Danielle Steel - Zoya

Zoya followed her into a beautifully appointed black and white sitting room. It was where she showed their most expensive gowns, and her only competition was Chanel, who had recently brought her wares to the States, but there was room for both of them in New York. The Frenchwoman's name was Axelle Dupuis, she had come from Paris years before, and had set up the elegant salon known only as “Axelle.” But it had already been the rage in New York for several years. Zoya had even bought a gown there herself once but she had of course not used her Russian name, and mercifully Madame Dupuis seemed not to remember her.

“Have you any experience at this?” She looked Zoya over carefully. The dress she wore was cheap, and her shoes were worn, but the graceful hands, the way she moved, the way she wore her hair, all spoke of someone who had seen better times. She was articulate, and she spoke French, not that it mattered so much here. And she seemed to exude an innate sense of style, even in the inexpensive dress. Axeile was intrigued. “Have you worked in fashion before?”

“No,” Zoya was honest with her as she shook her head. “I haven't. I moved to Paris from St. Petersburg after the revolution,” she could say the words now, worse things had happened since, and she had Nicky and Sasha to think of. For them, she would crawl on her hands and knees for this job, and she could read nothing in the woman's face as she quietly poured herself and Zoya a cup of tea. The silver service she used was extremely beautiful, the china, French. She had ladylike airs, and she watched Zoya carefully as she took a sip of the tea. Things like that mattered to her, her clients were the most elegant, the most elite, the most demanding women in the world, she couldn't afford to have them served by people with bad manners, crude ways, and as she looked Zoya over with sharp gray eyes, she was pleased.

“When you went to Paris, did you work in fashion there?” Axeile was curious about this girl. There was something unmistakably aristocratic about her every move, as Zoya squarely met her eyes.

“I danced with the Ballet Russe. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and we were very poor.” She had decided to be honest with her, to a point anyway.

“And then?”

Zoya smiled sadly, as she sat very straight in her chair. “I married an American and came here in 1919.” Twelve years before, it was hard to believe now. Twelve years … “My husband died two years ago, he was older than I,” she didn't tell the Frenchwoman about everything they'd lost. It was unimportant now, and she wanted to save Clayton's dignity, even in death. “I have two children to support, and we just lost everything we had in a fire … not that there was much …” Her voice drifted off, thinking of the tiny apartment where Sava had died. She looked back into Axelle's eyes. “I need a job. I'm too old to dance anymore,” she forced the images of the dance hall from her mind, and went on, “and I know something about clothes. Before the war …” She hesitated but forced herself to go on, if she was going to trade on her title, she would have to say something about that. “In St. Petersburg, the women were elegant and beautiful….” She smiled, as Axelle watched.

“Are you related to the Romanovs?” So many minor Russians had made that claim, but something about this girl told her it might be possible. She was prepared to believe anything, as Zoya's green eyes met her own, and she spoke in her gentle voice, primly holding the cup of tea like a lady.

“I am a cousin of the late Tsar, madame.” She said nothing more, and for a long moment Axelle thought. She was worth a try. She might be just what her clients wanted, and how they loved countesses! The idea of a countess serving them would excite them beyond words, Axeile knew.

“I could give you a try, madame … Countess, I suppose I should say. You must use your title here.”

“Of course.” Zoya tried to look calm, but she wanted to shout with glee, like a child … she was going to have a job! At Axelle's! It was perfect. The children would both be in school in the fall, and she would be home by six o'clock every night. It was respectable … it was perfect … she couldn't repress a smile of relief as Axeile smiled at her. “Thank you, madame. Thank you so very much.”

“Let's see how you do.” She stood up to indicate that the audience had come to an end, and Zoya quickly followed suit, carefully setting the teacup down on the tray, as Axeile watched, extemely pleased.

“When would you like to start?”

“How would next week be?”

“Perfect. Nine o'clock. Sharp. And, Countess,” she said the word with practiced ease as she looked at Zoya's dress, “perhaps you'd like to select a dress to wear before you go … something black or navy blue …” She thought of her beloved black Chanel which hadn't recovered from the fire. It still reeked of smoke, no matter what she did to it.

“Thank you very much, madame.”

“Not at all.” She inclined her head grandly, and swept back through the door into the main room of the shop, where a woman in a huge white hat was exclaiming over the shoes. It reminded Zoya that she would have to buy new shoes, with the little money they had left, and she suddenly realized that she had forgotten to inquire about the salary, but it didn't matter now. She had a job, at any price. It was a lot better than selling apples on the street.

She announced the news to the children as soon as she got back, and they went for a walk in the park, and then went back to their hotel to escape the heat. Nicholas was as excited as she, and Sasha inquired with her big blue eyes if they had little girls’ dresses there too.

“No, my love, they don't. But I'll buy you a new dress as soon as I can.” She had bought them the bare minimum after the fire, just as she had for herself, but now a new day had dawned. She had a respectable job, hopefully she'd earn a decent wage. She would never have to dance again. Life was looking up. And then suddenly, with a smile, she wondered if she would see any of her old friends at Axelle's. Just as they had snubbed her, when she'd first come from France, and then fallen in love with her. They had forgotten her completely when Clayton died, and shunned her entirely when they lost everything. How fickle people were, not that she cared. She had her children, that was all she cared about. The rest had come and gone, and come again, and gone again. It didn't matter to her anymore. Just so they survived … life suddenly seemed infinitely precious to her again.

CHAPTER

34

Her days at the shop were tiring and long, the women she served demanded a great deal. They were impetuous and spoiled, some of them were unable to make up their minds, but she was always patient with them, and she found that she had a good eye for what suited them. She was able to take a gown, pull it there, tuck it here, and suddenly the woman seemed to bloom as she looked at herself in the mirror … she was able to pick the perfect hat to go with just the right suit … a bunch of flowers … a little fur … the exceptionally lovely shoes. She created images that became poetry, and her employer was more than pleased with her. By Christmas, Zoya had made a real niche for herself at Ax-elle's, she had outsold everyone, and everyone asked for the Countess when they came in. It was Countess this, Countess that … and don't you think, Countess … and oh, Countess, please … Axelle watched her perform, always with discretion and a dignified air, her own clothes put together perfectly with quiet elegance, her white gloves immaculate when she came to work, her hair impeccably done, her faint accent adding to her mystery. And Axelle let it be known early on that she was a cousin of the Tsar. It was exactly what she needed for the shop, and when Serge Obolensky came in to see this “Countess” everyone was talking about, he looked at her, stunned, as tears filled her eyes.