It was true. Since coming to the French Riviera, Pandora had spent long afternoons in the sun, watching Suzanne cross the tennis court in lightweight outfits that would have been considered scandalous in New York, while Pandora herself wore stockings and one of her tea dresses that covered her ankles. It would be even more unbearable during the summer.
Pandora could feel the beginnings of a great idea growing in her head. She jumped up and grabbed the notebook from the table.
“I have to go,” she announced. “I have a prior engagement.”
Maurice glanced at her curiously.
“You haven’t had your café au lait,” Maurice offered.
Pandora was too excited to stay a minute longer. She nodded at Nanette. “It was a pleasure to meet you; I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
Pandora spent the rest of the afternoon at the dressing table in her room. For the first time since Harley died and her boutique burned in the fire, she couldn’t draw fast enough. She filled page after page with dresses and cardigans and sweaters.
Up until now, her dress designs had been inspired by her favorite designers: Chanel, Jeanne Lanvin, Elsa Schiaparelli. They were all elegant and refined, dresses that society women would wear to weekend house parties and dances. Pandora’s new designs were different, unlike anything any other designer had created. At five o’clock she was finished. She hadn’t eaten all day and was tempted to find something to eat in the kitchen. But she was too excited. She wanted to share her idea now, to find out if she had something.
Pandora found Suzanne flopped on a sofa in the living room. She suspected Suzanne hadn’t moved all day. A magazine lay open beside her, and a tray with half a sandwich sat on the coffee table.
“Where have you been?” Suzanne inquired. “Maurice is still out, but everyone else is swimming.”
“I’ve been busy,” Pandora replied. “Could I borrow your car? I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Does it involve a man?” Suzanne raised her eyebrows.
Pandora smiled. “Not exactly. It’s nothing really, I’ll tell you when I return.”
The villa where Jean Patou was staying perched high in the hills above Cap Ferrat. It was more elegant than Suzanne’s villa, with marble arches and a red-tiled roof like a Moorish castle. Palm trees flanked the entrance, and a fountain murmured in the rose garden.
A maid answered the door. Pandora suddenly felt embarrassed. She should have called first. Jean Patou was a well-known designer; he wouldn’t have time to see Pandora. But she had been afraid she’d lose her nerve. And it would have been difficult to explain over the phone. It was better to talk with him in person.
Jean appeared behind the maid dressed in a smoking jacket and open-necked shirt. His pants were black silk, and he wore gold slippers.
“Pandora, what a pleasant surprise,” he said in greeting. “How is everyone at the villa?”
“I should have called,” Pandora apologized. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“A pretty young woman is never an interruption,” Jean replied. “Let’s sit in the small salon.”
Pandora followed him into a room bathed in sunlight. It had high ceilings, and paintings of the Riviera hung on the walls. Sofas upholstered in seafoam green faced each other across a glass coffee table.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Pandora breathed.
“It would be if I didn’t have my designs thrown everywhere.” He gathered fabrics scattered over the sofas. “The maid is bringing coffee and biscuits. Please sit down and tell me why you’re here.”
Pandora sat opposite him and took out her notepads. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves.
“I’ve been designing my own dresses since I was fifteen,” Pandora began. “I’ve always gotten my inspiration from other designers; I’ve never had an entirely new idea.”
She paused, hoping she was making sense.
“This afternoon, I was thinking about the tennis dresses you made for Suzanne. You said you were designing clothes for golf and swimming. What if the spectators wore more casual clothing? If at a tennis match women in the stands could display their calves and shoulders”—she showed him the sketches—“it would be much cooler.”
Jean flipped through the pages.
“These are quite good.” He nodded. “It would depend on the fabric. Silk is too hot, even organza can feel confining. You’d have to get rid of the stockings; it’s impossible to feel cool with something clinging to your legs.”
Pandora had been wearing stockings since she was sixteen. But Jean was right. Even if the stockings were sheer, they were too hot to wear in the sun.
The maid set the tray on the table. Jean poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Pandora.
“Suzanne said you’re on the Riviera on holiday,” Jean said, puzzled. “Do you plan on opening a boutique in the South of France?”
She shook her head. “We won’t stay here forever; soon we’ll go back to New York.”
Pandora stopped, suddenly self-conscious. What had she been thinking, bringing her designs to one of the most famous fashion designers in Europe? She had no experience in sportswear, and there were probably dozens of reasons why the clothes wouldn’t work.
“What made you want to be a fashion designer?” Jean asked, sipping his coffee.
“I’ve never wanted to be anything else,” Pandora reflected. “To me fashion is not just about beauty or even style, it’s about expressing oneself. A woman’s wardrobe should make her happy. The clothes she wears throughout her day—a cotton day dress while she’s at work, a velvet cocktail dress for drinks and dinner—should make her feel as if she’s accompanied by her closest friends.”
“How interesting,” Jean mused. “I’ve never heard fashion described that way before.”
“Every woman has pieces of clothing that are special to her: the dress she wore when she first fell in love, the shawl she used to cover herself when she nursed her baby. I want her to feel that way about all my designs so that she can’t live without them.” Pandora’s cheeks flushed with excitement.
“During the war, I was a captain in the Zouaves, the French infantry,” Jean recounted. “I wore the same uniform every day; it was covered in so much mud, I forgot its true color. I spent every moment dreaming of clothes I would design after the war: dresses with bright geometric shapes, ball gowns in colors no one had used before—beige verging on green, burnished silver like the inside of an oyster. It’s what kept me alive.
“The fashion business is always challenging.” He set down his cup. “My women’s bathing suits are so scandalous the Paris department stores refuse to stock them.” He smiled at Pandora. “Only two things are important: that you believe in yourself and that you want to succeed more than anything. Then you can’t fail. I have an idea. Come and work at my atelier in Paris. I don’t pay much, but you’ll learn everything about running your own fashion house.”
Pandora had never been to Paris! She dreamed of seeing Patou’s atelier. But she missed Virginia and Adele and her father. And Esme needed to grow up in America. At some point she had to go home.