“I’m scared,” Milly whispered.
“I know. But it will be a fresh start for you. I really think you should do it.”
They sat there for a few minutes, silently regarding one another, and at last Milly nodded.
“When are you thinking, then?” Ann asked.
“Dan and Des said it’s best to wait for summer. It won’t be such a shock that way, they said. Will that give you enough time?”
“Loads. Now, what do you say to a spot of supper?”
“I didn’t get started yet. Sorry about that. I opened the letter, and then . . .”
“Not a bother. You sit there and drink your tea, if it hasn’t gone completely cold, and I’ll sort it out. Why don’t you turn on the wireless? That way we can hear the news when it comes on.”
All through supper and afterward, listening to the Light Programme as they sat by the fire, Ann maintained a veneer of resolute good cheer. What else could she do? If she fell to pieces, Milly would change her mind and insist on staying. So she kept the conversation light and bright, in the process nearly boring them both to death with descriptions of Doris’s wedding plans, and never once did she let on that a part of her felt like weeping.
Once Milly was gone, she would be alone, with no one to notice if she was sad, or sick, or struggling. She’d be on her own, with nothing but her own strength of will to sustain her. Never mind that it was already worn thin from nearly a decade of grief and strain and hunger and war.
She would manage. She’d find a lodger and continue to pay the rent on time. She would manage, somehow, and spring would come, and her garden would grow green and bright. And she would survive.
Chapter Five
Miriam
May 2, 1947
She was ready.
Her suit was perfection, its precisely fitted jacket and voluminous, calf-grazing skirt bringing to mind Monsieur Dior’s sensational new designs, but in a gentler, less aggressively chic way. Here in England, she knew, they were wary of the New Look, constrained as they were by their rationing and coupons, and she had no wish to antagonize anyone by reminding them of things they could not yet have.
Her gloves were white, her shoes were shining, and her hat, an elegant oval of finely woven black straw, sat on her head just so. Her portfolio was filled with samples of her work, a reference from Maison Rébé, and, most precious of all, the letter of recommendation from Christian Dior.
The morning after her arrival, exactly nine weeks ago, she had compiled a list of the best fashion designers in London. For this she had relied on Monsieur Dior’s suggestions, which she had supplemented with addresses from a copy of British Vogue. She had eaten a fortifying and quite disgusting breakfast of porridge and weak tea, had dressed in the garments she had prepared the night before, and had set out to conquer London.
The first name on her list had been Lachasse. She’d been certain they would offer her a position on the spot, for her credentials were impeccable, her samples proved that she was capable of working at the highest level, and she had that coveted letter from Monsieur Dior.
It had all counted for nothing.
The woman who had answered the door, wearing a frock that any self-respecting Frenchwoman would have instantly consigned to the rubbish bin, had been impatient and irritable, and twice she’d asked Miriam to repeat herself. “I can’t understand what you’re saying. This is England, you know. You need to learn proper English.”
Miriam’s nerves had got the better of her. She’d lost words that she ought to have known, she had begun to stammer, and altogether she had sounded like an utter fool.
“We’re not looking for embroiderers,” the woman had finally said. “Best try your luck elsewhere.”
Undeterred, she had proceeded to Hardy Amies on Savile Row, the second establishment on Monsieur Dior’s list. Miriam had gone to the staff entrance and asked to see the head of embroidery. The man at the door had told her they weren’t hiring.
Her next stop had been at Charles Creed in Knightsbridge. This time she’d been ushered inside and instructed to wait for someone from the embroidery workroom. A woman had appeared after nearly a half hour, and it was evident, from her pinched expression and clipped words, that she was annoyed by the interruption. Before Miriam had finished introducing herself, the woman had cut her off.
“Do you have any English training or experience? No? Then we’re not interested.”
By the end of the day she had also been turned away from the workrooms of Victor Stiebel, Digby Morton, Peter Russell, Michael Sherard, and Bianca Mosca. No one had wanted an embroiderer. No one had cared to hear of her training and experience. No one had given her the chance to so much as mention her letter of reference from Monsieur Christian Dior.