Darcie loved people-watching and as much as she could stay there all day, drinking in the scenery and atmosphere of the city, she didn’t want to be late for her appointment.
She took the Métro and walked the five minutes to the hotel. She realised she was just around the corner from where the fashion show was taking place that week. She was surprised that Christophe Padgett had wanted to meet her during such an important week, but decided maybe it was a good sign.
Darcie introduced herself to the receptionist, and they indicated for her to take a seat. The foyer was understated luxury, with a centrepiece fountain and deep-seated velvet chairs and sofas for guests to sit in. Darcie perched on the edge of the seat, but feeling self-conscious, tried to go for a more relaxed look and shuffled back a little. Then, worried she wouldn’t be able to get out of the seat with any grace or decorum, resumed her original position. She took out her phone just to look busy, rather than looking like she was waiting outside the head teacher’s office at school to be told off again for coming in late.
Several minutes ticked by and Darcie was just beginning to think they had forgotten about her when the clipping of heels across the marble floor had her looking up. A woman in a business suit smiled as she approached.
‘Miss Marchant?’ she asked, coming to a halt in front of her.
‘Yes, that’s right.Oui.’
‘I’m from the House of Chanel. If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you to meet Monsieur Padgett.’
Darcie gathered up her bag and, pulling her suitcase behind, followed the woman across the foyer and into the mirrored elevator. They got out on the ninth floor and Darcie was shown into a room on the left. ‘Monsieur Padgett will be with you shortly. Can I get you a coffee or would you prefer tea?’
‘A glass of water would be fine,’ replied Darcie, not trusting herself to take on board any more caffeine.
‘There is some already on the table.’ The woman smiled and then left Darcie alone in the room.
A large smoked-glass table occupied the centre of the room, with enough chairs around it to accommodate an entire football team, plus reserves. A silver tray with a glass decanter of water and four glasses were at one end. Darcie poured herself a glass and, leaving her bag and suitcase near one of the chairs, she went over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out over the Parisian skyline.
She could hardly believe she was here. She wished Lena and Chloe were with her, not just so they could give her moral support, but so they could see the views. She took out her phone and snapped a few pictures before turning around and taking a quick selfie. Of course, at that moment, the door opened and in walked a man. He was dressed in what was clearly an expensive suit, with a crisp white shirt and a pale blue tie in the perfect Windsor knot. The scar that ran through his eyebrow and hooked its way around to his cheekbone seemed at odds with the well-tailored man, in his mid-fifties, striding across the room and smiling at her.
He stopped as Darcie quickly stuffed her phone into her pocket. ‘Bonjour,’ he said after what seemed like the longest second ever. He walked around the table and held out his hand to Darcie. ‘Christophe Padgett. You must be Darcie Marchant.’
Darcie was relieved he spoke excellent English and shook his hand, noting the gold ring on his finger and gold vintage Cartier watch on his wrist. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Are you happier speaking in English?’ He indicated for her to take a seat.
‘If that’s all right?’
‘Certainly.’ He gave a smile as he took the seat adjacent to her at the head of the table. He opened the leather-bound file he had with him, which housed an A4 notepad, an expensive-looking fountain pen, and a copy of what looked like her email to Chanel. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet in Paris. I realise it’s out of your way, but I’m here for the week and then I’m off to New York and I’m the expert in identifying genuine Chanel garments.’
‘It’s no problem. I’m glad you’ve been able to take time out of your busy schedule.’
‘I haven’t got much time. It’s haute couture fashion week, as I’m sure you know, so let’s get down to business straight away.’ He glanced down at Darcie’s bag. ‘I take it you’ve brought the dress with you, together with the sketchbook?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’ Darcie took the sketchbook out first and handed it over. Padgett looked closely at the signature initials and several times went back and forth through the pages. ‘The dress I emailed about is here on this page …’ Darcie leaned over and turned a few pages until she got to the blue evening gown. ‘This looks identical to the one Coco Chanel is wearing in this photograph.’ She placed the photograph alongside the book, leaving Padgett to inspect it while she opened the suitcase properly and took out the dress.
Padgett took the dress from Darcie, laying it out on the glass table. He stood up and with his chin in the forefinger and thumb of one hand, with his other hand supporting his elbow, he stared at the dress, cocking his head one way and then the other. After a few moments, he put his glasses on and began a closer inspection of the dress, looking at the seams and the way it had been constructed, checking the back of the neck, Darcie assumed, for a label.
He paused for a moment and glanced up at Darcie. ‘You came by this in a lost-luggage sale?’
‘That’s right. In England. An old railway station waiting room that had been closed since the 1980s.’
‘Well, I have to say, it certainly looks like a Chanel dress.’ He turned the dress over. ‘It has some of the classic Chanel signatures in terms of design.’
Darcie swallowed hard as the excitement rose a notch. ‘That’s what I thought, too. This is a classic Chanel shape.’
‘The sewing is very good,’ said Padgett. ‘It looks like the right kind of thread and the stitching is typical of the era and the type of sewing machine used. It looks and feels very authentic.’
Darcie knew she was on the point of holding her breath. The anticipation was almost too much to bear until she saw the expression on his face. One of sympathy. The excitement leached away. ‘But what?’ she prompted.
Padgett shook his head and frowned. ‘There’s something about it that’s not right. There’s no label for a start and this zip, it’s too long. For the era you’re thinking of, early 1940s, Chanel fashion just wasn’t using them. The longer ones were about, of course, but Chanel still favoured the shorter zips.’
‘When you say Chanel wasn’t using them, do you mean at all or just not in their mainstream clothing lines?’
‘As a rule, they were still using the shorter ones.’
