Danielle Steel - Zoya

“It must have been a painful time for you. Did your family go with you?”

“Only my grandmother.” She was able to talk about it now. It had taken almost twenty years for her to do that. “The others were killed before we left, most of them. And some a year later.” He didn't realize she was referring to the Tsar, it never occurred to him that she was that well connected.

“Did you go to New York then?”

“No,” she smiled pleasantly as the waiter poured their wine. It was a fine 1926 wine, which Simon had ordered. “We came to Paris. I lived here for two years before I married and went to New York with my husband.” His eyes searched for the wedding ring, and saw with dismay that it was still on her finger, but Axelle noticed it too, and knew Zoya well enough to foresee that she wouldn't explain any further.

“The Countess is a widow” she provided helpfully, and Zoya shot her a look of annoyance.

“I'm sorry,” he offered politely, but it was obvious that he was interested in the information. “Do you have children?”

“Two, a son and a daughter.” She looked proud as she said it, and he smiled. “And you, Mr. Hirsch?” She was merely being polite as they waited for lunch, but Axelle looked very satisfied at the conversation. She liked him, and it was obvious that he was very taken with Zoya. “Do you have children too?”

“No,” he smiled and shook his head regretfully, “Never married, and no children. I haven't had time. I've been building a business for the past twenty years. Most of my relatives work for me. My father just retired last year, I think my mother has finally given up. I think she figures that if I haven't married at forty, there's not much hope left. She used to drive me crazy. I'm her only son, only child, and she wanted ten grandchildren or something like that.” Zoya smiled wistfully, remembering her earlier conversations with Mashka, talking about how many children they wanted. She had wanted six, and Mashka four or five, but neither of their lives had happened as they had expected.

“You'll probably marry in a few years and surprise her with quintuplets.”

Simon Hirsch pretended to choke on his wine, and then looked amused. “I'll have to tell her that, or maybe it'll just get her started again.” And then their meal arrived, delicate quenelles for Axelle, and quail for Zoya. He had ordered a steak, and apologized for his American palate. “‘Am I allowed to ask you ladies about your buying trip, or is that all very hush-hush?”’ Zoya smiled and glanced at Axelle who seemed very relaxed, and answered for her.

“I don't think we need have too many secrets from you, Mr. Hirsch, except perhaps about our coats.” They all laughed, and Zoya told him about some of what they'd bought, particularly the sweaters from Schiaparelli.

“That new pullover she's doing is sensational,” Zoya said, looking pleased. “And the shoes we ordered today at Dior are just lovely.”

“I'll have to come and see it all when it arrives. Did you buy any of Elsa's new Shocking Pink?” He had liked the color a lot and was planning to duplicate it in his line, and he wondered what Zoya thought of it.

“I'm not sure what I think of that yet. It's a little strong for some of our clients.”

“I think it's a great look.”

Zoya smiled, it was so odd to think of this rugged man, who looked more like a football player, discussing Elsa Schiaparelli's Shocking Pink, but there was no doubt that his coats were the best made in the States, and it was obvious he had an eye for fashion and color and he knew what he was doing. “My father was a tailor,” he explained, “and his father before him. And he started Hirsch and Co., with his two brothers on the Lower East Side. They made clothes and coats for the people they knew, and then someone on Seventh Avenue heard about them, and started ordering goods from them, and my father figured to hell with that,” he glanced apologetically at Zoya, who was too intrigued by the tale to care about his language, “he moved to Seventh Avenue, and opened a workroom there himself, and when I came into it I turned everything upside down, with something called fashion. We had some terrific fights over it, and when my uncles retired, I really got my hand into it, with English wools, and some colors that almost made my father cry. We got into ladies’ coats then, and well, for the last ten years we've done pretty much what I thought we should from the first. It's a good look, particularly now that Pop has retired and I'm bringing in new designs from Paris.”

“It's an interesting history, Mr. Hirsch,” Axelle said. It was the kind of story that had built the success of their adopted country. “Your coats are beautiful. We've done very well with them.”

“I'm happy to hear it.” He smiled, he was a man at ease in his own skin. He was enormously successful, and he had done it all almost single-handedly. “My father swore I'd ruin the business. It was a real vote of confidence when he retired last year, and now he pretends he's not interested anymore. But whenever I go out, my tailors and cutters tell me that he sneaks in and patrols the workrooms.” Zoya laughed at the image he created, and he turned to her again. “And you, Countess … sorry, Zoya … how did you get to Axelle's?”

“Oh,” she laughed, feeling oddly at ease with him, and closer to Axelle than she had before, “by a long, hard road.” Her face grew serious then. “We lost everything in the Crash,” she said it honestly, and Axelle knew that much anyway. “Overnight, we were destitute, our two homes had to be sold, our furniture, my clothes and furs, even our china.” It was the first time she had actually spoken of it to Axelle, and she seemed at ease as she said it. “I had two children to support, and virtually no skills. I danced with the Ballet Russe here in Paris, during the war, and with another ballet company as well, but in 1929, I was thirty years old, and a little too old to join the ballet again.” She looked at them both with an amused smile, and Axelle was in no way prepared for what she heard next. “I applied to the Ziegfeld Follies, but I wasn't tall enough, so I got a job dancing in a burlesque hall.” Axelle's jaw almost dropped, and Simon Hirsch looked at her with intense respect. Not many women would have gone from riches to rags so courageously, or admitted that they'd worked in a dance hall. “That must surprise you, Axelle. No one knows that, not even my children. It was awful. I worked there for a year and a half, hating every minute of it, and one night,” her eyes still filled with tears at the memory, “there was a terrible fire when I was at work, and I almost lost my children. They are all that matters to me, and I knew I couldn't leave them alone at night anymore, so I packed up what was left in two boxes, moved to a hotel, borrowed a hundred dollars from a friend, and knocked on Axelle's door. I don't think she ever knew how desperate I was,” she looked gratefully at her friend, as Axelle tried to absorb what she had just heard, she wanted to cry just hearing it, “and I was very lucky, she hired me. And there I have been ever since, and always will be, I hope.” She smiled at the two listeners, unaware of how much she'd moved them both, especially Simon, “And they all lived happily ever after.”

“That's quite a story.” He stared at her in open amazement and Axelle delicately dabbed at her eyes with a lace hankie.

“Why didn't you tell me then?”

“I was afraid you wouldn't hire me. I would have done anything to get that job. I even came to you and flaunted my title, something I'd never done before.” She laughed good-humoredly then, “If I had, I'm sure they would have had me bumping and grinding as someone shouted from backstage, ‘And our very own Countess! ’” All three of them laughed, but Zoya more easily than the others. The others were too impressed by the tale to laugh at her, and only Axelle knew how unkind people would have been if they had known Countess Ossupov had danced in a burlesque hall. “You do what you have to do in life. During the war here, some of our friends actually caught pigeons in the park and ate them.” Simon wondered at what else she had lived through. The revolution had to have been a brutal blow, with all of her family killed before she escaped. There was more to her than met the eye, in her pretty pink linen suit. A lot more. And he wanted to know all of it. He was sorry to see the lunch come to an end, and he dropped them off at the Ritz on his way to see the representative from a French mill, from whom he was ordering more fabric.