Bollocks!
Of course, I didn’t say that. That particular word got my mouth washed out with soap at least three times as a child. But, while it would have expressed my anger perfectly, they would have laughed at it, with a “How quaint . . . Is that the strongest word you can say?”
Instead I sat there mute and they left off me to canvas Schiap’s latest political statement, designed within the lines and fabrics of her newest collection.
They think I’m frivolous?
If Father heard Caro tonight, he would be devastated. Forget Modigliani or F. Scott Fitzgerald and all those writers she fights with him about—he’d worry about his own daughter!
Worst of all, I felt stupid. I felt as provincial as they thought me, with my hair still long and with my pink lipstick I bought when I was fourteen and found in the London House’s powder room this evening. My clothes were worse. I know nothing of fashion. I care nothing for fashion. Caro did suggest I borrow something of hers, but the way she offered wasn’t kind.
“Are you sure you don’t want to borrow this? Or this? Or . . .”
Is there a better way to tell your sister she’s an embarrassment? There is . . . You laugh at her.
Someone commented about my dress and I replied, “With war coming, I have no use for anything fancy. I spend most of my days helping the tenants and managing the estate.”
I wanted to show I worked, like they do. Instead I sounded like I had a silver spoon shoved down my throat. Caro didn’t like that at all. She glared at me, and I got the sense none of these friends know anything true about her. It disintegrated from there . . .
“War isn’t coming. Hitler’s satisfied. He’ll stop now. You’ll see.”
“You’re wrong,” I declared. “Hitler is a real threat and that Anschluss, as he calls it, was not the peaceful annexation they want us to believe. It was the subjugation of a nation and Hitler’s ideas are radical and dangerous, and people are suffering, and many dying.”
The whole table quieted. Caro, who had been gentle with me when I first arrived and only glared at me when I misstepped, had grown weary of protecting me from her friends. Rather than ease the harsh silence between us, she diverted their attention with a joke at my expense. Everyone laughed and the awkward moment was over—for them.
I never spoke again. My headache wasn’t really a lie. I had one from that instant on.
But, Beatrice, sitting there passively listening was worse. I might parrot Father, like Caro says, but she parrots Elsa Schiaparelli, Dalí, and all those other designers and artists. They’re Communists. Supposedly that’s the opposite of Fascism, but I’m not sure how if both give the government control of everything and human life matters little.
At least it’s over. We leave for Parkley today. Father insisted that if she came to England, she needed to come all the way home. The next few days should be very interesting.
Paris
1 April 1938
Dear Margo,
I’m sorry I haven’t written you back. I’m still trying to forgive you. I don’t think you meant harm, but repeating my conversations to Father was wrong. You betrayed me, Tresse.
There, I said it. You deserve it.
He has written for me to come home and I have penned my refusal. There is no danger here and, if I want to go out with my friends and ponder new ideas, that is my business—just as staying home safely tucked under Father’s wing is yours.
If your apology was sincere, I’ll ask you to put in a good word for me. If you were lying and have any inclination to betray me again, I ask that you keep out of this.
I can’t come home, Margo. How can you not understand? There is no room for me there. I’ll suffocate.
This is where I belong. This is where I can breathe, create, and live. I am beyond fluent now. I think and dream in French. No one can tell I’m not a native speaker.
And there is no war. I’d like to remind both you and Father of that salient fact. This unrest will settle down. The salon is busier than ever and that wouldn’t happen if France, if the world, was marching toward war. People would retrench.
Schiap has her finger on the pulse of things. I’ve never known anyone to read the times, clothing, or politics so well. Did you see her latest collection? The Circus collection is whimsical. Fun. Daring. Decadent. Do you really believe that is the aesthetic Paris would snap up on the eve of war?
At the collection’s opening, the place Vend?me mansion—all ninety-eight rooms—was packed with light, colour, and chaos. Acrobats tumbled through the upper-story windows from high ladders propped against the outside walls. Mannequins strolled the rooms, with performers leaping up and around them like popcorn. The girls wore hats fashioned like ice cream cones—all thirty of us. Martine and six others came from design and sewing to work the boutique while I managed the runners for our exclusive clientele working the dressing rooms. I think I now know of every dalliance in Paris. I certainly saw a few trysts I’ll never forget.
It’s life, Margo. You can’t hide from it. You seem to think it’s all disingenuous or, worse, frightening. But it’s real and creative, and it’s touching. There was one tender moment amidst the festivities I’ll never forget . . . There’s a German industrialist, Paul Arnim, who has been frequenting the salon. The Germans made his family move to Paris last year to run some company and he said, for his wife’s sake, he plans to make the best of it—I gather that means buying expensive clothing. You should see all he has purchased for her!
Anyway, that night I was helping Mrs. Arnim into a selection of gowns in a dressing room. She commented to her husband how disheartening it was that no man was with his own wife. Right in front of me, he stepped forward, kissed her passionately, and whispered, “You are all I see.”
It was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen or heard. You see nations; I see people. No one wants a war, Margo. No one. If you were here, you’d understand better. France was devastated in the Great War. We are still rebuilding and no one is bent on tearing it all down again.
As I write this, I miss you. I’m angry, but I miss you more. I miss talking to you, working things out together, and finding where we stand. I choose to believe you are still on my side. And because I believe that to be true, I would never lie to you . . .