Prologue

CLAIRE

Paris, France, 1950

Three young women stood arm in arm on the avenue Montaigne, breaths clouding together in the crisp air, shining faces lifted toward a display window at the House of Dior.

“That one!” Claire flung up her free arm as if she were on a stage, introducing the star of the show. “That is the one.”

Gina, a cool, tanned blonde, lifted one eyebrow. Dark, lively Margot nodded vehemently. “Oh, yes! Most definitely. You must have this one.”

Window-shopping just as the twilight hour settled like a soft veil over Paris was a habit the three friends had turned into an art. They met once a week to stroll the fashionable boulevards and feast their eyes on the sumptuous creations displayed in the atelier windows. But for Claire, visits to those other couturiers were mere flirtations; no one compared to Dior.

“Only look at the embroidery,” she breathed, gazing up at this latest creation on display. “And the sequins. There must be thousands of them.” The gown’s train was made of cascading scalloped layers, dotted with sequins, and feathered at the edge with iridescent, pale pink paillettes designed to shiver and shimmer as one moved. The bodice was strapless and the whole effect suggested a goddess emerging naked from the sea at dawn. “How long must it take to sew a creation like that?”

“Some girls change lovers with the seasons,” said Margot with a twinkle in her eye. “Claire has passionate relationships with dresses.”

“At least she’s monogamous,” Gina pointed out.

“Mon-og . . . comment?” Though Parisian to the core, Claire had fallen into the habit of speaking English when she was with her friends. Claire’s mother had been an Englishwoman. She had passed on her language to Claire along with her red hair and her fiery temper, but still there were some words that Claire did not understand.

“One gown at a time,” explained Gina. “And one couturier. Always Dior.”

Claire sighed and shook her head. “I could never afford it.” How many times had she said this now?

Margot gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze. Claire, an apprentice chef from a working-class family, was no more likely to purchase this gown than she was the many other creations they’d sighed over together on their outings during the past two years. Gina’s rich Connecticut family had sailed on the Mayflower and Margot’s family wealth derived from the Australian wool trade. Their closets were full of couture dresses, which they insisted Claire borrow when they’d taken her out to society events with them. But she’d never had a stitch of clothing from Dior to call her own.

The three young women had met at Le Cordon Bleu cookery school, from which they had since graduated—though goodness knew how Gina and Margot had managed it. Gina didn’t care about food or cooking. She’d spent each lesson lost in thought about the novel she was writing, so her soufflés fell and her sauces split.

Margot had been as mercurial in the kitchen as in everything else. Revolted by the prospect of spatchcocking a chicken or gutting a fish, she was a maestro with pastry and chocolate, and had even managed to win praise from their exacting instructor, Monsieur Guillaume.

Only Claire was serious about the culinary arts. She’d practically grown up in the family brasserie, after all. Unlike Margot and Gina, Claire had soon developed ambitions well beyond a cookery course that was expressly designed to prepare rich young ladies for marriage. After finishing the introductory course, she’d barged into the professional chefs’ class and refused to take no for an answer. Eventually her persistence had been rewarded. Claire had become the lone female student amid rows of arrogant, dismissive men.

But now that their “finishing” was complete, Margot and Gina were returning home. This was the last time the three of them would gather together in front of La Maison Dior.

As she stared up at the window display, Claire bit her lip. Gina was heading back to New York, where she hoped to become a journalist while writing the great American novel on the side—not to mention avoiding the eligible bachelors her family insisted on introducing to her. Determined to find her Prince Charming back in Sydney, Margot had set her heart on marriage and children. With her warmth and charm, Margot would make the perfect society wife.

Claire did not dream of marriage. She was practical down to her bones, but she had two dreams that were highly impractical. One, to run a Michelin three-star restaurant in Paris one day. The other, to own a Dior evening gown.

Considering the misogyny embedded deep in the restaurant trade, the latter was the more likely to happen, even though a creation like the one Claire was sighing over must surely cost tens of thousands of francs.

“Bonsoir, mes petits lèche-vitrines!” said a voice behind them. “Ça va?” They turned to see Deidre Vaughn, elegant in a pale blue coat with a black velvet collar and large, black buttons. Rich, stylish, and highly eccentric, Madame Vaughn balanced a slightly beaky nose with a pair of enormous blue eyes, framed by thick black lashes that could not possibly be real. She had a wide, generous mouth and a strong jaw. Her chestnut hair was thick and lustrous—a testament to her hairdresser’s skill. She was somewhere in the region of forty years old (or so Claire had guessed). If she had once been married, she never spoke of it to Claire, yet it had always seemed more appropriate to call her “madame” rather than “mademoiselle.”

Madame Vaughn was American, but she spoke French like a born Parisienne. Ever since Claire could remember, Madame had lived alone in the apartment above Claire’s family’s brasserie and had become something of a benefactor to Claire over the years. She’d insisted on paying for Claire’s courses at the Cordon Bleu and backed Claire’s bid to become the next Escoffier when her father kicked up a fuss about her striking out on her own instead of working in the family brasserie.

“Did you just call us ‘window lickers’?” demanded Margot, with dawning delight.

Madame spread her hands. “That’s the literal translation. Isn’t it a hoot?” Madame had a wide grin, and long incisors that made her look slightly wolfish. Eyeing Claire, she jerked her head at the display window. “Your latest crush?”

“Isn’t it marvelous?” breathed Claire. “This model is called ‘Venus.’”

Madame Vaughn turned her head to eye the dress critically. “Hmm. Stunning, of course. But that color . . . What is it, now?” She tapped her chin and tilted her head to the side. “It’s a pale pink, but it leans slightly more toward salmon. I’d call it ‘blush.’” Her gaze traveled to Claire and back again to the display. “No. I don’t think it would suit you, Claire. Pink can be stunning on a redhead, of course, but not that particular shade. Not for you.”

Crestfallen, even though she’d never had the remotest intention of buying the gown, Claire said, “Well, it’s only a silly dream, anyway.” And if she were dreaming, she might as well change her own coloring into the bargain, mightn’t she? Curly red hair, dark blue eyes, a dusting of freckles across her nose . . . She’d give anything to be an elegant blonde like Gina or dark and gamine like Margot. Or what would it be like to have Madame Vaughn’s particular style of je ne sais quoi? But no. The level of sophistication Madame Vaughn possessed was unattainable, even in Claire’s most fanciful daydreams.

“How lucky we ran into you,” Margot said to Madame Vaughn. “This definitely calls for champagne.”

“You always say that about everything,” said Gina.

Margot winked. “And I’m always right, aren’t I? Come on! Madame, you’ll join us, won’t you?”

The older woman shook her head. “I have a prior engagement, my dears. Have fun!” Laughing, she waved off Margot’s attempts to persuade her, and went on her way.

As the three friends turned toward Margot’s apartment and the promised champagne, Claire took one last, lingering look at the Venus gown, with its sparkling romance and its soft allure.

One day, she said to herself. One day.