would have invited Nadia and Nicolas to the Voltaire farther down the street where they lived. But Nadia didn’t feel up to running into anyone at the fashionable restaurant where designers, fashion photographers, socialites, decorators, and their clients hung out, and she usually knew someone at almost every table. And everyone knew Rose. It was more than Nadia wanted to deal with, so hiding at the pizza restaurant was more her style at the moment, and all she could cope with.
Rose told her granddaughters stories about funny things that had happened to the models at fashion shoots, and they both giggled at stories about when tops fell down, and skirts fell off, a lion cub escaped, and about how at a recent shoot of a bridal gown, they let a flock of doves loose and they pooped all over the photographer and the model in the wedding gown. The girls loved the stories their grandmother told them, and although they knew nothing about fashion, they had a sense that their grandmother was special.
“She always looks so nice,” Sylvie said sleepily, after they got home and Nadia kissed her good night and tucked her in. Rose went to pour herself a glass of wine. “I love her bracelets.” She often wore interesting bangles, and some unusual ethnic ones she had found in exotic places on her travels for the magazine.
“I like her hair,” Laure said softly. “It looks like snow.” They were fascinated by her hair, which was the whitest they had ever seen. “She’s pretty.” Nadia smiled at their comments, turned off the light, and went to find her mother. She was sitting on the couch, admiring the view of Paris in the moonlight, and thinking about her daughter, wishing none of this had happened to her.
“Your fan club had a good time with you today,” Nadia said gratefully as her mother handed her the glass of white wine she had poured for her. Nadia noticed in spite of herself that it was Chassagne-Montrachet, Nicolas’s favorite.
“They’re so well behaved and very sweet. Venetia’s boys exhaust me, but I have to admit, India always makes me laugh. She’s such a funny child. She told me I should paint my office red, when she came to visit me. That way people could see my hair better when I sit in front of a red wall, and I’d look prettier.” They both smiled, and Nadia took a sip of the wine and relaxed. It was nice having her mother there to talk to. She hadn’t been as militant about Nicolas as Nadia had expected her to be. She was being surprisingly tolerant of their respective confusion, and Nadia admitted herself that the situation was a mess.
“I love it when you get to spend time with them. I wish we lived in the same city.” Nadia missed seeing her mother and sisters regularly. Venetia came to Paris several times a year to buy fabrics or see the couture shows. Athena went to Italy more frequently than she came to Paris, although she did visit Paris about once a year. Olivia never came to Europe. When she had time off, she and her family went to their house in Maine, where they all went sailing on a small sailboat they loved. Her husband didn’t like coming to Europe, and Olivia never came alone. Nadia was too busy to go to New York very often, except to shop for her clients.
“I don’t blame you for living here. If I ever retire, I might spend a year or two in Paris,” Rose said dreamily. “I’m usually on such a tight schedule when I come.” At sixty-six, there wasn’t the vaguest sign of her retiring. She was still moving at full speed, on top of her game, and the heart and soul of Mode Magazine. She was feared and revered by everyone in the fashion industry. She could make or break a designer if she wanted to, and enjoyed helping new young talents just starting out, by what she said about them.
“I always wanted to have a marriage just like you and Daddy. You were so good together and so supportive of each other. And you looked like you had fun,” Nadia said wistfully. “I thought we were well on our way to that, and then all this happened. I’d like to think we can recover from it, but I’m not sure we can. I don’t know if I can ever forgive Nicolas. That’s what