In exchange for help with his English, he would give her broken lipsticks and half-used loose face powder tins, as well as crumbling rouges and bent mascara brushes, along with tips on the best ways to use them. Now he held out his palm with two lipstick tubes as she sat down at his table and pulled the chair closer.
“Thank you!” she said. “I don’t even have to look—I know I’ll love them. You always choose just the right shades.”
His dark eyes shone. “It is always a pleasure to work on such a flawless canvas. You and Miss Dubose both. No flaws to cover. It’s a good thing not everyone is like that, or I’d have no work!”
He smiled at his own joke as he rifled through a drawer of rouge pots. “How is your French coming along?”
“Très bien!” Eva said, careful not to move her face too much.
“Maybe one day you will allow me to teach you my language.” He placed a finger on her chin to move her closer, then dipped a mascara brush into a dark pot.
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “Although I think French and English should be enough, don’t you?”
His eyes met hers briefly before he leaned in to put mascara on her eyelashes. “The world is a very large place, although some right now in Germany are trying to make it smaller by gobbling up countries like hungry lions.”
He sat back to admire his handiwork, then met her confused expression. “You would do well to read the newspapers, Eva, and keep informed. Most educated women do, although they won’t admit it at the dining table, of course. But I know how much you like to appear educated.”
His words weren’t condemning or reproachful. Simply informative. Eva had told him very little about her background, except that she was from Yorkshire and her mother did laundry and sewing. He had seemed to know without asking that her past was something she was trying to excise, like a cancer.
“All right,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Then I also need to come up with where I was educated, someplace where a woman named Eva would have lived a sheltered, genteel existence.”
He placed his forearms on the table and said quietly, “If you ever want to rise above your station, you must have a good reason why you model. The circles you wish to move in look down on your profession, you know. Like they do actresses and opera singers. But if you have a respectable background, then moving up is possible, yes?” He turned his head slightly, as if to ensure they were still alone. “You are very good at reinvention, Eva. The best, I think. You will go far with a skill like that.” Leaning back, he laughed. “You remind me of the girl in that Leslie Howard film—Pygmalion.”
“Do you mean Eliza?” She shook her head, feeling a spark of anger. “I’ve never been that low-class.”
“No, you haven’t. And it was a play first. You should know those things, Eva. Read more, go to plays and concerts. Remember—reinvention.”
Mrs. Williams, the head seamstress, bustled into the room, a tape measure around her neck and a pincushion attached to her wrist. She took hold of Eva’s hand and helped her onto the fitting platform. “Hurry, hurry—I’ve got to tack up those seams before Madame Lushtak sees you.”
Eva looked back at Mr. Danek, who smiled with approval as Eva straightened her spine and regarded herself in the mirror. Mrs. Williams set to work, her white and flabby arms quivering like netted fish as she made her way around the platform on her knees, measuring and pulling pins from the cushion bracelet on her wrist. When Mr. Danek said his good-byes and left, the room went quiet but for Mrs. Williams’s labored breathing as she moved around Eva, tugging and pinning and occasionally inserting small stitches.
Eva’s cramped toes became numb, and her back began to ache, but she remained still, moving only as directed. A door slammed down the corridor, followed by the sound of two sets of hurrying footsteps. Mrs. Williams paused and turned her head, but Eva stared straight ahead, afraid to move and disrupt the intricate draping knot that cinched in her waist.
“Mrs. Williams, are you almost finished?”
At the sound of Madame Lushtak’s voice, Mrs. Williams stood, loosening her grasp on the fabric, but not letting it go completely. She’d spent the last ten minutes gathering and pinning the drape so that it lay just so. “Not quite, Madame. I’m finishing with this rosette and pleats, and then I’ll be as good as done.”
Eva could see Madame’s pinched face in the mirror, her expression matched by Mrs. Ratcliffe’s behind her. Madame Lushtak’s dark eyes raked over the dress, closely studying every line and angle, her gaze stopping short of Eva’s neck. Eva froze, afraid to move. Madame walked closer, examining the seams, the flutter sleeves, the exquisite folds of the long skirt.
“It will have to do.” She turned to Mrs. Ratcliffe. “I will be waiting in the showroom.” Then Madame looked up at Eva for the first time. “This is an important customer—do you understand? Mrs. St. John has brought her daughter up from the country. She’s newly engaged and needs new clothes for all the events she will be attending.”
Eva nodded. “Yes, Madame.”
“Good. Remember, modeling isn’t just walking about, wearing beautiful clothes. It is about showing the joy and confidence my clothes will impart. I trust you will not disappoint me.”
The room was silent as they listened to Madame’s footsteps fade down the corridor. Mrs. Ratcliffe regarded Eva and frowned. “Mrs. St. John is hoping to find a few new outfits her daughter will wear when she appears in the society pages. Madame thought this gown would be perfect, and there are several other outfits she has already had pulled from the showroom. You will be expected to show them all, so you can expect a late night.”
It wasn’t a request, not that it had crossed Eva’s mind to refuse. “Yes, of course.”
Mrs. Williams quickly threaded a needle and began sewing Eva into the dress. “Don’t you worry, lamb. Mrs. St. John is a bit of a battle-ax, but her daughter is a kind soul. I’ve fitted her before, and she won’t allow her mother to bully you. Besides, you look lovely.”
Precious, with a compact and a tube of lipstick in her hands, joined Mrs. Ratcliffe as she waited behind Mrs. Williams to finish her last stitch. After Precious quickly refreshed Eva’s powder and lipstick, Mrs. Ratcliffe instructed Precious to put a dab of pancake makeup on the small birthmark on Eva’s neck.
“There,” Precious said, standing back. “Absolute perfection. It’s invisible.”
Eva tilted her head and regarded her reflection. The small mark had become so much a part of her that she didn’t even notice it anymore. “You’re right. Thank you.”
Mrs. Ratcliffe nodded her approval. “Are you ready, then?” She didn’t wait for a response, but turned and led the way down the hall, not checking to see if Eva followed.