by Nicole Kelby
Chanel walked around the model. Looking. Measuring. Considering. She was like a scientist at work.
“Why do these Americans always want to know how much?” she said. The model held her arms steady over her head, but the heat was quickly becoming too much for her. Chanel pulled at the fabric hard. The girl tried to stay steady, but she leaned forward a bit. Chanel roughly moved her back into place.
The model moved her head slightly, as if to attempt to straighten her spine.
“Am I boring you?” Chanel said.
“No, mademoiselle.”
“Good. That’s good to know. Straighten up.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“Yes?”
“Oui.”
“Oui. Very good.” Chanel was not being unkind but instructive. “French is the language of diplomats. You will never be in demand if you do not learn it properly. Now put your hands down—but slowly.”
“Merci.”
“And now put them up again. Slowly. And down again. And again.”
Despite her great discomfort, the model never showed any emotion. She stared straight ahead. The assistant adjusted his pince-nez glasses—he did that quite frequently, as if to draw attention to them—and then cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle, what should our telegram say in return?”
Chanel closed her eyes for a moment, as if to shift her thoughts. Then lit a cigarette. The Wife was a very good customer, and so very lovely, but things had become ridiculous after the election. For a time, Chanel went along with the ruse of selling dresses to the Wife’s sister for a “friend’s cousin,” some unnamed “Sicilian noblewoman” who had the same exact build as the First Lady—a five-foot-eight boy’s body with broad shoulders, big hands, and size 10 feet. The two also had the same taste. “We must pretend her husband is the president of France,” the sister would say.
Of France?
It was positively insulting. Once the clothes were finished, they were sent by special diplomatic courier to Washington—as were frequent shipments of Chanel No. 5. Not only the parfum, with its rich bourbon vanilla and bougainvillea overtones, but also the eau de parfum, with its forward notes of may rose and ylang-ylang, and even the eau de toilette, which was heavy with sandalwood. The supposed Sicilian noblewoman bought Chanel No. 5 in all its variations and complications for morning, noon, and evening—and the bill was mailed to the First Lady’s father-in-law in Hyannis Port. It was laughable, at best.
This request from Chez Ninon for a muslin toile, a test garment, was tiresome. While it was not unusual to create line-by-line replicas of designs—they were even regulated by the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture et du Prêt-à-Porter as a way to appease the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union—Chanel was always reluctant. To make a copy was one thing—it would always be inferior—but to give the ability to replicate exactly her work, her vision, and her art was completely another. Why should she allow another name to be put on her work? She’d resigned from the Chambre Syndicale in 1957. They had no jurisdiction over her. She could do what she wanted, and she simply did not want to.
Although it was interesting that the request did not come from Oleg Cassini, who was now ordained her official “dressmaker,” as he had said. That is good, Chanel thought. Maybe there is a falling-out.
Everyone was shocked when the editor at Harper’s Bazaar, Mrs. Vreeland, championed Cassini to the First Lady. Why Vreeland promoted a man with such a playboy reputation was beyond understanding. His first press conference was held in New York and made headlines. At the Pierre Hotel, with a cocktail in hand and a crooked, debonair smirk, he announced that there would be two press showings a year featuring the First Lady’s wardrobe, but the press would not be invited. The events would be held exclusively for the New York Couture Group, the garment manufacturers in the city.
“Press knows nothing about fashion,” he announced. Everyone gasped.
His cologne was overwhelming, too.
It was the first, and also the last, press conference Mr. Cassini ever gave. How could the First Lady, a woman who was such a devotee of Chanel and French couture and, more important, the chemise—which Cassini openly ridiculed in a fashion show by making a version in burlap and having the model litter the runway with potatoes—how could this particular woman have chosen such a man as her designer?
Inexplicable. A falling-out would be very good, indeed.
“We are done,” Chanel said to the model, and then smiled, charmingly. “See you tomorrow, then?”
“Oui, mademoiselle. Merci.”
“Good.”
“The telegram?” the assistant asked again. “And what shall I answer, mademoiselle?”
“I am going home to think.”
Hôtel Ritz had been Chanel’s home on and off for decades, since the beginning of World War II. It was right across the alley from her shop. Her room was unlike any other. It was not opulent but small and tucked out of the way, in the attic. It was just a bed with white sheets in a room with white walls. The only decoration was a spray of wheat, which her father once told her was a talisman that would bring her luck. The room was profoundly quiet, much like the convent school where she spent her youth. It was a good place to think.
Chanel washed her hands and face with lye soap; she hated the scent of skin. She lit another cigarette and went out onto the rooftop with a glass of red wine and looked out over Paris. From that height, the city seemed to be made of buttercream—but yellowed and dusty, as if sculpted for a cake that would not be eaten, just remembered in one’s dreams. It was no longer the city of her youth. There were so many people; there was so much noise.
“Americans,” she sighed.
When the moon rose pink over Paris—at least, that was the way the Ladies would later tell the story—Chanel finally decided that they could have the suit. However, if this particular Chanel was to go to America, to be made by American hands, there would have to be restrictions and agreements set in place. Especially if Cassini was to be anywhere near it. The man’s aesthetic was vulgar, or, as he called it, “sexy”: all high slits, low necklines, and high drama. No subtlety. No sensuousness.
As for the question of how much, Chanel wrote down a very large figure, indeed.
When Chanel’s telegram arrived the next day, Sophie showed the ransom note, as she called it, to Nona, and they laughed. Their reply went out an hour later: Sharpen your pencil and recalculate.
While Chanel, the person, was not easily copied, the same could not be said for the suit. It was a very simple design. The finished product might not have all the Chanel touches, nor the exact fit or feel, but it would be similar and could be made in half the time and at a fraction of the cost. A copy of the blouse alone would cost only $3 to make, but the Ladies could charge $300 for it—and everyone would be happy to pay. Purchasing the toile and license was ridiculous and impractical, but Maison Blanche insisted. Chez Ninon would also be forced to pay Chanel for the right to use the material, the signature gold chain that would be sewn into the hem to help the jacket hang properly, and the gold “CC” buttons. The buttons alone would be $250.
Chez Ninon usually charged $3,500 for one of their “Chanel” suits, which were made from similar-looking fabric and buttons but run off on machines with a very limited amount of hand finishing. Unfortunately, Maison Blanche had made it quite clear that the entire suit couldn’t cost more than $1,000, preferably $850 or less. There wasn’t even a way to take a shortcut or two. The pink suit was to be a line-by-line copy and so must be entirely sewn by hand. It would be impossible to make a profit or break even—perhaps that was why Maison Blanche did not ask Cassini—but the Ladies could not turn it down. To dress a socialite was one thing, but to dress that same socialite when she became the First Lady was an honor they could not easily pass up.
Miss Nona marked the suit in on the production schedule.
“That’s just eight weeks to delivery,” Sophie said.
“Chanel will give it up in t
he end,” Miss Nona said, but she didn’t sound sure.
When a week passed without a telegram or phone call, without any response at all, Miss Nona’s confidence waned. She began to wonder if asking for a discount from an icon might be perceived as—she couldn’t think of the right word.
“Unseemly?” Sophie said. “Insulting?”
Miss Nona was hoping for “amusing.”
She knew that this could be a very expensive miscalculation. Miss Sophie had already ordered the fabric from Chanel’s supplier Linton Tweeds, in Cumbria—the price of the yardage nearly made her heart stop. They should have waited for Chanel to agree. They couldn’t use the fabric at all without her consent, but they were running out of time. The suit was to be worn the first week in November, just seven weeks away. The President was planning a family weekend. It would be the first time they would visit Camp David—and there was a very good chance that it would be the last. The Wife had already rented a place in the country near Washington, where she kept horses. It was quite clear to the Ladies that the Wife needed this pink suit to convey a strong sense of cheerful femininity—and an unflagging reasonable nature—so that when the First Lady announced that this camp of David was too backwater, she would be photographed looking reasonable.
Miss Nona couldn’t wait any longer. “I’m going to call Chanel.”
“Paris? It’s six dollars a minute,” Sophie said.
Nona had the call put through anyway. Each ring sounded like the rattling of tin cans.
Then finally a voice: “Allo, oui?” It sounded so very far away.
“For Mademoiselle Chanel. Chez Ninon,” the overseas operator said.
“Non.”
“Non?” Miss Nona couldn’t believe it. “Ask them if I can leave a message. Pouvez-vous prendre un message?”
“Non.”
The line went dead.
Chapter Three
“Clothing is the fabric that defines and measures time.”
—Oleg Cassini
At 4:30 a.m., Kate’s alarm clock fell to the floor, still trilling like a five-and-dime hummingbird. She’d rolled over to turn it off but accidentally knocked it over to where it now lay, insistent. Friday. Every bone ached, every muscle felt sore. The list of what had to be done was long and began with Kate hemming a tea-length chiffon cape for a fifteen-year-old girl who would probably be miserable wearing such a creaky old thing. There was also Mrs. B’s lace ball gown, which needed adjusting: the lace was Spanish and delicate, very prone to unraveling, so it was difficult to tell how long the task would take. And then, maybe, one or two alteration jobs that Maeve couldn’t get to because the fittings were overbooked. Two days’ worth of work needed to be stuffed into eight hours.
It took Kate another moment to realize that her front door was open.
“Hello?”
She distinctly remembered locking the door the night before. At least, she thought she did.
“Who’s there?”
Light from the street lamps shone though the thick tatting of the lace curtains that she’d made and illuminated the front room. Everything seemed fine. Kate got out of bed and took a quick look around. The tiny white kitchen was still immaculate. Her mother’s bone china teapot, a Belleek with tiny shamrocks, was still gathering dust. Kate took all her meals downstairs with her sister and her family—that was part of their agreement. Fourteen dollars a week, and Kate made all the clothes for Maggie and her two Mikes, both big and little, in exchange for room and board.
Next to Kate’s kitchen, the old door that served as her worktable still held the muslin skirt pattern Mr. Charles had made for her. Floor length. He told her it would be “positively enchanting” for New Year’s Eve. Next to it, there were the two bolts of matelassé silk, hand loomed to look like a bed of white roses, that she’d planned to make it with. The skirt would be too fancy for the dance at the Good Shepherd, but Kate was going to wear it anyway. The bolts were beautiful but flawed. Some places were stained and some were snagged. In a few areas, the quilting was so sloppy that it would have to be redone. It would take Kate weeks to work around the imperfections, but the skirt was worth it. It was always worth it.
If someone was hiding in her tiny apartment, it would be difficult to imagine where. There was barely enough room for Kate. Everywhere one looked, things were stacked upon things. There were dozens of boxes filled with zippers that were grouped according to color—and the same was true of rickrack and lace. Kate prided herself on having thread of nearly every single shade ever made; she had eleven variations of violet alone. Buttons were kept in old mason jars that lined the windowsills. Patterns were filed in a battered four-drawer cabinet that she’d found on the street. Fabric was piled everywhere. It was mostly bolts and swatches from Chez Ninon’s remnant room—the girls always took their pick. Even though that was somewhat frowned upon, it wasn’t really stealing. It was certainly nothing to bother Father John about in confessional. The Ladies eventually threw the excess away. It was “liberating the fabric,” as Maeve said. Kate couldn’t help herself. When it came to fabric, she was obsessed by the touch, color, and the promise that it held.
Some of what Kate took from Chez Ninon was for personal use, but a few pieces were remnants of history. There was a half yard of the bride-ivory satin from the inaugural-gala gown. And then the Renaissance red wool that turned out to be “the perfect thing” for an upcoming televised tour of the Maison Blanche renovation. Kate was loath to remember the thick chain stitching that outlined the standaway neckline and the hem of the skirt, a signature of the Christian Dior house that had nearly made her go blind. Her favorite was a small snip of Chinese yellow silk from Nina Ricci for a state dinner held in a room that was quickly painted off-white by the staff so that the brilliant-yellow and deeply black gown could not possibly go unnoticed. They were all reminders that beauty was calculated—nipped, tucked, pulled, and pleated into life.
What time did I get in? she thought. Too late, of course. And no dinner. Again. September meant back to school, and that meant new wardrobes for everyone. All the girls at Chez Ninon worked late, and Kate was no exception. But still, leaving the door open was inexplicable. And now she was wasting time. She’d be late. She was never late. Ever.
Kate quickly took the curlers out of her hair; her head was raw from the bristles and clips. She put on her favorite suit, the gray tweed one. Mr. Charles had made it for her. The heather in it set off the strawberry in her skin—at least, that was what he said. He was quite the flatterer, with his Frank Sinatra ways, but Kate liked him all the same.
The morning was bleak. There was a dull, cold rain. Kate pulled out her umbrella and put on her cashmere beret instead of her hat. She left the matching mittens behind and wore a new pair of soft gray kid gloves because one doesn’t wear mittens in the city. She wasn’t even sure who’d told her that. Probably Miss Sophie—she was always giving the back-room girls tips on how to improve themselves.
By the time Kate arrived for six o’clock mass at the Good Shepherd, the rain was furious. Her hair was soaked, the curl gone. The beret and gloves would probably shrink. Kate’s only comfort was that at that hour, not many from the neighborhood would see her. Pete the Cop, maybe. He was everywhere. But he wasn’t really from the neighborhood and wasn’t Catholic, so he didn’t count. Father John, of course. But he never cared about that sort of thing; he couldn’t even match his own socks. Father John had been an esteemed member of the famed Cork Gaelic footballers. He wore the red and white of the Blood and Bandages, as the team was called. He was a man who knew both God and greatness—and so that was more than enough. And he had such a beautiful voice. Soaring.
Christe eleison.
The first mass of the day was always a Low Mass. It was simple, the way Kate liked it. No choir or organ music. Just Father John, chanting in the ancient darkness. Two candles on the altar—and nothing more.
Christe eleison.
Indolent clouds of sandalwood and frankincense hung l
ow overhead. Everything seemed preserved in amber.
Kyrie eleison.
Kate’s voice echoed in the rafters. The church was nearly empty. For a moment, she thought she heard Patrick Harris somewhere behind her in the darkness. Pitch-perfect and humble, as usual. He wasn’t showy, like some who had good voices.
Kyrie eleison.
It wasn’t possible, though. It was Friday. Patrick Harris was a Sundays Only Catholic—which was not his choice. He’d told Kate that many times. He’d go every day if he could. Patrick made it quite clear that he wasn’t one of those Poinsettia-and-Lily Catholics or Christmas Bunnies—but he had a butcher shop to run and no one to help him anymore. All of his people in America were gone. His father went first, with a heart attack. Then, two months ago, Peg, with the same. So Patrick had to be at the shop every morning, even on Saturdays, because the pig men at the slaughterhouse delivered at the crack of dawn. Two squat men with a couple of skinned beasts slung over their shoulders—Kate had seen them often.
Kyrie eleison.
But it did sound like Patrick. Kate turned around to take a quick look, but the church was too dark. Still, it had to be him. While there were nearly twenty thousand parishioners at the Good Shepherd—priests said nine masses in the church every Sunday and five more for the overflow crowd at the school—she knew that voice very well.
Kate usually stopped at the butcher’s on the way home if the family needed something—and sometimes, even if they didn’t. Patrick Harris still had a bit of that particular Cork accent, that music, to his voice. It was lovely just to hear him talk. It was, in a way, like being home again.
People were lining up for communion. Kate looked over her shoulder again; she still couldn’t see him.
“The body and blood,” Father John said as he held the host out for her: a small, white, round wafer in his huge pink hands.