The following evening, when Gina arrived home from working late at the bookstore, she found Margot already in the apartment, waiting for her.
Margot looked up from Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. “Claire let me in.”
A flock of butterflies set up a ruckus in Gina’s stomach. She’d been doing her best to avoid thinking about the ball but finally, the evening had come. She was going to see Hal. Worse, she’d have to try to persuade him to meet with her father. How had she been weak enough to agree to that? Why could she conduct hard-hitting interviews with politicians and doorstep con artists but she couldn’t stand up to her own father?
Still, she was glad to see Margot. She hadn’t been sure her friend would come. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
She wasn’t looking forward to taking a great big bite of humble pie in front of Hal with a large contingent of their acquaintance in Paris watching her smile and grovel. Well, call her vain and frivolous, but it was a comfort knowing she’d look absolutely stunning while she did it.
“I’ve been looking through magazines,” said Margot. “And I came up with this for your hairstyle.” She showed Gina a picture of Grace Kelly in a scene that Gina recognized from To Catch a Thief.
“Oh, yes. I like that.” The cares of the day began to fall away. How could she fail to get excited about primping for a ball after all this time spent in worry and struggle?
In Gina’s experience, her slightly-longer-than-chin-length blond hair did not lend itself to much variety in styles, but Margot achieved a sleek, sophisticated look that emphasized Gina’s cheekbones and gave her a modern edge. She nodded with approval. “You are a genius. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Didn’t I tell you? I used to be friends with a hairdresser at Kings Cross in Sydney. She styled all the famous drag queens, though of course they all wore wigs. Such a hoot. She taught me everything I know.”
The makeup went on next, a lightly applied base of Max Factor pancake foundation, a hint of powder, a touch of rouge, misty-grey eyeshadow, and black mascara that Gina saw at once brought out the green grey of her eyes. A careful slick of coral lipstick and Margot was done.
“I don’t know.” Gina tilted her head. She had always been partial to a red lip.
“Trust me.” Margot stood back, surveying her work. “When you put on the gown, you’ll see.”
Margot went to the drawing room and brought back a slim, square case. “This is not ideal,” she said, “but since you don’t have any real jewels to speak of and neither do I, let’s use costume jewelry. On loan from Monsieur Dior.” She pulled out a necklace made of clear rhinestones, slender and elegant. “They complement the beading on the gown.”
The problem of her lack of jewelry had been needling at Gina on and off for weeks. “Margot, you are a wonder. They’re perfect.”
While Gina doubted any woman in her family had ever eschewed real gems for fake, it had become the fashion to wear costume jewelry, even with evening wear, so she wouldn’t look out of place. As Margot put the necklace around her throat and worked on the clasp, Gina couldn’t help but think, wistfully, of the diamonds she’d inherited from her mother. Gone now, of course, to pay her father’s debts.
“I still feel guilty,” she said. “Wearing the gown before Madame Vaughn or even Claire got the chance.”
“Well, don’t.” The clasp clicked into place and Margot squeezed Gina’s shoulders lightly. “Claire would have refused it altogether if it weren’t for you. After you’ve worn it, we can get it altered to fit Claire. I have a friend at Dior who will do it for us cheaply, as long as we don’t tell anyone.”
“Truly? How marvelous,” said Gina, brightening. “That makes me feel better about the whole thing. Still,” she mused, “I wonder why Madame Vaughn took off in such a hurry. Do you believe this story about her going to Africa?”
Margot shrugged. “Why not? It sounds like exactly the sort of thing she would do. Gosh,” she added, checking her watch. “Look at the time!” Margot closed the jewel case and placed it on the vanity table. “You need to get dressed.”
“Oh! So I do.” Gina inhaled a long breath, then exhaled. She set her shoulders back. “Right. Squire, bring me my armor!”
“Let’s put your shoes on first,” said Margot. “I’ll do it. You don’t want to ruin your nails.”
She kneeled on the floor and helped Gina into her shoes, fastening the straps for her. The shoes and clutch purse were the only items Gina had permitted herself to purchase for the evening, because she’d brought nothing suitable with her to Paris, and a pretty penny they’d cost her.
“Take off your robe and I’ll get the gown.” Margot plucked a pair of cotton gloves from her pocket and hurried away to Claire’s room, where the closet was tall enough to accommodate Dior’s creation.
Gina shed her outer layer and instantly felt the goose bumps rise on her flesh. She couldn’t afford to buy the stole Monsieur Dior had recommended, which might have given her some warmth. She’d have to wear her plain winter coat and take it off as soon as she arrived.
Returning first with the bodice, Margot settled it against Gina’s torso, then fastened it at the back. Because the corset foundation had been made especially for Gina, it was far more comfortable than an ordinary brassiere. It almost felt like she was wearing nothing at all.
“Now the skirts. Gosh, they’re heavy,” panted Margot, holding out the voluminous garment for Gina to step into it.
Once the skirt was secured, Margot gave Gina’s hair a quick tidy and checked her makeup. “Come into Claire’s room. There’s a full-length mirror there. You can admire yourself while I call down to the brasserie and bring her up.”
Gina did as she was told, and couldn’t help a gasp of wonder when she saw herself properly. Somehow the fittings hadn’t prepared her for the sight of this queenly figure in full makeup and with her hair so much more elegantly styled than usual.
Gina stared into the mirror until Claire’s voice came from the doorway. “Oh, Gina! It’s magnificent. Truly.”
Gina turned to face her. There were tears in Claire’s eyes, but they seemed to be happy ones. Awkwardly, Gina said, “I’m glad you . . . I mean, I’m glad it’s all right.”
“Of course it is. Have a wonderful time,” said Claire. She started forward as if to embrace Gina, but stopped, laughing. “I shouldn’t mess up your makeup.” She blew a kiss instead. “You will be the most beautiful woman there by far.”
It was typical of Claire’s generous heart that she would not let anything overshadow Gina’s night. No reference to the fact that the gown had been meant for Claire, not Gina, crossed her lips. Claire had always been the sort of person who wanted more for her friends and family than she ever sought for herself. Sometimes that level of selflessness troubled Gina, but tonight she could only be grateful. Only now that she was ready did she begin to feel nervous about what lay ahead.
Chin up, Winter, she told herself. “I’ll just get my coat.”
“Wait!” Margot put out her hands. “I have something for you.”
She went out, then returned with her own sable coat. Carefully, she settled the soft fur over Gina’s shoulders. “There! Now you won’t freeze to death.”
“I feel like a proud maman, sending my daughter off to her first party,” said Claire, pretending to wipe away a tear.
“Knock him dead, kid,” said Margot in a very bad American accent.
Gina raised one eyebrow. “Don’t you mean ‘knock them dead’?”
Margot smiled. “I know what I meant.”
“I’ll wait up for you to come home and help you out of the gown, all right?” Margot said to Gina as she left the apartment for the ball. Not to mention that she had to return the costume jewelry to Dior, and she’d need her coat back, as well. The sable was the only winter coat she owned. Though they were halfway through March already, the night air still held a chill.
Gina and Claire had insisted that Margot stay the night, and Margot had given in.
“Thank you, my dear, darling Margot!” said Gina. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
In a rare show of affection, Gina bent to kiss her, but Margot ducked away and waved her off. “Don’t you dare mess up that lipstick! Have a wonderful time.”
As Margot watched Gina sweep out of the apartment behind Claire, who had to return to the brasserie, a wave of sadness hit her. She closed the door and pressed her forehead against it. What was this emotion? Surely she wasn’t jealous!
No, not jealous, precisely. She had never been fond of formal affairs like the embassy ball, where there was a set program and everyone was dull and behaved with the utmost decorum. Her kind of party had always been a little wilder than that.
But it wasn’t the parties she longed for so much. That gown, with its Cinderella enchantment, reminded her painfully of the young woman she had once been, a girl who had always secretly believed her prince would come. Her mother had raised her to be a society wife, like herself. It had never occurred to Margot to pursue higher education, though she’d always read widely. She’d never considered pursuing a career, either, even though her two best friends had set highly ambitious examples she might well have followed.
No. Margot MacFarlane was always destined for marriage. She was going to be a society hostess, throw the most marvelous parties in the world, use her talent for making fast friends out of strangers, for connecting people and making them laugh.
She’d pictured herself becoming an asset to her husband, helping him make business contacts and being the person to whom he’d confide all of his hopes and fears. She would listen and dispense sage advice, and he would respect her opinions. She would be the woman behind the man and content to be there. That was how it had worked in her family, and that was how she had expected her life to be.
But life had taught her a brutal lesson. Despite being surrounded by their beauty on a daily basis, she, Margot, would never wear a Dior gown again.
That bleak reflection sent her into a frenzy of tidying up. Gina was as messy in the rest of the apartment as Claire was in the kitchen. What a pair they were! Margot collected brassieres and knickers and stockings from the floor and tossed them into the laundry hamper.
How she longed to take up Claire’s offer to move in. They would have such fun together here, even if Margot did have to do most of the housework.
But she couldn’t risk it. She’d told him all about the brasserie and he had a mind that retained details like that. If she lived above Le Chat-qui-Pêche, there was the chance that he’d come there to inquire about her, and then the game would be up.
If she moved in with Claire and Gina, the constant state of vigilance and fear that had only just begun to lessen after six months in Paris would return. Irrationally, Margot still felt as if she were being watched, and a constant voice inside her head criticized everything she did and thought. But at least she could soldier on and fight each battle as it came, doggedly correcting the criticisms with her logical mind each time they arose. Somehow, she managed to keep going, almost sure that he would not find her.
She knew she needed to gather the courage to step out of hiding eventually. The new position in the Dior boutique that Le Patron had offered her would expose her to a greater risk of discovery. But she couldn’t refuse it. The salary would be higher, her role more diverse and challenging, with greater responsibility than before. And she couldn’t let Monsieur Dior down.
Margot retrieved a hanger from the closet and picked up Gina’s heavy winter coat, which she’d slung over the chair at her vanity. On top of the vanity was a small selection of cosmetics but also a stack of typed pages, with the title printed in bold capitals. “LIBERTY.” Gina’s new manuscript.
To dust the vanity, Margot would have to clear off the surface. She hesitated, but only for a moment. She couldn’t help herself. As she picked up the typed pages, her gaze swept over the first one. A bookworm from her earliest years, Margot was a speedy reader. In the time it took to move the manuscript from the vanity to the top of the chesterfield, she had skimmed the opening paragraphs of Gina’s book.
“That’s my girl,” Margot murmured to herself. Gina’s prose was punchy and simple, but full of color and bold turns of phrase. Already drawn in, Margot was sorely tempted to stop what she was doing and sit down to read. But Gina would kill her, and Margot hated to leave a task unfinished, so she resumed dusting, her mind ticking over with what she’d just read.
Humming to herself, she removed everything from the vanity and dusted the mirrorlike surface. She replaced lipsticks and nail varnishes, powder and face creams in an orderly fashion. She rummaged in the dining room bureau and found a pretty little Limoges dish to hold odds and ends like hairpins and a pair of earrings Gina habitually wore. She set it on the vanity as well, filling it with small treasures.
Pleased with her work, Margot tidied the books on Gina’s nightstand, resolutely ignoring the pull of those typed manuscript pages that seemed to shine like a beacon from Gina’s vanity. Among Gina’s books was Lord of the Flies. Margot picked it up and read the jacket. She hadn’t been in the mood to read a book like that when it was published to such acclaim but maybe now . . . She’d borrow it, give it a try. Then she caught herself. She kept falling into the habit of believing the three women’s friendship would continue on the same footing as when they were in their early twenties. After tonight, she couldn’t let herself visit here again.
The thought drove her to the laundry basket she’d seen in the living room, where a mound of freshly washed and dried clothes waited to be ironed. After hunting through the apartment, she found an iron and a small board and set to with a will.
Unlike other domestic chores, Margot found tidying and ironing relaxing, an almost meditative practice. But as she worked, her mind kept straying to Gina’s manuscript. She used to read pages for Gina all the time in the old days. Knowing her friend as she did, she was well aware that Gina hated people reading her work before she was ready to show them. It would be a violation of her privacy for Margot to do so now.
Then again, Margot had made up her mind to break contact with Gina and Claire after tonight. If she didn’t read now, she never would—not until the book was published, anyhow. And Gina didn’t ever need to know . . .
“I’ll just finish the ironing,” she said into the quiet of the apartment. If her conscience hadn’t won the fight by then, she’d read it. Gina would have wanted to show the manuscript to her anyway, when she was ready. The only trouble was that Margot would no longer be around when that time came.
Right. She returned to Gina’s room with a cup of tea and grabbed the manuscript. From the fact that one of the twin beds was perfectly made, Margot deduced it wasn’t the one Gina slept in, so she set her cup down on the bedside table, propped up a couple of pillows at the headboard, and settled down to read.
The first two chapters were close to perfection and Margot wanted to rush over to the embassy to tell her friend immediately how much she loved them. Gina had clearly worked hard on every last word.
The next pages were rougher and bristled with corrections. As Margot read, her fingers itched for a pencil, to add comments of her own. She rubbed her chin. Would Gina hit the ceiling if she found that Margot had marked up these pages? Well, what was the worst she could do?
Margot refreshed her tea and found a pencil by the message pad on the fancy telephone table in the drawing room, then she went back to the bed and Gina’s story.
It was an allegory of sorts—following the Statue of Liberty from France to the United States of America, with a parallel narrative of a young American woman who seeks to escape the stifling mores of modern American society by running away to bohemian Paris.
The story was so engrossing that when Claire stuck her head around the door and called a cheery “Bonsoir!” Margot half levitated off the bed in fright.
Her heart pounding hard, she said, “Oh! Don’t do that! You scared me out of my wits.”
“Sorry,” said Claire. Then she caught sight of the bundle of pages Margot had clutched to her chest and her eyes widened. “That’s not Gina’s book, is it?”
“Yes,” said Margot with determined unconcern. “I’m editing it for her.”
Claire’s mouth dropped open. “Won’t she be mad? Gina hates it when—”
“I know, I know.” Margot shrugged. “She’ll be mad at first, but then she’ll thank me. You’ll see.”
Claire looked unconvinced. “Better you than me.” Then her brow puckered. “Have you eaten? Would you like me to fix you something?”
At the mention of food, Margot’s stomach gave an audible rumble. She chuckled and rubbed her bleary eyes. “What time is it?”
“Past midnight.”
“So the brasserie is closed and everyone has gone home?”
Claire nodded, then she eyed Margot warily. “Why do you ask?”
Margot sent her a mischievous grin. “Do you still have a key?”
Laughing, Claire put up her hands, palms out, and waved her off. “Ah, non, non, non.”
“Mais oui, oui, oui!” said Margot, her eyes dancing. “Give me five minutes to finish this and then we’ll go down.”