The Dressmaker by Elizabeth Birkelund Oberbeck

Author:Elizabeth Birkelund Oberbeck [Oberbeck, Elizabeth Birkelund]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.
Published: 2017-04-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

ROSE-MARIE dictated a relentless social life. Every night of the week she dragged Claude to receptions, dinners, charity events, and dances. The frenetic schedule was an effective distraction, but Claude felt ill equipped to engage in the essential art of small talk. At every function, he arrived late and escaped early.

At the salon, he worked from his early arrival to his late de-parture. As if hypnotized, he capitulated to all around him. Without a word of dissent, he had surrendered ownership of the beloved wedding dress to the Salon de Silvane. Chatting in the hall or grabbing a bite with his co-workers did not interest him. He shut his door and designed dress after dress.

With attention to the smallest detail, Claude oversaw all procedures. He covered his cork-covered wall with his sketches and with fabric swatches, color charts, photographs from art magazines, newspapers, and advertisements that inspired him. Every morning, he phoned his new contacts at the textile factories in Paris, Milan, Hong Kong, and Kuala Lumpur, discussing the newest fabrics, designs, and colors. He took advantage of the salon’s far-reaching prestige to buy the largest assortment of materials and accessories possible, to gain access to the boldest and most creative vendors. One morning, he asked the Italian representative for a material that resembled linoleum.

“Vous etes fou! You are crazy!” Marco Bennetto, from Mi-lan, yelled into the receiver. “Linoleum?”

“Yes,” insisted Claude. “It’s a fascinating material, all the grooves, specks, patterns! It will be the favorite fabric of the year. Trust me!”

Claude left meetings early, resenting anything that kept him from designing. Only while he was sketching, contriving, contouring, envisioning color combinations, was he able to lose himself and his recurring thoughts of Valentine.

Two months into the job, Claude won the French Couture Award for the wedding dress of the year. Again, the dress and Valentine in it blanketed the city’s fashion press. Again, their names appeared side by side in the same sentences. Claude cringed when he saw her face, her eyes still so blue; was there ever a more melancholic blue? Did his own eyes play tricks on him to make him think so?

As a present, one publicist had enlarged the wedding photograph to life size. Claude placed the thick cardboard figure behind his door. He refused to peek. How could he expel the source of his torture from his office? He considered throwing it out the window. One late night at work, he gave it to the clean-ing crew.

Claude had completed ten out of the twenty designs he needed to participate in the spring collections. The clothes would carry the label of the Salon de Silvane. Who cared about a name, anyway?

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