Chapter 6
Six
Romy had slept deeply for the first time in weeks and woken from a mysterious dream in which she and someone whose face she couldn’t see clearly had been sitting by a river, talking about something she couldn’t quite discern, but which filled her with a sense of anticipation.
Getting up, she wrote down the dream as she always did when one particularly struck her.
Then she fed Mitzi, showered and dressed in what she thought of as her school outfit: a short-sleeved shirt—today’s was a pale yellow flowery vintage number—soft pants and flat shoes.
You needed to be comfortable when you were working much of the day on your feet, and you also needed to be able to stretch out easily across tables to cut and measure.
Clothes that didn’t allow room to move and, worse still, shoes that hurt your feet were to be avoided.
Being too showy wasn’t a good idea either.
But that didn’t mean you had to look like you were wearing a sack or buy shoddy stuff, and Romy always chose her clothes carefully, no matter whether they were new or second-hand.
She ate a simple breakfast—strawberries, yoghurt and coffee—and got ready to go out.
Yesterday, after Isabelle had left, Romy had gone back to her sewing table and went back to work and this time, somehow things seemed to make sense, pieces literally falling into place.
She’d interrupted herself only to make her favourite pasta dish, tagliatelle with blue cheese and onion sauce, and have a glass of her favourite Burgundy—a gift from Alex—before getting back to work and almost finishing the jacket.
She’d felt inspired, excited, as if conjuring the ghost of Elisabeth Fontaine with Isabelle had suddenly made her feel like she was channelling one of the petites mains—literally the ‘little hands’, referring to lightness, skill and dexterity—the extraordinary specialists in cutting, tailoring, fabrics and embellishment, who brought the drawings of the great haute couture designers to perfect life.
Highly skilled and respected and boasting years of study and experience, the petites mains often came from families devoted to their craft and to a particular couture house, passing on skills down the generations.
Even today, the work of the petites mains is central in the success of a couture house, and it was even more so back in Elisabeth Fontaine’s day.
Although her couture house had been new, she had assembled an extraordinary band of petites mains, including one who had worked for the legendary Callot Soeurs at one stage.
I had a thought, she texted, on the way to the Metro. Could Mademoiselle Houssaye have been one of Fontaine’s petites mains?
Good idea, the answering text came back at once. Maybe you could ask your professor about it?
Sure, Romy typed. I can go see him today. I’m on my way to the school now.
Actually, I’d like to speak to him too. Can you set up a meeting?
Romy smiled to herself. This woman was certainly not one to let others set the agenda. Romy admired that. Too often she had let others call the shots, until she finally rebelled.
No problem. I am sure he will be happy to do that.
She wasn’t just saying that. Pierre Cazenave was an enthusiast who loved passing on information about his favourite subjects. It was true he did go on a bit at times and she’d heard that he could be quite difficult, but he was also genuinely passionate about his work.
Any day suit? she added.
It would be great if it was in the next day or two.
Sure. Okay if I mention the letter?
Tell him it’s a Fontaine letter, but not what’s in it. I’d like him to see it with fresh eyes.
Sure, good idea.
She was still thinking about it as she stood up to get out of the train.
There was a crush near the doors and she positioned herself to make a dash out, knowing from experience that it was no good hanging back politely in the Metro rush hour.
As she did so, a familiar voice said, ‘Hey, Romy!’ She glanced sideways to see Mickael, a student in the year above hers, who was specialising in professional pattern-making.
They weren’t exactly friends, just casual acquaintances, a fellow feeling having arisen because they were both older than most of their cohort and had worked at other jobs before—in his case, as a carpenter.
Now, she smiled and said, ‘Hey, Mickael! Didn’t know you had class today. ’
‘I don’t,’ he replied. ‘But I was asked to escort a special visitor around the school. Can’t you tell?’
He was certainly looking smarter than usual, his thick auburn hair brushed neatly, his customary black T-shirt replaced with a blue linen shirt and light summery jacket over jeans.
The jeans looked as if they had been recently pressed.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘It must be important if you bothered to dress up.’
‘Can you keep a secret?’ he asked, mock-confidingly, as they managed to decant themselves from the train in the nick of time before the automatic doors snapped shut behind them. ‘Ouf!’ said Romy, just as Mickael said ‘Ouf!’ and they both burst out laughing.
‘That was the first time I’ve nearly ended up like Serge the Rabbit,’ Mickael said, referring to the familiar cartoon rabbit character featured in the Metro signs warning children against getting hands trapped in the automatic train doors, with their classic alarming sign, Tu risques de te faire pincer très fort—literally, you are risking being pinched very hard.
‘Me too,’ Romy said, and for some reason that set them both off again in peals of laughter.
Other commuters hurried past them, with sideways looks of bewilderment, even suspicion.
Who laughed during the rush hour in the Metro these days, or indeed any days?
Was this some sort of performance? Were they going to be asked for money?
‘So, what’s this secret?’ Romy asked when they’d recovered. ‘Who’s this visitor you’ve dressed up for?’
‘A very important visitor indeed,’ said Mickael, teasingly. ‘Will I give you three guesses?’
‘You will not,’ said Romy, spiritedly. ‘You will tell me without delay.’
‘Will I now?’ He gave a crooked grin that lit up his whole face. There was something so infectiously joyous about his expression that it suddenly made her feel lighter than air.
‘Yes, you will,’ she said, looking him right in the eye.
He held her eye, look for look. ‘It’s Audrey Oliver.’
‘Audrey Oliver!’ Romy echoed, her voice rising to a kind of squeak. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Hmm. Let me think,’ Mickael said, trying and failing to look pensive. ‘Am I sure? Yes, I believe I am.’
‘Oh wow,’ Romy breathed. The famous fashion journalist’s articles in Vogue and Marie Claire and Harper’s Bazaar and the magazine supplements of major newspapers, as well as her presentations on podcasts and videos, had been one of the inspirations that had finally pushed Romy towards going after her dream.
Audrey Oliver didn’t just know about fashion and its people—any old journalist could learn that.
She was a born storyteller who drew people out, subtly yet powerfully, because she understood at an instinctive level the creative passions and emotional and symbolic undercurrents that powered a world that outsiders might find frivolous—or at least they did until they read an Audrey Oliver piece.
It had been through an Audrey Oliver feature article that Romy had learned about the arcane, fascinating world of the petites mains, as she interviewed people who’d worked for decades in the great couture houses.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she went on. ‘Audrey Oliver in our school! Why is she coming? And why haven’t I heard before now? ’
‘Because it’s an impromptu visit,’ Mickael said calmly, though his eyes were sparkling. ‘It was only decided yesterday afternoon. And she’s going to be writing about our school. Because we’re famous too, apparently.’
Romy ignored the last bit. ‘Oh, Mickael, you’re so lucky you’re going to speak to her in person!’
‘Well, not really speak as such,’ Mickael said.
‘I get to be seen but not heard. I’ll open doors for her and bring her coffee and take her to the profs’ offices, that sort of thing.
I doubt I’ll get to say more than “bonjour, Madame” and “après vous, Madame”.
It will just be the profs and some selected students who will get to speak to her properly. ’
And that’s not me, Romy thought sadly. Of course I wasn’t selected. I’m not an exceptional student or even a moderately good one. And I don’t even speak up in class. I’m just dogged. A plodder. ‘Lucky them!’ she said. ‘It will be great to read her article when it comes out.’
‘It might not be,’ said Mickael, ‘if she doesn’t like what she sees. I’ve heard she can be quite dogmatic.’
‘No way!’ Romy was indignant. ‘You can’t have read much of her stuff if you think that.’
He had the grace to grin. ‘I haven’t, as it happens.
Too busy reading textbooks. I’ve skimmed one or two things, but I’m not really into that poetically psychological approach she has.
I like the strictly practical.’ He spread his large hands, as if apologising for being limited, but Romy wasn’t fooled.
Someone who used the term ‘poetically psychological’—two words she’d never heard combined before, but which she felt accurately described Audrey Oliver’s very particular voice—was not limited at all.
But she didn’t push it. Everyone had a right to their own facade, their own protective image. She knew that from experience.
‘Well, I hope it goes well,’ she said, with just a tinge of regret in her voice. ‘And maybe you can tell me all about it sometime.’
‘How about this afternoon over a drink at that bistro near the school?’ Mickael suggested promptly, startling her.
But then she smiled. It would be fun to hear Mickael’s undoubtedly entertaining account of Audrey Oliver’s visit.
‘Sure, why not?’ she replied. It almost felt like in that short trip between the Metro and the school, they’d gone from being mere acquaintances to starting a friendship, which was both unexpected and nice, she thought, as they parted at the gate with a wave.
She went off to her class, with a quick detour via Professor Cazenave’s office to arrange a meeting.