New York Times bestselling author Natasha Lester delivers an unforgettable story of an orphan turned WWII spy turned fashion icon in Paris—perfect for fans of Kate Quinn and Fiona Davis.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Natasha Lester’s The Three Lives of Alix St. Pierre, which is out now.
1943. After spearheading several successful advertising campaigns in New York, PR wizard Alix St. Pierre comes to the attention of the U.S. government and finds herself recruited into a fledgling intelligence organization.
Enlisted as a spy, Alix is sent to Europe where she is tasked with getting close to a Nazi who might be willing to help the Allied forces–but there’s also the chance he might be a double agent.
1946. Following the war, Alix moves to Paris and takes a position as head of publicity for the yet-to-be-launched House of Dior. But when a figure from the war reappears and threatens to destroy her future, Alix realizes that only she can right the wrongs of the past and bring him to justice.
The Three Lives of Alix St. Pierre is a thrilling, sumptuous work of historical fiction told in three timelines: before, during and after WWII. This completely immersive story takes readers from the dangerous, intrigue-filled rooms in Switzerland where elites of both sides mingled and schemed during the war, to the glamorous halls of the House of Dior in the golden age of French fashion and journalism.
It was decreed that Alix should get ready for the ball at Maison Christian Dior and use the services of the makeup artists and hairdressers who ordinarily worked on the finer canvases of mannequins.
“Your hair is an unusual color,” the hairdresser declared when presented with Alix’s locks.
“Pffft,” Madame Bricard responded haughtily. “It’s better than being one amongst a thousand blondes.”
Next it was the turn of the makeup artist. “You have a wide mouth.” Alix smiled her very widest in response.
Above, on the platform over the cabine where the most full-skirted and splendid dresses were usually lowered down from the workrooms, Alix could hear the rustlings and whisperings of the petites mains, who’d all stayed behind to see Mademoiselle l’Américaine in her custom-made Dior creation.
“It is the most beautiful dress of all,” she heard one sigh.
“I sewed a lock of my hair into the hem,” another whispered, which was the tradition with bridal dresses.
“I sewed my heart into it,” a third commented wistfully.
“Excuse me,” Alix said to the makeup artist.
She reached for a water glass to ease the gentle ache in her throat. That the women thought so much of Alix’s dress that they had sewn hopes and dreams and charms into it was touching beyond anything, and for a single, exquisite second she felt the ghostly toile tiptoe into the room, take a seat beside her and say, You can have hopes and dreams too. Hopes like finding a way to track La Voce tonight. But maybe, as someone who’d never been to a Paris society ball, she also dreamed of an evening that combined the audacity of Tabou, the magnificence of Anthony’s terrace and the wonder of a Dior ballgown. Surely that wasn’t too much to wish for?
Suzanne bent down to say, “Let’s see the dress, chérie.”
Down from above it descended.
Alix had been expecting dramatic black. But what appeared was a silvery blue, a prismatic hue she’d seen perhaps once before in the deep crevasse of a glacier—the blue of spells and enchantment and most definitely of magic.
The seamstresses clapped their hands delightedly as it dropped over Alix’s head and Suzanne turned her attention to the fastenings.
“I should probably do it myself,” Alix said, “otherwise I won’t know how to get it off at the end of the night.”
Madame Bricard snorted. “This dress will be torn off you at evening’s end.”
It was Alix’s turn to snort at the weight of expectation on the shoulders of Anthony March, who had no intention of removing even a loose thread from Alix’s body. Then Suzanne spun her around to face the mirror—and everyone quieted.
She almost put a hand out to touch the looking glass because the woman standing there could not possibly be Alix.
Her neck rose creamy-white out of a strapless bodice. The luster of the fabric reflected like moonlight in her eyes and through her hair—one more deeply green than ever, the other more brilliantly red. The bodice was astonishingly shaped—wet-draping, Madame Carré was explaining—in ruched folds rippling over her breasts and around her waist.
It looked as if she’d been wrapped in seawater and, with one gentle tug, the dress would drop in a silvery-blue puddle at her feet. But the internal architecture held everything together in secret so what appeared from the outside to be stilled water, bound temporarily in place while the spell lasted, would never actually fall at midnight.
Alix’s fingertips brushed over the stunning velvety flowers that were somehow part of the fabric.
“Velours au sabre,” Monsieur Dior explained. “The jewel of all couture.”
“It’s indescribably beautiful,” Alix breathed. “But the flowers aren’t printed. They almost look like they’re blossoming out of the . . . satin?” she guessed.
Dior nodded approvingly. “When we say velours au sabre,” he explained, “we refer to a technique that creates the rarest of all fabrics. The very best of the petites mains uses a sabre to cut, with extreme delicacy, the topmost layer of double-warp duchesse-satin to create a pattern—in this case, blue roses. Once the threads are cut, she caresses them with a brush of wild boar hair, revealing the velvet beneath. Et voilà, the image—your roses—appears on the gown in relief. One can only finish a few centimeters each day, and it must all be done by hand. There is no machine that can perform work so incroyable.”
“It’s too much,” she said, almost too frightened to move or do anything that might spoil this most extraordinary—and expensive— of gowns.
She was drowned out by a chorus of protest from the petites mains. Monsieur Dior inclined his head at them. “It would be a tragedy for this dress never to be worn. And no one else can wear it as it’s been made precisely to your measurements. Its name is Compiègne—a touch of royalty for my Queen of Courage.”
There was nothing else for it but to throw herself on le patron, envelop him in a hug and kiss his cheeks.
“Merci,” she whispered. “It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given me.”
“He’s here!” One of the seamstresses rushed in. “We were watching below.”
Alix shook her head. “This is really not an event worth so much attention.”
“Wearing a dress like that, it is,” Madame Bricard said decisively.
“On y va.” She motioned everyone toward the door.
Off the procession went, Dior and Madame Bricard in the lead, followed by Mesdames Carré and Raymonde. Then the horde of seamstresses. Alix went last, her hand held in Suzanne’s, the dress sweeping grandly through a salon that had hosted so many incomparable gowns but Alix still thought she heard the carpet sigh with satisfaction beneath her feet.
At the door, everyone stepped aside to let her pass through. There, parked by the curb, was a flamboyantly art-deco looking car. Leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette and wearing a black tuxedo, was Anthony March.
Excerpted from THE THREE LIVES OF ALIX ST. PIERRE by Natasha Lester. Copyright © 2022 by Natasha Lester. Reprinted with permission from Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.
