Two weeks passed before Claire and Gina moved into the apartment above the brasserie. Maître Bosshard had requested Madame Vaughn’s former housemaid to remove all of the personal belongings Madame hadn’t taken with her and spring-clean the apartment until it was ready for new occupants.
Claire took one horrified look at the shoebox of a room where Gina had been living for the past two weeks and wished she’d insisted on having her stay with her family until Madame Vaughn’s apartment was free.
“Are you sure Madame won’t mind?” Gina asked for the twentieth time. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Maître Bosshard has granted his approval,” said Claire. “And Madame did say I was to treat the apartment as my own.”
Gina sighed. “Thank goodness for that. It has been pretty bad, I admit. And I just heard from my father. He’s in Paris at the moment on business, so it would be nice if he didn’t see his little princess living in squalor.”
As they approached the door to the apartment, Claire felt in her coat pocket for the key, and thought once more about the secret Madame had entrusted to her in that letter. Did Maître Bosshard know the reason Madame had left Paris? The fact that he’d been worried enough to break into the apartment might suggest that he did. It would be easier if Claire could tell Gina the truth, but she couldn’t break a confidence.
The brass key had a satisfying weight to it, with curlicues on the bow and a patina that suggested it might be as old as the building itself. Claire unlocked the door and she and Gina moved in single file through the narrow vestibule.
“Wow.” They emerged into a light-filled space—one could only describe it as a drawing room. Gina turned around in a circle. “It’s like a penthouse.” She headed deeper into the apartment. “Two large bedrooms. Bathroom. Galley kitchen—not that I’ll be using that . . . And a great view, too!”
Gina pushed open the French doors that gave onto a small balcony, where window boxes would spill crimson geraniums throughout the summer and fall, and a small circular table with two wrought iron chairs awaited. Claire joined her friend outside. They weren’t high enough to see above the rooftops but she enjoyed feeling part of the bustle and color below. The plane trees lining the street were bare now, but soon they’d be covered in pale green leaves. Looking down, she saw the top of Le Chat’s dark red awning and the traffic passing by, the patrons coming in and out of the Tabac across the street.
It was the edge of winter, and a chill wind blew, so they retreated inside and went out to the landing to bring in their luggage. Gina had just one suitcase. Claire had taken a couple of days to sort through her belongings and brought with her only what she needed, plus a few keepsakes. At the end of that exercise, she’d realized with some satisfaction that she had never been much of a pack rat. Her life was in the kitchen. She didn’t spend money on frivolous things.
“I knew Madame had style, but this apartment is something else,” said Gina.
Madame’s panache was everywhere—in the bold pieces of art she had chosen with obvious care, abstracts mixed with Renaissance nudes and striking modern sculptures, in the eclectic yet harmonious mix of modern furnishings and antiques. The handsome fireplace, the high ceilings, the gorgeous, floaty pale green silk drapes.
“Beautiful,” agreed Claire, though privately she thought with trepidation of all the dusting she’d have to do.
“And will you look at that?” Gina crossed the room with her long, decisive stride. “A desk and a typewriter! Oh, and it’s a beauty, too.” She looked up. “Do you think she’d mind if I used it?”
“Of course not,” said Claire. “You know how generous she is.”
Gina kissed her fingers to their absent benefactor. “Bless you, Madame Vaughn. I’ll buy a new ribbon and paper first thing tomorrow.”
Claire’s focus shifted to the correspondence that lay propped against a small bronze art deco dancer.
Gina stopped talking and followed her gaze. “Ought we to open them? Did she say anything about paying bills and so forth?”
“All mail should have been redirected to Maître Bosshard,” said Claire. “I’ll see that he gets this one.”
“What did she say in her letter to you?” asked Gina. “Did she give any explanation at all about why she left so suddenly?” This wasn’t the first time she’d asked the question.
“No,” said Claire a trifle wearily. “But it sounds as if she might be away for close to a year.”
Madame had written a long letter, but other than one solitary sentence, it had all been instructions about taking care of the apartment and its contents. And about a certain couture gown . . .
No. Claire was not going to think about the gown. It was too much all at once, on top of this fabulous apartment. She simply couldn’t.
Gina’s unpacking took all of ten minutes. She emerged from her designated bedroom dressed in a brunch coat, clutching a towel and her toiletries bag. “If you don’t mind, I’m off to have a luxurious, long soak,” she said gleefully, and sped to the bathroom.
Claire chuckled. Public bathing was not something to which Gina had grown accustomed while living in her tiny maid’s chamber. No doubt Claire wouldn’t see her friend again for some time.
It didn’t take Claire long to unpack her personal belongings, but cooking implements were another matter.
The galley kitchen was small, and by the looks of it, Madame had rarely used it for more than boiling a kettle. However, it had a decent amount of storage space, so Claire decided to unpack the essentials. She was just sorting her saucepans and hanging them up on the pot rack when the telephone rang.
“I’ll get it!” Gina called. She must be out of the bath.
Claire didn’t hear more than a murmur. After a short conversation, Gina popped her head into the kitchen. She had a strange expression on her face. “It’s for you, Claire. She says she’s from La Maison Dior.”
“What?” Claire hit her head on an open cupboard door and yelped. Rubbing the spot that smarted, she added, “For me?” This was too quick. She still hadn’t decided how to refuse Madame Vaughn’s parting gift.
“Well?” said Gina, her voice laced with excitement. “Aren’t you going to come to the phone?”
“Oh!” Claire felt heat rush to her face. “Yes. I suppose I’d better.”
Claire crossed the drawing room to the telephone table and lifted the heavy receiver. The instrument was ivory and gold, and even had a matching gold dialer. Claire picked up the dialer and tapped it on the message pad. Tentatively, she said, “Allô?”
“Is this Mademoiselle Bedeau?” said a husky female voice on the other end.
“Yes, this is she.”
“Ah, thank goodness! I have been trying to reach you for the past few days. Mademoiselle Bedeau, Monsieur Dior is ready for your fitting. May I arrange a suitable time for you to come in?”
“Oh!” said Claire. “Oh, I . . . er, that is to say, I don’t think I can . . .”
Before she could finish, Gina snatched the receiver from her, continuing the conversation without missing a beat.
When she hung up, she turned to Claire, beaming. “You have an appointment for three o’clock on Tuesday the twelfth. That’s in two weeks so you have plenty of notice to ask for time off. And I’m coming with you to make sure you go through with it. What on earth, Claire? This must be Madame Vaughn’s doing, mustn’t it?”
Like an automaton, Claire nodded. “She wants me to have this gown. A Dior gown!”
“You mean you knew about it already?” Gina put her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Claire sighed. “Madame was having a gown made at Dior but she won’t be here in Paris for the final fittings and where she’s going . . . safari in Africa, you know . . . Well, she won’t have occasion to wear it. You know how she likes to have only the latest fashions, so if she doesn’t wear it this season, she never will. So . . . she wanted me to have it.” Claire wished she could share Gina’s excitement. “The gown is all paid for. I just need to go to the fittings and . . . and that’s all. But I don’t have anywhere to wear a gown like that. And it’s a bit much, don’t you think? I mean, minding the apartment is one thing. But accepting a couture gown . . .”
Gina tilted her head, considering this. “It certainly is true that Madame Vaughn would never wear last season’s couture. I don’t see what’s wrong with not wanting the gown to go to waste. Still, it makes me even more curious about what came up that made her take off like that.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “This again!”
“I know, I know. It’s just so strange, don’t you think? Running off to Africa without a word to anyone. And about the gown—don’t be silly, of course you must accept it! I will come with you to the fitting and live vicariously through you and fantasize about all the beautiful dresses that might have been.” She laughed. “Just think, Claire! Your dream is finally coming true.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.” Inwardly Claire balked. How could she accept such a generous gift, even if it might never be used otherwise? Imagine only wearing a dress that expensive for a single season!
No. She couldn’t do it. Gina might think it silly to refuse, but something about it didn’t seem right to Claire.
She glanced at the telephone. She ought to call back and cancel the appointment, tell Dior to keep the gown until Madame Vaughn’s return. But not in front of Gina. She didn’t want to have to argue about it anymore. Someone who was accustomed to wealth would never understand how staggering it was to be presented with such an astonishingly expensive gift. Even if Claire longed to accept, she simply couldn’t. She’d find a quiet moment when Gina wasn’t around to telephone Dior. Then she’d cancel the appointment.
Gina Winter, you are not going to be a pushover this time. She’d run away to Paris to escape temptation. Now Jay was dangling it before her eyes once more. “Father, I can’t.”
J. Wadsworth Winter wasn’t used to hearing the word “no”—especially not from the women in his life. Despite his recent troubles, he looked as rakishly handsome as ever, with his pencil moustache and brushed-back hair and his immaculate grey suit with one perfect pink rosebud in the buttonhole. It took all of Gina’s strength to harden her heart against him.
Hurt surprise shone in his vivid green gaze. “But, Gigi, you have to. Everything depends on it. Don’t you see?” Jay put his hands on her shoulders, then cupped her face in his big palms. “Do me this one favor and everything we lost can be ours again.”
Not everything. Not the most important thing. Her mother would never smile her enchanting, dreamy smile, never pen another word of verse, never lay her gentle hand on Gina’s forehead. Rose Winter had died when Gina was ten—of heartbreak over Jay’s many affairs, everyone had said. No one knew that beneath that gentle exterior beat the strong, whole heart of a lioness. Cancer had ravaged Rose’s body, but her mind had been keen until the last. She had pressed a small book of poetry into Gina’s hands and told her to leave home as soon as she could. “Live,” she said. “Go to Paris and live.” Her wasted hand made a gesture around at their magnificent apartment, with its lofty view of Central Park. “You don’t need all this.”
At the time, they had divided their year between a sprawling mansion in Connecticut and an apartment in Manhattan; the luxury that surrounded her was normal for Gina and she hadn’t understood. It was only after they lost it all that she heard the plea beneath those words: Live the life I should have had.
Even when her father had lost all of their money and more on a risky business deal, she hadn’t obeyed her mother’s urging. Gina had left Washington, where she’d been working as a correspondent, and come home to be with her father, only to find that she had no home left. Jay had moved into the Manhattan apartment he’d bought for Marly Madison, his current mistress. The apartment was in Marly’s name, so it had escaped the creditors. There was no room in that apartment for Gina.
That had severed the last, frayed thread that had tethered her to America. Finally Gina obeyed her mother. She sold everything she owned that was of value, bought a ticket to Paris, and left.
The only item of real value she’d managed to keep was Rose Winter’s gold fountain pen. She wrote with it every day, and the memory of her mother lent her strength.
Working what amounted to three jobs now, Gina was tired—more tired than she’d ever been—but she felt something she hadn’t even experienced when she’d received her first paycheck from her first job at a magazine. She was making her own way, her own money, relying solely on herself. Free accommodation at Madame Vaughn’s apartment was a huge help, that was for sure, but she planned to save a nice cushion so that when she and Claire eventually had to leave the apartment, they could afford to move somewhere decent.
Now her father promised restitution. A rise from the ashes. But it all depended on Hal. “I can’t go to the embassy ball, Father,” said Gina. “Please don’t make me see him.”
Hal was in Paris. Did he even know she was here? Contradictory emotions battled inside her. She hated that, along with the horror and fear of meeting him again under such humiliating circumstances, she still held a shameful hope—that he had, indeed, come to persuade her to marry him after all, that their reunion would be like a scene from a movie, that he’d call her a little fool and sweep her into his arms . . . She made a face. She was a fool, indeed, to believe that love could conquer all. If only there was a switch she could flick to turn off the love she still felt for him.
The worst part? Hal hadn’t done anything wrong. It was his tough-as-nails father, Joe, who had pointed out to her—quite rightly—that Jay’s predicament had made Gina an unsuitable wife for a young man with political ambitions. Until Jay’s fall from grace, Gina had possessed the connections and the finances to support Hal’s rise to the very top. Now, however, she had neither.
Had it been Joe alone who had wanted the White House for his son, she might have refused to give in. But Hal was talented and driven, and passionate about eradicating the many injustices that prevailed in America right now. He could achieve great things—as long as he didn’t have Gina holding him back.
Perversely Gina resented Hal all the more for his naivety in refusing to give her up, for making it so very hard for her to do what was best for him and break off their engagement.
Now Hal was in Paris and Jay expected her to attend a ball where everyone would know her history. On top of that, she was supposed to cultivate Hal, to persuade him to invest his money with the man who had lost Hal’s father a fortune. With a handsome inheritance from his maternal grandfather, Hal was a wealthy man in his own right.
“Please, Gigi.” Desperation lurked behind Jay’s hundred-watt smile. “Do it for me.” When she continued to hesitate, he added, “Just get Hal to agree to meet with me. I’ll do the rest.”
Gina couldn’t imagine anything worse. A ball at the United States Embassy, where everyone would know and gossip about her family’s fall from grace. Of course they all thought Hal had jilted her, which made things a hundred times worse. And to meet him there again, in front of them all . . .
Gina squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body clenching with humiliation. She hadn’t bought a new dress for months, and nothing she’d brought to Paris was suitable for such a glittering occasion. Such a contrast to the previous visit to the fashion capital of the world, when she’d purchased gowns and jewels without a second thought. The jewels were long gone, the gowns snatched out of her closet by the burly men who had come to collect on her father’s debts.
And yet, if only Jay could reclaim his position in the world, if he could make this new business venture a success, then perhaps Gina could be with Hal after all. She shouldn’t allow herself to hope, but didn’t love make fools of everybody?
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she said at last. Her resistance was crumbling, and they both knew it.
Jay, who cared more about appearances than her mother ever had, nodded slowly. “You’ll need couture to make the right impression. Can’t you borrow something from that friend of yours? What’s her name . . .” He frowned in an effort of remembering and Gina tried not to roll her eyes. He’d met Margot many times, but he never remembered a woman’s name unless he wanted to romance her.
“Margot went back to Australia years ago.” She wished Margot were here now. Not for the dresses, but she could use her friend’s unique blend of tact and ruthless determination to extricate her from this excruciating conversation.
“Well, isn’t there anyone else?” said Jay. “You used to have a lot of friends in Paris.”
“No.” She couldn’t bring herself to renew her acquaintance with her friends from before. Claire was the only one she wanted to see.
She blinked. There it was. The solution to her dilemma was obvious, wasn’t it? The Dior gown . . . But how could Gina wear it before Claire had the chance to do so?
Jay’s defeated expression, when she knew for a fact that he bought couture for his current girlfriend, stung. But unlike Marly Madison, Gina did not want Jay to go deeper into debt on her behalf.
Still . . . was she relieved or disappointed when he didn’t make the offer?
She shrugged. “I guess I’ll work it out somehow.”
“So you’ll go?” Her father’s face lit up, like a small boy’s at Christmas.
“Yes. I’ll go.” If there was any chance she could help her father get back on his feet, she would have to try. And she couldn’t deny it. She longed to see Hal again, despite knowing the encounter would be painful.
Jay pulled her into a mighty bear hug that reminded her of happier days, when money worries happened to other people. He drew back, his brow furrowed. “You’ll need an escort, of course.”
Gina’s heart sank at the reminder. She’d intended to avoid her fellow Americans altogether while in Paris. Now she’d have to beg someone to go with her to the ball.
Casually her father added, “Why not ask Hal?”
Jay’s tactless suggestion made her want to scream. If this was all a ploy to bring her and Hal back together, she’d never forgive him. Biting back the scathing response that leaped to her tongue, she said, “I’ll find someone.” Then, because he seemed to brighten, she added, “Don’t get your hopes up, Father. I don’t think this will work.”
But Jay was having none of her pessimism. “Of course it will. The boy wanted to marry you. He would have, too, if the old man hadn’t nixed it. He’ll be putty in your hands.”
There was no sense arguing, and Jay had already moved on. “What was the other thing I meant to ask you?” Jay clicked his fingers. “That’s right. Did you see the new Mellifleur anthology is out? Do you have a copy in that bookstore of yours, by any chance?”
She did indeed. In fact she’d just bought it—a little gift to reward herself for sticking to her daily writing schedule. One of his saving graces, and what had attracted Rose to him in the first place, was Jay’s love of literature.
“I’ll get it for you.”
After finding him the poetry collection he wanted in the bookcase in her bedroom, Gina brought it back into the drawing room, to see her father standing over her desk.
“Oh, don’t!” She hated people reading anything she wrote before it was finished. It felt like a violation that he would casually glance through her work, as if he had the right. As if it wasn’t the most important thing in the world to her, and intensely private until it was done.
He turned, his cheeks flushed. “Sorry, Gigi. I couldn’t resist.” His eyes grew moist, and her heart melted once more. “There’s so much of your mother in you.”
He drew a large cream stock card from an inner pocket of his coat. “Here’s the embassy invitation. The ball is six weeks away. I trust that’s sufficient time to . . .” He trailed off. “Look, I know things are tight now. Maybe I can—”
“It’s fine.” Gina stared down at the card. It had her name on it. That meant her father had already solicited the invitation without asking her first. The elegantly engraved script blurred. Her hands grew clammy at the thought of facing them all. Not just Hal, but the society gossips as well. Carefully she propped the card on the mantelpiece. “I’ll work something out.”
Satisfied, her father left. She stood by the window to watch him go. The brasserie awning briefly hid him from view but then she caught sight of him continuing up the street, the slim volume of poetry she had given him in hand, a jaunty quality to his walk. She might have been mistaken, but she thought she heard the faint whistle of his favorite tune.
Gina turned away, feeling the weight that had seemingly lifted from Jay’s shoulders settle onto hers.
If only Margot were here in Paris. Then at least the problem of the gown would be solved.
Still, casually sharing clothes was one thing; admitting to Margot that her family was too broke to buy her a couture gown for the embassy ball would be something else.
What was Margot doing now? Living the life of a social butterfly back in Sydney, no doubt. Gina smiled a little, picturing her as she continued to flit about the place, doing not much of anything except bringing sparkle and fun to every occasion. Gina had always wondered if that kind of life could be truly fulfilling for someone like Margot. There was a sharp mind behind all of that froth and bubble. Still, convention was a difficult thing to kick against. Even Gina, who had begun with high ambitions, had gladly agreed to marriage once she’d found love with Hal.
Now she thought about the Dior gown Claire was about to receive from Madame Vaughn . . . No. It just wasn’t right. Gina shouldn’t even raise the issue because she knew Claire’s generous heart would prompt her to lend the gown to Gina at once. Only how could she go to the embassy ball if she had nothing to wear?