He stood, thinking for a while, as though seriously considering her words, while jeeps and trucks trundled past. ‘It’s not simply pleasure,’ he said at last. ‘It’s more than that. It’s life. I’m a writer. I need experiences, Oona. If nothing goes into me, nothing will come out. I can’t say no to life.’
‘Are you blaming me for coming between you and life?’
‘You’ll never understand.’
‘No, it looks like I never will. Does it ever occur to you that you might catch something? And give it to me?’
‘I don’t sleep with that sort of woman.’
His brazenness appalled her. ‘I don’t think you bother to find out what sort of women they are.’ Copper took a deep breath. ‘I’m not going with you to Dijon. I’m staying here in Paris.’
He blinked. ‘You can’t just jump the boat. You’re my wife.’
‘I want a divorce.’
He rolled his eyes wearily. ‘Don’t be absurd.’
Copper clenched her fists. ‘Whatever you do,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘don’t patronise me, Amory.’
He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘You’ve changed, Copper. What’s got into you?’
‘I mean it. I want a divorce.’
‘Think what you’re saying. A divorce is a serious matter.’
‘It’s a few words mumbled over you by a judge,’ she retorted. ‘Just like marriage.’
‘You know you don’t really think that.’
‘I didn’t used to. You’ve changed my mind.’
‘I’ve never known you so cynical.’
‘I had a good teacher.’
‘If that’s what you want, okay, goddamn it. But wait until we’re back in New York.’
‘It’ll be just as good here.’
‘I’m not going to leave you on your own.’
‘I’m not a child. And I’m leaving you, not the other way around.’
‘You seem to forget that I’m responsible for you.’
That made her lose her temper completely. ‘Responsible? I wait on you hand and foot. And you treat me like a convenience. I’d like to know who’s responsible for whom.’
‘I can’t talk to you in this mood, Copper.’
‘I feel exactly the same way,’ she snapped. She turned and walked off, leaving him staring.
After a moment, he came after her and grasped her arm, turning her to face him. ‘What do you imagine you’re going to do here, all on your own?’
She shook her arm free. ‘What I’ve been doing – writing articles and taking photographs for the British papers.’
Amory’s lip curled. ‘Honey, covering for George now and then doesn’t make you a journalist.’
‘As a matter of fact, I think it does. George’s editor can’t tell the difference between my work and his. They’ve printed a dozen of my pieces without question. He never got around to posting my last article. It’s still on the hall table.’
‘That’s George’s last story!’
‘It’s my story,’ she retorted angrily. ‘I covered it. I took the pictures. I wrote it. George had nothing to do with it. He was in a drunken stupor the whole time. And you know what? It’s a damned good story.’
‘So that makes you a journalist?’
‘Don’t try to put me down, Amory. George is dead. I’ve got his camera and his typewriter. I’ll get accreditation from the Brits and I’ll speak to his editor. If they don’t want to pay me a salary, I’ll go freelance.’
‘You’ve thought it all through, I see.’
‘As I mopped up George’s blood, yes. I thought it all through.’
She walked away again, and this time he didn’t follow her.
Dior popped into the apartment at noon; a dapper figure with cheeks made ruddy by the autumn wind.
‘I have one hour for my lunch,’ he greeted her. ‘I came to see how you are after such a terrible shock.’
‘You’re so kind, Monsieur Dior. I don’t know how I would have coped last night without you.’
‘Not at all. I hear it was an ulcer?’
‘Yes.’ They both stared at the huge stain on the wooden floor that she was trying to mop. ‘I’ve tried bleach, but it hasn’t helped much.’
‘I’ll get you some baking soda. We have no flour in Paris,’ he added wryly, ‘but plenty of baking soda.’
‘Is that good for bloodstains?’
‘Well, I remember the butcher telling me so as a little boy.’
‘It’s like something out of Agatha Christie,’ Copper said. ‘Except not in the slightest bit amusing.’
‘You can’t stay here,’ Dior replied. ‘It’s more Grand Guignol than Agatha Christie. You’ll have terrible nightmares.’
‘I’m going to have to find alternative digs anyway. I’ve split up with Amory. I’ve asked him for a divorce.’
‘Ah, mon Dieu. Was that necessary?’
‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘It was.’
‘Well, I know you Americans think nothing of divorce—’
‘That’s not true,’ she snapped. ‘This American takes divorce extremely seriously. The same way I take marriage.’
‘All right, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘But you look most unwell.’
‘The longer I stay with him, the sicker I’ll get.’
Dior’s eyes could be very sad. ‘Sometimes, my dear, we have to put up with the infidelities of the beautiful in order not to lose them.’
‘That’s the way I’ve thought, up until now. But I think I’d rather be alone than be hurt all the time.’
‘Loneliness hurts, too,’ he said quietly.
‘One gets used to it.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘One does.’
‘He says he has to be unfaithful to me otherwise his inspiration will dry up. How can I live with that?’
‘It sounds like something Cocteau would say. Speaking for myself, I don’t draw my inspiration from infidelities. I would give anything to have someone to love.’
She sighed. ‘You’re missing your lunch. I could make you something.’
‘No, thank you.’ He patted his waistcoat. ‘It’s good for me to practise a little abstinence.’
‘I’ve got some real coffee.’
‘Ah. That’s different.’
‘I should never have married him,’ she said, half to herself, as she was preparing the cafetière. ‘It was a terrible mistake.’
Despite the cold wind, they sat on the balcony overlooking the rue de Rivoli so they would be as far away from the stain as possible. ‘Life is a tightrope,’ Dior said. ‘You set off along the wire and no matter how much it wobbles, there is no stopping or turning back.’
‘There is falling.’
‘Yes. I have fallen many times. And had my heart broken each time.’
She recalled what Amory had said about Dior. The affairs he was referring to had presumably been with other men? It was odd, but that didn’t disturb her. In fact, she felt a kind of solidarity with him. ‘Well, I guess this is my first – and last.’
‘Heaven forbid.’ He dug in the pocket of his trousers, producing a string of silver trinkets. ‘I’m going to give you one of my good-luck charms. For protection.’ He detached one of them and gave it to her. ‘Two hearts entwined. That means you will find true love one day. Keep it safe.’
‘I will,’ she promised. ‘What are the others?’
‘This is a lily of the valley, so that I can always find work. This is a lucky horseshoe. This is a rabbit’s foot. This is an initial “C”.’
She was amused and touched by the solemn recital. ‘And the star?’
‘Ah. That’s the most important of all. My mother gave me that before she died. It’s my star. You know – my dream, my hope, my ambition, which I must always follow.’
‘And what is your dream, Monsieur Dior?’
‘Fame and fortune; what else?’
Copper smiled, thinking that it would be somewhat capricious of fame and fortune to favour this reti
ring, bashful man.
‘Thank you for the coffee. The best I’ve had in many weeks. Where will you spend the night?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You can’t stay here in this atmosphere.’ He gave her a little pasteboard card. ‘My address. You must come to me for the night.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t impose, but thank you.’
‘Do you intend to reconcile with your husband?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Copper said slowly. ‘I don’t think that’s going to be possible.’
‘Then you must come to me while you work things out. As a single woman, you will not be given a hotel room in Paris.’ His voice changed subtly. ‘You know that you have nothing to fear from me?’
‘I know that.’
‘Good. Dinner is at nine. I will expect you.’
She saw him to the door. The prospect of having a welcoming place to sleep was a great relief. An hour after he left, a boy arrived with a large package of baking soda and a note from Dior telling her to spread the powder over the stain and let it work for an hour. He had signed it whimsically, ‘+tian’. As she shook the powder over the floor, Copper had the feeling that she had at least one friend in Paris.
Amory returned to the apartment in the late afternoon. His expression was wary as he looked into the bedroom. ‘I’ve taken care of George.’
‘How have you taken care of him?’ she asked in a grim voice.
‘I’ve got him a niche in Père Lachaise Cemetery. He’d have liked that. The funeral’s tomorrow at noon.’
‘That was efficient of you.’
‘I have my uses.’ He eyed her suitcase, which she was packing on the bed. ‘You’re not really going through with this, are you?’
‘If you mean, am I really leaving you? Yes, I am. You had me fooled for a while, Amory. But not anymore. I’ve wised up.’
‘Jesus, Copper. What’s got into you? This is not like you at all.’
‘Matter of fact, it’s very like me. It’s the me you prefer to ignore.’
‘This is a ridiculous overreaction. You’re blaming me for George’s death.’
‘No, I’m not.’ She folded a sweater briskly. ‘I’m blaming you for destroying our marriage. And now I’m doing what I have to do.’
‘And what’s that?’
She thought of Dior’s good-luck charm. ‘Following my star.’
He sighed. ‘Okay, you may have a gift for writing. But there’s one thing you can’t change: you’re a woman. They’ll never let you near the fighting.’
‘I’m not going to cover the fighting,’ she retorted. ‘There are a dozen fascinating stories waiting to be covered right here in Paris. The story I’ve just written, for a start – about that poor woman with her baby. I can sell that article to one of the women’s magazines. Maybe even Harper’s. Text and photos.’
‘If you’re lucky. So you have one story to your credit. You’ll never get another one.’
‘Oh yes, I will. Paris is bursting with stories. Human stories. The recovery of French haute couture, for a start. Paris re-establishing herself as a centre of culture and fashion.’
‘Women’s journalism,’ he said with a grimace.
‘You can laugh if you want. Paris is the first great city to be liberated from the Nazis. It’s a hell of a story and people are going to want to read it – men and women. I’m going to find magazines who’ll take my stuff.’
He nodded slowly. ‘So this is more than just being mad at me.’
The question surprised her for a moment. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, as though considering that for the first time. ‘It’s much more than that.’
‘At least that’s something. I suppose I’ve been intolerable.’
‘I couldn’t have chosen a better word.’
‘But I don’t know how I’m going to get along without you.’
‘You’ll manage.’
‘I suppose I will.’ He went to look out of the window at the sky. ‘Do you have to leave right now?’ he asked without turning round.
‘I can’t spend the night here.’
‘I don’t mind. If George’s ghost comes to visit, it will be a merry one.’
‘You didn’t have to scrub George’s blood out of the planking with baking soda,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s not an experience I’m going to forget.’
‘We can go to a hotel.’
‘No, thank you. I’ve got an invitation.’
Amory turned in surprise. ‘Who from?’
‘Monsieur Dior.’
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree there, Oona,’ he said dryly. ‘Monsieur Dior is not a ladies’ man.’
‘I think he’s every inch a ladies’ man,’ she replied evenly. ‘But not in the way you mean. And I think it’s disgusting of you to suggest anything like that. He’s kind and courteous, and a perfect gentleman.’
‘Well, I suppose I am none of those things.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘He looks like a Kewpie doll.’
‘I don’t care what he looks like. He’s my friend.’
He turned back to the sunset. ‘I’m setting off for Dijon after the funeral tomorrow. And I’m taking the jeep. You won’t have transport.’
‘I’ll get a bicycle.’
He let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Give it some thought, goddamn it.’
‘I’ve given it all the thought I need,’ she replied. She pushed the lid of her suitcase down and fastened the latches with a decisive click.
Of course, it wasn’t as easy as that. She wept bitterly for two hours on the banks of the Seine, clutching her suitcase, ignored by the crowds that flowed around her. Amory had been the centre of her existence for the past year and a half, her mate, the star she had followed. Being without him filled her with a grief that felt – at this moment – infinite. She had no idea how she was going to get through the next hour, let alone the rest of her life.
Enveloped in the darkness and trembling with the cold that rose from the inky river, she had never felt lonelier or more abandoned. More than once, she was on the verge of lugging her suitcase back to the rue de Rivoli.
At last, as nine o’clock approached, she got up and trudged, stiff with the cold, towards Christian Dior’s address on the rue Royale. The street was wide and grand, running from the place de la Concorde up to the Church of the Madeleine. On the way, she came across two boys selling mistletoe. A few francs bought her a wreath with plenty of pearly berries. Dior’s apartment was in a large block, up several very dark and draughty flights of stairs. She clambered up to the fourth floor, hauling her worldly goods, until she reached his door and knocked. Dior let her in, taking her coat and suitcase.
After the gloomy autumn chill, Dior’s rooms were a haven of softly lit elegance. He disappeared with her coat and case while she looked around. There were some old prints and some unusual modern paintings, a few pieces of sculpture and some fine-china pieces. The wallpaper was lush, red and gold flock, and the curtains, as she might have expected, were exquisitely done. The dining table was laid for two. A small, enamelled stove was providing some heat, but the apartment, like all of Paris, was ice cold. Nevertheless, she could have wept at the prettiness and light.
Dior reappeared, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now. An aperitif. I have Dubonnet or Noilly Prat.’
‘Oh, I think Dubonnet, thank you. I don’t like dry drinks.’ She presented him with the mistletoe she’d bought in the street. ‘I know it’s early, but I couldn’t resist. The berries are so fresh and pretty. I don’t know if it will last until Christmas. Don’t worry,’ she added. ‘I don’t expect you to kiss me under it, but I’m sure there will be someone you’ll want to kiss.’
‘In France, we wait until New Year to kiss under the mistletoe,’ he said, taking the wreath. ‘This is not the common mistletoe, you know, but the oak mistletoe. That’s much rarer and very good luck.’
He hung it over a doorway. He was wearing a dark red jacket and a cravat and looked qui
te dashing. She realised that he was not as middle-aged as she had supposed; the pinstripes he wore at Lucien Lelong, and his general air of conservatism, made him seem older, but he was probably no more than forty. In his own home, with his receding chin and sensitive mouth, there was something almost childlike about him.
‘You’re being so kind to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how I would have coped without you.’
‘I’m happy to have been able to help. One feels so helpless sometimes. To express things, I mean. To show gratitude for being liberated.’ He poured the drinks carefully. ‘The years of the Occupation were hideous. You cannot imagine how bleak they were. Pétain had allied us with Hitler. The Germans were sacking France – indeed, sacking Europe. We were crushed. People died of cold and hunger in Paris. In Paris! That was the Pax Germanica.’ He raised his glass to Copper. ‘It is an honour to show a little hospitality to the representative of our liberators.’
‘I am delighted to accept it on behalf of Franklin D. Roosevelt.’
They drank. ‘Besides’ – he raised a finger – ‘you really are an innocent abroad, you know. It is my duty to protect you. And now,’ he said, smacking his lips, ‘you must excuse me for a moment while I attend to affairs of the kitchen.’
Copper wandered around the flat while he busied himself with the supper.
She picked up a photograph of a young woman whose face was sufficiently like Dior’s for Copper to be certain this was his sister, Catherine. ‘Your friend Monsieur Poulenc told me about your sister. I’m very sorry.’
He peered round the kitchen door. ‘She will come back to me. Look at the back of the frame.’ He’d tucked two tarot cards behind the photograph. ‘The Six of Wands and The Chariot,’ he said. ‘They come up every time in Madame Delahaye’s readings. Signifying a safe return.’
‘She looks a lot like you.’
‘I wish the Gestapo had taken me instead of her. But, of course, it was her they wanted. I didn’t have the courage to do what she did: running around Paris on her bicycle, carrying messages for the Resistance. I wanted only to bury myself in my atelier and never face this world again.’
Copper was stricken by the look on his face. ‘You must have hope.’
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