‘Copper, come back!’ Amory yelled.
Somehow Copper crossed the few tumultuous yards to the screaming woman, fighting through the mob like a halfback. Copper put her arms around her and tried to shield her. But dozens of hands stopped her. She was manhandled away from the victim and thrown roughly on to the ground.
‘Are you crazy?’ Amory demanded, catching hold of his wife and pulling her to her feet. ‘You could have been killed.’
‘They’re going to lynch her. Do something!’
‘There’s nothing to be done.’
Bruised and breathless, Copper turned to Giroux. ‘Stop them!’
Giroux sucked on the stub of his cigarette. ‘You are brave but stupid, Madame.’
The mob hauled the weeping woman over to a lamp post. She held her arms out to her baby in a last, despairing gesture. Copper was unable to close her eyes to shut it out.
They pushed the victim on to the kitchen chair, where she cowered with tears streaming down her cheeks, the noose around her neck. A little old man was now brought through the crowd. He wore a white apron and held a pair of kitchen scissors. His wizened face was expressionless.
‘That is le Blanc, the pastry chef,’ Giroux said. ‘He lost two sons to the Gestapo.’
The old man grasped a handful of the woman’s fair hair and began to hack at it methodically with the scissors. The crowd were chanting, ‘Collaboratrice! Putain!’ The woman cried out at the scything strokes at first, then fell silent, as though accepting her fate. Her head jerked to and fro as the old man chopped.
He worked briskly. A cheer went up as the last golden snake slithered to the pavement. Not content, the old man chopped at the remaining tufts until the doll-like skull was almost completely nude. Then he spat deliberately in her face and made his way back through the throng to his shop. Hands reached out to pat his back as he passed. Copper was praying it would end there and nothing worse would be done. ‘Give her back her baby,’ she shouted to the knot of men.
Amid laughter, the baby was passed back to the victim, who clutched it to her throat. The infant seemed to be unharmed, but it was screaming in terror, its face crumpled and scarlet. The mother put it to her breast and it sucked urgently, its little body convulsing with intermittent sobs. Giroux pushed Copper towards the woman. ‘Go on, Joan of Arc. Take your photograph.’
Copper went forward. She held the camera at her waist and focused on the woman, who seemed to be stupefied with shock. All her prettiness was gone.
‘I’m sorry,’ Copper said. The woman stared at her with bloodshot eyes, her expression unreadable. Copper took two photographs.
The crowd began to drift away now that the spectacle was over. A few hung around to watch the half-naked woman suckle her infant, like a degraded Madonna. The door of her house remained closed, and Copper saw that the curtains were drawn at all the windows. The woman would sit there, an object of loathing, until her family finally plucked up the courage to let her back in. Her clothes had been strewn around the street, and the smart pram had been smashed.
‘The end of the promenade,’ Giroux said laconically.
Copper picked up the woman’s torn blouse and draped it over her as best she could, to cover her nakedness. Amory pulled her away angrily. ‘You were a goddamned fool,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
‘How could you stand there and do nothing?’
‘I wasn’t doing nothing. I was reporting. And you were here to get Fritchley-Bound his shots – not run defence on a lynch mob.’
‘I got the shots,’ she said sullenly. ‘And if he’s too hungover to write the article, I’ll do that as well, I guess.’
‘You’re too damned impulsive. You always act without thinking. You were just supposed to tag along. How many times must I tell you not to get involved?’
‘That was a disgusting scene.’
‘She’s lucky they didn’t butcher the little bastard,’ Giroux said calmly. ‘Do you know what the Gestapo did to their prisoners?’
‘All she did was fall in love and have a baby.’
He sneered. ‘Woman’s logic, eh?’
‘I was brought up to hate fascism,’ she shot back. ‘My father and my brothers were beaten up and thrown into jail by thugs like that. Your so-called partisans are no better than Hitler’s bully boys.’
Giroux stared at her speculatively. Then he tossed his cigarette stub away. ‘Okay. We go get your Paris frock.’
‘I don’t want a Paris frock anymore,’ Copper said as Giroux led them back to the jeep.
‘Why not? Because a whore had her head shaved? She deserved worse.’
‘I don’t believe that man has anything to do with the Resistance at all,’ Copper muttered to Amory. ‘I hate him.’
‘It’s perfectly possible to love Paris while detesting the French,’ Amory replied equably.
They set off towards the city centre. Copper used Fritchley-Bound’s remaining shots on odd details that caught her eye: bouquets left where people had died in the street, coffee drinkers enjoying the sunshine in front of restaurants where windows were starred with bullet holes, men on a ladder taking down a German sign for a soldiers’ cinema. She was starting to recover her calm.
After twenty minutes, they arrived at a sober storefront on a smart street close to the Champs-Élysées. Copper saw the name Lelong, and her spirits rose. Lucien Lelong was the very breath of what she had been longing for: powder and perfume and gowns, things that rustled and smelled sweet.
‘You’ve heard of Lelong?’ Giroux asked, seeing her expression.
‘Oh yes, I’ve heard of Lelong,’ Copper said. She was almost prepared to forgive Giroux for that repulsive episode with the collaboratrice. To have anything, anything at all bearing the Lelong label, symbol of the most classical French fashion, would be a dream. Then her hopes fell. ‘But I can’t afford a dress from here.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I am a practitioner of jiu-jitsu.’
‘Jiu-jitsu?’
He tapped his nose. ‘I know how to apply pressure in the right places.’
The salon was everything Copper had expected: painted in pearl tones and hung with grey silk; lit with sparkling chandeliers.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she sighed. It was as though the war, with its dreary utility clothes, was already over. Here were understated gowns and sophisticated outfits displayed with matching hats and accessories. The very air was scented and soft music flowed from some unseen loudspeaker. A few vendeuses stood quietly behind counters. There was nobody else. Copper fingered an exquisite jacket. The vendeuse nearby gave her a glassy smile.
‘May I be of assistance, Mademoiselle?’
‘We’re here to see Monsieur Christian,’ Giroux said curtly, and led them up the staircase at the back of the salon.
They climbed to the second floor and reached the atelier, a long room, well-lit by a row of windows. It was silent and deserted. A dozen half-finished outfits hung, pinned together, on wooden mannequins, but there were no seamstresses and their tools were scattered on the work benches as though they’d fled halfway through their work.
Giroux pushed open a door and they entered a little salon. It was curtained in grey crêpe de chine, panelled in pearl white and lit with bronze wall brackets. There were several large mirrors for clients to admire themselves in, but this room, too, was empty – except for a man who stood looking out of the window. He was half-obscured by the curtains and wearing a pin-striped suit. He turned a pale face to them with an expression of apprehension.
‘This is Monsieur Christian,’ Giroux announced. ‘I’ve brought you a customer, mon vieux.’
Monsieur Christian, who was balding and evidently in early middle age, came out from behind the drapes with the air of some timid creature flushed from its refuge. ‘Enchanted.’ He took Copper’s hand in his own soft, warm one, and bent over it politely.
‘How do you do?’ Copper said, feeling awkward. ‘So sorry to intrude into your private s
anctum.’
He waved that away. ‘You are most welcome, Madame . . . ?’
‘Heathcote.’
He struggled with the Anglo-Saxon syllables. ‘Madame Eat-Cot.’ He looked her up and down with his head on one side. ‘And what was it you were thinking of?’
Before she could reply, Giroux cut in. ‘An outfit. Complete with hat. And accessories.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I could afford all that,’ Copper said with a nervous laugh. ‘All I wanted was a frock, perhaps—’
‘It will be Lucien Lelong’s pleasure to present you with the outfit as a gift,’ Giroux said. ‘Won’t it?’
Monsieur Christian flinched. ‘A gift?’
Copper was mortified. ‘I couldn’t possibly accept.’
Giroux ignored her. ‘Where are all your customers?’ he asked the couturier contemptuously, showing his sharp teeth. ‘Your shop is deserted. Perhaps that is because your customers were all Nazis, collaborators and black-market queens. And perhaps it is healthier for those sorts of persons to remain at home these days.’
Monsieur Christian’s cheeks went pink and he sucked his lower lip like an embarrassed child. Copper turned to Giroux. ‘This isn’t what I wanted, Monsieur Giroux. I don’t expect anything for free. Just tell me how much it will cost.’
‘It will cost nothing,’ Giroux insisted. ‘The House of Lelong collaborated with the Nazis for four years. Now there is atonement to be made.’
‘The House of Lelong kept the Germans at bay for four years,’ Monsieur Christian said in a low voice, his face redder than ever. ‘It is thanks to Lelong that we have any couture remaining in Paris at all.’
‘Who cares about couture?’ Giroux demanded. ‘You and Chanel, and the other bourgeois parasites, you pander to the rich and the decadent whatever language they speak. You’re all traitors.’
‘You will permit me to disagree with you, Monsieur,’ the dressmaker said, his voice sinking even lower. He was clearly not a man who relished confrontation, but he had a quiet dignity. ‘We have our own opinion on the matter. But it’s of no account and it will be a pleasure to accommodate Madame.’
‘I can’t accept that,’ Copper said, glaring at Giroux.
‘I assure you, Mademoiselle, it will make a welcome change from standing here all day without clients,’ Monsieur Christian said with the lightest irony. ‘If the gentlemen will leave the room, I will take measurements.’
‘Why should I leave the room?’ Giroux growled.
Monsieur Christian rolled his eyes. ‘It is quite impossible for measurements to be taken with gentlemen present.’
‘What – not even the husband?’ Amory demanded.
‘Especially not the husband.’
‘She’s my wife, damn it.’
By way of an answer, Monsieur Christian indicated the door, his eyes closed. He was clearly not going to move – or open his eyes – until the men had departed. There was something commanding about this immobility, and to Copper’s amusement, Amory and Giroux both stamped out of the room, slamming the door behind them. Monsieur Christian opened his eyes with a sigh. ‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘If Madame will remove the camera? And the outer clothing?’
Deciding that she would discuss the issue of proper payment later, Copper took off the Rolleiflex, which was dangling heavily around her neck, and got out of her dungarees. Monsieur Christian folded her drab garments as carefully as if they were a queen’s robes, and then considered the spectacle of Copper in her underwear, pinching his fleshy chin between finger and thumb.
‘A pity,’ he said.
‘What’s a pity?’ Copper asked. Oddly, she felt no embarrassment at being appraised by the couturier in a state of semi-nudity.
‘Your proportions.’ He looped a tape measure around her bust and sucked his lip. ‘But this can easily be remedied.’ He produced a cardboard box and lifted the lid to reveal two generously rounded objects. ‘I always recommend these to those of my clients whom nature has neglected.’
‘Falsies?’
‘Foam rubber. Pre-war. Very hard to obtain nowadays.’
‘No, thank you. I’ll stick with what I have.’
He put them away. ‘Perhaps you are right. But you do not look like a Frenchwoman, Madame.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘The lack of curves would normally be a drawback which we would try to remedy with some padding.’
‘Please, no padding.’
‘But in your case – with these long legs, the high waist, the height, the vigour . . .’ He stood back and studied her, holding one elbow and stroking his cheek with his free hand. ‘You are obviously athletic.’
‘I hate sports. But American girls are quite active, you know.’
‘Indeed. There is a certain garçon air – not a bad thing in itself, you understand. In fact . . .’ He seemed to be growing excited as he prowled around her. ‘In fact, stimulating. A challenge. The hair is passable. And the face, of course. The legs – flawless.’
‘I’m glad something meets with your approval.’
‘I recall a time when showing the ankles was considered the height of obscenity. Now we require the whole leg. Well, let’s begin.’
He set to work. As she allowed herself to be measured, Copper surveyed him in return. He had a long, beaky nose and a sensitive, soft mouth. She noted his gleaming black shoes and starched cuffs, the whiff of cologne.
The door opened, and one of the vendeuses stuck her head round it anxiously. ‘Pardon, Monsieur Christian, but the man Giroux is stealing everything he can lay his hands on. He’s stuffing his pockets.’
‘Let him take what he wants,’ the couturier said impatiently. ‘Go away.’
The door closed again. Monsieur Christian jotted down a great many figures in a notebook. ‘May I ask how an American woman comes to be in Paris in wartime?’
‘My husband is a war correspondent. He pulled strings to get me accredited so I could tag along.’
‘Not many women would be eager for such accreditation.’
‘Oh, I’m always ready for an adventure. I tagged along with my dad and brothers from the time I could walk. They even gave me my own placard to carry.’
‘A placard?’
‘It said, “A Fair Wage for a Fair Day’s Work”.’
‘A good sentiment.’
‘I guess it was formative.’
‘And your husband is a beautiful young man,’ Monsieur Christian pointed out. ‘Really, one of the handsomest men I have ever seen.’
‘Oh, he’s easy on the eye. But I can stand to tear my gaze away from him now and then. What I couldn’t stand was staying at home while he got all the fun. Besides, he’s pretty much helpless without me.’
‘“Fun”?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I have to tell you that you are my first American client, Madame Eat-Cot. But if they are all like you, the world is in for a shock.’
‘You bet it is,’ she agreed.
‘Hold yourself upright, if you please. Hand on hip, head to one side. Good. You have the carriage. It helps one so much. European women stay slim by starving themselves. It gives them what one might call a pinched look and they often remain flabby. This is something else. This slimness comes from musculature. And yet it’s not at all masculine. It’s really a very new idea.’
‘There are plenty more like me in New York,’ Copper replied wryly. ‘Women run around there all day long, trust me on that.’
‘And what, may I ask, will happen when you grow tired of “tagging along”?’
‘You mean, if I get cold feet?’
‘I mean, when you want something for yourself.’
‘Well, there’s always housework and the kitchen. There’s a lot to learn about vacuum-cleaning, you know. Perfecting the American apple pie has been a dream of mine since girlhood. And having six little rosy babies, just like Mom did.’
‘You’re making fun of me.’
‘Yes, I am,’ she admitted. ‘Sorry. I’m enjoying the ride so
far, Monsieur Christian. I don’t think too far ahead.’
‘Remarkable,’ he said. ‘I will make some drawings and perhaps you can return in a day or so?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Not at all. You may dress yourself now.’
As they said goodbye, he bent gallantly over her hand so she could almost see her reflection in his balding pate. He was obviously amused by her and she was glad to have amused him. The impression she got from him was of gentleness and reserve rather than the haughty arrogance she would have expected from a Paris couturier. He saw her to the top of the stairs and watched as she walked down. She got a last glimpse of his hazel eyes following her.
‘You embarrassed me,’ she told Giroux roundly at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Asking that sweet little man to make me a wardrobe!’
‘That “sweet little man” dressed the wives of Nazis.’
‘I don’t suppose he had much choice.’
‘Everyone has a choice, Mam’selle. Dior made his.’
‘Dior?’
‘That is his name. Christian Dior. He’s one of Lelong’s best men. The other is Pierre Balmain, but they say Dior is better.’
She noticed that Giroux’s pockets were bulging with loot. A large pair of pinking shears protruded from one of them and silk ribbons spilled from another. He was giving a new meaning, she thought dryly, to the Liberation of Paris.
Two
As Copper had anticipated, the Frightful Bounder was too ill to write the article, so she did it; pounding away at his portable Underwood until her fingers were numb. George had once been a good journalist and she knew how to mimic his laconic style, so it came out well. The developed photographs were dramatic, too. The whole piece was good, if biting in tone, and an antidote to the usual gushing stuff that filled the pages of the newspapers. No sooner had George managed to raise himself from his bed than he began drinking again, so Copper even had to package up the story and the photos to be sent off to his editor. His total contribution to the article was to add his shaky signature to the covering letter. She left the package on the table for him to send. He could at least manage that much.
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