Chapter 29
Twenty-nine
Romy had dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, with a clean apron over the top, and her hair was tied well back so no stray hairs might fall on the tracings before they could be secured under glass.
Drawing on a pair of gloves, she picked up the fabric roll and began to unroll it while Mickael took photos, soon setting the camera aside to help position each tracing under glass, set on the stiff cardboard backing of the frames.
It was a very delicate task and more than once Romy held her breath as they manoeuvred a tracing into place.
Finally it was done, and they could relax.
Romy gently set the frames upright on the table and they looked at the tracings in silence.
Under the crystal-clear glass, the sketches seemed to be more sharply defined, the lines a little darker.
Yesterday, when she’d seen them for the first time, she had felt overwhelmed; today a calm determination filled her.
This was happening, this was real, and she was going to put her heart and soul and every skill she possessed into bringing this design to life.
Mickael, who had not seen the tracings till then, was visibly affected. ‘It’s hardly believable, is it?’ Romy said, gently.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I’m so grateful, I can’t even …’ He shook his head, but Romy knew exactly what he meant, and she took his hand. ‘I’m glad we are doing this together,’ she said.
Bending his head down to hers, Mickael kissed her on the lips, the briefest, softest of kisses. ‘So am I, Romy,’ he whispered. She looked up at him, her pulse racing. ‘We’ve got work to do,’ she said a little hoarsely, and he gave an impish smile and released her.
He made another coffee for them both and resumed taking photographs as Romy set the frames flat on the table again.
Picking up the magnifying glass, she began examining the tracings minutely, jotting down notes about particular aspects of the design.
The pattern was of stylised flowers in what looked like a deep gold, or possibly bronze, with maybe a hint of dark red.
Had they been intended to be overpainted on the material or embroidered?
She asked Mickael what he thought. ‘Well, you did say that you thought the pattern had a vaguely Japanese look to it,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could check out what’s done with kimono silks?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ she said, but as she pulled up image after image of beautiful vintage kimonos and read their descriptions, she discovered that the designs on the kimono silks could either be hand-embroidered or hand-painted.
‘You just have to go with your instinct,’ Mickael said, and she knew he was right.
But what was her instinct telling her? She didn’t feel at all confident to do the hand-painting.
Embroidery then, or possibly even stitching then beading?
All at once, she knew. ‘Embroidery,’ she said firmly, ‘in beautiful colours.’
‘That sounds perfect.’ Mickael smiled and then they talked about materials—silk, of course, but what sort?
That would have to be decided later. They’d go to the Montmartre fabric stores and check out the possibilities.
Right now, they had to keep going with the preliminaries, taking close-up photos of every aspect of the design, both front and back.
‘Shall we have a first go at tracing it, then?’ Romy suggested.
‘Okay,’ said Mickael, his face alight with anticipation.
They each took a sheet of tracing paper and placed it carefully over one of the framed drawings—she had the front, he would do the back, then they’d swap and see which version looked better.
They worked in complete silence, carefully and slowly, and as Romy’s pencil glided over the paper, capturing the image behind the glass as faithfully as she could, she felt anew the responsibility of what they were doing, but somehow it didn’t feel like a burden at all.
On her tracing paper, under her pencil, Elisabeth Fontaine’s image, lost for so long, was re-emerging in a new copy, and that was such a thrill …
They finished the first tracings—to Romy’s eye, Mickael’s rendering of the back view looked perfect, but he didn’t think so, just as she could see fault with hers when he said it was excellent.
They swapped images and repeated the painstaking process, comparing the tracings once again, placing them on top of one another so they could see how they lined up.
It was funny, but each version of the same image had a slightly different look, but placed together, they complemented each other.
There would still be work to do on them, but by then, it was well after lunchtime, and they suddenly realised that they were starving and needed a break away from the work table.
Gathering together a few things for an impromptu picnic, and stopping briefly at the neighbourhood bakery for a baguette, they headed out to the quays of the Seine which, on a sunny Saturday like this one, were lined with crowds of people who’d had exactly the same idea as them.
But it didn’t matter; they managed to find a spot for themselves not too far from the lapping water, and settled down to enjoy the bread, ham, cheese, tomatoes and wine they’d brought, watching the exuberantly mismatched fashion parade of humanity around them, dressed in a gelato-shop mix of summery colours, flaunting a breezy wardrobe of styles: flouncy sundresses and bohemian blouses, wordy T-shirts and plain jeans, hipster plaid shirts and pressed linen pants, classic stripes and paisley prints, sunglasses and seersucker, beads and broderie, heels and flats.
One striking group looked like they’d stepped out of a steampunk novel, all velvet and lace and satin, in a flamboyant, edgy version of nineteenth-century dress.
Some people carried enormous baskets full of food, drinks, crockery, glasses, blankets, napkins; while other picknickers had plastic carrier bags containing a few snacks, a baguette, a bottle of wine.
‘That’s a feast fit for a king,’ Mickael said, as he tore off a piece of bread and made himself another brie sandwich.
Romy agreed, but thought that it was much better than that—because who would want to sit in a palace, hemmed in by protocol and ritual, when you could sit peacefully by the Seine with a glass of wine in your hand, a light summer breeze washing over your skin, and a stimulating companion to share the never-ending show of Parisian life with you?
‘This is perfect,’ she said out loud, dreamily sipping at the last of her wine.
‘How very un-Parisian of you to proclaim perfection,’ Mickael said with a mischievous smile.
‘You’re supposed to find fault with everything, even though you live in the most beautiful city in the world, even when you are happy, or else what would people think of your discernment and sophistication? ’
‘Well, I’m just a Belgian plouc, a hick, and this is truly perfect,’ Romy said, smiling back at him in a way that clearly had an effect, for she saw him catch his breath.
‘And I feel the same way,’ he replied, ‘so the two of us clearly have no hope of acquiring any sophistication and discernment.’
After they finished the food and wine, they sat for a while, talking softly, watching the river, and when after a time his arm came around her shoulders, she leaned back into his chest. ‘Romy,’ he said. ‘You know how Elisabeth Fontaine called her design Paname—what does that say to you?’
‘Well, apart from it being a nickname for Paris,’ Romy said, ‘when I looked up some references to it, I found songs, sayings, bits and pieces, which basically amounted to the idea that Paname expresses the lived-in feel of the city—its unexpected sights, charming little corners, quirky possibilities … the many small pleasures of the Parisian everyday.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I thought that too, but do you think that’s why she called the design that? After all, it’s hardly an everyday type of dress, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t, but if you really look, what we call the everyday is actually pretty special.
I mean, look around us here’—she gestured towards the river, at the crowds, at the sky—‘everything is of everyday, but it’s just wonderful—the colours, the patterns, the details.
And that dress, it’s glorious, but it’s not some overwrought thing.
You feel as though it would be nice to wear, so natural in a way even though it’s artful …
I think that’s why she called it that. Because to her, Paris was both artful and natural, lived-in yet always seen anew—’ She stopped, seeing the expression on his face.
‘Sorry, I’m getting carried away and sounding shockingly pretentious. ’
‘Not at all,’ he said, looking directly at her. ‘I was just thinking how amazing you are, how you see things so clearly that you make them come alive for others.’
She had never thought of herself like that, and his words touched her so deeply that she could not speak but instead leaned in closer to his embrace. They stayed like that for a few more moments before she looked up at him. ‘And now, Mic, shall we head back to the flat and keep working?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said, dropping a light kiss on her hair.