CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ADELE
Adele rummaged through the very back of her closet and dug out her white drop-waist tennis dress, as well as her signature Jean Patou cardigan. Though the length of the dress had been shockingly short in her day, it was too long for today’s tastes, a fact that she laughed at as she tried it on. She had stunned the world by showing off her knees. She had paved the way for women like Milly and Sylvia to wear their comfortable and stylish tennis dresses and skirts, and yet they had no idea who she was or what she’d done for them, and she liked it that way. She stayed up late taking up the hem, then she washed it, hung it to dry, and the next morning she ironed it crisply so she’d be ready for her first lesson with Milly.
But walking to her first coaching lesson now she felt strangely exposed. Out in the open, wearing tennis attire for the first time in years brought on a fresh wave of panic. After all this time hiding from the public eye, she would be working at a tennis club, of all places, where she risked being recognized. Was it reckless to do this after leaving the tennis scene in disgrace more than twenty years earlier, or was it necessary to survive? She wanted to hear her father’s voice in her head telling her that it was all right, that all had been forgotten, that it was timeto move forward, but all she could hear was the blood pulsing through her veins and throbbing in her ears.
She fastened two buttons on her pale-pink cardigan against the morning chill, then she touched the monogram of her initials,AML,embroidered above her heart. After the scandal, she’d shortened her name from Adeline to Adele and changed her last name from Léglise to Lambert, but her initials remained the same.
She had kept every single one of Jean Patou’s designs, unable to part with them after he died, every piece reminding her of a specific match, a victory, a gala, or a night out. She remembered the exact time the designer had come into her life.
It was 1924, the year she won her first singles title at Wimbledon against Dorothy Mills, when she was just seventeen years old. She’d dressed the same as the other women on the courts in that game, wearing a mid-calf-length white cotton skirt, a short-sleeved middy blouse, and a ridiculous brimmed bonnet. But after she had won the long and difficult match against her opponent, who was at least a decade older with several Wimbledon titles under her belt, her father decided it was time for a transformation from little girl to tennis queen.
“Adeline, meet your very own personal couturier, Jean Patou,” he’d said, grinning from ear to ear as he ushered his daughter into the designer’s studio in Paris.
“Enchanté,” Jean Patou said, kissing the back of her hand.
“Mon Dieu,” Adele said breathlessly. “It’s such an honor to meet you.” She was not quite able to believe she was standing face-to-face with one of the most famous couturiers in the world. There was Coco Chanel and there was Jean Patou, and he was arguably the most elegant man in Europe.
“I have extreme admiration for you,” he said, impeccably dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, knit tie, and a bowler. “Your athleticism,your grace, your speed. You are a very talented child, and you must not be restricted by your attire.”
“Yes, well,” her father said. “That is the exact transformation we are looking to make, from child to woman. Elf to sphinx. Princess to queen.La reine du tennis.”
Patou nodded his head as if with deep understanding. “La Divine,” he said, quietly eyeing Adele from all angles. “I am an athlete myself. Not of your skill, of course, but I have studied the sport and I have studied you. I see the way you leap and dance across the court.” He stretched out his arms dramatically. “How you move and run and spiral your body when you wind up to strike the ball. I understand the needs of an activewear garment, but I want to understand your needs too. What do you want, what do you need to win?”
Adele thought for a moment. “When I play tennis, I come alive. It’s the only time I am completely myself, but I want to be free. When I wear these long and restricting tennis clothes, I feel like I am in someone else’s costume,” she said.
“You need a more liberated silhouette,” he said.
“Yes, but…” Adele paused and looked at her father, then stopped.
“Continue,” Patou urged her.“Dites-moi.”
“Well, I play better when I feel good about myself, attractive. I would like function and fashion, if possible.” She looked down at the ground, worried her father would tell her she was being ridiculous. She knew she wasn’t a beautiful girl—she never had been—but with Jean Patou dressing her, she could at least feel beautiful.
Jean Patou turned Adele to the mirror and stood behind her. “La femme moderne,” he said. “I love to dress a woman to enhance her feminine appeal. Tennis is not just a game, it is a lifestyle, and when you wear my creations and move across the court the way you do, no man or woman will be able to take their eyes off you. I know exactly what you need.”
With his help Adele got rid of the corseted undergarments and stockings that were customary and wore a short, pleated silk skirt, like that of a ballerina, hitting a few inches above her knees and astonishinglyshort for the time. Patou made her a sleeveless silk blouse that allowed her to move her arms freely, and a striped V-neck sweater for postgame interviews. He replaced the bonnet with a brightly colored silk bandeau, for a better line of visibility, fastened at the front with a diamond pin.
“Relaxed and comfortable with unexpected flare,” Monsieur Patou said when he admired his creation for Adeline during their next visit. “You will never be held back by your clothing again.”
He added a light cardigan, color-coordinated to match the bandeau, a sweater that she only ever needed until she was warmed up enough to stun the crowds with her bare, tanned, and toned arms.
In her new attire she felt much freer and less restricted in her movement, as he had promised, but more than that, she also felt fabulous and, dare she admit it, attractive. The following year, she started wearing full makeup on the court, a gold bracelet above her elbow, and she would arrive at her matches in an oversized white mink coat. The extravagance made her feel special, superior, and untouchable. She was stylish and functional, and the press went crazy for it, and for her. When interviewed, Patou called her by his nickname, La Divine, and the French papers ran with it. She recalled one male opponent speaking about her attire in the press, and he’d said her outfit was a cross between that of a prima donna and a streetwalker. But that just added to her allure and the frenzy that surrounded her. Afterward, she was in all the magazines. Women started following her every move and copying her looks. They wanted to embrace her freedom and have a taste of it for themselves. Her father may have made her a champion, but Jean Patou made her an icon.
Now, her hands were sweaty as she walked into the club, her heart beating too fast, and she looked around nervously to see if anyone noticed her. They didn’t. She checked in with Glenda, as Sylvia had instructed her, and was given her court assignment for the morning.
“Good morning!” Milly almost pounced on Adele as she entered court 4. She was bouncing on her toes, attempting some kind offrenetic warm-up, as Adele put her bag on the bench. “I’m so excited for this,” Milly said.
“I can see,” Adele said. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
“No,” Milly said.
“Then stop jumping; you’ll give yourself an injury.”
“Oh, all right.”
Adele saw some of the enthusiasm drain from Milly’s face and felt a pang of guilt. This wasn’t going to be easy, trying to train this woman, or anyone, for that matter. It didn’t come easily to Adele to be pleasant or patient, but she was going to have to try harder if she wanted to get paid. She looked around again, checking to see if anyone had spotted her yet, if anyone had made a connection between her as a middle-aged, irritable recluse and her former outgoing, outspoken self. But no one was paying them any attention.
