A Crime of Fashion (19 page)

Sebastian had moved away from us and I was now alone with Dom. He offered to show me around the store. As we went from one glass-enclosed display case to another, he pointed out the various bestselling items and told me a bit about their history. Finally we came to a pale pink crocodile handbag sitting on its own. It had more spotlights on it than anything else in the store. We had to jostle forward just to get close to it. Pristine and shiny, it sat atop a glass plinth. Two security guards watched over it, keeping the crowds back. We were standing before the first Clothilde bag ever made – the very same one, in fact, that had accompanied Princess Clothilde on that fateful drive those many years ago…

“This is it – the handbag that gave my family its fame,” he said.

“It gave you a curse too.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Don't you? Rose does. She says the curse is coming alive. She told me she can hear it moving through your house at night like a ghost.” Of course Rose hadn't told me directly – I'd heard it through the chimney flue. But still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, I figured.

He laughed. “My sister Rose has a very vivid imagination. But, who knows…” Dom hesitated. “It's true that our house is a creaky old place. I've sometimes heard things at night too.”

“Things? Like what? And when?”

“Now. Lately. Just bumps and things.” Again he shrugged his broad shoulders. “More than likely it's my mother going through her closets late at night, preparing her perfect outfit for the following day.”

“Does she do that?”

“I don't know,” he laughed, “maybe. Or maybe Rose is right.”

I wanted to ask him more but suddenly the lights began to dim. “Come on,” said Dom, reaching for my hand and pulling me after him towards the large atrium in the middle of their store. “Juno is about to sing.”

A frisson of anticipation ran through the crowd as people turned to watch a stage slowly rise from the floor. Juno, the biggest new star in pop music and the muse after whom the new bag was named, was going to perform.

“Why Juno?” I whispered to Dom.

“Because…” He leaned in close to me. He smelled good – and electric, like a summer day just before a storm breaks. I blushed when he caught me looking at his profile. “Because,” he continued, smiling at me, “Belle happened to be sitting next to her on a flight to New York, and she noticed that all sorts of things were spilling out of Juno's bag: tablet, water bottle, books, clothes, you name it. It was a mess, my sister said. Anyway, Belle told her she needed to find a bag that could carry all of her stuff and look good. At that point Juno recognized her and asked her if she'd make her one – actually, from what Belle said, Juno more or less commanded that a bag be made for her. Anyway, that's how the collaboration began. And when Juno finally saw the finished product she was so delighted that she spontaneously said she'd sing at the launch – as a thank you. It's a real coup for us.”

The room was now completely dark and silence had descended upon the waiting crowd. We watched as a single spotlight focused on the stage and the band suddenly appeared out of the darkness. Music filled the store. The crowds outside could be heard cheering. Now only the star was missing. Then coloured spotlights began to swirl overhead. Back and forth over our heads they crossed until one of them caught a flash of silver. It lost the flash then found it again – it was Juno. She was twirling above us on a giant purple Juno bag, silver sequined outfit glinting at us.

Once the light was fixed on her she began to sing, her glossy red mouth glistening like a jewel in the dark. Back and forth she swung on her giant handbag, arms entwined in the handles, her ruby red shoes kicking in the air. Then, ever so slowly, the handbag began to float downwards, her black hair (straightened to within an inch of its life) streaming behind her. As she landed and flung herself off the giant handbag, a team of ten shirtless dancers were on hand to catch her; within seconds she was prancing onstage, singing just beyond arm's reach. As the song came to its thundering conclusion, the room erupted.

Juno pranced a bit more, then screamed a loud thanks to the La Lunes. Dom left to join his family and I watched as Juno gave Claude, Fiona, Rose and Dom hugs and kisses when they went up onstage to hand her a new bag (Dom told me Juno had already been given one in nearly every colour of the rainbow – they had saved the purple one so that there was at least
one
to give her at the launch). Then she sang one last song – a tearful rendition of one of her slower hits. This was followed by an emotional silence. The unvoiced questions on everyone's mind, of course, were where were Belle and Darius? And would they ever be back?

After a few moments Claude walked onto the stage, a single white spot illuminating his way. There he announced that tonight he and his family wanted to recognize a certain Madame Simone Baillie for her lifetime of service to his family. She had started working as a receptionist and by the time she had reached retirement age she had been working as personal secretary to Patrick. But Simone was made of tough stuff: retirement did not entice her in the least, and so she'd asked for a new post. Something less demanding (she had travelled everywhere, and constantly, with Patrick), but, nevertheless, meaningful and challenging. After a bit of reflection, the perfect job had been found for her: she would become the company's official archivist.

Simone had apparently taken to her new job with gusto. She'd worked out an efficient new computer system for cataloguing every handbag, leather diary, dress, saddle and scarf the company had ever made. Then she'd had everything photographed and properly stored. All of this careful work had culminated in the opening of a private museum of vintage La Lune clothes and accessories. The museum was on the banks of the Seine, a stone's throw away from the National Library. It had opened a little over a year ago and, now, finally, Simone was going to have a proper, festive thank you.

We watched and cheered as she was carefully pushed onto the stage in her wheelchair and accepted her flowers and gift. She gave a short speech, her somewhat feeble voice thanking the La Lune family for all of the opportunities and excitement they'd given her over the years. It was a generous tribute to a hard-working lady and everyone was in a good mood as she left the stage and the music slowly started up again.

It was then that I had my idea…

A little while later, I found Simone Baillie in one of the smaller rooms near the central stairwell. She was in the scarf department, to be precise. Fortunately no one was speaking with her and when I went up to ask if I might have a word with her, her minder looked relieved to leave her with me for a few minutes.

Curious and chatty, she asked where I came from and what I was doing in Paris. Leaning into her so that she could hear me and I could hear her, I answered her questions as succinctly as possible. Her sparkly little eyes never left me for a moment. She was a keen listener, who didn't pass judgement but simply nodded encouragement and waited to see where you led – in short, she was the perfect secretary.

With the preliminaries out of the way, I launched into my line of questioning. “Madame Baillie, I've been trying to trace someone you may have heard of. She's a woman called Violette Roux… Have you ever met a woman by that name? I only know that she came from Normandy and arrived in Paris in January of 1961 and probably worked in one of the boutiques along this street.”

She regarded me for a few moments, her tiny head cocked to the side like a little bird's. Then she looked away and contemplated the scarves for some time before turning back to me.

“Violette Roux… Hmm… Funny, someone else asked me about her just the other day…”

She was silent as she leaned back in her wheelchair and slowly closed her eyes. I watched her for a minute or two until, finally, thinking she'd gone to sleep, I lightly tapped her shoulder and whispered her name into her ear. Like an owl, she turned her head in my direction and opened her eyes, then smiled.

“I'm awake, my dear, don't worry. And yes, I knew Violette Roux. I knew her quite well, in fact. She was
très, très jolie
. She had the most amazing eyes – a deep violet colour. I suppose that's why she was called Violette…”

Violette had arrived in Paris without knowing a soul or even her way around – but she was a quick learner. And one thing that she had very quickly found out was that it was on the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré that she would find the sort of boutique she was looking for. So, one day, not a week after she'd arrived, she put on one of the new suits she'd bought with a portion of Hector's legacy and walked into the first boutique that appealed to her. It was the La Lune boutique.

Violette got the job. She was polite, hard-working, and interested without being nosy. Furthermore, with her pretty looks and sense of style, she rapidly built up a list of clients who sought her advice. After only a few weeks, she even had a male client who regularly came by to ask for her guidance. Because he insisted on her help, Violette was instructed to make an exception and to help the gentleman in the men's department. Then, one afternoon, as she was unwrapping a new delivery, her colleague told Violette that the gentleman she had been helping these last few weeks was none other than the son of the owner of the company. The gentleman who had requested Violette's help was Patrick La Lune!

Violette was mortified. And judging from the way her colleague was talking, it was obvious her co-workers believed there was more to their relationship than just clothes. Violette couldn't sleep that night. She had worked so hard to come this far. She was not going to risk her hard-won reputation as a good employee just because the owner's son thought it was amusing to play “customer” with her. So the next time he came in – he was coming in twice a week by now – she told him in no uncertain terms that from that day forward he would have to seek the advice of one of her colleagues.

Patrick knew she was avoiding him, so he began to court her seriously – but away from the boutique. He showed up outside her lodging house, sent her flowers, and gave her – or, rather,
tried
to give her – presents. Violette refused everything, until one day he offered to take her to the ballet. Quite simply, she'd never been and had always wanted to go – so she accepted his offer…

“But then what happened?” I asked.

“They started seeing each other, and it got really rather serious.” Simone paused for a moment as if she was seeing everything slowly rewind in her mind.

“So they married.”

“No – their situation got sticky. When Patrick told his parents who he wanted to marry, they told him that was out of the question.”

“But why?”

“Don't forget, this was 1962. Patrick's parents wanted him to marry someone ‘suitable'. To them she was just a shop girl. That sort of concept doesn't exist today.”

“So what happened?”

“Patrick broke it off with Violette.”

I was about to call Patrick a weasel when Simone silenced me with a raised finger.

“Wait. It gets better… You see, Violette was pregnant.”

“With Patrick's child?”

“
Oui, oui
. But still he refused to marry her, because by this time his parents had threatened to disinherit him.”

“But that's horrible!”

“I thoroughly agree.” She was quiet again for some moments before continuing. “But there is a happy ending of sorts.”

I waited for her to continue.

“Violette was furious. She was a fiery girl, you know. Sweet as could be, but she could fight if she had to – I think she'd had a somewhat difficult childhood. Her father was an alcoholic who'd died when she was young. She'd been raised by her mother, she told me. Anyway, when Patrick refused to do the right thing she refused to have anything to do with him. But, apparently, he suggested they continue to see each other
secretly
.”

“What?!”

Simone nodded her head as she looked at me. “But again she refused, and promptly accepted an offer of marriage from someone else.”

“Who?”

“Another faithful La Lune client, who'd been trying to court her for months. He was older, lived on a small estate in the Champagne region, east of Paris, and he was very much in love with her.”

“So she accepted…”

“She did. And her new husband never questioned the fact that the baby came a bit early.”

“And she was happy?”

“Very.”

“And she's still alive?”

“I have no idea. But I do know that after she was widowed she continued to live on the estate her husband left her. That was many years ago now…”

“And what was her husband's name?”

“The man Violette married was called René de Vandrille. She became Violette de Vandrille and their son was – is – called—”

“Philippe de Vandrille,” I whispered. “Only Philippe isn't
their
son – he's Violette and Patrick La Lune's son.”

“Exactly. Which means that by blood he is a La Lune.”

Yes
, I thought as I steadied myself,
Philippe is a La Lune…
and
a Merlette.

For a few moments Simone and I sat in companionable silence, visions of Violette's dramatic life playing before our eyes.

Then I turned to ask her one last question. “Do you think that Philippe de Vandrille knows who his real father is?”

Again she was quiet for some time. “Perhaps…perhaps not. I doubt his mother ever told him – at that time, unlike today where anything goes, those kinds of revelations were never made. I don't know…”

“By the way, you mentioned that someone else asked you about Violette just a few days ago?”