“Would you like to try one on?”

“Would I!”

I couldn’t decide, so Margaret handed me the black gown. I held it to my torso and floated around the dressing room. “Come on,” I said. “What are you waiting for?”

She pulled the green gown from the hanger and joined me in a bout about the room. I began warbling the words to “Mon Légionnaire,” and Margaret sang along, until we were out of breath from dancing and singing and giggling, and we fell onto a heap under the silken gowns.

“Am I interrupting?” The man spoke English with a strong French accent. His thin black mustache rivaled that of the provocateur Salvador Dalí.

Margaret and I stood, and she introduced us.

“Enchanté,” he said to me.

Because of his posh clientele, society papers called Monsieur the “Heir Dresser.” He did not confer with clientes about what they wanted. He simply knew what had to be done. I offered Margaret dull days repairing books; she offered me a date with Paris’s most sought-after stylist.

Margaret had me try on the black gown so her maid could hem it, then she sat me down at her Art Deco vanity.

“Paul’s a nice chap,” she said as Monsieur Z began to comb my hair.

“Do you think he and I have enough in common? He’s a policeman, and I’m, well, me.”

“Lawrence and his Cambridge cronies can recite sonnets. It doesn’t mean they know anything about love. Paul clearly cares for you, and that’s more important than his job title or the books he reads.”

I should have told her I appreciated her reassurance, but Monsieur Z massaged my scalp, and I gave into the pleasure. I didn’t realize how anxious I’d felt—about my burgeoning feelings for Paul, the painful distance between Rémy and me, my father neglecting us for his mistress—until the tension melted away. When Maman cut my hair, her comb tore through the tangles. Monsieur’s slid through my tresses like a knife through butter.

This was the first time I’d had my hair professionally styled, and I was mesmerized by Monsieur wrapping locks of my hair around the heated tong to create a sea of rippling waves.

When he finished with a flourish of his hands and a resolute “Voilà!,” Margaret proclaimed, “Just like Bette Davis. You’d make one hell of a femme fatale.”

As Monsieur Z tied Margaret’s hair in an elaborate topknot, she asked, “Do you think Miss Reeder has a beau?”

“The ambassador escorted her to the Library gala.”

“They say Bill Bullitt is a keen negotiator but that he has a roving eye. I know a Norwegian consul who’s perfect for her. I’ll advise him to become a subscriber.”

“He’ll have to get in line.”

When Monsieur Z finished styling Margaret’s hair, she didn’t look at the mirror; she looked to me.

“What do you think?”

“Gorgeous,” I said wholeheartedly. “Inside and out.”

She blushed, and I wondered how long it had been since she’d been complimented.

“Lawrence will fall in love with you all over again,” I said.

“Hardly… he’s very busy.”

“Too busy to tell you you’re beautiful?”

“Not everyone sees me the way you do.” She rose without a glimpse in the mirror.

She donned the strapless green dress and handed me the hemmed gown. The silk slid along my skin, so unlike the scratchy wool I wore in winter, the stiff linen in summer. She fastened my zipper, and for an instant, as I admired my reflection, I couldn’t breathe. My own dresses drooped over my torso like a tablecloth. This gown worked, cinching my waist, pushing up a bust I didn’t even know I had. Though I told myself the bodice was tight, I knew the cold sensation coiling around my ribs was envy. Margaret had so much, and I had so little.

“Today’s the first time I’ve enjoyed getting ready for a party in Paris,” she said. “I hope you’ll come again.”

Gowns and house calls from hairdressers—I could get used to luxury. Her invitation to return dissolved the whorl of jealousy.

When we floated down the hall to join Lawrence in the den, the silk of my dress whispered a sensual yes, yes, yes as it caressed my calves. I wished Paul could see me.

Lawrence lounged in an armchair, half hidden by the Herald. Beside me, Margaret cleared her throat. He set down the paper. Dusky lashes shrouded his turquoise eyes. Mon Dieu, he was dashing in his tuxedo! “You’re ravishing!” He rose and kissed my hand. I expected him to kiss Margaret, but he kept his focus on me, my hand still in his. “If I weren’t already married…” He waggled his brows, and I giggled, entirely charmed.

“Do you happen to be acquainted with Mr. Pryce-Jones?” I asked, wanting to show that I, too, knew someone in exalted diplomatic circles.

“The man’s a legend! He wrote the protocol for Franco-British relations, and he hasn’t lost a debate since 1926. How do you know him?”

“He’s one of our habitués,” Margaret said proudly.

Lawrence kept his gaze on me. “It’s kind of you to let her play at being a librarian.”

Beside me, Margaret stiffened. It made me think of a line from Their Eyes Were Watching God Then she starched and ironed her face, forming it into just what people wanted to see…