‘It’s interesting,’ she replied diplomatically. ‘But tell me – are those strange-looking women outside prostitutes?’ she asked.
Dior’s eyebrows rose in surprise and he seemed at a loss for words. Amory grinned at her. ‘I’m sure you’re half-right, anyway, honeybun.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nobody answered her. The champagne cocktails were followed by another round. The bar was becoming even noisier and more crowded. To a burst of applause, a handsome and statuesque blonde woman went up to the piano and began to sing in a rich contralto.
‘That’s Suzy Solidor,’ Poulenc said to Copper. ‘She owns the bar. Cocteau put up the money. He’s very shrewd – they’re making a fortune. You see all these paintings on the walls? They’re all of Suzy.’
Looking closely, Copper saw that Poulenc was right. ‘There are so many. Some are better than others, though.’
He pointed. ‘That’s the best one. De Lempicka. Over there is a Picasso. And next to it, Braque. She’s determined to become the most painted woman in history. It’s colossal vanity or genius; nobody can tell which.’
‘I think she’s wonderful,’ Copper said, rapt by the singer’s striking face, platinum bob and throbbing voice.
‘You think so?’ Poulenc said, watching her. ‘I can introduce you, if you want. At your own risk.’
‘Oh, I’d like that.’
‘Of course,’ he replied with a half-smile. But again, she had the impression of not quite getting something that was obvious to others. The pianist now struck up ‘Lili Marlène’. Though the song was popular with Allied soldiers and being sung in French tonight, it was a German song, and Copper was surprised to hear it here and now. And indeed, there were catcalls and boos from some of the audience – and something defiant in the way Miss Solidor delivered it.
‘It’s her signature song,’ Poulenc put in. ‘She sang it to Nazi officers every night. The Resistance hate her. She sings it to show she’s not afraid of them now.’
‘Suzy is brave, but not wise,’ Dior said.
Copper smiled wryly. ‘Funny. Someone said that about me recently.’
Poulenc leaned over to her and murmured, ‘She and Cocteau dined with Coco Chanel at the Ritz every week during the Occupation. Only the close friends of the Germans were allowed to stay there. Chanel had a suite. There was a certain sector sympathetic to the Nazis – you understand?’
A group of three young women now took the table next to theirs; young, beautiful and beautifully dressed. ‘Schiaparelli’s mannequins,’ Dior said. ‘The envy of every couturier in Paris. Aren’t they marvellous?’
Copper stared at the women, resplendent in their satin gowns. They were so ravishing that she didn’t even feel embarrassed at her own scruffy outfit. Their clothes were astonishing. No matter how she dressed, she could never be as brilliant as one of these women.
The gossip round the table was wild, punctuated with bursts of frenzied laughter. The Allies had reached the Marne. Coco Chanel had been exposed as a Nazi spy and had fled to Switzerland with her German lover. The communists were poised to take over Paris. The Maquis had shot Maurice Chevalier as a collaborator and were hunting Mistinguett. They had killed Marshal Pétain and stuck his head on a spike. It was dizzying how many rumours were sweeping to and fro.
And the champagne was dizzying, too. She hadn’t drunk like this for a long time, and after a while her head was spinning. But not enough to prevent her seeing that Amory was now talking to a young, curly-haired woman whose low-cut dress displayed a spectacular cleavage, to which he was giving his full attention. Copper saw the woman throw back her head to laugh gaily at something he said.
She turned away from him to Poulenc and Dior, who were sitting together like shy children at a grown-up party. ‘Everyone is entitled to be loved,’ she said, her words slurring.
‘Francis and I are too plain to have lovers,’ Dior said, draining his glass. ‘I think we need more drinks.’
‘He has a very low opinion of himself,’ she said to Poulenc when Dior had gone.
‘Very low and very high.’
‘He stands at the window all day, looking out as though he is waiting for something.’
‘Ah, yes. We’re all wondering what will come next for our little Monsieur Dior. He’s quite the genius, you know. He had a terrible disappointment. His father went bankrupt, and Christian was forced to close his art gallery and sell all his paintings – masterpieces by Dufy, Miró, Dalí and the rest – for a song. Now he designs dresses for ladies.’
‘Amory says fashion is dead.’
‘They told me music was dead. That every possible combination of notes had been exhausted and that there were no new melodies to be written. And yet, I flatter myself that I have managed to compose some new tunes that nobody has heard before. Perhaps simple, but pleasing, easily remembered and fresh. I should be surprised if Dior is not capable of the same feat.’
‘Then perhaps that will make him rich and famous.’
‘He has friends who love him anyway. And he has luck. With Dior, there are three things you can count on: his luck, his talent and his friendship.’
The talented Monsieur Dior returned with another round of drinks. Amory’s companion was still squealing with laughter, her bright blue eyes sparkling, her brown curls dancing around her face as she flirted. Copper noted that she was English with a saucy cockney accent.
‘Who is that woman?’ she asked Dior.
‘A Londoner. She calls herself a model.’
‘She’s making up to my husband.’
Poulenc shook his cropped head. ‘That one makes up to every man in sight.’
Chairs were being pushed together to accommodate new arrivals: Jean Cocteau, Suzy Solidor and some others had joined them. Poulenc beckoned the blonde singer to the chair next to Copper.
‘This is Copper, Suzy. She wants to meet you. She is Christian’s latest muse.’
Suzy was not as young as Copper had first thought; perhaps in her mid-forties. But she was a beautiful woman, with a face that was somehow mask-like. She examined Copper with hooded brown eyes to her platinum hair. ‘Christian always has excellent taste,’ she said in her husky voice.
‘Oh, I’m sure I’m not Monsieur Dior’s muse in any way at all,’ Copper said, embarrassed.
The singer’s hand covered Copper’s smoothly. ‘You are a breath of cool air,’ she purred. ‘Youth, energy, freshness. That’s what we crave. We have become so tired of the greyness. Tell me all about yourself.’
‘There’s nothing to tell, Madame.’
‘Suzy, please. You will make a perfect muse for Christian. When American women are beautiful, they are more beautiful than any others. Now, tell me everything.’ She smiled, showing teeth that were – like the rest of her – healthy and handsome.
This rather steamy attention, flattering as it was, made Copper feel hot all over. She found herself gabbling, her tongue loosened by the cocktails, about her childhood, the death of her mother, her whirlwind romance with Amory. The chanteuse listened, her chin resting on her cupped hand, her eyes dreamily fixed on Copper and her nostrils arched, as though inhaling some rare incense. As Copper’s recitation tailed off, Suzy leaned over to Dior.
‘What a discovery, Christian. This child is exquisite.’
Dior nodded. ‘But of course she is.’
‘I intend to steal her from you.’
‘I will not permit that.’
Though she knew she was just being teased, Copper felt uncomfortable, and tried to squirm away from the limelight. Miss Solidor kept hold of her hand, a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring, but made her feel somewhat trapped. Luckily, Jean Cocteau was now holding forth, his hypnotic eyes sweeping over them all. Copper’s rusty French – and the Dom Pérignon – made it hard for her to follow his words.
‘What’s Le Théâtre de la Mode?’ she asked, catching a phrase that Cocteau was repeating.
‘It’s an idea of Lelong’s,
’ Poulenc said.
‘It’s not Lelong’s idea, it’s Nina Ricci’s,’ one of the mannequins said.
The others chimed in. ‘Not Nina Ricci’s, either; it came from her son, Robert.’
‘I thought it was Cocteau’s idea.’
‘Not mine,’ Cocteau said. ‘Fashion bores me.’
‘Wherever it came from, it’s sheer genius.’
Dior explained. ‘We must show the world that, despite the war, Paris is still the capital of haute couture,’ he said. ‘Not New York. We must have a spring fashion show, of course. But there are eighty or ninety fashion houses in Paris. That means thousands of new models to be made. And we don’t have enough fabric. We have hardly any silk. The Germans took it all. We don’t have buttons, thread, leather, fur, anything we need. So the idea is—’
‘To have a fashion show with dolls,’ one of the Schiaparelli models interrupted excitedly.
‘Dolls?’
‘Little figurines, two feet high, wearing miniature outfits.’
‘On miniature sets.’
‘Yes. Each fashion house would make a little stage with a theme. A fairy tale, a Paris scene. And the new models would be on display.’
‘It’s a ridiculous idea,’ someone said, laughing.
‘I think it’s a wonderful idea,’ Copper exclaimed, beguiled by the vision. ‘It’s enchanting.’ She looked for Amory to share her enthusiasm with him, but he had slipped away, together with the English ‘model’, and was nowhere to be seen. Her heart fell sickeningly. Where had they gone? Perhaps they were in the lobby?
She got up. ‘I need some air.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Suzy Solidor asked her.
Without answering, Copper left the table and pushed through the crowd and into the lobby. They weren’t there, either. She hurried out into the street. The jeep was gone. Amory and the ‘model’ had departed.
Dior appeared beside her. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘My husband has disappeared.’ She tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. ‘He’s gone where the grass is greener.’
Suzy Solidor had followed her, too. ‘Let him go,’ she advised. ‘Men are all the same.’ She took Copper’s arm. ‘Come back to the bar.’
Copper disengaged herself. ‘Thank you, but I think I’ve had enough. I’m going home.’
‘Then let me call you a taxi,’ Dior offered.
‘I’ll walk. It’s just a few streets. Besides, I don’t want to arrive too soon. That mightn’t be very delicate.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ Dior said. ‘Let me get our coats.’ He went back inside.
The blonde singer was studying Copper. ‘I know the type,’ she said. ‘He’s not worth your tears.’
Copper, who did not want to hear this, turned away. ‘You don’t know anything about him.’
‘Au contraire,’ the other woman replied, not without compassion. She patted Copper’s arm. ‘I do. They give a little pleasure and a lot of pain.’
‘Well, he’s my husband.’
‘That can be changed, chérie.’
Dior shortly reappeared wearing a felt hat and a stylish gabardine overcoat and carrying her much shabbier one. He helped her on with it. The singer stood outside her club, watching them walk down the street. ‘Come back tomorrow,’ she called after Copper.
The danger of air raids had not passed. None of the street lamps were lit. But the blackout was starting to be relaxed here and there. Curtains were being left open in the mansions, like gold sequins scattered on black velvet, and the boats that purred up and down the river carried sparks of red and green that were reflected in the water. There were couples everywhere, walking, laughing, kissing under cover of the darkness.
‘This is kind of you,’ Copper said to Dior.
‘Not at all. I like to walk. One wartime privation that it’s hard to mourn is the lack of gasoline. It has compelled us to rediscover our city on foot.’
‘At least the Germans are gone.’
‘The Germans are gone. But we’re still not ourselves. We have exchanged with you Americans, to your advantage. You have the mode, we have zazou.’
She’d heard him use the word before. ‘Zazou?’
He shrugged. ‘These hideous jazz women with square shoulders and heavy shoes, the hair piled up on the head like a haystack, the huge sunglasses and the crimson lipstick. It was a way of spitting in the Nazi’s faces. But it’s time to return to true elegance.’
‘And what defines true elegance?’ she asked wryly as they crossed the wide, empty, cobbled streets.
‘Dressing with care.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Far from it. But that is the essence.’
They reached the apartment on the rue de Rivoli. To Copper’s relief, the jeep was not parked outside. At least Amory hadn’t taken the woman to their bed.
As if following her train of thought, Dior asked, ‘How long have you been married?’
‘A year and a half. We’ve come a long way together.’
He nodded. ‘You deserve to be happy.’
‘It’s elusive, though, isn’t it?’ she replied.
‘Yes, it’s elusive.’
‘Thank you so much, Monsieur Christian. You’re most kind.’
‘Not at all. We will see each other in the atelier, I hope, tomorrow.’
He saw her to her door. She unlocked it, knowing she would burst into tears as soon as she was alone. Then she took a step back. A scene of horror greeted her in the hallway. George Fritchley-Bound was lying face down on the floor in a wide, dark pool of blood.
She rushed to his side and heaved him over to look into his face. He had been lying like that for so long that the blood had jellified on his face. His eyes were rolled back in his head. He was cold and dead.
Three
‘There are no external factors,’ the police captain said. He was flipping through the pathologist’s report. In wartime, autopsies were done almost immediately and took no more than a brutal half hour. ‘The cause of death was blood loss due to a ruptured stomach ulcer.’ He looked up at Copper and Amory, who were sitting on the other side of his desk. ‘The liver showed signs of advanced alcoholism.’
‘He was a heavy drinker,’ Amory said, shrugging.
‘The drinking caused the ulcer and the ulcer killed him. He emptied many a bottle and was himself, in the end, emptied.’ The captain tossed the report down. ‘We have no interest in the case. There will be no inquest. There is nothing further. You may collect your friend’s body.’
In the street outside the police station, Amory put his arm around Copper. ‘Are you okay?’
She pushed him away furiously. ‘Don’t you dare touch me.’
‘Take it easy.’
‘You left me to deal with that all on my own. How could you?’
‘Well, how was I to know the old bugger had died?’ he asked practically.
‘Of course you didn’t know. You were in that woman’s bed until dawn.’
‘As a matter of fact—’
‘Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?’ she demanded, shaky with exhaustion and rage. ‘Finding poor George dead on the floor. Dealing with the police. The blood.’ Copper covered her face. ‘Oh my God, the blood. It’s everywhere. It’s soaked into the floorboards.’
‘We’ll clear out of there today. We’ve got to leave Paris, anyway, and get as close to Dijon as we can. We may as well set off, now that the police are finished with us.’
She shuddered. ‘Thank God for Dior. If he hadn’t been there, I don’t know what I would have done. He was wonderful. He got me over my hysterics, dealt with the police, was an absolute shining knight.’ She turned to Amory. ‘I’ll never forgive you for this, Amory.’
His calm was unshakeable. ‘Be reasonable. I went out for a breath of fresh air. You were gone when I got back to the club. I had no idea where you were.’
‘Oh, what a load. You got your claws into that woman and eloped with her in the
jeep.’
‘Well, you seemed happy as a clam with the lesbian.’
‘What lesbian?’
‘The blonde bombshell. Solidor.’
‘Suzy? She’s not a lesbian.’
‘My dear Oona, you’re surely not that innocent.’
She hated it when he used her Christian name in arguments. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Come on. Don’t you know what that club is? Didn’t you notice that the women were all men and the men were all women?’
‘What?’
‘It’s a queer hang-out. Solidor’s a notorious dyke. Cocteau’s a queer, Poulenc’s a queer, and your Christian Dior is the biggest queer of all.’
She was taken aback. ‘I suppose you’ll tell me your little cockney was a lesbian, too?’
‘No. She was the only normal woman in the place. That’s why we went out for that breath of fresh air.’
Copper reflected on last night’s company, the people at the tables, the pressure of Suzy’s hand on hers, the strange, hoarse ‘women’ hanging around the doorway. Was Christian Dior what Amory dismissively called ‘a queer’? If so, he was the first she had met. At least, knowingly met. She’d only ever heard such a condition mentioned as a term of abuse, something wicked. Christian was anything but wicked. Yet there were the feminine touches, the perfect understanding of a woman’s point of view. The gentleness that was hardly masculine. ‘I don’t care,’ she said at last, shaking her head. ‘Christian behaved impeccably. He’s a better man than you are, any day.’
His face closed. ‘You’re being a bitch.’
She felt she was seeing him as he really was for the first time and it horrified her. Her response was anger at him, at herself. ‘I’m not going to be silenced by you, Amory. Last night was the end. You can’t imagine how terrible it was. You’re not even sorry that poor George is dead.’
He made an impatient gesture. ‘Of course I’m sorry he’s dead. But you heard the autopsy report. He brought it on himself. There was nothing anybody could have done. And I’m sorry you had a bad time.’
‘You don’t care about anything,’ she said. ‘I’ve never faced that until now. The only important thing to you is your own pleasure.’
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