When Evelina turned around, she stared at the apartment, at all the furniture she was leaving behind—everything that Antoine had carefully curated for her before she’d moved in. It truly felt like a lifetime ago. The thick-pile carpet in the bedroom that she so loved sinking her toes into; the ornate lamps thatsat in the living room and beside her bed; and the vases that she had always loved to fill with fresh flowers, particularly the white roses that he’d often bought for her. Flowers were her one reminder of home; they’d been their one luxury growing up. She and her sisters were allowed to take the roses that weren’t good enough to go to market and place them in glass jars in their bedroom. There had been no other extravagances—her father more than likely wouldn’t have allowed it even if they’d had the money to afford them. But barely a week had gone by that she hadn’t been able to enjoy her white or apricot-coloured roses, even if she’d had to revert to dried ones that she’d preserved from springtime.
Evelina stood in the middle of the apartment and slowly turned, remembering what it had felt like the moment she’d first walked through the door. She’d twirled then and admired the high ceilings and ornate light fittings, the cream walls that had been freshly painted and the hardwood floor polished until it shone. It had felt like everything she could ever want, until suddenly, it wasn’t.
‘Goodbye, Antoine,’ she whispered, as a knock sounded on the door.
She glanced at her wristwatch and saw that the door man was right on time to help her. Bless his heart, he never asked her why, he simply took her things with a nod and the barest hint of a smile, and fifteen minutes later, she was standing in her suite.
She opened one of her bags and took out her toiletries, finding her favourite new perfume by Elsa Schiaparelli and running her fingers over the hourglass bottle. It was inspiring to her because it was so sensual, and she sprayed some into the air, walking into her bedroom to spray a little more. Evelina wanted her suite to inspire her every time she set foot inside, or moved to another room; she wanted to smell the scent that told her not to hold back in her designs. She wanted to remember why shewas doing what she was doing, and she couldn’t bear to smell Chanel No. 5 again after wearing it so often for Antoine.
Evelina began the process of unpacking her things, thanking the porter when he arrived with her rug and set it down for her, and within the hour she was sitting on top of her bed with pieces of fabric strewn around her, and papers everywhere. In fact, she didn’t pause until she looked up and realised that it was dark, the windows black. She stood and pulled the curtains, running her fingers across the thick velvet, before getting changed and going downstairs to the restaurant to find something to eat.
Evelina would have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t a little nervous about the days to come. She was lying in bed, her fingers splayed across her stomach as she felt the rounded curve that had recently begun to grow, counting down the minutes until she had to rise and ready herself. Unlike the first time she’d shown her original collection and met Antoine, this time she was confident about her designs and the people she’d invited actually turning up. She’d even invited Antoine, which was the only reason she was languishing in bed, wondering whether she’d made a terrible mistake. But she knew that, despite what had happened between them, he was a businessman first and foremost. His family trusted him to make the best decisions for their business, and she doubted that anything would make him deviate from that path. Besides, people might ask questions if he suddenly lost his bestselling designer to a rival.
‘Get up,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘It’s time to make yourself look like the most fashionable designer in Paris.’
She finally stood, washing and then slipping into her dressing gown. Evelina called down for coffee, the only thingshe could stomach in the mornings lately, before beginning her make-up and setting her hair in curlers. Then she surveyed the living room, admiring the mannequins she’d placed strategically, each dressed to show off a different signature piece in her collection. The dresses were the best she’d ever made, and she knew that Parisian women would love them. She’d begun designing a new collection for each season, and these dresses were all made in silk from rich jewel colours.
She spent the rest of the morning fussing over each piece, making sure every seam, every zip, every button was perfect, before finally finishing her hair and waiting for the first knock at her door. This was still the way of doing business in the city, the secrecy paramount to ensuring no one copied the latest new designs, and she hoped that the buyers coming would appreciate her gorgeous suite, as well as what she had to offer.
When she opened the door for the first time, she was almost surprised to see that it wasn’t Antoine. But she recognised the man standing before her as a buyer for a smaller shop, and let him kiss both of her cheeks before moving aside to let him in. She repeated the greeting five more times, and just as she thought no one else was going to arrive, a handsome, all too familiar man stepped forward, his hair neatly brushed, his skin tanned and glowing as if he’d just returned from the beach.
‘Antoine,’ she said, careful not to stumble over his name. It was the first time she’d seen him since their final night together. ‘Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure whether or not to expect you.’
He nodded and stepped forward, kissing both of her cheeks, but lingering just a little too long over the final press of his lips to her skin.
‘You look well,’ he said, and she didn’t miss the way his eyes fluttered to her midsection.
‘Please, come and look at my new collection,’ she said. ‘My greatest hope is that you will fall in love with my pieces again.’
‘But you invited my competitors to your showing, just in case I didn’t come?’ he asked, folding his arms across his chest as he surveyed the room.
She realised then that he’d thought it a personal invitation she’d sent only for him. Evelina smiled, pleased to have the upper hand for once.
‘Precisely. I wasn’t certain whether our business arrangement would continue, given—’ Her voice trailed off and she cleared her throat.
Antoine’s face twitched slightly, as if he were in pain, and she glanced away. It was reminiscent of their first meeting, in a roomful of other influential fashion buyers, but that night had ended very differently to how she expected this one to.
She took a breath, closing her eyes for a moment to gather herself, before straightening her shoulders and extending one arm towards the middle of the room. ‘Enjoy viewing the collection, Antoine,’ she said. ‘I very much hope that it will be to your liking.’
23
PARIS, SEPTEMBER 1939
Evelina sat in her suite and looked around at her extravagant surroundings, knowing that it was all coming to an end. Despite working so hard these past two months, somehow Antoine had still been the one to pull the strings and decide her fate. After her first showing at the Ritz, Paris, he’d made it clear to all the other buyers gathered that he intended to secure the collection, and had made her an offer she simply couldn’t refuse. And although he’d paid what he owed her, Antoine had never, to the best of her knowledge, offered her clothing for sale at Les Galeries Renaud. Perhaps it was too painful for him to see her designs in his store, or perhaps he’d simply bought her new collection to look after her financially. Or perhaps he was simply bitter; the truth is, she would never know. All she knew was that every piece of their business correspondence had been sent through his secretary since that fateful night.
She lit a cigarette and sat back in bed, wearing a new set of silk pyjamas that accommodated her growing frame—a frame that could no longer be so easily disguised. She was still slim, but with an expanding waistline that would make going about her usual business most difficult, given that she didn’t have a husband.
What she did have, though, and what she knew many women in her position wouldn’t have, was money. Money to tide her over until the baby was born, to keep a roof over her head and food on the table; to allow her time to figure out exactly what she was going to do. Not enough to keep a suite at the Ritz, but enough to be comfortable. But as grateful as she was, what she truly wanted was Antoine. She reached for the letter that she still kept beside her bed, knowing that all she had to do was agree not to have the baby, and everything she loved about her old life would revert back to how it had been. But that was not an option, not now, and neither was staying at the Ritz for much longer. She would have to give up her suite and find somewhere to safely stow all her things while she found another place to live. She certainly wasn’t going home to Provins, but she would have to find somewhere to hide and have her baby. She couldn’t see that she had any other choice, because if she stayed in Paris, and had a baby so conspicuously out of wedlock, her career would never recover.
After receiving her breakfast tray and coffee in bed, Evelina rose and dressed in a loose-fitting dress and her favourite jacket, deciding to hand-deliver the letters she’d written the night before. Each one said the exact same thing, the only difference being the name at the top. She wanted to ensure the news of her departure wasn’t marked by any rumours or insinuations. It was of the utmost importance to her that she cemented her reputation in the fashion world, even if her name wasn’t currently on the lips of every woman in Paris, given her recent lack of exposure, so that she would be given the chance to return when she was ready. She’d written the letter so many times over that the words were etched into her mind.
It is with great sadness that I share my decision to set down my pencil now that war has been announced. I cannotpossibly continue to design extravagant dresses during a time of such upheaval, and will instead turn my attentions to where I can best be of assistance to the war effort. It has been my great pleasure to share my collections with you these past few years, and I look forward to a brighter future after what I hope is a short war, designing once more for the modern Parisian woman. I have no doubt that women will be ready for fashion once this dark time is over. I will be in touch to launch my new collection, hopefully next summer, when the war is behind us.
With my fondest regards,
Evelina Lavigne
With her coat over her shoulders and the letters in her hand, she left her apartment and set off down the street, careful to draw the fabric around her midsection as she walked, calling in to each business with a smile and a purposeful nod. She intentionally left Antoine’s place of business until last, wanting to hand-deliver the letter to him, to at least see him one last time to make sure she was doing the right thing. Or perhaps, in her heart, she wanted him to see her, so that he could change his mind.
