Now a frightened old man sat at the table with him. ‘There’s no certainty of war.’
‘There is. We are armed way beyond the point of merely defending ourselves and you, Opa, have bungled.’
Osterberg stared at the fire, perhaps imagining his position as head of the local Chamber of Commerce and deputy to the Gauleiter of Brandenburg going the same way as the apple logs Hiltrud had piled on the embers before she left. ‘You could help me. You’re Göring’s friend. You could go and see him.’
‘I’m his art supplier – one of many. And he’s a busy man, air minister as well as guardian of our economy.’
Osterberg wiped sweat from his upper lip. ‘You flew in his squadron, you wear the same medals. Brothers in arms.’
‘Ah. There you touch my weakest side. I always wanted a brother.’ Dietrich twisted the ring on his middle finger and its dim ruby caught a little firelight. The jewel had been in his family since the 1300s. ‘I’ll see Göring in Munich in a couple of days. I’ll put in a word.’ Raising his coffee cup to his lips, Dietrich unexpectedly smelt Paris. His stomach flipped and, for a moment, he was lying in a bath at the Duet, a satin thigh in his eye-line, breasts falling forward as Coralie leaned in for a precarious kiss—
‘What are you thinking?’ Osterberg demanded. ‘What are you seeing?’
Dietrich was seeing Coralie de Lirac. He had given her his trust, a new identity and, briefly, a precious family ring. In return, she had carelessly robbed him of the last chance to see his son alive. He prayed he never saw her again because he wasn’t sure he could behave as a civilised man ought.
CHAPTER 11
5 OCTOBER 1939
The salon was crammed – with customers, journalists and girls in hats. Trays of champagne were still coming out and going back empty. In fact, the only thing flagging was Coralie’s feet. Slipping off a shoe, she took a moment to reflect on the afternoon. Many people considered this, her fourth solo collection for Henriette Junot, to be the best the house had ever produced. One fashion journalist had even insisted that this 1939 autumn–winter line should be billed ‘Coralie de Lirac pour Henriette Junot’.
The sixty hats paraded by mannequins wearing Hollywood-style evening dresses unarguably reflected Coralie’s personality. She just wasn’t sure if she’d strayed too far towards theatricality and away from style.
Style, the tyrant with a permanent position at her elbow. Nothing to do with fashion or chic, style was indefinable when present and screamingly obvious when absent.
Through an edgy spring and summer, as free Europe woke up to the certainty of war, Coralie had groped for inspiration for this collection. As Polish–German negotiations started up and broke down, she had prowled art galleries and museums for the spark to ignite her imagination. As German troops marched into Bohemia and Moravia, she’d held powwows with her technical staff, trying to summon up the elusive brilliant idea that would get fashionable Paris talking. A night out with friends at the Gaumont-Palais cinema on boulevard de Clichy had finally shoved the answer in front of her face.
All hail, ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ and Ethel Merman in a black top hat. This collection was a salute to Hollywood, with a nod to English restraint. She’d launched it despite war having been declared just over a month earlier. War? What war? Blackout was in force, thousands of men had been mobilised, but Paris could still have fun. That was the message at Henriette Junot. There were still plenty of Americans to swell the party – British, too, and even Germans. Only the South Americans were lacking. An Allied blockade of the Atlantic had choked them off.
‘Honey, you’ve given us a blast of London!’ A confident beauty in her middle thirties approached as if cameras were trained on her. The accent was American, but such a cocktail of east coast and Deep South, Coralie never could pin down where her friend Una actually came from. For her part, Una Kilpin masked her past which cemented the affinity between the two women. Both were self-made. Both had much to hide and, sensing this, they kept their probing to a minimum.
They often spoke English together, and enjoyed confusing those around them by jumping between English and French at will. With every new person she met, Coralie always stuck to the life-story Dietrich had created for her but she’d made an exception for Una, divulging her work for Pettrew & Lofthouse. She’d called it her ‘foreign apprenticeship’. She’d had to; Una had jumped on her cockney accent.
‘I spent five years in London and every housemaid I had there said “butter” the way you do. Whenever you talk English, Coralie, I hear Bow bells ringing.’
When it came to the truth about Noëlle’s parentage, Coralie was equally frank with Una.
‘In a London park? I hope there was a nightingale singing,’ came the response. Amorous lapses never shocked Una Kilpin.
Una McBride, as they were to call her now. Separated from her shipping-magnate husband, who was in the service of the British government, Una had reverted to her maiden name. ‘I’ve scuttled the Kilpin ships,’ was how she’d announced her new identity.
‘You must be boiling.’ Coralie returned her kiss. Una was stunningly turned out in a Javier tailleur of zingy tartan cloth, a tam o’ shanter perched on her rippling blonde hair.
‘A little snug, but I love showing off this suit. D’you know, I was the only client to get one of the maestro’s Scottish ensembles? Javier’s ’thirty-seven autumn–winter show was scrapped, as you know.’ Una made a ‘don’t ask’ gesture. She’d been implicated in that disaster. ‘I had lengths of this fabric made privately and a girl I knew copied the design.’
Coralie had never questioned Una about the demise of Maison Javier or the pirating of the collection. As with a good country sausage, it was sometimes best not to know all the ingredients that made up her friend. All she’d asked was that Una never steal or copy any of her designs and, to the best of her knowledge, Una had not. She didn’t really need to as she was the salon’s unofficial ambassadress, taking as much stock as she liked for free.
An exacting client, who only ever wore shades of biscuit, toffee and cream, Una McBride was rarely out of the fashion magazines and women bought what she wore. Monsieur Moulin always entered her name in the books in red, but freely admitted that she earned her eternal credit.
Now Coralie frowned at Una’s tam o’ shanter. ‘You should be wearing one of my hats. People will wonder if you’ve fallen out of love with us.’
‘One cannot wear anything else with this suit, but from tomorrow, it will be all Coralie de Lirac. Oh, sublime!’
A mannequin was sauntering past, demonstrating the effortless glissade of her trade. Her gown had the sleeves and shoulders of a Southern belle. Her hat was black plush, with an organza bow secured at the front with a diamond butterfly. Drawing on her Pettrew’s roots, Coralie had created equestrienne top hats. Tipped low at the front, high at the back, they complemented the new trend for lush hairstyles. Though not a single German boot had stepped over the border with France, war seemed to have awakened a desire in women to be feminine again. Clothes were becoming curvier, bosoms were ‘in’. Along with top hats, Coralie had also produced berets. War’s first winter demanded something practical for women walking to and from work in the blackout. She’d chosen bright colours, adding flowers and pom-poms in opposing shades. The lights might have gone out, but working women didn’t have to disappear from view.
Please, God, there’d be a full order book after today’s show because Henriette was back. Recovered from her illness, but minus her latest lover, she’d swept into the salon as if she’d been away just a week or two, not for two years. Her first act had been to sack Monsieur Moulin and appoint a new accountant. This man, Soufflard, was utterly unmoved by millinery. As far as he was concerned, hats existed to keep off the rain and to make a profit. He was standing beside Henriette right now, watching a tray of caviar canapés going past. Probably counting the fish eggs, Coralie thought, totting up the cost. As for Henriette, she was tête-à-tête with a journalist fr
om the New York Times, Mrs Fisk-Castelman, who had wanted to interview Coralie. Henriette had thrust herself forward, saying, ‘One voice speaks for this salon – mine.’
They said jealousy was a green-eyed monster. If so, Henriette had more green eyes than a cage full of cats. Having offloaded her business when it suited her, she now deeply resented Coralie’s success.
Coralie had not felt so vulnerable since Dietrich had left. These days, she and her child were completely alone. Ramon had gone – a mutual decision. He now lived a few Métro stops away in Montparnasse and had a new woman in his life, though he and Coralie remained married. Apart from sporadic gifts of coal, Coralie got nothing from him so her dream of owning her own salon had gone cold. Noëlle, at twenty-two months, required either a full-time nanny or her mother at home. The frightening truth was that Coralie needed Henriette more than Henriette needed her. Una, half a bottle of champagne under her belt and blissfully unaware of tensions, announced, ‘Dear Coralie, you’ve brought us not just London style but English class. In Paris, that is supremely brave. I declare you Queen of Hats!’
Coralie shook her head to quieten her, but Henriette had heard. Coralie steeled herself for an angry encounter, but when Henriette approached it was to report how excited Mrs Fisk-Castelman had been by the show.
‘One of my best, she says. She assures me that America still keeps its finger on the Paris pulse . . .’ Henriette paused long enough to nod icily at Una ‘. . . and says that I will always have a market in the United States.’
‘Sure you will,’ Una gave back just as coldly, ‘if you open up your next hat shop on board a warship. Nobody plies back and forth across the Atlantic for fun any more.’
Henriette’s smile slipped, but she pulled it back. ‘As you say, Madame Kilpin.’
‘McBride, honey. These days, I paddle my own canoe.’
As Henriette stalked away, Coralie whispered, ‘If you’re going back to the States, Una, how about taking me and Noëlle with you?’
‘I’m not going anywhere. Gladys Fisk-Castelman has been begging me to sail with her when she goes next week, but I won’t desert the city of my heart. And you are about to become famous and doesn’t Henriette know it! When Mrs F-C writes a person up, the world agogs. Is “agogs” a word?’
‘Don’t ask me, but I reckon the world will soon be too worried about conscription and food shortages to agog at anything. We may be having a quiet time of it here, but I hear it’s Hell in Poland.’
‘Whenever you talk like that, I know you’ve seen Ramon.’
‘He visited a few nights ago – he loves to see Noëlle. Say what you like about him, Ramon understands politics. He thinks the Nazis will turn west soon, and invade us.’
‘Oh, just stick to hats, Coralie. If truth is the first casualty of war, then vanity is the last. Let the bombs fall, ladies will still want what you make. You have a terrific future.’
By nine, the salon was empty, the collection boxed away. Discarded programmes littered the carpet and the room smelt of perfume and flat champagne. Time to go home. Coralie ached to hold her child, who would be tucked up in bed by now.
She looked around for Henriette – not to speak with but to avoid her. Tomorrow was soon enough for putting the collection, its cost and likely success through Soufflard’s mincer. As to who was rightful queen here, Coralie didn’t give a kipper’s eyebrow. Not after sixteen hours on her feet. Straightening the belt of her coat, she called goodbye to Amélie and Madame Zénon.
Her mistake was choosing to leave by the main door. Henriette was front-of-house, leaning against the display plinth. Head thrown back, eyes closed. Soufflard was speaking, but he broke off when he saw Coralie.
Henriette opened her eyes, then narrowed them at the sight of Coralie’s outdoor clothes. ‘Off, are you?’ She sounded surprised.
‘It’s quarter past nine. We don’t do a night shift.’
‘Still living in that flat on rue de Seine? Isn’t it too big for a lone woman and child?’ Henriette painted the word ‘lone’ with audible glee.
Coralie could have answered that, actually, the flat was a touch too small for two, but she’d probably still be living there when God sent the next flood. Getting her huge, rustic bed – it had been a gift from Teddy – up the stairs had taken military logistics. She doubted there were any men left in Paris willing to help her get it down again. ‘Yes, Henriette. I’m still on rue de Seine.’
‘Good,’ said Henriette. ‘I’ll have your things sent there. You, I don’t want to see here again.’
Coralie stopped herself swaying by grabbing the nearest solid object, which happened to be Monsieur Soufflard. ‘You’re telling me . . .’
‘To buzz off.’
‘You can’t!’
‘Give me three reasons.’ Henriette had gained weight in Italy and her complexion had sallowed. It had not been an entirely happy residence by all accounts – she’d fallen foul of the Fascist authorities there.
‘Three? All right. I’ve delivered you a collection everyone agrees is stunning. Two, I kept your business together so you had something to get well for—’ Henriette’s mouth twisted. She was waiting for one more reason. Right, she could have it. ‘Three, I’m your sister-in-law.’
Something darker than fury filled Henriette’s eyes. ‘Not any more. He left you.’
‘I threw him out, actually, but we’re still married and you have no right to dismiss me.’
Soufflard cleared his throat. ‘We do. The books don’t balance.’
‘They never do straight after a collection.’ Coralie hardly spared him a glance. ‘When the orders come in, the holes fill up.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying, Mademoiselle de Lirac.’
She considered reminding him that she was legally ‘Madame Cazaubon’. She’d kept ‘de Lirac’ as her professional name, but was entitled to be addressed as ‘Madame’ – unlike Henriette, who called herself ‘Madame’ to increase her status in the business world. In the end, she said nothing because Henriette was thrusting a piece of paper at her.
‘Sign it,’ Henriette commanded. ‘It’s you agreeing to leave, without claim on us.’
Coralie refused. ‘I do have a claim, not least because I’m owed commission. And I won’t give up my job while I’ve a child to support.’
‘Why aren’t you at home, looking after it?’ Monsieur Soufflard seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘I do not approve of working mothers.’
‘“Her” not “it”!’ Coralie hurled at him. ‘And I don’t give a damn whether you approve or not. I work because I have to.’
Staff were trickling into the shop, Amélie and Madame Zénon among them. Coralie was glad to see them. They’d stick up for her. Ignoring them, Henriette tried again to get Coralie to take the document. ‘We are offering you sixty thousand francs to leave, but you have to sign, releasing me from all obligation to you, now and in the future.’
Sixty thousand? Now, that made a difference. Sixty thousand would start her up in her own place, give her some buffer if sales were slow. Still, a warning bell rang. What had Donal told her, years ago, when she’d picked a fight with a big lad at school and got a bloody nose? ‘Rule one: if the other man looks relaxed, it’s because he’s got a brass knuckle in his glove.’ She said, ‘All right, I’ll sign . . .’ the triumph Henriette was not quite sly enough to conceal proved her suspicions were valid ‘. . . when I’ve shown it to a good lawyer.’
Henriette stamped her foot. ‘I’ve tried to be fair! You all heard her,’ at last, she acknowledged her staff, who drew back nervously, ‘hurling my generosity back at me.’ Henriette tore up the paper and nodded to Soufflard, who took out a pen. Using the display table as a surface, he began to write. Coralie twitched at the pedantic scratch of his nib but, at last, he held the results out to her.
It wasn’t a disclaimer, or a promissory note. It was a bill. Coralie read: ‘Stock advanced to Madame Kilpin-McBride from February 1938 through September 1939, 72,000 fr 50’. Paymen
t to Mademoiselle de Lirac in lieu of notice, 60,000 fr. Mademoiselle de Lirac to pay Henriette Junot 12,000 fr 50.’ The last figure was underlined. ‘We will take cash, Mademoiselle.’
Coralie looked at Soufflard, then at Henriette, whose smirk shouted, ‘See?’ ‘You and your American friend have been robbing my business for months,’ Henriette crowed. ‘It’s all in the ledgers. Leave, or we take you to court.’
‘This is unjust! Una’s brought millions of francs in custom. Half the order book is thanks to her.’
‘I find that highly offensive. This is my business. My success.’ But it was mock-anger and Coralie knew that she was check-mated. She contemplated all the things she could do. Punch Henriette on the nose, or Monsieur Soufflard. Throw marottes at the mirrors. Or be dignified. She walked to the door, murmuring, ‘An egg. A bloody egg.’ She turned and said sweetly, ‘Let’s see who brings out the better collection next April, Henriette.’
‘Not you. Nobody will employ you. You’ll understand soon enough the price of stealing my friends, my staff and my little brother.’
‘Henriette, your brother is many things but “little” is not one of them.’
She let the door clash behind her. Here she was again, chucked out on the pavement, and this time she had a child to feed. She would feed her child, and send her to the best schools, too. Henriette Junot had pulled the rug, so Coralie would just have to weave herself a fine carpet.
She didn’t turn for home, but walked cautiously up blacked-out rue Royale to boulevard de la Madeleine, where a half-moon enabled her to find La Passerinette and a white card in the salon’s window. It was sandwiched between glass and blinds and Coralie had no reason to believe that it was anything other than the one that had been there since June: “We regret, La Passerinette has closed down. Please ring the bell for uncollected commissions.”
Paris millinery was a small world. The gossip was that Lorienne Royer had left Paris to open an independent shop in some other town. She’d abandoned her assistant, Violaine Beaumont, to deal with irate customers and to claim her salary from the Baronne von Silberstrom in London. Coralie could well believe it, but she hadn’t yet heard that La Passerinette had been sold.
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