Chapter 34 #2
The owner was welcoming, the apartment cosy, its two main rooms pleasantly decorated, with windows letting in the last of the golden early evening light.
But they hardly noticed any of it, for the door had barely closed behind them when they were in each other’s arms, kissing again and again as if they couldn’t ever stop.
They stumbled to the bedroom, still entwined, fumbling at each other’s clothes, throwing them on the floor, and then they were skin to skin, breath to breath, eye to eye, hands all over each other, murmuring hot, urgent, wild words of desire, of love, of disbelief that this could be happening all over again—oh, such piercing delight that it was!
For a moment they paused, looking at each other, an irrepressible laughter of joyful surprise bubbling up in their throats, then they were tumbling together, moving in unison, their bodies knowing each other again, intoxicatingly familiar yet gloriously new …
Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms, Alex tracing the outline of her face with a gentle finger, a wide smile on his face. ‘You look very pleased with yourself,’ she said, snatching his finger and kissing it.
‘Shouldn’t I be?’ he replied, his hands moving down her body, and then of course it began again, and for a while, neither of them noticed anything else. Finally, spent and happy, they lay quietly, her head on his chest, his arm encircling her.
‘I’m absolutely famished, I’ve hardly eaten anything all day,’ she said.
He gave a little laugh and kissed the top of her head. ‘You know what, I feel exactly the same,’ he said. ‘But let’s just buy something and bring it back here. What do you think?’
‘I think that’s a very good idea,’ she said, with a catch in her throat. It felt like a dream, a beautiful dream, being here with him, together again after so long, but she hoped so much it wouldn’t be a dream, but a living, breathing, joyful reality.
He saw her expression and understood it. ‘It feels strange, doesn’t it? But right. So right.’
‘Yes, but Alex—twenty years—it’s a long time. So much has happened. We’re different people from who we were back then.’
‘We are—and that’s good,’ he said. ‘And we aren’t, and that’s also good. Do you see what I mean?’
She did, absolutely. If they hadn’t changed, then they could never have bridged the gap between them; they would still be those two frightened kids who couldn’t cope with the bigness of their feelings.
But if they had changed deep inside, if they’d each dislodged the other from their hearts, then there would have been no second chance for them either, after so much time.
‘We didn’t waste those years apart,’ she said, ‘because they made us grow into ourselves, but not away from each other.’
‘Yes, exactly,’ he said. ‘And I know we are going to have to make a few adjustments, but we aren’t going to lose each other again, Audrey. I feel that in the deepest part of me.’
Audrey’s whole being flooded with happiness. ‘I feel that too,’ she whispered. Whatever challenges the future held for her and Alex, there was one thing she knew for sure. This wasn’t a dream, and she wasn’t sleepwalking, not anymore, not ever again.
From the preface of
The Looking Glass World by Audrey Oliver
For a very long time, Elisabeth Fontaine’s letter had slept, undelivered, unopened, unknown, in the unremarkable tin box that gave no clue to the treasure that lay inside.
But its discovery was to become the touchpaper to the unravelling of an enduring historical mystery, and contribute to the great enriching and expansion of the story I had originally intended to tell.
Before I knew of the existence of that box, before I met the two remarkable women who were to play such an important role in the transformation of my original narrative, I had started with another extraordinary document: the Paris notebook of my great-grandmother Alice, written when she was a young fashion illustrator and artist, in 1929.
Her notebook, full of fascinating personal glimpses into the brilliant world of Parisian art and fashion at the time, was what inspired me in the first place to want to write this book.
My aim was to tell the story of the great Parisian female fashion designers, seen through the lens of ‘ordinary’ young women like Alice and her dear friend Mariette, who were swept up in the intoxicating atmosphere of that transformative time.
I wanted to show how the genius of a time like that is made up not only of the inspiration of the few, but also the efforts of the many, a myriad, diverse crowd of people, each with their own human story, each playing their part in creating something that we recognise as uniquely beautiful …
I never lost sight of that goal, but when my path crossed with those of Romy Valence and Isabelle Bernard, and I first learned of the Fontaine letter, I knew that the story would develop in ways that would make it even more exciting.
Instead of a more general background, detailing the rise of several of the great designers, there would be a focus on one particular designer, Elisabeth Fontaine.
Her story would still unfold through the lens of Alice, Mariette, and an enigmatic figure I will only name here as Mademoiselle Houssaye, the woman to whom Fontaine’s letter was addressed.
It wouldn’t just be history anymore—it would also become a contemporary detective story, with the present informing the past—or at least our understanding of it.
The Looking Glass World is more than my book—its existence is also due to the many people who contributed to it in so many ways, starting with my dear friends Romy and Isabelle.
And that is exactly as it should be. For at this story’s heart, both in the past and the present, is a beautiful twin image: the glory of creativity, and the warmth of friendship, reflected in each other.