A delightful exploration of Natasha’s journey while writing ‘The Paris Seamstress’. (I am now a fan of ‘The Book Podcast’ and will catch up with all 70 previous episodes.)
How much will a young Parisian seamstress sacrifice to make her mark in the male-dominated world of 1940s New York fashion? From the bestselling author of A Kiss from Mr. Fitzgerald and Her Mother’s Secret.
1940. Parisian seamstress Estella Bissette is forced to flee France as the Germans advance. She is bound for Manhattan with a few francs, one suitcase, her sewing machine and a dream: to have her own atelier.
2015. Australian curator Fabienne Bissette journeys to the annual Met Gala for an exhibition of her beloved grandmother’s work – one of the world’s leading designers of ready-to-wear. But as Fabienne learns more about her grandmother’s past, she uncovers a story of tragedy, heartbreak and secrets – and the sacrifices made for love.
Read more about Natasha here
Six word synopsis: Haute couture dreams reveal dark past
She’s been gone for many years, but still, caught unawares…
This customer looked so like; sounded very similar and her mannerisms – even her stature – she could have been my mum! I just couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Although we were six deep with customers, I took off after her, rushing to catch up before she disappeared – desperate not to lose ‘her’ – again!
I can’t remember what I said which convinced this lovely lady from Tasmania, to sit with me on a stone wall in the sunshine with crowds walking around us, and let me tearfully explain.
So many similarities; English upbringing, boarding school, love of books, music, nature, roses and her huge garden at home where she grew a lot of what she needed to eat.
Probably, she said, why her son turned to cooking – he was a visiting celebrity chef and she had come over to keep him company.
Needing to hear her talk, watch her eyes smiling at me in gentle understanding, eventually – reluctantly, gave her a hug ‘goodbye’. (Living down south, I hadn’t been able to…)
Hubby had to carry on, cope on his own with a rush of Fudge-a-holics, while I cried for my loss, all over again.
Sleep
I can
only consider
soft eyes
repose
calm, sweet face
small breaths
’til I realise
they’re mine.
I breathe
and contemplate
the alternative
only when
someone asks…
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2006