He was, however, pathetically grateful to Copper, and returned from his next drinking session with a gift for her – something wrapped in an oily parcel of brown paper tied with butcher’s string.
‘What’s this?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Foie gras. Goose liver. Great delicacy among the French.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Very grateful to you, old thing. Can’t say it enough times.’
She hadn’t ever tried foie gras and didn’t much like the look of the stuff; but struck by a thought, she took it with her as a gift when she went back to Lucien Lelong a day later.
She went alone this time, leaving Amory working at his typewriter in their flat. She found the salon in the same quiet state as before. The vendeuses were in little groups, whispering to each other. They followed Copper with kohl-rimmed eyes as she made her way between the displays and up the stairs, like gazelles watching a leopard.
There was more activity in the atelier, however: three young women were working together, bent over what was evidently a wedding dress. Their coarse hair and strong arms made a contrast to the white satin on to which they were swiftly sewing sequins. They glanced at her, unsmiling. The whole place, she thought, was like something out of a surrealist film. She found Christian Dior in the little salon in the same attitude, gazing out of the window. He turned his long-nosed face to her apprehensively. ‘Yes?’
‘Good morning, Monsieur Christian.’
He brightened at the sight of her. ‘Ah, Madame Eat-Cot. I have a design for you.’
‘Please, everyone calls me Copper.’
‘Copper?’ he repeated in surprise.
‘I have my brothers to thank for that.’ She gestured at her hair. ‘Because of this. My real name is Oona, but nobody ever calls me that.’
‘I much prefer Oona. Copper is an ugly name for such a striking woman,’ he said frankly.
She proffered the parcel. ‘I brought you this. I hope it’s acceptable.’ She felt embarrassed at delivering such a greasy package in such a spotless setting. But as he unfolded the paper, his eyes widened.
‘A whole foie gras,’ he gasped.
‘Is it all right? I was told it was good.’
‘This is for me?’
‘If you’ll accept it.’
She was dismayed to see that his eyes were suddenly moist. ‘Excuse me.’ He hurried from the salon with the package. In his absence, she went to the window where he had been standing. The smart street below was quiet. Why did he stand here all day, looking out, waiting – for what?
He came back into the room without the foie gras. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were puffy. ‘I hope I didn’t upset you?’ she said anxiously.
‘I was a little overcome. You are very kind. The cards foretold a gift for me today, but I had no idea it would be from you. It has been a long time since I tasted foie gras – my favourite dish of all.’
‘Oh, I’m so happy.’
‘Where is your husband?’
‘He didn’t come this time.’
‘Perhaps that’s better. Between couturier and client, it’s like in the confessional. The souls are bared and each brings the other closer to God.’ He giggled.
‘Before we go any further, I want to clear something up – there’s no question of you working for nothing. That was Giroux’s idea, not mine. I am happy to pay.’
He spread his hands. ‘And I am happy to make you a gift.’
‘Absolutely not. I’m mortified by the way Giroux spoke to you.’
His gentle brown eyes were suddenly sad. ‘My dear, if you wish to find those who did not collaborate with the Germans, I invite you to visit the cemeteries of Paris. Those who still have legs to walk with and air in their lungs – you may be sure that they all collaborated with the Germans. My employer, Lucien Lelong, stood up to the Nazis when they wanted to move all the designers and all our workers to Berlin. He refused. He could have been shot for that.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘One could be shot for almost anything. Can you imagine how it infuriated the Germans to see the Parisiennes well-dressed and smiling? They would say, “You lost the war, why are you so gay?” And we would reply, “You won the war, why are you so sad?” That was our Resistance. Even to make the wives of Nazi officers stylish – that, too, was resistance. It proved how superior French taste is to theirs.’
‘Then you are certainly a hero of the Resistance,’ Copper said, smiling.
‘Giroux is a bully boy, and so are his men.’
‘Are they picketing you?’
‘Effectively, yes. They admire Stalin and hate everything beautiful. Don’t worry, we’ll get back to work. Back to the life we once had.’
‘How much would the dress . . . umm . . . ?’ she asked, more delicately.
He sucked his lower lip. ‘In the ordinary course of events . . . let us say about five thousand francs. But let’s leave that for now.’ He showed her the drawing he had made. ‘What do you think?’
She studied the sketch, trying to work out how much five thousand francs was in dollars. It was an awful lot, even with the devalued franc. But the dress! She caught her breath. He drew effortlessly. The lines were flowing and graceful, outlining a ravishing costume. ‘It’s absolutely lovely.’
‘You think so? The problem is locating enough silk. The Germans confiscated it all for parachutes. We have taffeta for the underskirt.’
‘I really don’t need silk.’
‘You must permit me, my dear, to have my own vision of you.’ He spoke with great seriousness. ‘I mean, the woman inside’ – he waved his expressive fingers at her khaki trousers and dingy blouse – ‘this.’
‘But it will be expensive.’
He was poring over his own drawing as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘I love full skirts. Nothing is more romantic. The waist is drawn in. And you see the curves at the bust and shoulders?’
‘I see why you wanted me to wear falsies.’
‘The bust is the most beautiful attribute of a woman’s body,’ he pronounced. He eyed Copper’s slight breasts regretfully. ‘Within the scope of whatever nature supplies to each individual, of course.’
‘Monsieur Christian, I suspect you have a mother complex,’ she said gravely.
He blinked and then smiled. When he smiled, the corners of his mouth turned up, but his eyes seemed to remain sad. ‘My mother loved fine clothes, of course. But I remember her perfume most of all.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Everywhere she went, the scent of flowers went with her.’
‘She must have been lovely.’
‘I would like to clothe all women with flowers. You remember the Bible? The lilies of the field? Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’
‘That’s an interesting ambition.’
He raised a forefinger. ‘I go beyond that. My ambition is to save women from themselves.’
‘Good heavens. Are we in such peril, then?’
‘Between Chanel and her little black jerseys, and the beasts who design military uniforms, yes. Not to mention the zazous and their manias. Or the diktats of Utility, with its two pockets, five buttons and six seams. Your position is extremely perilous.’
‘It’s all in the cause of efficiency.’
He gave a shudder. ‘That word. Please never mention it again in my presence.’
Copper laughed. ‘I won’t.’
‘So. I will go ahead with this model.’
‘If that’s what you really want to do.’ She had been thinking of something simple that she could show off in New York. But if Monsieur Dior wanted to turn her into a magazine fashion plate, it was ill-mannered to argue. And although five thousand francs was an astronomical price for an outfit when five American dollars would purchase a Sears frock, she might never get another chance to own a Paris gown.
‘It is my decision,’ he affirmed. Despite the gentleness, there was a certain steely strength in the man. ‘Obtaining the fabric presents a certain challenge. I will need six metres of sil
k, at least. But I think I know where to find it.’
As he showed her out, he said, ‘You are a captivating woman. Your husband is a lucky man.’
Copper smiled. ‘I think he is, too. I’m going to go home and tell him that right now.’
Copper returned to the flat to find it smelling strongly of Chanel No. 5. It was the perfume of the season. Gallons of it had been given away to GIs by Coco Chanel in an effort to erase her wartime record as a Nazi collaborator. The GIs had, in turn, bartered the perfume for sex; and the stuff was now being worn by every pute in Paris.
‘Have you had a visitor?’ she asked Amory, who was hammering at his typewriter, working on his novel.
‘No. Why?’
‘The place stinks of Chanel.’
‘Oh. Yes. A grubby little man came round, trying to sell a few bottles. He splashed it all over to show it was genuine.’
‘You’ve certainly got it all over you.’ She evaded his attempt to embrace her and went to the bedroom. Their bed was carelessly made – not the way she’d left it – the pillows dented and smeared with face powder. She stood staring at the bed, trying not to cry. Amory came in behind her.
‘It doesn’t mean anything, you know,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘You’re the only one who matters to me, Copper.’
She turned to face him. ‘But apparently I’m not enough.’
‘Well, it’s not as though we have a sparkling sex life these days. You never seem to want to make love anymore.’
She grimaced at that painful accusation. ‘Can you blame me?’
He rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose I’ve been behaving badly lately. Too much booze, too much sex, too many parties, too much of everything, really. I’ve been working on my novel a lot, and that makes me promiscuous.’
‘You’re always promiscuous.’
‘Well, that’s how I am. You know that.’
She started to cry. ‘Oh, Amory. In our bed.’
‘I could swear that I’m going to reform. But I might as well swear to change the colour of my eyes. It’s no good. And you know how they throw themselves at me.’ He spoke with the casual self-confidence of a man who knew he was beautiful.
The stinging tears slid down her cheeks and she dashed them away. ‘I don’t think I can stand this much longer.’
‘It was only a little kiss and cuddle, as it happens. We didn’t go any further than that.’
‘I don’t believe you; not that it matters.’
He shrugged, and went back to his typewriter. Copper stripped the bed, trying to stop crying. This wasn’t the first time, or the second, or even the third. She’d fooled herself about Amory’s infidelities, accepting his casual lies, telling herself that it didn’t matter, or she didn’t care, so long as he loved her. But it did matter. And this was the first time he’d taken another woman to their bed. That hurt very much indeed. It showed that he was now completely indifferent to her feelings.
She’d once been so feisty. She’d been the littlest one who’d grown up motherless with five siblings in a crowded apartment. She’d been the ginger kid who had marched with her father and brothers on the freezing picket lines.
She’d been appointed by the small fry to deal with the schoolyard bullies. She’d been the hoyden who’d been expelled from St Columba’s for slugging Sister Bridget (nobody had ever hit back before). Amory had fallen in love with her, so he’d said, for her fieriness.
But life with Amory had slowly and steadily put the dampers on her fire. He’d systematically frozen it out in that cool, calm way he had. She wanted to rage and scream, but she couldn’t. The scream stayed locked up inside her. She could tackle a lynch mob, but not her husband.
Screaming at Amory didn’t just come under the ‘nagging, pestering or complaining’ that the good wife was supposed to eschew. It would make him retreat into an icy fortress. He did not tolerate displays of emotion. And the fear that he would grow tired of her was always there. If a marriage was in trouble, you were supposed to fix it, not walk away. That’s what the experts said.
She went to the kitchen. ‘Do you want coffee?’ she asked Amory, in as near to a normal tone as she could manage. She saw his face relax as he realised that she wasn’t going to make a scene or demand further discussion.
‘Sure. How was Dior?’
‘He’s designed an outfit for me,’ she said, putting the percolator together blindly. Her voice was strained as she reached for a façade of normality. ‘I insisted on paying. He wants five thousand francs.’
‘I’ll give you the money.’
She was not going to be bought off that easily. ‘No, thank you,’ she said in a brittle voice. ‘I’ve got the money.’
‘If that’s what you want to spend it on. Fashion is dead. Everyone knows that.’
‘What would you know about it?’
‘Don’t snap at me.’
‘Then don’t talk nonsense to me.’
He rattled out another sentence on his typewriter, his long fingers deft. ‘Let’s go out tonight.’
‘Where to?’
‘La Vie Parisienne. Said to be the most decadent bar in Paris.’
‘I think I’ve had enough decadence for one day.’
‘Oh, come on, kid. We’re in Paris. It won’t do either of us any good to sit at home moping.’
If she didn’t go with him, she’d have no idea what he was up to. But the idea of having to keep tabs on her husband was repugnant. It wasn’t much of a choice. Sitting home wondering what shade of lipstick he would get on his collar was marginally worse.
‘Okay,’ she said emptily. ‘I’ll come.’
La Vie Parisienne turned out to be just the sort of place that Amory liked. In every city they’d been together, he’d found such haunts where he seemed able to relax and enjoy himself, observing, taking notes and getting drunk.
The place was located in a narrow street close to their apartment. The entrance was grotto-like, and a number of raucous women in garish clothes were standing outside, apparently squabbling over money. They ogled Amory as he made his way between them.
Inside, the impression was even more cavern-like. The rooms were crowded, dark and smoky. The walls were hung with hundreds of portraits. At the far end was a piano where a fat woman in a man’s suit and bowler hat was playing jazz. A few couples were dancing. All the tables seemed full. Copper was put off by the atmosphere of the place, but Amory cheered up immediately. ‘This is more like it. Let’s get a drink.’ The bar was crowded and people were staring at them with apparent hostility. Suddenly, a sleek form floated out to meet them. It was Christian Dior in evening dress, his smooth cheeks flushed. ‘What a surprise to see you here.’
Copper was happy to see a familiar and friendly face. ‘Monsieur Dior!’
He took their arms. ‘Come to our table. It’s in the corner where we can watch everyone. It’s our favourite occupation.’ Edging their way to the far corner of the bar, they passed a table where a shock-haired man with a thin face was holding forth to a circle of devoted listeners. ‘Cocteau,’ Dior told them. ‘He never stops talking. I want you to meet my dear friend Francis Poulenc, the composer. Francis, this is the American beauty I told you about, and this is her husband.’
Poulenc was a pleasantly ugly man with hair cut en brosse, who greeted them courteously as they squeezed around the cramped table. Copper, who was not musical, had never heard of him, but Amory obviously had.
‘Monsieur Poulenc, I’d be glad of the chance to interview you. I’m a war correspondent.’
‘Well, I’m not General de Gaulle, though I have been a humble infantryman.’
‘You were in the army?’
‘Poulenc and I were called up together. We performed the only glorious part of an inglorious campaign,’ Dior said. ‘We dug onions. Wearing hideous wooden sabots. Each foot weighed two kilos, I assure you.’
‘Three, at least,’ Poulenc said. ‘If you wish to understand the term saboteur,
you need only consider the French sabot in all its massive, indestructible majesty – a shoe to derail a train or crack even a German cranium.’
‘The soul of France,’ Dior agreed. ‘Unyielding to the last. What will you drink?’
‘Something French,’ Copper said. Her spirits were lifting for the first time since that morning. ‘No – something Parisian.’
‘Leave it to me,’ Dior said, and disappeared into the crowd again.
‘He’s been describing you to me,’ Poulenc told Copper.
‘Really?’
‘He’s impressed with you. He says you are a new breed of woman and the world is in for a shock.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s exactly a good thing.’
‘It’s rare for him to make new friends. He’s very shy.’
‘But he likes to get his own way.’
‘Ah, so you’ve learned that about him already,’ Poulenc said solemnly. ‘You began well with the gift of a whole foie gras, I might add. That was a good start to the friendship.’
‘I only took it to him because I had nothing else to give.’
‘You couldn’t have chosen better. He’s as greedy as a child. You may be sure that he has eaten the whole thing already.’
‘He’s too fat,’ Amory said from behind his notebook.
‘Yes, don’t you think he looks like a penguin in his dinner jacket? And I, a seal?’
‘He seems to have done well under the Germans,’ Amory commented.
‘His sister, Catherine, was arrested by the Gestapo,’ Poulenc said mildly. ‘Just a few weeks before the invasion began. She was in the Resistance. They’ve sent her to Ravensbrück, a concentration camp in Germany.’
‘Oh, how terrible,’ Copper exclaimed. ‘Is there any news of her?’
‘Only from the clairvoyants Dior consults every day. He’s very superstitious, you know. They assure him that she’s alive, but—’ He shrugged.
Dior had returned with a waiter who was bearing a tray of drinks. ‘Kir Royale,’ he announced. ‘Made with Dom Pérignon, of course. I adore Dom Pérignon.’ They raised their glasses. ‘Do you like this place?’ Dior asked her, his head on one side. He was subtly different out of the atelier, Copper thought – more relaxed and less inhibited.
The Designer Page 3