when she ordered croissants and steaming black coffee.
“Alors, are we ready?” Axelle asked when she appeared at the door in a beautiful red Chanel suit, her white hair perfectly groomed, her Hermos bag over her shoulder. She looked suddenly very French again, and Zoya wore a blue silk dress and matching coat, made by Lanvin. It was the color of the sky, and her red hair was tied in a chic knot. They looked very Parisian, as the doorman assisted them into a cab, and Zoya smiled as she recognized the driver's accent. He was one of the countless elderly Russians who were still driving taxis in Paris, but when she asked him if he knew Vladimir, he only shook his head. He didn't remember hearing the name, or ever meeting him. It was the first time in years that Zoya had spoken Russian. Even with Serge Obolensky, she spoke French. And Axelle listened to the musical lilt of the words, as they drew up outside Schiaparelli's studios on the rue de la Paix. They had agreed to make it their first stop, and Zoya and Axelle went wild there. They ordered dozens of different sweaters for the shop, and had a long conversation with the designer herself, explaining the needs and preferences of their clientele. She was an interesting woman, and they were intrigued to find that she was only three years older than Zoya. She was enjoying a remarkable success at the time, almost as great as Gabrielle Chanel, still on the rue Cambon. They went there next, and later that day to the house of Balenciaga, where Zoya selected several evening gowns, and tried them on herself to see how they moved, how they worked, how they felt, as Axelle watched her.
“You should have been a designer yourself,” Axelle smiled at her, “you have an amazing feeling for the clothes.”
“I've always loved pretty clothes,” she confessed as she whirled in the intricately made creations of the Spanish genius. “Even as children, Marie and I used to look at the clothes our mothers and their friends wore,” she laughed at the memory, “we were very nasty about the ones we thought had awful taste.”
Axelle had been looking at the faraway look in her eyes, and asked gently, “Was she your sister?”
“No,” Zoya quickly turned away, it was rare that she opened the doors of the past to anyone, least of all Axelle, with whom she maintained an air of business almost always, but this was all so close to home for her, almost too much so. “She was my cousin.”
“One of the Grand Duchesses?” Axelle looked instantly impressed, as Zoya nodded. “What a terrible thing all that.” They went back to business then, and the next morning they went to see Dior's sketches after dining in their rooms that night, and poring over the lists of what they had ordered, what they had liked, and what they still thought they needed. Some of it Axelle wasn't going to buy, but only wanted to see so that she could draw sketches for the dressmaker they used occasionally to copy someone else's designs. She was very skillful, and it allowed Axelle greater profit.
They met Christian Dior himself, a charming man, and Axelle introduced Zoya with her full title. Lady Mendl was there that day, previously Elsie de Wolfe, and after they had left, she filled Dior in on the details of Zoya's life with Clayton.
“It's a terrible shame, they lost everything in twenty-nine,” she explained, as Wally Simpson came in. Dior was a great fan of hers, and she arrived with her two pug dogs.
That afternoon, Zoya and Axelle went back to see Elsa Schiaparelli again, this time at her more luxurious showroom, built two years before on the Place Vendome, and Zoya laughed at the amusing couch Salvador Dali had designed for her in the shape of a pair of lips. They talked about the sweaters again, and several coats that Axelle wanted to order. But they were rapidly reaching the limits of their budget. It all went too quickly, Axelle complained, and it was all so lovely. It was an exciting time to be involved in fashion in Paris.
Schiaparelli left them then, she had an appointment with an American coat manufacturer. Like Axelle, he was one of her better foreign clients, she explained, as one of Schiaparelli's assistants came and whispered to her in Italian.
“Will you excuse me, ladies? My assistant will show you the fabrics the coat