‘It’s obvious what she wants from you – she’s all over you in front of everybody. They’re all talking about you.’
‘Let them talk.’
‘I know what it’s like to go crooked,’ Pearl said. She began to put away her ‘fixings’, as she called them – her collection of syringes and little ampoules – folding them in a washbag with lethargic care. ‘I don’t want you to end up the same way I did. It’s hard to straighten yourself out.’
‘I know it is,’ Copper said more gently. Pearl was disappearing for hours each day, no doubt working for Petrus as she had done before, returning with her supply of cocaine or other drugs. At least she was also bringing her share of the rent money. Copper couldn’t complain on that score. ‘We could put you in a clinic.’
‘No, thanks. Go cold turkey? Sod that for a game of soldiers. What does Henry say about Suzy?’
‘Unlike you, Henry lets me live my own life.’
Pearl yawned. ‘You’re going to lose him.’
‘How can I? I don’t have him.’
Pearl’s eyes were disturbingly like George’s when Copper had found him dead on the floor: milky and blank. ‘You’ve got him in the palm of your hand. He’s mad about you.’
Copper wasn’t going to try to explain something as private, sensitive and complex as her feelings for Henry and Suzy, especially when she hardly understood them herself. ‘Henry’s a lot older than I am.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything? Henry’s handsome, rich and he adores you. What more do you want?’
‘I don’t want anybody. I like being free.’
‘Copper Pot, when are you going to grow up and see what life’s really like?’ asked Pearl, who liked to have the last word. She made her way to her bedroom with the slow gait of a sleepwalker.
Copper met Dior at the Pavillon de Marsan the next day. It was a bright but sharply cold morning. They went outside into the courtyard where a kiosk with a charcoal-burner was doing a roaring trade in roasted chestnuts.
‘It’s freezing,’ she complained.
‘It’s Paris. You don’t come here for the weather. You look tired, my dear,’ Dior commented, buying a newspaper cone of chestnuts.
‘I didn’t sleep awfully well last night,’ she confessed. ‘Pearl’s hooked on cocaine again.’
Dior concentrated on peeling a chestnut and picking all the shell off the hot, sweet kernel. ‘That was to be expected. There is nothing you can do. I have the same problem with Bébé.’
‘And then there’s Suzy.’
‘What about Suzy?’
‘She’s been awfully kind to me. But she wants something more than friendship. She’s impatient with me because I don’t respond the way she wants. I don’t want to hurt her, or disappoint her. What should I do?’
‘You are asking the wrong person, my dear.’
‘But you must understand my dilemma – you, of all people.’
‘You mean because I am the way I am? But I was born the way I am. I knew what I was from a very young age. It was never strange to me to long for love with persons of my own sex.’ He studied his chestnut, looking for any stray fibres. ‘And I may tell you, ma petite, that relationships are never easy. For my own part, I have never found happiness in love.’
‘Oh, Tian, what a sad thing to say.’
‘Sad but true. Simply put, it does not matter whether one likes the opposite sex or one’s own. The problems are identical. You see from the circle I live in that there is no single solution to the problem of desire. Look at Cocteau. He falls in love with women or men indiscriminately.’
‘The only person Cocteau really loves is himself,’ she replied dryly.
Dior laughed. ‘Perhaps you are right. Those who are beautiful are desired; those who are not, are not. I have never been beautiful, not even when I was young, when most people have some brief flowering. I never had such a flowering. I was always dull and plain. I remain dull and plain.’
‘You aren’t plain.’
‘But I am. And I have the congenital defect of being ineluctably drawn to the beautiful. With the result that, more often than not, I am rebuffed. Even derided for my presumptuousness. Or, if I manage to be accepted, I am soon discarded in favour of more appealing types.’
She laid her hand on his arm compassionately. ‘Even if it were true that you’re a plain man – and I think you have a lovely face – you have brilliance that goes well beyond mere surface beauty.’
‘In this world,’ he said with a wry shrug, ‘it is the appearance that matters far more than the content. If I’ve learned anything from my trade, I’ve learned that.’
‘I thought Amory would be my Mr Right,’ she said mournfully. ‘It was a long, slow process of disillusionment. I know what it’s like to be discarded in favour of more appealing types.’
He laid his hand over her own. ‘I have had my heart broken many times. At the age of forty, I no longer expect to find my Mr Right. I put everything into my work. But there’s no reason why you should live like that. Your Mr Right may be closer than you think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well . . .’ He turned back to his chestnuts. ‘There is Henry.’
‘Everyone has got the wrong idea about Henry,’ she said.
‘And what is the right idea about Henry?’
‘He’s a friend. That’s all.’
‘Are you sure that’s all?’
‘He’s interested in me.’
‘Aren’t you interested in him?’
‘He’s very attractive. But . . .’
‘But?’
‘Well, I’m a lot younger. I love my life. I love being a bohemian and having adventures. I’m not ready to give it all up for anyone. Besides, we think very differently. He’s with the big battalions and I rather sympathise with the oppressed.’
‘Shall we consult Madame Delahaye?’
‘I don’t think I need a fortune teller. I need a psychiatrist.’
‘Madame Delahaye is terribly reliable, you know. Each reading is exactly the same: Catherine is alive and well and will come back to me.’
‘I’m happy for you,’ she replied gently, thinking how naïve he could be at times.
He nodded. ‘My dear, one should be able to try new things, especially at your age, without feeling one is condemning oneself to eating the same dish for evermore. Obey your instincts.’ He offered her a perfectly peeled chestnut. ‘The only advice I can give you is to do nothing you don’t feel is right.’
She accepted the warm little offering. ‘You’re lucky to have your work, Tian.’
‘Lucky in work, unlucky in love. I sometimes wish I were not the way I am. There are drawbacks. It is illegal, for one thing, and that means living in fear. For another, one constantly encounters the contempt, even hatred, of a certain class of person. Sometimes it is no more than a look, a particular kind of smile, or a carefully chosen word. The wounds can be deep.’ For a moment his expression was bitter. ‘It becomes easier to sublimate one’s desires. A gorgeous dress, a new fabric, an elegant line, can distract one from unhappiness.’ He folded the paper cone and put it into his pocket. ‘Speaking of which, I must get back to my dolls. Your session with Professor von Dior is at an end.’
Perhaps, she thought, as she entered the glittering portals of the Ritz, she should see a psychiatrist. Of the two possible romantic interests in her life, one was a man eighteen years older than she, and the other was a woman. What would Freud say? She had come a long way since the wide-eyed Brooklyn girl who had arrived in Paris a year ago.
Henry was waiting for her at their table, immaculate as always. Her heart always lifted at the sight of him. In a world of uncertainties, he was a dependable constant: always there, always supporting her. Perhaps that was the problem. Where Henry was dependable, Suzy was challenging. Where Henry was a constant, Suzy was as changeable as the moon. Where Henry made her feel safe, Suzy made her feel distinctly unsafe. It was not an easy choice – if it was a c
hoice.
Henry kissed her three times, Russian-style, as she arrived. There was an orchestra tonight playing jazz, and elegant couples were dancing between courses.
‘Would you like to dance before we look at the menu?’ he invited her.
‘If you don’t tread on my feet.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ He took her in his arms and they drifted between the tables cheek to cheek. He danced well. His arms were strong, but he was light on his feet.
‘I tried to contact you at your office,’ Copper said. ‘Your secretary told me you were away from Paris this week.’
‘I had some things to attend to.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Boring things.’
‘You expect me to tell you every detail of my life,’ Copper complained. ‘But you won’t tell me a thing about yours.’
‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Where you went this week and what you did there.’
He was silent for a moment, swaying her in his arms. ‘The battle with the Germans is in its final phase,’ he said at last. ‘But a new battle is already being prepared for. The communists would like to swallow France as they are swallowing Eastern Europe.’
Copper snorted. ‘That old chestnut. The bosses were selling the same scare story in the thirties and using it to keep their employees slaving for pennies in dangerous, freezing factories.’
‘This isn’t a question of working conditions in a few factories,’ he said patiently. ‘They’re gearing up for civil war.’
‘Okay, Daddy Warbucks.’ She laughed. ‘You can ease off the propaganda now. I don’t want to fight you.’
They danced for a while and then sat at the table to drink what had become ‘their’ cocktail – greyhounds made with vodka. He was smiling at her with those turned-up, mysterious eyes of his, and his tone remained light.
‘You must be careful, my dear Copper.’
‘Of the bloodthirsty communist hordes?’
‘Of scandal. People are talking about you.’
‘Are they?’
‘Paris is a small world. I hear tongues wagging about a friendship between a certain French chanteuse and a certain young American reporter.’
‘I see,’ Copper said thoughtfully, looking into the pink grapefruit juice. ‘I had no idea I was so famous.’
‘You are new. And you are striking. Of course you are noticed, and people want to know who you are, where you come from.’
‘And where I’m going – which I guess is to hell in a handcart.’
‘Parisians are very tolerant. I don’t think anyone has consigned you to the infernal regions yet. But your friend is not exactly discreet.’
‘At least she’s not ashamed of what she is.’
Henry shrugged. ‘Lesbianism has been a public spectacle in Paris since the 1850s. It’s practically a profession. One of the performing arts.’
‘In Paris, being a woman is in itself a profession,’ Copper said ironically.
‘Suzy came to Paris as a ragamuffin. She’s the illegitimate child of a charlady from Saint-Malo. Her name was Suzanne Rocher. It was Yvonne de Bremond who turned her into Suzy Solidor.’
‘Who is Yvonne de Bremond?’
‘Yvonne is a lesbian aristocrat who was one of the great beauties of the twenties and thirties. A little older than Suzy. In fact, she and Suzy look like sisters. She took Suzy in, made her a pet project. It took her years to sculpt the raw material into a work of art.’
‘How did she achieve that?’ Copper asked, interested.
‘Yvonne knew everything that Suzy didn’t: the right books to read, the right clothes to wear, the right wines to drink, the right way to talk. She paraded Suzy in all the fashionable resorts. One saw them, in the pre-war years in Biarritz or Cannes, bowling along in Yvonne’s Rolls Royce convertible with a huge dog in the back seat. Quite a sight, I assure you.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ Copper said thoughtfully. It sounded rather like what Suzy was doing with her. ‘And then?’
‘Suzy dumped her. It was quite sudden and it broke Yvonne’s heart. But Suzy was tired of being the protégée. She wanted to spread her wings – and voilà. Adieu, Yvonne.’
‘I didn’t know any of this.’
Henry picked up the huge, leather-bound wine list. ‘It was almost as though she had hated Yvonne all along and allowed herself to be petted until the time was right. Then she took her revenge.’
‘Revenge? For what?’
‘No good deed goes unpunished.’ He perused the list. ‘Yvonne has a smart shop on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. She’s awfully fashionable; an antiquarian, an expert on eighteenth-century furniture. Her Christmas window displays are legendary. But she doesn’t see Suzy anymore. Hmm, they have some of the 1922 Château Latour. Should we order a bottle?’
She put one fingertip on the top of the wine list and pushed it down so she could look into his face. ‘Is this a warning, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry?’
‘It’s just a suggestion’ – he smiled – ‘that perhaps you shouldn’t let Suzy make a spectacle out of you.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘You think I’m interfering.’
‘Oh, I get this all the time from Pearl.’
He put down the menu. ‘It never ceases to amaze me that you took in your husband’s paramour. You really are an extraordinary woman, Copper.’
‘Poor Pearl wasn’t exactly Amory’s paramour. More what we Americans call a one-night stand.’
‘Still, you showed great forgiveness. Few women would have been so kind.’
‘Pearl has her own problems.’
‘You mean she’s a drug addict.’
Copper shook her head. ‘Is there nothing you don’t know?’
‘I keep my ear to the ground. I heard what you did to her – ah – manager.’
‘You hear a lot of things, dear Henry.’
‘And is it true that he had a knife?’
Copper’s large grey eyes sparkled. ‘I hit him with a Lalique ashtray. He never stood a chance.’
‘You could have been killed.’
‘But I wasn’t. And at least he doesn’t come around to the apartment anymore. He’s Pearl’s bête noir.’
He put his hand over hers. ‘My dear, I know you’re having fun, but it’s a dangerous world.’
‘You’re right,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘That it’s a dangerous world?’
‘No, I don’t care about that. But I am having fun. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to realise it until now.’
His expression was a little sad. ‘Too much fun to settle down?’
It took her a moment to get what he was implying. ‘Oh, Henry.’
‘I know it’s very soon. And I know I’m twenty years older than you—’
‘Eighteen,’ she put in automatically.
‘But I can offer you a great deal as a husband.’
‘Henry—’
‘I would never stand in the way of your career or want you to change who you are.’ For a moment, his strong fingers pressed hers, hard. Then he released her hand. ‘You don’t have to answer now, or even soon. Just consider it.’
‘I will,’ she promised. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘And I’m deeply honoured. Whatever happens.’
A proposal from Henry Velikovsky was not something to be dismissed lightly. And yet she felt she couldn’t accept. Not now and perhaps not ever. Even if, as he said, he would not stand in the way of her career, there would be a loss of freedom; the very freedom that she so cherished.
Becoming his wife – the Countess Velikovsky, if one cared about such things – would bring with it obligations. Inevitably, her energies would be diverted, even if only in part, from her work, and would be directed towards the man she was married to. She knew that from her first marriage. And then, if children came . . .
She did love Henry already. She loved him for his kindness and
his charm, for the security he offered. The fact that he was older was part of what attracted her to him.
Whether that warmth could ignite into the enduring heat required to drive a marriage was another question. Perhaps it could. But only if she added fuel to the flames. So far, they had danced together, laughed together and inhabited a sparkling world that was too like a fairy tale to be trusted. They had never gone to bed together, and until that happened they would remain in the antechamber of passion, so to speak. And she didn’t know whether she wanted to open that door.
After they’d parted, Copper felt an odd mixture of elation and sadness. It was an undeniable boost to her confidence to have a man like Henry on her arm. But also, it was frustrating to see her newfound freedom jeopardised already, just when she’d attained it.
Sorting out her feelings towards Henry wasn’t easy. There was a substantial age gap between them, and a substantial difference in their political instincts. She didn’t like the way he made her feel like the wide-eyed orphan – childish, naïve, needing to be rescued from the difficulties she got herself into.
The fact that he was very attractive made her feelings all the more complicated. Having got rid of one overbearing, manipulative husband, she was in no hurry to acquire another.
And that was as far as she got.
Eight
In the Pavillon de Marsan, activity was feverish. The opening of the show was close now. The designers were adding the final touches to the dioramas. Most of the dolls had been completed: enigmatic mannequins wearing perfect little outfits, poised in inscrutable groups. Dior himself was using some of the silk they had gone to fetch in the Simca. Copper left him fussing over his own designs and walked around the hall with her camera, picking details out of the confusion of whirring sewing machines and banging tools.
They were all here, the great couturiers of Paris. She had learned to recognise them and identify their styles. Here was the young, frail Jacques Fath, in his thirties and already regarded with awe by the fashion world. Here, too, was Elsa Schiaparelli, aristocratic and mystical, all in black and hovering over her display with dark, intense eyes. Not far from her, the Basque, Balenciaga, similarly dark and haunted, worked with equal concentration. And behind him stooped Jeanne Lanvin, shattered by the war and said by Suzy, who was her friend and wore her designs, to be dying.
The Designer Page 14