The Last Dress from Paris

by Jade Beer

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Historical Romance

Synopsis

A sweeping dual-narrative love story sweeping from 1950s Paris to the V&A Museum in London, told through eight couture dresses that reunite three generations of women.

Each Dior dress tells a story...

London, 2017. When her beloved grandmother, Sylvie, sends her to Paris to retrieve a dress she wore decades before, Lucille sees the perfect opportunity to briefly escape the pressures of her own life. But not everything is as it seems, and the long-buried secrets she discovers, hidden in a collection of priceless Dior gowns, could change everything.

Paris, 1952. Postwar France is full of glamour and privilege, and Alice Ainsley is in the middle of it all. As the wife to the British ambassador to France, her life is a whirlwind of jewels, banquets and couture dresses, but beneath the glittering facade, Alice is suffocating in a loveless marriage. So when a new face appears in her drawing room, Alice finds herself yearning to follow her heart . . . no matter the consequences.

Deliciously evocative and achingly romantic, sweeping from 50s Paris to the V&A museum in London, The Last Dress from Paris is the perfect read for fans of Natasha Lester, Fiona Valpy and Gill Paul

'A delightful fashion treasure hunt involving some of my favorite Dior gowns made this book a winner for me! The present day and 1950s narratives weave seamlessly together, the dresses dance from the pages, and Paris is resplendently depicted'
-Natasha Lester, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Secret

(P) 2022 Penguin Audio

Release date: June 21, 2022

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

1

 

Lucille

 

Thursday

 

October 2017, London

 

I could resent being here. A lot of women my age would. This job, as they'd see it, would sit on their to-do list, toward the bottom, just below order food online and clean bathroom. Everything else would get a line satisfyingly struck through it, but this entry would be pushed into next week, maybe even the week after that. A fresh list would be made, and still it would be at the bottom.

 

But visiting my grandmother is honestly the highlight of my week, every week. I look forward to it the way other women look forward to a cocktail or an hour in the bath alone. I love her more than any other person on this planet. Granny Sylvie has outlived Concorde and Woolworths. In two hours of chitchat, we can hop from the first episode of The Archers to the moon landing, via the death of Elvis and the Queen's coronation.

 

Even now she'll surprise me. Like the time a couple of months back when she suggested we play a game of chess. I was aware of the board, tucked in the corner of her sitting room, on an elegant antique table with gently curving legs, but to my shame I'd always assumed it was my grandfather's and she couldn't bear to part with it.

 

It took her about twelve minutes to beat me, her mind three moves in the future, mine still warming up. So, she might look old-and I say look because I certainly don't think she feels it-but she's razor sharp. Unlikely as it sounds, I have to raise my game for a trip to Granny's.

 

I stand undetected, studying her for a few moments, wondering what scene is playing out behind her resting eyes. She sits, as usual, in her favorite wingback chair, close to the open fire, its flames dancing in the sparkle of the dragonfly brooch she never gets dressed without. I wonder if instead of staring I should be rushing to move her backward before the crocheted blanket draped across her lap catches an ember and goes up. Her slim hands, nails beautifully manicured as always, are gripping the wooden arms, but her head is relaxed backward and there is the faintest smile painted across her lips. I wonder where her subconscious has taken her today. Back to the fleeting weeks in postwar Paris when she first met my grandfather? Or perhaps to that hot midsummer afternoon when she married him in a tiny English countryside church? There is a black-and-white photograph that sits on her mantel of the two of them locked in a kiss. I used to think it was a strange choice to frame. My grandfather's back is to the camera, and he is leaning over her slightly. But he always insisted it was his favorite shot of them from the day. Her eyes are peeled wide open, full of sparkle; she is laughing through the kiss, as if she can't quite believe her luck.

 

I start to silently remove my wool hat and gloves, placing them on a small round trestle table near the sitting room door I've entered through. Despite my best efforts, the jangle of my keys twitches her right eyelid open. It's the only part of her that moves. She's like a poised guard dog, deciding if it needs to bare teeth. Her mouth relaxes into a smile when she sees it's me. It gets deeper, warmer, so by the time I'm at her side, it's like I'm staring into the sun.

 

"Lucille, my darling. Come and sit with me. Happy birthday!" She starts to pull herself up in the chair and I step forward to help. As soon as I take hold of her, I'm reminded how there is barely any flesh on her. She's all layers of warm clothes, and I feel my grip reduce as my fingers search for something solid beneath the wool. I try not to think of the one battle this incredible, strong-minded woman will never win: her spirit versus the force of time her body will one day soon succumb to.

 

I bend over and plant a kiss on her smooth forehead, which despite the heat from the fire feels cool beneath my lips, and I smirk at the lipstick imprint I leave there. She smells of woodsmoke and the more delicate scent of bluebells, the fragrance she has worn for as long as I can remember.

 

"How are you doing, Granny? Are you warm enough? Has Natasha been in again this morning?" Natasha is the local lady who comes and helps Granny. What started as a bit of cleaning has grown over the years, and Granny is reliant on her now to help her wash, dress, and prepare all her meals for the day ahead before Natasha returns in the evening to get her ready for bed. Mum picks up the bill, but I like to make sure I visit at least three times a week.

 

"Oh, never mind all that. How does it feel to be, gosh, thirty-two?" The words shudder out of her, her intonation rising and falling with little control. Her small hazel eyes are watering, and she reaches for a tissue to wipe them.

 

Despite the generous size of the room, Granny has arranged everything she needs within an easy two-meter radius of herself, effectively shrinking it to the small semicircle that surrounds the fire. Books, glasses, a small bone china plate full of telltale biscuit crumbs, the TV remote, the phone, a pad and pen.

 

"Well, I can't say I feel a whole lot different from yesterday, but . . ." I remove some magazines from a low square ottoman at her feet and take a seat on it, holding her hand. "Look, I brought you some birthday cake." I hold a napkin-wrapped slice aloft so she can see it.

 

"She got you a birthday cake?" She stiffens to attention in anticipation of my answer.

 

"I made it, Granny." My smile is exaggerated, hoping she'll focus on my baking efforts and not . . .

 

"You made your own birthday cake? Did she remember this year?" Her smile is receding now.

 

"She's very busy, we know that. I wasn't expecting anything. Honestly, it's fine." I'm unwrapping the cake and adding it to the biscuit plate. Mum, it has to be said, has never forgotten a hair appointment. Her balayage looks just as fresh from one week to the next. She's never not up to speed with the morning news. The kind of woman who has strategized her day before her feet touch down in the sheepskin slippers that she leaves carefully positioned by the side of her bed every night.

 

"A card?" Granny isn't giving up.

 

"Ummm, no."

 

"A call?" Oh, this doesn't look good.

 

"Not yet." I try to sound cheerful about it. "She will eventually, Granny, you know she will, when she gets a spare moment."

 

"Oh, Genevieve." An irritated sigh huffs out of her as she bows her head and diverts her gaze back to the fire, like this is somehow partially her fault. That my own mother has, in all probability, forgotten my birthday for the fifth year running.

 

"It really doesn't matter, you know." I sound more upbeat than I honestly feel. "She's been traveling for work again, she never quite knows what time zone she's supposed to be in, does she?"

 

She looks at me, her face loaded with disappointment. "You deserve so much more, Lucille."

 

Do I? I can't think of a single thing that marks me out as special or more deserving of love and attention than anyone else. There was a fleeting moment, right at the beginning with my last boyfriend, Billy, when I wondered if perhaps it might happen. I might feel like the center of someone's world for a while. I might wake up to a warm hand on my thigh, a freshly made cup of tea on the bedside table, a smile that said, I want whatever you want from this life. But the reality was so much more mundane than that, and I decided to manage my own expectations by drastically lowering them. I wouldn't hope for romantic gestures. I would stroke my own ego, something I have never been terribly good at.

 

Sensing the moment needs an injection of excitement, Granny claps her hands together.

 

"The envelope. On the mantelpiece, darling." She points to a card with my name scrawled across the front. "It's for you." Here comes the book token she knows I always appreciate.

 

But inside is a card, illustrated with a picture of a smart hotel, and at the bottom is printed H™tel Plaza AthŽnŽe. I start to read.

 

Happy birthday, my darling Lucille! You are off to Paris to have an adventure. See things. Do things. Meet people. And bring home something dear to me-something I have longed to hold again for too many years.

 

With love always,

 

Your granny Sylvie

 

I finish reading and my eyes shoot straight back to her. She's sat there, brazenly smiling at me, like she has just outsmarted MI5.

 

"What does this mean, Granny?" I can't be reading it right. She can't mean actual Paris.

 

"I'd say it means you're going to Paris." She's actually laughing now. "Look!" She points to the side table, where there is an envelope with the word Eurostar printed across the front.

 

"But I can't, I . . ." I pick it up, snatch the ticket out, and immediately clock the departure date. Tomorrow. Friday.

 

For one heart-soaring moment I wonder if she intends to join me. But of course she doesn't. She's a few weeks shy of her ninetieth birthday and rarely makes it beyond the safe triangle of her cottage on Wimbledon Common, the local church, and the village hall for film night and book club.

 

"I can't possibly. There's work and . . . oh no, I don't want you to have wasted your money, Granny. Did you check you can get a refund or at least change the date?"

 

"I have no intention of asking for a refund. Natasha booked it for me, and I doubt she stopped to wonder about that." Granny dismissively waves a hand.

 

She knows she's got me, that she is victorious. "So, you want me to go to Paris? On my own?" Maybe a solo trip is exactly what I need. Some time to think about what I'm doing with my life and ask myself the difficult questions I've been avoiding. Or maybe not? Maybe I just need a few days not thinking about any of it.

 

"That's the spirit! Yes, I do!" And with that she launches a little fist pump into the air.

 

I look back at the card. There are thirty-two kisses under her name, one for each of my years, which must have taken some time considering the difficulty she has holding a pen these days.

 

Perhaps this is all an elaborate plan on Granny's part. Get Lucille to Paris, break her out of her fug. Don't leave her to a takeaway and Netflix for another birthday (as if there could ever be anything wrong with that). Push her into the arms of some beautiful French boy. Unfortunately, she's overlooking the fact I'm not blessed with the same perfectly symmetrical features as her, or the wasp waist or the kind of confidence that seems to radiate from the black-and-white portraits lining her mantelpiece.

 

Sensing I'm not taking this terribly seriously, she suddenly tightens her bony grip on my hand.

 

"I need you to go. There is something I need you to do for me, Lucille." And whatever it is, I know I am going to say yes. I adore her. I'll do anything to make her happy in the time we have left together.

 

"There is a dress, the Maxim's, it was designed by Dior. I loaned it to a dear old friend many years ago, and now that she has passed away, I would so love it back. Her daughter, Veronique, has it now. I've written her address on the back of your card. Apartment 6, 10 Rue Volney 75002." When she chooses, Granny's memory can be quite impressive. "She's expecting you."

 

"A Dior dress? As in Christian Dior?" Granny has always been incredibly stylish, carefully sticking to a subtle palette of black, deep navy, soft creams and caramels, never overly accessorized or made-up. But it is very hard to equate a piece of valuable couture with the smart but inexpensive high street suits, dresses, and knitwear that hang in her wardrobe today, a place where something cashmere might feel like an unnecessary extravagance.

 

"Yes, the very one." It's not a boast, more a statement of fact, something perfectly logical.

 

"But how did you come to own a Dior dress? It must be worth . . ."

 

"An awful lot of money, yes, but let's not be crass about this, Lucille. The point is, I want to touch it one more time. It is so much more valuable to me than any price tag you could attach to it. Now, you are booked to stay for two nights, but I shan't mind in the slightest if you extend your trip-in fact, I'd be delighted if you did." She verbally draws a line through any further discussion.

 

And so, just like that, it seems I am going to Paris tomorrow-my smile confirms as much. How hard can it be? Collect the dress, do some minor sightseeing, get a little lost in the City of Love, make myself seem far more adventurous on social media than I actually am, return home. I start mentally tallying up all the untaken holiday I am due from work as I watch Granny lift the cake to her lips and take a satisfying large bite, her eyes sliding sideways to sneak a look at me, celebrating the calculated success she has just achieved.

 

One thing is for sure. There is more to this than simply returning a dress, one she can't be planning to wear again all these years later. It's just a dress, albeit a very well-made one. Couldn't this Veronique simply courier it? Granny's up to something. That much I know for sure.

 

 

And thatÕs how I ended up in carriage C of the three fifteen Eurostar from St. Pancras to Paris on a Friday afternoon, celebrating my recent birthday with a glass of fizz and an Žclair chaser. The newspaper headlines are all a bit smug-Prince HarryÕs off the market, Kate and Wills have a third baby on the way-so I ease my chair back for two blissful hours alone with Marian KeyesÕs Watermelon before, thirty-six hours too late, MumÕs text lands.

 

Yes, this text is late, I know, but with very good reason. I have been giving lots of thought to what to get you this year. And as I can't possibly compete with Paris, I've put some money into your account. More than usual. Buy the chicest thing you can find.