“Selling? But . . . but this place has been in the family for over sixty years!”
Papa put his big, warm hand over hers. “I’m sorry, my dear, but it’s for the best.”
“And it’s not as if you want to take over,” Vo-Vo put in.
Papa held up a hand. “Now, now. Let’s not get into all of that. I’ve made my decision.” He patted Claire’s hand. “When you get used to the idea, you’ll see it’s for the best. We needed the money from the restaurant and the apartment in order to retire. Claire, the truth is that I couldn’t have passed it on to you even if I’d wanted to.”
“Needed?” Claire fixed on his choice of words—he spoke in the past tense. “You mean you’ve already sold the place?”
She didn’t have to hear his answer to realize the truth. Knowing Papa, he had put off telling her until the very last moment. At least he’d done it before the new owner swept in and took command of her kitchen.
“But when must I leave?” Claire put her fingertips to her temples. Where would she live? More to the point, where would she work? Despite all her talk of haute cuisine and her efforts to keep up her skills, she felt blindsided by this news. Her dream of running a Michelin-starred restaurant had begun to seem far off in the distance, no less a mirage than her dream of owning a Dior gown.
“You’ll be kept on here, of course,” said her father. “That was a condition of my selling.” He hesitated, then added hopefully, “Or you could come with us?”
She couldn’t. She had so much still to learn and besides, all of her contacts in the restaurant trade were in Paris.
“Of course she doesn’t want to come with us,” scoffed Vo-Vo. “You can live with Cousin Juliette until you find a place of your own, Claire. She’d be only too happy to take you in.”
Ugh. Cousin Juliette would expect her to cook for her enormous family. No, thank you.
Claire wanted to protest. Didn’t she get any say in this? But she couldn’t help but think of the worried creases in her father’s brow, his sad eyes and the weariness behind them . . . What could she do but reassure him?
She would be fine. Better than fine. At last she would be free to pursue her dream, leave the cozy nest of the brasserie, and aim for the pinnacle of the restaurant world. Her father had given her that sudden, stomach-dropping push. Now it felt like falling, but soon enough she would gather her strength, spread her wings, and soar.
“Don’t worry about me, Papa,” she said, turning in her seat to hug him. His arms closed around her and he squeezed her tightly. She felt him tremble a little as he let her go with a gasp that sounded very like a sob. He wouldn’t like her to see him in tears, so she turned to her aunt.
“Where will you live?” As if she needed to ask.
“As soon as you’re settled, your papa and I will go down to Nice,” Vo-Vo replied. “I have my eye on a nice little villa overlooking the sea.”
Papa added, “We will take care of each other.” He paused. “I do hope, my dear, that one day you will achieve your dreams. In the meantime, there are worse things than working at the best brasserie in Paris, you know.”
Claire tried to smile but she couldn’t quite manage it. That Le Chat-qui-Pêche was the best in Paris had always been her father’s grandiose claim to patrons; over the years it had become his and Claire’s little joke. And of course he was right about there being worse things. The war and its privations lived on in Claire’s memory, even though she’d been young and shielded from the worst by her doting parents. And it was true. Le Chat was easily among the best of its kind. It was just that ever since she’d discovered that cooking could be elevated to the level of art, Claire’s dream had been to pursue a career in haute cuisine.
Papa eyed her warily. “You know, I would have been happy to have stayed on and put you in charge if I’d thought—”
“Don’t worry, Papa.” She cut him off, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “You did the right thing by selling. I’ll be fine.” It occurred to her that he had made a huge sacrifice. The brasserie had been in the family for generations. If Papa had come to her first with the proposition of selling, she would have felt honor bound to offer to take over the brasserie herself. But he’d given her no choice in the matter, and thereby relieved her of guilt. It was only the suddenness of it that left her feeling as if she had a rock in the pit of her stomach.
The apartment was another thing. When would she have to move? As soon as possible, by the sound of it.
Gina arrived back at the brasserie exhausted but mildly triumphant. In one afternoon, she had secured for herself a job and an apartment. Not a very nice apartment and not a very well-paying job, but if she worked hard to bash out some feature articles in her spare time, she might just make ends meet. Maybe even get ahead. As a privileged young woman who had never been obliged to give a second thought to the sordid question of money, she might be forgiven for feeling a smidge proud.
The brasserie was packed with patrons and full of noise and color, the glow of candles and leadlight shades lending warmth and intimacy to the scene. Gina stopped short outside. She must look a complete mess right now. It was getting dark, and who knew what she might step in this time, so instead of using the alley again, she headed into the lobby of the building.
After she’d paid Madame Pipi to use the restroom, tidied her hair, and reapplied her lipstick and powder, she felt slightly more like herself, though still grubby from travel and weary down to the marrow of her bones. She would be glad to get to bed that evening, even if it was in that cupboard of a maid’s room.
As she left the restroom, a loud bang coming from above made her look up.
Bang . . . bang . . . then a crack of splintering wood. It sounded like it came from Madame Vaughn’s apartment upstairs.
Forgetting her earlier reluctance to encounter her fellow American, Gina climbed the stairs two at a time. On the second-floor landing, she saw the door to Madame’s apartment leaning drunkenly off one hinge, and the backs of a couple of men in suits as they filed inside.
The click of her heels on the tiles must have alerted one of them. He turned and frowned at her, saying in French, “Go away, mademoiselle. This is a private matter.”
She’d been undecided whether to butt in, but the arrogance of his command made her stand her ground. “Madame Vaughn is my friend. I demand to know what you mean by breaking into her apartment.” She raised her voice and craned her neck to see past him, adding in English, “Madame Vaughn? Are you there? Is everything okay?”
“You’re American,” said the man with something of a sneer.
“Yes,” said Gina. “How do you know Madame?”
“That’s none of your concern.” His jaw tightened. “Mademoiselle, you must leave.”
Gina’s journalistic instincts rose like the hackles of a cat, but her foremost concern was for Claire’s neighbor. She wouldn’t leave this spot. Not without a reasonable explanation.
Gina had doorstepped lots of people and talked her way into many homes in the course of her short career in journalism. However, the man who blocked the narrow vestibule to the apartment seemed immovable in every sense of the word. He was built like an American footballer, padding and all.
She narrowed her eyes. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? You could be anyone.” When he simply folded his arms in answer in the manner of a bouncer at a nightclub, she added, “If you don’t tell me exactly what’s going on, I’ll call the flics.”
She ought to have run off and called the police straightaway. If these men were up to no good, it was probably stupid to tip them off as to her intentions. The man swore under his breath. “That would be a big mistake, Mademoiselle . . . ?”
Before Gina could answer, she heard another voice, quiet and precise. “If you please to step aside, Monsieur Limeaux.”
The big man stepped out of the way and a small older gentleman shuffled out of the apartment, a slim black attaché case in hand. He looked pale and the waxed ends of his moustache seemed to droop dispiritedly, but he had such an air of gentle dignity that it required only the lightest touch on the elbow and an inclination of his neatly barbered head before Gina found herself back on the landing outside the apartment again.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What’s happened to Madame Vaughn?”
“Nothing terrible, I assure you,” came the calm reply. “I was concerned for Madame Vaughn when I hadn’t heard from her for some days, but it seems I was, er, overreacting.” A glance at the splintered doorframe and a self-deprecating moue made light of the situation. “I will have this repaired immediately.”
As Gina hesitated, he added, “Please, Mademoiselle . . . ?”
“Winter,” she supplied.
He nodded. “Mademoiselle Winter. A call to the gendarmes would only result in the kind of fuss Madame Vaughn would abhor.”
If he was a con man, he was a highly accomplished one. Mollified by his air of respectability, Gina asked, “Perhaps you have a card?”
He handed her a business card and it all looked legitimate—the neat, bold engraving of his name, vocation, and address seemed to tally with his fine grey suit and the understanding in his dark eyes. The man’s name was Maître Bosshard and he was a lawyer. At least, that was what his card said. He certainly seemed respectable, despite having broken into an apartment.
The lawyer deflected further questioning by holding up one hand. “If you will excuse me, I must find a locksmith before he closes for the day.” He retreated back into the apartment and pulled the door shut behind him, effectively ending the conversation.
Lost in speculation, Gina slowly descended the marble staircase and let herself into the brasserie’s office by the side door that gave onto the foyer of the apartment building.
She peeked into the kitchen, which was buzzing with noise and movement. Chefs barked orders from their various stations, waiters loaded their arms with dishes and whizzed past. And there was Claire at the center of it all, fully in command, conducting her staff’s movements like a maestro. Catching sight of Gina, who was standing by the door, Claire acknowledged her friend’s raised eyebrow and jerk of a chin with a nod and a shooing gesture that said, I’ll be with you when I can. The next moment, Claire was leaping over to the stove to pour brandy into a fry pan and tilt it to the heat. Flames whooshed upward, then slowly died. Gina retreated to the office to wait.
Now that she’d recovered from the effects of Maître Bosshard’s reassuring calm, doubts began to surface in Gina’s mind. Had she been a fool to trust him? He could be a confidence trickster or a thief. Or even if he was genuine, perhaps he had broken in precisely because something awful had befallen Madame. Was she lying up there in her apartment, lifeless, right now? Gina shivered, biting her thumb and thinking hard. She shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but how could she fail to fear the worst when the two men had forced their way in like that? What had made them do it? Madame had been out and about only that morning. It wasn’t as if she’d been missing for days. A frisson of dread ran down Gina’s spine.
Impatient to speak with Claire, she paced the small office. At least Claire might know if this Maître Bosshard was legitimate or not.
A knock fell on the door that led from the office to the apartment building lobby. Gina wasn’t sure if she should answer, but it might be important. She wrenched it open. Maître Bosshard was standing there, without his sidekick this time. “Oh!”
He seemed equally surprised to see Gina. “I realize it’s a busy time, but might I speak with Mademoiselle Bedeau? It is very important.”
Just then, Claire bustled in, carrying a plate of steak frites. “Gina, you must eat! . . .” She faltered and stopped short as she noticed Gina’s companion. “Maître Bosshard! What are you doing here?”
Then he had been telling the truth about his identity, Gina thought with relief.
“I realize now is not a good time, but . . .” the lawyer began, then hesitated. “I thought it best to give you this tonight.” He handed Claire an envelope. “From Madame Vaughn. She left it for you.”
“I don’t understand,” said Claire. Taking the letter, she put Gina’s dinner plate down on the desk, then ripped the envelope open and fished out a brass key. “What is this? I only saw Madame this morning. She could have . . .” But her words trailed off as she scanned the letter.
Maître Bosshard waited. “Anything . . . anything I should know?”
None of her business, of course, but Gina was desperate to hear details, too. Why would Madame take off like this, and leave Claire her key?
Claire reread the message, thrust it into her apron pocket, then held up the key. “She wants me to look after her apartment. Says she won’t be back again for some time—maybe a year—and would I please stay there until she returns. She says not to worry about her, that she’s fine, but something came up suddenly and she needed to leave Paris straightaway.”
“She didn’t tell you what the emergency was?” demanded Gina.
“You know how she is,” said Claire with a shrug, her eyes shifting to the side. “She said she simply had to see Africa before she died. I believe she’s on her way to a safari in Kenya as we speak.”
“Africa.” The lawyer nodded. “Yes, that’s it.” He inclined his head at Claire. “Madame left me similar instructions. To clear out her belongings for you to move in, and to pay any utilities while she’s gone. Only, she forgot to leave her key under the mat as she’d promised.” He made an apologetic gesture toward Gina. “My associate and I were obliged to break in.”
Claire’s eyes were great, wide pools of blue, and her usually ruddy cheeks were pale. Was it the prospect of caring for Madame’s extravagant apartment upstairs that she found so daunting? Or had there been something else in the letter that had shocked her?
The lawyer smiled reassuringly at Claire. “If there’s anything else you need, please call.” Maître Bosshard handed Claire his card and left.
Gina watched her friend stare down at the lawyer’s card for some time before putting it in her pocket with Madame Vaughn’s letter and key.
“I hope it’s nothing serious?” Gina ended the statement on a note of inquiry that bordered on interrogation. She couldn’t help it; she was incurably curious. It was what made her such a tenacious journalist.
Before she could reply, Vo-Vo stuck her head into the office. “Claire!” she barked. “What are you doing back here?”
Claire started and put her hand to her chest. Then she drew a long breath. “Coming.” She made a face and squeezed Gina’s hand. “Let’s talk tomorrow, yes? And make sure you eat your dinner!”
“Just like old times,” Gina murmured the next morning as they stood looking up at the new Dior window display.
Finally she would have Claire’s full attention. Or at least the part of it that wasn’t contemplating the fashions. The window contained a tableau of store mannequins in day suits. The creations were black, elegant, and completely beyond Gina’s budget. She’d never truly understood Claire’s yearning for couture until now, when it had been whisked so far out of her reach.
“Not quite like old times,” answered Claire. “I miss Margot.”
“Me, too,” said Gina. “She made everything more fun, didn’t she?” She sighed. “And boy, could I use some cheering up right now.”
“Maybe she’ll come back for a vacation sometime,” said Claire. “I suppose you sent her an invitation to the wedding?”
Gina nodded, frowning. “Though heaven knows if she got it or if she’ll ignore that like every other letter I’ve sent. Have you heard from her?”
“No.” Claire’s mouth twisted. “Not for years. But wouldn’t she at least respond if it was about your wedding? That’s important. I still can’t believe she stopped writing.”
Gina didn’t immediately reply. Margot’s silence had hurt her as much as it had hurt Claire. She’d hoped very hard that a wedding invitation might prompt Margot to get in touch. “Well, just in case, I need to get word to her that the whole deal’s off. What if she tries to surprise me and I’m not even in the country?”
“Margot would write,” said Claire. “She’d send an acceptance. She might be flighty, but she always had good manners.”
“There isn’t anywhere to send an acceptance anymore,” said Gina, sighing. However, she had set up mail redirection before she’d left home, so hopefully any correspondence from Margot would still reach her via the local post office in Saint-Germain-des-Prés—if belatedly. “I’d better send her a telegram,” she said. “‘Wedding’s off. Meet me in Paris.’” The telegram would be expensive but she couldn’t let Margot set off for the States on a fool’s errand.
“What happened with you and Hal?” asked Claire.
But it wasn’t something Gina wished to talk about openly in the middle of the street. She linked arms with Claire and said, “Come on. Let’s find somewhere we can talk.”
As they turned to go, one of the mannequins, a slight figure dressed all in black, seemed to animate inside the Dior window, then disappear. Gina frowned, about to remark on it to Claire. Then she shrugged. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. Either that or one of the Dior employees had been making some adjustment to the window display. She’d had a fleeting sense of the familiar—in fact, for a wild moment, she’d thought she’d glimpsed Margot—but it was gone.
The two friends strolled for some time, and Claire told Gina about the brasserie and Papa Bedeau’s decision to sell.
“That’s so sad!” said Gina. “Won’t it be awful to see Le Chat under new management?”
“It is sad,” Claire agreed. “I wish my brother was interested in taking it on but he has a family of his own now, and a business to run. Still, I can’t help feeling a little relieved. I can finally get my career back on track.”
They chose a small café and ordered. As they discussed Claire’s plans and Gina told Claire about the job she’d landed at the bookshop and the apartment she’d found, Gina drank black coffee and nibbled on a corner of Claire’s croissant. For Claire, it was a hot chocolate sort of day, with lashings of whipped cream on top.
“But enough about all of that,” said Claire. “What happened to you, Gina?”
Gina pressed her fingertip into the croissant crumbs on the table. Claire’s large eyes were fixed on her with expectation and sympathy. But now that it came down to it, Gina found that she couldn’t go into all of the heartbreak. Humiliation seemed to rise up through her chest and close a hand around her throat like a vise.
“Tell me,” said Claire, “what did Hal do?” When Gina didn’t immediately answer, she asked, “Did he break off the engagement?”
“No, I did.” In her mind’s eye, Gina saw the scene once more. A private dining room at the club, all dark wood paneling and gleaming silver. Joe, Hal’s father, treating Gina to lunch, before telling her over cigars and brandy that she must now break off her engagement with his son. Her father had lost all of his money, and was in bad odor with his investors, including Joe himself. Such a fall from grace could not help but taint his daughter. Hal was being groomed for politics—to enter the White House one day had always been his dream. But to achieve the heights of power, he needed the right woman by his side. And Gina must see that she was no longer that woman. Well, Gina had seen it. And she had done what she’d needed to do.
“So do we hate him, this Hal?” said Claire. She always liked things spelled out in black-and-white.
“Not at all,” said Gina. She still loved him, and that was why it hurt so much. Hal had fought hard to keep her. In the end, she’d only escaped him by leaving the country. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”
Claire reached for Gina’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Maybe it’s for the best, hein? You never truly wanted to be married, did you, Gina? You always dreamed of independence.”
Gina agreed, though her bruised heart robbed her words of conviction. When, exactly, had she lost sight of her dreams? Sometime after meeting Hal. He’d been so persistent, so perceptive and genuine. Despite her reluctance to marry someone from her parents’ world, Hal had gotten under her skin. By the end of it, she’d done the thing she’d vowed never to do. Allowed her love for a man to temper her ambition. Let herself lean on him. But then, she reminded herself, even as a single woman she’d never been independent in any meaningful way. She’d always had family money to cushion her fall.
“I didn’t know what I was talking about back then,” she said at last. “True independence means earning a living. Writing novels doesn’t pay the bills—at least, not immediately. Right now I simply can’t afford to have dreams.”
“Nonsense!” said Claire. “You can do anything you put your mind to.”
Gina blinked at her friend’s certainty. Dryly she replied, “Thank you for the vote of confidence, but it’s not that simple.”
“It is exactly that simple,” said Claire. “Do you think I let being trapped at Le Chat stop me pursuing my dream? Every spare moment I have, I am practicing my skills, perfecting recipes. If I can do that and run a brasserie, then you can write a few pages of your novel every day.”
How to explain that the emotional upheaval of the past few months had left Gina drained and desperately uninspired? She needed to survive before she needed to be a novelist.
“We’ll do it together,” said Claire. “You move in with me to Madame’s apartment. I’ll cook. You write.”
Gina stared at her. “But wouldn’t Madame mind?”
“Of course she wouldn’t!” said Claire. “And if it makes you feel any better, I shall ask permission of Maître Bosshard. And I won’t tell him what a slattern you are.”
“Slattern?” Gina retorted, indignant. “Where did you pick up a word like that?”
Claire grinned. “I know it because my mother used to call me one.”
Gina laughed. “That all sounds marvelous but I really don’t have time to work on a novel. I need to establish myself here as a freelancer on top of working at the bookstore.”
“Then break up the day,” said Claire. “Come to the brasserie for your dinner, go upstairs and work on your articles at night, then write your novel first thing in the morning before you go to work. I’ll check on you every day, make sure you stick to the plan. And you can do the same for me.”
The instinct to argue against what Claire was saying was so strong, Gina was surprised at herself. Why was she fighting it? Did she want to write a novel or not? Gina stared at her friend. “Why are you so good to me? I must seem like a walking disaster, and a sad, moping sack of potatoes into the bargain.”
Claire laughed. “Sack of potatoes? You?” She shook her head. “You’ve had a terrible knock but you’re a strong, clever woman, Gina. You’ll get back on your feet. I’ll help however I can, cheer you on, nag you—even if it makes you hate me.”
Gina stared in wonder at her friend. The experience of someone showing her possibilities instead of throwing obstacles in her path was so novel, it took her breath away. More energized than she’d been for months, she laughed and looked at her watch. “I guess if I’m going to write some pages of that novel before work, I’d better make a start.” There had been an idea brewing in her mind for some time . . . A book about a young American woman in Paris.
“There! You see?” said Claire with a radiant smile as they left the café. She turned and gave Gina a hearty hug, rocking her back and forth a little in her excitement. “I’m so glad you’re back, mon amie. We’ll make everything work, you and I. We’ll achieve our dreams, no matter how long it takes or how hard it gets. Just you wait and see.”
Margot MacFarlane had been at work early, swapping out the accessories on the store mannequins in the Dior display window, when who should stroll along, then stop to stand peering up at her, but Claire and Gina.
She was hovering behind a display mannequin that was slightly taller than she was and trying to fix a tricky catch on a necklace when she heard their voices, muffled a little by the glass—Claire’s heavily accented English and Gina’s louder, faintly raspy tones. Startled, she’d peeked around and caught sight of her friends. What was Gina doing in Paris?
Instinct made Margot duck back behind the mannequin and hold herself frozen in place. Her face wasn’t visible to Claire and Gina because they’d halted squarely in front of the window. If they were to walk on and stare back in at an angle, they would spot her, but for the moment, she was safe. She merely had to stand very still with her arms in the air for as long as it took for them to move away.
From past experience, that could take a while. In front of this display window was where the three friends had always exchanged good news, the highlights of their day, and everything that was right with the world. Right, because Margot had made a rule that nothing negative must ever pass their lips in front of Dior. The atelier was like a shrine at which the only acceptable offering was happiness.
Oh, dear! Margot heard Madame Renou, her supervisor, call her name, and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t move in case Gina or Claire spotted her, but if she didn’t come on the double when called, she’d receive the sharp edge of Madame Renou’s tongue.
“Where is that girl?” she heard Madame say to one of the others. “I told her to switch out the hat display half an hour ago.”
“Maybe she has gone to use the convenience,” volunteered Delphine, a sweet young assistant who always tried to defend Margot.
“Well, go fetch her back,” said Madame. “She has a way with the hats.”
Margot was glad to hear the compliment, though Madame would not have said it to her face. Monsieur Dior himself had praised Margot’s sense of style. She had a knack for making unusual pairings work, of avoiding the obvious, the cliché.
Changing the hat display in the boutique had been only one item of a long list Madame had given her that morning, a list that Margot had been working through efficiently and diligently. She disliked the way Madame always tried to make out that she was scatterbrained and feckless. Perhaps she had acted like that once upon a time, largely to amuse her friends. But that was back in the days when she could afford to be taken for a delicious featherhead. She had shed that version of herself long ago. Or rather, had it stripped from her, piece by piece, like the bark from a tree.
Margot ventured a quick peek at Gina and Claire over the mannequin’s shoulder. Both women had grown thinner, she thought. Both looked far more serious than they ought, particularly while on pilgrimage to Dior.
How she had missed them and wondered about them, and dreamed of what their lives must be—almost as if by willing them both to enjoy a happy and fulfilled existence, she might somehow borrow a little of that happiness for herself.
Was Claire a chef in a great Parisian restaurant these days? Granted, it was too early in her career for Michelin stars, but Margot had no doubt that with Claire’s talent and diligence, she would be well on her way up the culinary ladder by now.
And what about Gina? Margot would have heard if Gina had achieved her dream and published the great American novel. A compulsive reader with wide-ranging tastes, even in the hardest of times, Margot had managed to buy, beg, or borrow most of the books she’d wanted to read. On her weekly visits to the bouquinistes, she had always searched for a cover with Gina’s name on it but never heard of one coming out. Maybe Gina had stuck with journalism, after all, or maybe she was still waiting for her big break as a novelist.
Seeing her best friends in the world together like that, without her, hurt with an exquisite, pleasure-laced pain. Margot had spent years believing they had forgotten all about her, that to the other two young women, their time together in Paris had been a pleasant interlude, nothing more. Doggedly, she had gone on writing to them long after their letters had ceased to arrive. Reminding herself again and again that she must have been mistaken about what their time in Paris had meant did not seem to lessen the sadness and feeling of betrayal. Now, here the two of them were together. Maybe it was only Margot they hadn’t valued as much as she had valued them.
Regardless of the past, she couldn’t let her friends see her now. She couldn’t rush out the door of the atelier and yell, “Surprise!” and assault her dearest friends with hugs and kisses. She couldn’t link arms with them and stand out there in front of the display window as the three of them had done so many times in the past, discussing the world and all of the good things in it.
Longings crowded her mind—a thousand “if only”s that all focused on one dagger-sharp regret. If only she’d never met him, everything would be different.
Stop it, Margot! But before she could catch the runaway train of her thoughts, his voice echoed through her mind. The trembling started, the pounding of her heart.
She’d tried so hard never to think about it, to block all of it from her memory. She couldn’t let that helpless, hopeless feeling take over. If she did, she simply would not be able to function.
Her arms, held up for so long, began to tremble. She needed Claire and Gina to go. Why didn’t they leave, for goodness’ sake? Clenching her hands into fists, she squeezed her eyes shut and deliberately slowed her breathing. Her arms ached but she dared not move or even rest them against the mannequin that hid her from view, in case she knocked it over.
Think good thoughts, she told herself. Margot’s rule had been to talk only about delightful things at Dior. Champagne and beauty and dreams and lovely young men. No, not men. She shuddered. Never again.
Deep breaths, her father would have said. With a supreme effort, she focused on the jacket on the model in front of her, on the weft and warp of the superfine wool, the precise line of the shoulder seam. When she’d managed to calm herself enough, she ventured another look over the mannequin’s shoulder at Claire and Gina. “Finally!” she whispered. The two of them were moving off.
Carefully, Margot turned, shuffled along to the side, and pushed open the concealed door that led to the fashion house. Without a backward glance, she slipped through it, her heart beating hard.
Next time she had to dress the window, she’d make a more careful reconnaissance. But the knowledge, always held but now concrete, that Gina and Claire still existed in the world without her—and worse, that they were now together, here in Paris, while she couldn’t go to them—made her terribly, sickeningly sad.