, but Molly had spotted it.

  “Where’s your watch?” she asked.

  He looked away.

  Molly was suspicious. “Simon? Where is it?”

  He sighed and looked at her. “I sold it.”

  “Yo
u what? When?”

  “On the top of a mountain, earlier today.”

  Molly squinted up at him. “What are you on about?”

  “Well, I kind of exchanged it for the loan of the skidoo. He was a tough guy to do business with.”

  Molly froze. “You’re kidding.”

  Simon shrugged. He wasn’t.

  “You did that and didn’t say anything?”

  “What choice did we have?” he replied. “It was an emergency.”

  “Simon…” Molly couldn’t think what to say.

  Pascal stepped forward and once again shook his hand. “Merci, Monsieur. You are a true English gentleman.”

  “Forget it,” Simon smiled.

  “Yes…thanks,” Molly put in, staring at a fascinating stone paving slab on the ground just ahead of her.

  “No worries.”

  Molly felt a sickening feeling of embarrassment. “I gave you such a hard time about that skidoo!” she burst out. “And you never said! You loved that watch, it was left to you—it was so precious to you!”

  He tilted his head, thinking. “Yes, it was. But I know my great-uncle as well. He was an adventurer and a gentleman too, if you like. Somehow I think he’s up on a cloud somewhere giving me his blessing for using the watch in an emergency. It’s fine, Molly, really.”

  Molly felt closer to tears than she had been all day.

  “I…I’m so sorry for being mean to you,” she gulped.

  He came over and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You were on a skidoo with a stranger, you panicked.

  “Well, thank you, Simon.”

  “Forget it.”

  “No,” Molly said earnestly. “I’ll never forget it.”

  She peered through the darkness toward the little car. “Right, let’s go! In case everyone’s forgotten, we’ve got to get to Venice tonight!”

  “No way,” Simon replied, “it’s too late.”

  Molly looked at him. “Don’t be daft! We’re short of time! Let’s get on the road.”

  “Molly,” he said firmly, “we’re all too tired. It’s too dangerous. Let’s find a hotel and leave early tomorrow.”

  Molly was horrified. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “Simon’s right, Molly,” her mother put in. “We can’t do another long drive tonight.”

  “But Caitlin will kill us!”

  “Caitlin will understand.”

  “You reckon?”

  Molly looked from one to the other. Their minds were made up.

  She looked at Pascal, who made a backing-off gesture with his hands.

  “Molly, I think they are right. Even if we get there tonight, I will not be in a fit state to make a start on fitting the dress. It makes sense to stay here.”

  Eventually she sighed. “Fine. Let’s find a hotel,” she said at last. “And I’ll send Caitlin a text. There’s no way I’m phoning her. She’ll hunt me down and have me killed.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hours until wedding: 17

  Kilometers to wedding: 159

  We’re exhausted so we’re staying in a Bologna hotel tonight.

  See you tomorrow. We’ll be early. Promise. Molls x x

  “Light the fuse, then run for your life,” she thought as she pressed ‘send.’ And then, desperate not to be in the within five meters of her phone when Caitlin’s reply came screaming through, she picked up her bag and scuttled out of her hotel room.

  She was beyond tired. Sleep seemed an interminably long way off and so, showered and changed, she made her way downstairs to the bar, hoping, if she was honest with herself, to find Simon there.

  The hotel only had four single rooms left but the receptionist, pleased to get last-minute custom, agreed to offer them a special rate. Her mother had wished them all goodnight and said she was going straight to bed. Molly didn’t know either Simon or Pascal’s plans.

  It was late, and the bar was almost deserted. Simon wasn’t there.

  She hopped up on a barstool and was about to order her usual, a glass of red wine, when she saw a bottle of white Sambuca behind the bar and ordered that instead. A strong kick of alcohol would see her off to sleep in no time, she decided. And she deserved it. Last time she’d had it was in a nightclub in Wakefield, and she was curious to see whether it would taste any different in its land of origin.

  The waiter, a handsome, black-haired young man in his early twenties, brought her drink over.

  “Thank you,” she smiled.

  “You are welcome,” he said in heavily-accented English. “Is this your first time in Italy?”

  She shook her head and sipped her Sambuca. It was strong and thick and absolutely perfect for her mood. “My mother lives here.” She sipped some more.

  “Aha! You are half-Italian!” he moved in closer, fixing her with a penetrating stare. He really did have extraordinarily dark eyes, Molly thought. And her Sambuca was extraordinarily good. She had another sip.

  “All English, I’m afraid,” she smiled.

  The waiter made a seamless adjustment to his moves. “Even better, even better! I love English girls!”

  “You do?”

  “Especially the beautiful ones—like you.”

  “Why, thank you. You’re very sweet.”

  Behave, Molly Wright, enough with the flirting, she thought to herself. But then she realized—why not? It’s not as if she was in a relationship any more. She realized, with a stab of sadness, that even though her mother was upstairs asleep, she was all alone. And that she’d forgotten what it felt like to flirt.

  “What is your name?”

  “Molly,” she said, batting her eyelids. “What’s yours?”

  “Joel.”

  He kissed her hand. She giggled and drained her glass—which really only had a very small amount in it to start with.

  “Joel’s a nice name.”

  He indicated her glass and reached for the Sambuca bottle. “You want another of these?”

  Molly was about to say what an excellent idea that was when a voice coming from behind made her spine tingle.

  “I’ll get them,” Simon said, taking a seat on the barstool next to hers. “Another glass, please, Joel. In fact, just leave the bottle, if you don’t mind?”

  Molly’s heart was pounding; she was suddenly fifteen years old and being checked out by her first ever crush…she was at her prom, waiting for that first dance…she was…being ridiculous. The Sambuca was affecting her.

  “Of course,” Joel replied, his face a perfect, award-winning blank.

  But he did catch Molly’s eye as he placed the glass and bottle on the bar and melted away.

  “He’s a nice lad,” Molly grinned after Joel had gone.

  Simon refilled her glass and poured his own drink.

  “Indeed,” he said, raising his glass. “What shall we drink to?”

  Molly thought through the cast list of all the people they’d been involved with over the past two days, starting with Reggie—after all he had set her free to have all these experiences, hadn’t he? Her mother, for having her in the first place and bailing her out by lending cash to buy Caitlin’s wedding present? No, surely it had to be Pascal, after the rubbish day he’d had. She couldn’t actually say what she knew she longed to say: ‘Let’s drink to you and me, Simon Foss, because I think I am falling for you…’

  “To your movie,” she said at last, raising her glass to meet his. “May it sweep the boards at the Film Festival!”

  Simon seemed genuinely touched. “Thanks,” he said simply.

  “We’ve hardly mentioned it—today’s been all about the trials and tribulations of the terrible Wright women,” Molly said apologetically.

  “It’s okay, I had to get to Venice too, you know. We were in the same boat.”

  “Yes, but talk about going round the houses to get there! You’d have been there ages ago if it wasn’t for a
ll of us.”

  He refilled their tiny, tiny glasses. “Maybe but so what, eh? We’re almost there now.”

  “Yvonne will be pleased to see you.”

  He nodded.

  “It was a lovely thing you did, bidding your own money for Pascal. Another lovely thing.”

  He made a small dismissive gesture. “I was sorry for the guy. Shame he didn’t get it.”

  “Well, it was so kind. I’m glad you’ve had a glimpse of how fashion can be about more than just frills and frivolity and people with money to burn.”

  He replied carefully. “Maybe I’m starting to agree, but only because I’m getting to know people involved with it. It’s an art if it’s done well.”

  “Thank you,” said Molly, bowing her head. “I’m really pleased about that.”

  “But to be honest, Pascal could have been bidding for a sword or a…racing car or an enchanted hammock; it was the fact that it meant so much to him that swung it, not the beauty of the dress.”

  Molly nodded. “It meant the world to Pascal. Thank you.”

  Simon’s face clouded a little. “You are welcome.”

  They clinked glasses again and then fell silent. Molly felt she was fighting some huge internal battle. She longed to say something, to let him know she had feelings for him—but there were rules about that sort of thing. He was spoken for and that should be the end of it.

  And yet there was something about him, something free and kind of dangerous…maybe it was because she had never met Yvonne. But that shouldn’t make a difference to anyone with any sort of correctly adjusted moral compass!

  But then…maybe moral compasses could be readjusted sometimes in times of trouble, say, or foreign countries? Or if someone felt they were in imminent danger of death—which Molly most definitely was once Caitlin got her hands on her…

  …They were in a hotel in Bologna. Maybe what went on in Bologna could stay in Bologna?

  At that moment Joel reappeared, carrying a platter of bread and a dish of smoky green olive oil. He placed it on the bar between them. “Is everything all right?” he directed his question at Molly.

  Molly smiled and sat up straight as though improving her posture might also improve her sense of inner decency.