The Last Dress from Paris(2)
“Here.” Delphine takes a tiny leather notepad from a handbag that isn’t much bigger and writes a name and number on it, handing it to Alice. “Marianne comes very highly recommended from another senior diplomat’s wife. Her husband has served his three years in Paris, and they are now being posted to the Middle East. They cannot take Marianne with them. But you will have to move very quickly. She is adored by them, and others will want her. I would snap her up myself if I had the vacancy.” She bends a little closer to Alice. “I thought of you immediately. Marianne is half-British and will understand your preferences and needs without your having to overstate everything.”
“Thank you.” Alice gladly takes the number. “I will see her as soon as I can.”
Delphine’s attention is distracted by the arrival of another guest, leaving Alice to tune in to the talk around her of shopping in Milan and skiing in St. Moritz and the wardrobe essentials needed to facilitate them. Necks are being craned so women can see above the hats in front of them, people are up and down out of their seats waving to late-arriving friends, ensuring they have been seen themselves.
It is only some thirty minutes later, when the announcer calls the name and number of the first model, that silence mercifully falls, and Alice feels she can breathe normally once more.
* * *
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“Marianne, thank you so much for coming, and at such short notice. I appreciate it.” Alice motions for her to take the chair on the opposite side of the desk to her. “May I ask Patrice to get you a coffee?”
“Thank you. I would prefer tea, though, please, English breakfast if you have it?” She smiles, knowing that of course Alice will.
“Absolutely.” Patrice nods and disappears back through the door of the library, leaving the two women alone.
“Delphine, Madame Lamar, mentioned that you are half-English?”
“Yes, my mother met my father in London when he was there on business, and they were married shortly afterward. Consequently, I have spent a lot of time on both sides of the Channel. I am the perfect blend of both cultures, I hope. Always on time, very British, and never afraid to say no, typically French.” Marianne allows herself a small laugh, to let Alice know she is not taking herself too seriously. “I brought some references with me.”
“You already sound like you could be a great deal of help around here.” Alice takes a closer look at Marianne while she is reaching into her bag for the relevant paperwork. She is perched on the very edge of her seat, barely on it at all, in fact. Her back is perfectly straight, suggesting keenness, shoulders relaxed, perhaps not easily intimidated, and her hands are neatly clasped in her lap. She looks naturally and comfortably at ease. “What other essential advice can you offer me, Marianne, as you are years ahead of me when it comes to negotiating the peculiarities of both nationalities?”
“In my experience, the French are incapable of self-deprecation and won’t understand it in you. But they do expect the British to be cold and perhaps a little distant, so it’s always wonderful to surprise them by being nothing of the sort. Equally, it is probably best not to lapse into the well-trodden prejudice that the French are of questionable morality and prone to arrogance.” She pauses before adding, “Although, to be honest, most are.”
The door to the library swings back open.
“Ah, our tea.” But it is her husband, Albert, and not Patrice who has unexpectedly joined them.
“Oh, Albert, sorry, I think I mentioned, I am just in the middle of an interview . . .”
Albert ignores Alice, strides across the room, and starts to pull books from a shelf, loudly discarding each onto a side table after a cursory glance.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” he blusters, “can someone organize this in a way that is actually useful?”
Marianne glances toward Albert, her face expressionless, then back to Alice just as quickly, expecting to continue, despite their interruption. Alice notices how Marianne’s eyes fall to the contoured wool jacket she is wearing today.
“Do you have an appreciation of fashion, Marianne?”
“I think it would be impossible to live in Paris right now and not. My means are modest, but an hour with Vogue is a great way to feel inspired and keep up to date with all that’s new. Do you have a favorite designer, Madame Ainsley?”
“Well, I’ve never needed one before . . .”
“Where is it!” Albert bellows at a volume that neither of them can continue to ignore.
“Can I help, Albert?” Alice tries to drown the irritation in her voice.
“The Government Art Collection anthology, I know it’s here somewhere. I am being questioned out there on the contents of my own home, and it would be helpful if people would put things back where they found them.”
“Third shelf from the bottom, sir. The largest of the hardbacks.” Patrice has returned with the coffee and a solution to Albert’s rudeness.
He locates the book, leaving all the others scattered on the table, and exits without a word of thanks, causing Alice’s cheeks to warm.
“Who do you suggest, Marianne? Whom shall I make my favorite?”
“Christian Dior.” Said without a moment’s hesitation, and if the question were designed as a test, Marianne would surely have passed. Alice agrees, but with several designers vying for her business, she is very glad of the objective steer. “Naturally he’s adored by the French, but a committed Anglophile too. You’ll be in very good company. Nancy Mitford and Margot Fonteyn both wear him. And of course you’ll remember Princess Margaret’s twenty-first-birthday dress. So much tulle! If you can, have a look at the images from his very first show in London last year, at the Savoy Hotel. Vogue covered it.”