The Last Dress from Paris(13)
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I arrive at the huge wooden front door to Veronique’s apartment block with an unfamiliar sense of purpose. She buzzes me in, not to the foyer I’m expecting, but to an oasis of greenery, the courtyard garden that the apartment block surrounds. I walk directly across to the other side, dodging half a dozen louche-looking felines. Then I’m back into the building and facing a small metal lift with one of those caged concertina doors, just about big enough for one small adult. The ones where you get to see the solid concrete structure of the building as you pass between floors, praying you make it to the next one.
It rattles its way to the fourth floor, where Veronique is waiting to greet me. I know it must be her before she says a word, her smile is so inviting.
“Lucille, come in, come in!” Her hand is immediately at my shoulder, and she’s directing me in through the door to a surprisingly vast lateral apartment, everything branching off from a central wooden corridor. I can see straight through to the other side to a balcony, topped with a green-and-white-striped awning. The smell is at once of home. Not mine, but what I’ve always associated with the notion of happy domesticity. A mixture of soft, clean florals—there is an enormous crystal vase of white lilies on a central table—and something rich and tempting I guess has been cooking for a while.
“You will of course stay for dinner, yes?” Veronique is nudging me toward a drawing room, where I can see a bottle of red wine is opened, two large goblets waiting to be filled.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love to.” I think Granny will be pleased if I make the effort to be sociable.
“No trouble at all, and there is lots to talk about.” She’s pouring us both a glass of wine the size of which certainly suggests so, although I had imagined this would be little more than some polite intros, throw the dress in the back of a cab, and off I go again.
“Let’s eat, and then I will show you the dresses. You will love them.”
“Dress, you mean?” Granny specifically said there was one.
“Oh, no. Just wait, you will see.” Veronique’s smile tells me there is a treat coming my way later, but not before we have enjoyed dinner and shared the warm headiness of a great bottle of wine together.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your mum passing away,” I offer. Much as I don’t want to take this conversation down an uncomfortable route for her, I can’t ignore the fact Veronique has very recently lost her mother.
“Thank you. She was an old lady. She lived a wonderful life but was never quite herself after my father’s death a few years ago. I miss her terribly, but I have my memories and they will have to be enough now.”
I study her face for a minute. Is she just being brave?
“We were so close. This was her apartment, actually, although it was much smaller originally. It’s been knocked through since. She always preferred the Right Bank, it put her close to the government buildings. I moved back in here with her a couple of years ago when I could see she needed more help. She was a remarkable woman. A great lover of letter writing. She always made time. For her writing, for me, for anyone she valued.”
“Are you also involved in the government?” She has a hyperefficient, organized vibe about her that could be well suited to that world.
“Oh God, no! That’s not me at all. I work at the Museum of Decorative Arts. It’s very close to here, near the Louvre, on rue de Rivoli. Ceramics mostly, but I also help to curate the glassware and porcelain collections. I’m just part-time now, but I’ve worked there forever. I never had any reason to leave.”
Veronique’s face is almost makeup-free. Just a touch of mascara on tired-looking eyes, the only hint of the disturbed nights her mother’s passing may have caused, and a delicate shade of rose on her lips that seems to lift and illuminate her whole face. There is warmth and understanding in the creases that frame her features. As we chat, she displays none of the diversionary tactics I know I use to deflect attention. There is no wave of the hand, no dropping of eye contact. She is confident, it seems, to sit back and be read. Her hair is short, tucked behind each ear and revealing two brilliant diamond studs, an expertly chosen accessory to the crisp white shirt she is wearing tonight. Her hair is a silvery gray and has the sort of volume I think I might envy later in life. She’s the definition of understated. I wonder what she would make of some of the more dubious items in my wardrobe—the multicolored ponchos, the palm tree–print shirt, the pink flares—all bought to wear to places I have yet to see. I can’t help feeling the sting of her words too. It’s inviting comparison with my own mother, and I worry unnecessarily that she might ask about her.
Dinner is delicious. Chicken swimming in a buttery, garlic-heavy sauce with just a fresh green salad. By the time we’ve finished, it’s nearly ten o’clock.
“Shall I show you the dresses now?” asks Veronique, her face keen with expectation.
“Yes please!” I’m forcing the excitement for her benefit, because any dress is going to have a tough job competing with the mood-enhancing effect of good French wine and a home-cooked meal.
We both walk through to Veronique’s bedroom, a high-ceilinged dove-gray space, off which is a dressing room lined on both sides with full-height closets. She must really love clothes.