shift dress of parchment-coloured crêpe and held it against herself. She’d sewn this in her last year at school, adapting it from a cover of
Vogue
. Miss Maguire, the needlework mistress, had doubtedAlix could work without a pattern and was sniffy about French fashion, which she considered rather indecent. Alix had taken an entire term over theproject, partly because Miss Maguire insisted, at a late stage, that sleeves be added. ‘One never goes bare-armed except in the evening, Alice.’ They called her Alice at school, finding ‘Alix’ too foreign.
‘Sleeves will spoil the line, Miss Maguire.’
‘Then make something else. I shall find you a Butterick pattern.’
So Alix had added short sleeves. The dress, based on a design by the couturier Madeleine Vionnet, had suffered a final insult when, ahead of the fashion show the needlework class traditionally gave at the end of summer term, the headmistress had insisted Alix iron it.
‘It’s
crêpe marocain
, Miss Peachman,’ Alix protested, open-mouthedin the face of such philistine stupidity. ‘It’s meant to be crinkled. If I could show you Vionnet’s original, you’d understand.’
‘Press it, or it will be confiscated.’
Poor dress, but it was the safest choice. Alix slipped it over her head, buckled on ankle-strap sandals. Her hair had long grown out of its school bob, and her current style was to brush it straight across the left side of herhead and pin it so that curls fell over her right ear. Since seeing the American woman in Hermès, she’d begun to pluck her brows thinner. Checking herself in her dressing mirror she decided she no longer looked twenty-going-on-fifteen – thanks to Paris, she was growing into her true age.A dab of perfume, a straw hat, and just enough time to get clear of the flat before Mémé came back from themarket.
In the hall, Alix hesitated by a console table dotted with family pictures. Among the framed portraits of Mémé’s long-dead parents and brother was the one Alix treasured most: her parents’ wedding photograph. She picked it up, smiling at the bride’s arrow-straight dress, thinking,
That’s not so different from what I’m wearing
. She kissed the cold glass.
Wish me luck, mother
.
*
Pickingher up outside the Deux Magots café on Boulevard St-Germain, the comte handed her a posy of creamy narcissi tied with a blue ribbon.
‘Lavin blue!’ she exclaimed.
‘The only blue that perfectly complements yellow.’ As the comte opened the passenger door for her, Alix had a moment to appreciate the elegant cut of his grey suit. Studying him more closely as he got behind the wheel, she saw thathis woven silk tie was charcoal flecked with yellow. She took that as a compliment; he’d once told her, ‘A gentleman should always wear grey, you know, because then he will never upstage the lady he is with.’
‘Unless she’s a nun,’ she’d retorted at the time, and he’d laughed and added, ‘In which case, she’ll forgive him.’
The comte drove fast, even faster in Paris than he had in London. Theyzipped across the Seine by the Pont de l’Alma, took Avenue Kléber and rocketed into the traffic swirling roundPlace de l’Etoile, lane-hopping to the sound of klaxons. Alix felt she was holding her breath all the way to Boulevard Haussmann!
‘My chauffeur Pépin used to drive a taxi,’ the comte explained, mistaking her excitement for fear. ‘He got me into bad habits, but I detest crawling in Paristraffic. Other motorists don’t respect you if you look at all apologetic.’
She didn’t feel remotely unsafe with this man, even when he went up on the pavements. ‘Where’s the Morgan?’ she asked. ‘I adored that car.’
‘Ah, alas, we had to split up. She stayed in London.’
Their journey ended in Boulevard de Courcelles, a long road that divided the 8 th and 17 th arrondissements, flattening the topof Parc Monceau. Tossing his key to a porter, the comte led Alix into a small hotel where he
Vogue
. Miss Maguire, the needlework mistress, had doubtedAlix could work without a pattern and was sniffy about French fashion, which she considered rather indecent. Alix had taken an entire term over theproject, partly because Miss Maguire insisted, at a late stage, that sleeves be added. ‘One never goes bare-armed except in the evening, Alice.’ They called her Alice at school, finding ‘Alix’ too foreign.
‘Sleeves will spoil the line, Miss Maguire.’
‘Then make something else. I shall find you a Butterick pattern.’
So Alix had added short sleeves. The dress, based on a design by the couturier Madeleine Vionnet, had suffered a final insult when, ahead of the fashion show the needlework class traditionally gave at the end of summer term, the headmistress had insisted Alix iron it.
‘It’s
crêpe marocain
, Miss Peachman,’ Alix protested, open-mouthedin the face of such philistine stupidity. ‘It’s meant to be crinkled. If I could show you Vionnet’s original, you’d understand.’
‘Press it, or it will be confiscated.’
Poor dress, but it was the safest choice. Alix slipped it over her head, buckled on ankle-strap sandals. Her hair had long grown out of its school bob, and her current style was to brush it straight across the left side of herhead and pin it so that curls fell over her right ear. Since seeing the American woman in Hermès, she’d begun to pluck her brows thinner. Checking herself in her dressing mirror she decided she no longer looked twenty-going-on-fifteen – thanks to Paris, she was growing into her true age.A dab of perfume, a straw hat, and just enough time to get clear of the flat before Mémé came back from themarket.
In the hall, Alix hesitated by a console table dotted with family pictures. Among the framed portraits of Mémé’s long-dead parents and brother was the one Alix treasured most: her parents’ wedding photograph. She picked it up, smiling at the bride’s arrow-straight dress, thinking,
That’s not so different from what I’m wearing
. She kissed the cold glass.
Wish me luck, mother
.
*
Pickingher up outside the Deux Magots café on Boulevard St-Germain, the comte handed her a posy of creamy narcissi tied with a blue ribbon.
‘Lavin blue!’ she exclaimed.
‘The only blue that perfectly complements yellow.’ As the comte opened the passenger door for her, Alix had a moment to appreciate the elegant cut of his grey suit. Studying him more closely as he got behind the wheel, she saw thathis woven silk tie was charcoal flecked with yellow. She took that as a compliment; he’d once told her, ‘A gentleman should always wear grey, you know, because then he will never upstage the lady he is with.’
‘Unless she’s a nun,’ she’d retorted at the time, and he’d laughed and added, ‘In which case, she’ll forgive him.’
The comte drove fast, even faster in Paris than he had in London. Theyzipped across the Seine by the Pont de l’Alma, took Avenue Kléber and rocketed into the traffic swirling roundPlace de l’Etoile, lane-hopping to the sound of klaxons. Alix felt she was holding her breath all the way to Boulevard Haussmann!
‘My chauffeur Pépin used to drive a taxi,’ the comte explained, mistaking her excitement for fear. ‘He got me into bad habits, but I detest crawling in Paristraffic. Other motorists don’t respect you if you look at all apologetic.’
She didn’t feel remotely unsafe with this man, even when he went up on the pavements. ‘Where’s the Morgan?’ she asked. ‘I adored that car.’
‘Ah, alas, we had to split up. She stayed in London.’
Their journey ended in Boulevard de Courcelles, a long road that divided the 8 th and 17 th arrondissements, flattening the topof Parc Monceau. Tossing his key to a porter, the comte led Alix into a small hotel where he
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