Gina went alone to her second fitting at Dior because Claire couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take time off from the brasserie. In Claire’s present state, it seemed useless to remind her that she was free now to find work elsewhere, to pursue her own ambition. There was a definite frisson between her and this new owner, Hervé. Gina saw through Claire’s protests, but for once, she held her peace. She only hoped Claire wouldn’t sacrifice her own ambition in some misguided attempt to save the brasserie from whatever havoc Hervé might wreak upon its traditions.
“Persuade Margot to come to us,” said Claire, as Gina left the brasserie. “I’ve tried time and again, but she won’t listen to me. It might carry more weight coming from you.”
Gina made a wry face. “I hardly think so, but I’ll try.”
The date of the embassy ball was fast approaching. Gina had kept herself busy, using her freelance work to keep her mind off the upcoming event. She wanted to pitch a feature about the “lost years” in Paris, about the Fitzgeralds and Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, and the preliminary research was consuming a lot of her time.
Her novel was not moving forward as smoothly as she wanted, and she was starting to suspect she’d have to scrap everything and begin again. But sometimes, if she walked away from the book and thought about something else for a while, suddenly inspiration would strike.
The second Dior fitting turned out to be an inconvenience, requiring her to cross town on her day off when she should be working on her next piece. She was hoping to get this one published in the Paris Review.
If she had the opportunity to speak with Margot, well and good. If she didn’t, she’d go to a nearby café and write for a while, then lie in wait for her friend to leave work for the day and catch her as she came out.
When Claire had told her about Margot’s new address in the Pigalle, the red-light district of Paris, Gina couldn’t help experiencing a sympathetic shudder. At least her maid’s room had been clean and situated in a safe neighborhood. Margot must be broke and friendless to live in that part of town.
But the Margot she had known had never been friendless in Paris—she’d always been at the center of the social whirl. Now she was living under an assumed name in a seedy part of the city and shunning her dearest friends. What had happened to her? Was she hiding from her husband?
Stepping into the exquisite hush of La Maison Dior lifted Gina’s mood, almost in spite of herself. Now that she was here, she might as well dismiss everything from her mind except her enjoyment of the experience.
A sense of luxury pervaded the air and seeped into her bones as she climbed the marble staircase to the fitting room. The gown was brought and an assistant helped her into it, but she did not catch sight of Margot.
The boned, silk-lined bodice of the gown felt perfectly comfortable and cool against her bare skin. The layered skirts were a regal weight on her hips, made heavy by the lavish beading. As the seamstress fussed about her, smoothing and tweaking the fabric so that it draped the right way, she had a childish urge to twirl and let her voluminous skirts flare around her.
“One or two more adjustments and it will be parfait,” said the seamstress, sticking in one final pin.
Gina changed back into her own clothes and went downstairs. As she moved into the foyer, she said to Madame Vincent, “Before I go, I’ll just stop in at the boutique and take a look around.” With a nod and a smile she extricated herself from Madame.
She walked into the boutique and found herself in a wonderland of accessories. So many beautiful things, all in one little jewel case of a showroom covered in toile de jouy. But today, Gina’s focus was Margot. She’d caught a glimpse of her friend before she’d scurried into a back room to hide.
Undeterred, Gina asked of the young assistant, “Might I see . . .” She caught herself about to give Margot’s real name. “Marie, I think her name was? She assisted me last time and I need to ask her a question.”
“I’ll just fetch her for you,” said the assistant. With a smile, she hurried away.
Margot emerged from the back room, her carriage stiff. “Oui, mademoiselle?” Her tone was exquisitely polite, but her dark eyes glared. “How may I assist?”
Gina cleared her throat, somehow nervous. But what did she have to be nervous about? “Good day, Mademoiselle . . .” Gina stopped. What was the surname Margot went by here? She couldn’t remember. “May I see the stole you brought to my fitting the other day?”
Margot regarded Gina stonily, clearly resenting being ordered about by her old friend like this. “It’s just an excuse to talk,” Gina hissed, with an eye out for the other assistant, who had left the boutique and disappeared into the back room, but who might return at any moment. “I couldn’t care less about the stupid stole.”
Margot thawed a little, but she said, “Of course, mademoiselle. I’ll fetch it for you.” She brought the stole and unwrapped it from its tissue paper. Under her breath, Margot said, “Not here.”
Gina scowled at her. As if she didn’t know that. “What time do you finish?”
“Six, but—”
“No ‘but’s,” whispered Gina. “We’re going to sort this out, once and for all.”
“Well . . .” Margot looked up, the old spark lighting her eyes. “If you’re buying, I’ll come.”
Gina pursed her lips. “I’m buying, but I warn you, I’m broke, so there won’t be champagne of any description.”
“Well, I don’t actually like martinis,” Margot said. “Just so you know.”
Gina snorted and was about to make a rude retort when the other assistant returned with her arms full of hatboxes.
Loudly, Gina said, “This is not quite what I had in mind, lovely as it is.” She had no idea of the garment’s price but she probably couldn’t even afford to buy a ribbon from the Dior boutique, much less an exquisite wrap like this. Not after purchasing shoes and a clutch bag to go with the gown.
She left the atelier and took herself off to write in a café nearby until six.
When at last Margot came out of the atelier, wrapped in a sable coat that clearly belonged to a different lifetime, Gina had formulated a plan. She would not nag or interrogate. She’d tell Margot her own story in the hope that she’d reciprocate.
So often in the past few months, Gina had longed to pour out her troubles to Margot, who was familiar with the kind of rarefied society to which Gina’s family had belonged. She would understand how Gina felt to have that world turn its back on her.
As they lingered over cheap glasses of wine at a sidewalk café near Dior, Gina told her all of it, about her father, about Hal, everything. Margot listened with a sympathetic ear, but she didn’t share anything of herself. She said, “My father is a wise man. You know what he always told me? That everything always turns out the way it’s meant to be.” She touched the rim of her glass, traced it in a circle as she stared into the light red wine.
“I don’t believe that.” Gina frowned. “And what good does it do to think that way, anyway? If you believe everything is fated, planned out in advance, why would you ever strive to do anything?”
“I don’t think he meant it like that,” said Margot. “I think he was talking about acceptance. Life teaches us lessons. Harsh ones, sometimes. And sometimes the situations are of our making, sometimes they aren’t. But wherever we end up, that’s not a mistake. That’s where we are supposed to be, and we can either use the opportunity to adapt and grow, or we can stay stuck in regret and blame and self-recrimination.”
“Are you trying to tell me losing all of our money and my broken engagement was a good thing?” Gina demanded.
Margot shrugged. “Adversity makes one a bit of a philosopher, I find. Maybe it’s too soon for you to see the bright side.”
“What happened to you, Margot?” said Gina quietly. “Why won’t you come back and stay with me and Claire?”
Margot gazed far off into the distance. “No,” she said. “I can’t, Gina. Thank you for your concern, but the answer is still no.”
Something Gina had learned about Margot was that she was very decisive. Once she’d made up her mind about something, it was difficult to shift her. If it weren’t for that gown . . . Gina straightened as inspiration struck. “Will you at least help me get ready for the embassy ball? I can’t afford a hairdresser and no one does makeup like you.”
Margot eyed her for a moment. “I know what you’re doing.”
Gina gripped her hand. “Magoo, I really need your help.”
The old nickname made Margot’s lips tilt up in a reluctant smile. “All right, then. Just this once, mind.” She sighed. “Oh, but Gina! In that gown, you’ll be the belle of the ball. I hope you’re ready for Hal to fall for you all over again.”
Gina tried to smile at Margot’s words but she couldn’t take any pleasure in anticipating Hal’s admiration. She’d need all of her strength to resist giving in to the feelings he still stirred up inside her. If he tried to persuade her to come back to him, she knew her heart would shatter all over again.
Thank goodness Margot and Claire would be there to pick up the pieces when she came home.
“You want me to take charge of an entire department at the Grande Boutique?” Margot couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Trade at Dior’s Grande Boutique had been booming ever since it opened its doors the previous June. While an artist in every sense of the word, Christian Dior was also an astute businessman and he had seen very quickly the advantages of producing a ready-to-wear line of clothing that was affordable for teenagers and young women.
Perfumes, accessories, homewares, and even men’s accessories and gifts were available for purchase at the new boutique.
Excitement and apprehension went to war inside her at the idea of running a department there. “But surely someone with more experience—”
“No, no,” said Le Patron. “Of course it must be you, ma petite. The Grande Boutique is where young ladies come to purchase ready-to-wear fashions and accessories and perfume. I must have chic young ladies like you to assist them and show them how to wear my creations.” Monsieur Dior’s eyes twinkled. “Birds of a feather flock together—do you see? And you are an excellent saleswoman, according to Madame Renou. You will do well.”
Monsieur Dior’s offer was tempting. Margot did have a head for figures and she’d learned much from Madame Renou while she’d worked in the boutique downstairs. She knew she was capable. But that old voice inside her whispered, Of course you couldn’t take on an important role like that. Who do you think you are?
Monsieur Dior regarded her for some time before he said, “I want you to go to see Madame Delahaye for a reading. Perhaps she can provide reassurance.” He felt inside his coat and took out a card. “Madame is greatly in demand, but as a favor to me, she will make you an appointment. The address is on this card.”
Margot stared at the card he handed to her. Madame Delahaye was Monsieur Dior’s trusted clairvoyant, who had guided the couturier’s decisions throughout his career. Most significant, she had correctly predicted the safe return of Monsieur Dior’s sister Catherine from the German concentration camps, a foretelling that had given him immense comfort and hope throughout the tense months of Catherine’s detainment by the Nazis during the war.
“That is kind. Thank you, monsieur.” Margot only half believed in astrology. She was the daughter of a man of science, after all. But she couldn’t deny she’d be fascinated to meet the legendary Madame Delahaye.
“Now.” Monsieur Dior smiled at her and took up his newspaper. “Shall we see what our horoscope says today?”
“Ooh, yes, please,” said Margot, skirting the desk to look over Monsieur Dior’s shoulder. They were both Capricorns, which Monsieur had been pleased to discover when Margot had expressed an interest in the couturier’s mystical side.
“‘You will enter a new situation,’” he read out. “‘Do not be timid but be bold in every undertaking to achieve your true purpose.’” He smiled. “There you are.”
Bold? It was the opposite of how Margot felt. But she was determined to rise to the challenge Monsieur Dior had set her. For him, she would be the best saleswoman the House of Dior ever had. “If you really think I could do it, monsieur, then I accept.”
“Excellent!” said the couturier, setting the newspaper aside. His desk was covered in sketches for the autumn/winter season. It was to feature two lines, as always: the A-line, and a contrasting Y shape—broad, accentuated shoulders, a tiny waist, the slightest flare at the hips, and a narrow pencil skirt.
“Do you see anything that catches your eye?” he asked, as he saw Margot perusing the sketches.
“Oh, everything,” she said frankly. “These are all superb, monsieur.”
“But no, you must not flatter me,” insisted Le Patron. “Which is your favorite?”
It wasn’t flattery; there was not a single design she would not kill to own herself. But she knew he wanted her to choose, so she said, “For me? This one, I think.”
It was an exquisite sleeveless black dress, the neck a deep V, the skirt tight and tapered. It was probably the most unobtrusive of the garments whose sketches lay scattered over the baize leather desktop, the only one she could envision herself wearing in her present circumstances.
“Vraiment?” He stared up at Margot, then his eyes narrowed. “Ma petite, you are far too young and beautiful to hide your light like this.”
She stared at the couturier. What did he see that no one else could?
“I know women—oh, but very well, you see,” said Monsieur Dior, as if in answer to her unspoken question. “And I see you sparkle in the company of other jeunes filles, yet you shrink in the company of men. You are comfortable in the black clothing of the assistant, and in this you hide away, but you were born for more than that, my dear Margot.” He pointed at her. “You know it, too.”
She gasped. He’d used her real name. “You know me?” She thought she’d fooled everyone. It didn’t occur to her to deny it, to keep up the pretense. She’d always hated and despised herself for lying, to Monsieur Dior most of all.
But if he’d known all along, wasn’t he angry with her? Why, he’d even given her a promotion!
Dior smiled. “But of course. Me, I remember every woman I design for. Besides, it would take more than a change of hair color for anyone to forget Margot MacFarlane.”
Suddenly she was aghast. “Then Madame Renou and the others . . . ?”
“Madame Renou will keep your secret,” said Dior. “The others do not know, but that is because so many of them are new since you used to come here.” He smiled. “Think on what I’ve said to you, my dear. You only get one chance at this life, remember. It cannot all be at an end when you are still in your twenties.”
Shocked and upset at this sudden revelation, Margot hurried from the room, clutching the clairvoyant’s card so tightly, it crumpled. She thought of her horoscope. Be bold in every undertaking to achieve your true purpose.
But Margot wasn’t in the least ready to throw off the fragile protection of her new identity. Not when she still looked over her shoulder everywhere she went. And how could she shine her light, as Monsieur Dior expressed it? She couldn’t revert to the person she’d been before. Not while his voice was still the voice in her head.
“I guess I’ll have to lower my sights, that’s all,” said Claire glumly that evening to Gina. They were huddling under a blanket with hot cocoa warming their hands while Claire told Gina about the rejections she’d received from the best chefs in Paris. “I can’t believe none of them even wanted me as a commise.”
“They’ve got rocks in their heads, that’s all,” said Gina. “They’ll be sorry one day.”
“Yes,” said Claire, raising her mug to Gina in a toast. She sighed. “But until that day arrives, I guess I’ll have to stay at Le Chat. With him.”
Gina tilted her head. “Would that be so bad? I mean, I know you want to be the best, but it seems like a very hard life, being a chef de cuisine. And working your way up to that point seems even harder.”
“Yes, but it’s what I want,” Claire insisted. “No, not want. It’s what I need. It’s . . . oh, it’s like asking you if you want to write stories for your county newspaper instead of for the New York Times.”
Gina smiled a little. “When you put it like that . . .”
Claire gesticulated wildly, nearly making her half-full cocoa spill. “I want to hone my talent to the sharpest point. I want to astonish and delight my patrons with edible fantasies, invent new dishes, write recipe books. I want my name to be synonymous with haute cuisine, like Carême or Escoffier, or . . .” She blew out a breath. “I’ve lost too much time. I’ll never get there at this rate. I need more practice.” She jumped up, flinging off the blanket, and making Gina protest. “What am I sitting around here for, feeling sorry for myself, when there is work to be done?”
“It’s past midnight,” said Gina. “Can’t you cool your jets until the morning, at least?”
She frowned at Gina. “Cool my jets? What does that mean? No! I cannot wait till morning. There is no time to lose.” She rummaged around inside the blanket for the shawl she’d discarded but couldn’t find it, so she ran into her room to get her coat.
Gina laughed and shook her head, holding up her hands in surrender. “All right, all right. But can you keep it down? I have to be up early in the morning to work on my particular obsession.”
Claire found her slippers and shoved her feet into them. “Don’t worry, I’m going downstairs. I’ll be sure not to disturb you when I return.”
“But, Claire, do you think you ought to? The brasserie is Hervé’s now.”
Claire wasn’t listening. She was going to work on her sauces tonight. And a good sauce was made with an excellent stock. Fortunately, she had some that she had rendered from beef bones already. To make a truly excellent beef stock, one needed the bones of a mature beast, but these were impossible to come by because the animals were butchered when young enough for their meat to be tender. The answer was to strain the first rendering and then simmer it down to reduce the stock to an intense flavor. Then you were ready to use it in a sauce. She had made a great quantity of stock, intending to practice all of the sauces she knew, and the pot still sat on the stove in the galley kitchen.
Claire grabbed the keys to the brasserie and shoved them in the pocket of her coat, then retrieved the stockpot, throwing a dishcloth over the top so as to prevent spills.
“Let me get the door for you,” said Gina. “Watch yourself down the stairs.”
“Oui, Maman,” said Claire with a happy grin. “Merci, Maman. Don’t wait up!”
She heard the apartment door close behind her as she made her way downstairs to the brasserie, careful not to spill any of the precious stock. The place was dark. It was a rainy, cold night, belying the signs of spring that had arrived throughout the city. It looked like Hervé had closed and sent everyone home. Claire set the stockpot on the floor and tried the door handle. Locked. Good. That meant she’d have the place to herself.
She let herself in and went straight to the kitchen, turning on the lights as she went. With the illumination of the immaculately clean bench tops and gleaming copper pots and pans, a sense of rightness and anticipation flooded her. She never felt so at home anywhere as in a kitchen, but at the same time, there was no more exciting place on earth.
She set to with a will and lost herself in the fierce concentration her work deserved.
She made demi-glace and Bordelaise. She made mushroom sauce and red wine sauce. She even made a sauce that was her own invention, a variation of sauce espagnole, which she flavored with her own combination of aromatic herbs, adding finely chopped bacon to the mirepoix—a delicious combination of diced carrots, celery, and onions, which she sautéed to tenderness before adding the stock and other ingredients. Later, she would strain out the mirepoix, leaving behind the intense, savory sweetness of their essence.
The sauces were in small white jugs, all standing in a row, and she was sitting on the counter, eating the delicious bacon mixture that she’d strained from the final sauce, when she heard a noise—the scrape of a key in the lock of the service door.
Caught red-handed, as Margot would say.
There was no time to conceal either herself or her creations. Hervé’s massive presence filled the doorway to the alley. He was dripping all over the floor.
The oddest feeling of tenderness washed over her. “Oh, just look at you!” She slid from the counter and went in search of towels. “Don’t you own an umbrella?”
He wrestled himself out of his coat and hung it up, then shook water from his shaggy hair. He was like an overgrown dog, she thought, but she couldn’t help but be aware that her pulse had kicked up when he’d come in, and it wasn’t because she was afraid of what he might say about her blatant misuse of what was now his kitchen. She had the strangest impulse to take care of him, which was foolish and unnecessary. He was the most self-sufficient, self-contained man she knew.
Ignoring the towel she offered, he wiped his shoes on the large mat and advanced into the kitchen. “What’s all this?” Then before she could answer, he took spoons from the cutlery drawer and began to taste each sauce.
“Hey!” But she could hardly object, could she, after using his kitchen to make everything? And secretly she burned to know what he thought. Hervé had an excellent palate. She ought to know. He’d been intensely critical of her when she’d worked for him at the Meurice.
He made no comment—which for him, was high praise—until he got to the sauce she’d invented herself. It didn’t stray too far from the classic, but just far enough that he would be sure to notice.
“This is good,” he said. “I want to put this on the menu, serve it with the roast beef.” His eyebrow quirked up. “Can you bear to have your creation appear on such a lowly menu?”
“Well . . .” Claire pretended to consider. She would die rather than show it, but Hervé’s praise had sent tingles all the way down to her toes. She knew her sauce was good, but to hear him say it! And why was she still looking to him for approval after he’d sold out like this? She scowled. “It’s not a lowly menu. You’ve got me all wrong on that. And yes, you can use the sauce, but you have to call it . . .” She mused for an instant. “Sauce Claire.”
“Not Sauce Bedeau?”
“No. They will think it’s my father,” she said. “This one is mine.”
“All right, then,” said Hervé. “Done. Teach Jacques how to make it, as well.”
Since Jacques was the saucier at Le Chat, this ought to be a given, and yet it troubled Claire. She’d made no secret of the fact she wanted to leave the brasserie as soon as she could, but did Hervé have to act as if it was a foregone conclusion that she wouldn’t be around to make the sauce herself?
“You can’t wait until I’m gone, can you?” she said. The words came out in a hard tone because she was trying not to sound hurt.
He stared at her. “I thought you were the one on edge here. I’m surprised you haven’t left already.”
She flushed. “Turns out it’s not that simple.” Her shoulders slumped and she heaved a great sigh. She might as well admit it. “No one wants to hire me. No one worth working for, anyway.”
If he took that as a subtle insult, he didn’t show it. He tilted his head, considering her. “You know who owes me a favor?”
She shook her head.
“Thibault.”
It took several seconds for his meaning to sink in. “So . . .” Her eyes widened. “You would do that? For me?”
He grunted. “Why not? If it gets you out from under my feet.”
“I would still be living upstairs.” She didn’t know why she said it. To goad him?
The corners of his eyes crinkled while the rest of his face remained immobile. It was a peculiar trait he had, this warming of the eyes that you might miss if you weren’t paying attention. But Claire caught it. She knew. And her heart gave one strong beat before resuming its usual rhythm.
“You’d better go up and change before the others arrive,” he said, and for the first time, she remembered she’d shed her coat at some stage and now stood before him in her nightdress, an apron tied hastily around her waist.
Flushing, she grabbed her coat and was about to flee when he said, “I’ll see what I can do about Thibault.”
Cheeks flaming, she called, “Thank you!” over her shoulder as she sped out the door.