‘The truth is that I love him, and he loves me. I’m so sorry.’
‘Little liar.’ Suzy kept Copper’s wrists pinned as she brushed her eyelids with her mouth. ‘You say you don’t want me to suffer,’ Suzy whispered. ‘Yet you enjoy my pain with those cruel grey eyes of yours. You feed on it.’
‘No, I swear I don’t.’
‘I don’t care. You may torture me, if that is what you want. I will be your victim, your slave, anything you want me to be. You can whip me if it pleases you. Only, don’t leave me.’
‘We’ll always be friends.’
‘Damn your friendship.’ Suzy straddled Copper’s chest, settling her weight on her heart. For all her talk of being whipped, she loved to take these dominant positions, asserting herself. ‘Stop thinking about him,’ she hissed, looking down at her trapped prey. ‘He will never love you as I love you.’
Copper couldn’t face it any longer. She should not have come here. She fought Suzy off her and escaped, fastening her dress with trembling fingers. ‘I have to go.’
‘Don’t leave me.’
She made for the door. ‘Goodbye, Suzy. Thank you for everything.’
She heard Suzy call her name in a harsh, anguished voice. ‘I hate you, Copper.’
Then she slammed the door behind her and hurried down the dark, narrow stairs into the street.
Copper was still shaken when she arrived at Dior’s apartment. ‘What on earth’s the matter, my dear?’ he asked, ushering her in.
She was blotting her eyes. ‘I’m going to marry Henry.’
‘But that’s wonderful,’ he exclaimed, putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Congratulations. What are you crying about?’
‘I’ve just come from telling Suzy.’
His expression changed. ‘Ah. I understand. You’d better have a cup of tea.’
Copper sniffed. ‘Thank God I can always rely on you for a little stability.’
‘I take it she wasn’t exactly delighted,’ Dior said as he served the tea in his cosy little parlour.
‘She took it hard,’ Copper admitted.
‘It’s all somewhat sudden,’ Dior pointed out in his mild way. ‘You didn’t give anybody much warning, my dearest. Speaking of which – when’s the big day?’
‘Henry said he’s going to arrange a registry office and a special licence, so perhaps Saturday the fifteenth.’
Dior rose to his feet in horror, his hands upraised. ‘The fifteenth? You wretch. How am I going to make you a wedding outfit by the fifteenth?’
Copper shook her head. ‘I don’t want you to make me a wedding outfit at all,’ she said firmly. ‘This is going to be a quiet affair.’
‘There is no wedding so quiet that a gown can be dispensed with!’
‘This one will be. We’re having a quick registry office ceremony and the smallest possible reception. It’s my second time around, remember? I’m not exactly a blushing virginal bride. And there won’t be time for any of my family to get here. I’m not even asking a lot of friends. But there is something you can do for me.’
‘Yes?’
‘Give me away at the ceremony.’
‘With the greatest of pleasure,’ Dior said, his cheeks going pink. ‘Thank you for asking me. You know that I regard you in the light of a daughter.’ He seemed to have been diverted from the idea of making a wedding gown for now. A big production was the last thing Copper needed. Getting this over, and getting Henry back by her side to start her new life with him was all she wanted.
In fact, Dior had transferred his attention from her wedding outfit to his own. ‘I shall wear the English light-grey morning suit,’ he decided happily. ‘It’s almost brand new. And a blue silk tie from Charvet. And a buttonhole from Lachaume, of course. Lachaume will do your bouquet, too.’
‘I don’t want a big bouquet.’
‘Lilies of the valley,’ he said decisively. ‘My favourite flower, as you know. Oh, it will be such fun! Bébé will be enchanted. This will really perk him up.’
‘I hope he doesn’t turn it into a circus, like poor George’s funeral. You won’t invite a huge crowd, will you, Tian? Promise me.’
‘I am always the soul of discretion,’ he swore piously, as though he were not the biggest gossip in Paris. ‘But you know, my dear, all your friends will be terribly offended if you cut them out.’
‘The key word is “friends”. I don’t want strangers riding unicycles or leading giraffes.’
‘Perhaps Suzy will turn up and sing “Chant des adieux”,’ he tittered.
Copper shuddered, still disturbed by Suzy’s reaction. ‘Don’t.’
Henry arrived at the end of a week, refusing to say where he had been or what he had been doing, but overjoyed to see her.
‘I could hardly believe my ears,’ he said, almost lifting her off her feet as she opened the door to him at place Victor Hugo. ‘I thought it was a bad telephone line. You’re going to be mine at last!’
She clung to him joyously. His face and frame had lost weight, but he looked magnificent. ‘When did you get back?’
‘This morning at six. But I had things to do.’
‘What things?’ she demanded jealously.
‘Important things.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’ve got us a priest – and a church.’
‘A church?’
‘I hope you don’t object to a Russian Orthodox ceremony?’
‘The Catholics wouldn’t let me back anyway. How on earth did you get a priest to marry us at such short notice?’
‘It took a lot of talking – and a lot of promises,’ he said ruefully. ‘But you’ll love the church. It’s the Cathedral of St Alexander Nevsky.’
‘Oh, Henry,’ she exclaimed in dismay. ‘We agreed on a quiet wedding.’
‘What have we got to be ashamed of?’ he demanded.
‘It’s not a question of being ashamed. I wanted a small ceremony. You promised!’
‘But my darling – it’s our wedding. And we can make it as short and quiet as you like.’
‘It won’t be short or quiet. It will be two days of chanting and incense and processions – and – and don’t the bride and groom wear crowns?’
‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘crowns used to be worn for a week, but now it’s just during part of the ceremony.’
‘Cancel it.’
‘I can’t. It took me all day to talk the priest into it.’
‘It’s not what I want.’ She knew St Alexander Nevsky – a monumental church in the 8th arrondissement, complete with towering spires capped with gold onion domes and plastered with ornate mosaics. All the White Russian exiles worshipped there. ‘I want something intimate. Half of Paris will turn up.’
‘I’d like to be married in my faith,’ he said gently. ‘A registry office would be so bare and shabby, my darling. I want to show you off.’
‘Oh no, Henry. I refuse.’
He kissed her tenderly. ‘Please don’t refuse. Do this for me. Just this one thing. After we’re married you can have everything you want.’
‘I very much doubt that.’
‘For me, my darling!’
‘I’ve just told Tian that he can’t make me a wedding dress. He was extremely upset. I don’t have anything suitable for a wedding in the cathedral, Henry.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ he said airily. ‘Any old thing will do.’
She glared at him. The cathedral would be packed. It was the haunt of the ageing émigré counts, dukes and princes who’d fled their estates in 1917, plus their pale and haughty Paris-born offspring, not to mention the Moscow secret police in shabby raincoats, writing names down in greasy notebooks. ‘Any old thing?’
‘We can go shopping for an appropriate outfit,’ he said soothingly, realising he’d said the wrong thing.
‘Where? The war isn’t over yet. Wedding gowns with ten-foot trains are in rather short supply. I’ll have to go back to Tian and beg for mercy.’
‘I’ll pa
y, of course,’ he promised.
‘Oh, buster, you will,’ she said grimly. ‘Trust me on that.’
Thirteen
Copper and Dior decided on pale blue as appropriate for a second marriage in a new faith. Besides, as he happily pointed out, that would match his tie. She would wear a small veil attached to a simple hat. The dress itself would be made from ten metres of grey-blue chiffon that Dior had stored away in a closet. It would be elaborately gathered and ruffled, and out of deference to the setting, Copper’s arms would be covered in lace sleeves to the mid-forearm. She consented to a small bouquet of white lilies from Lachaume, though since Dior was organising this, she had to rely on his idea of ‘small’.
He, of course, was delighted that Copper had changed her mind. He threw himself into the project, trusting nobody to do the pattern or cutting except himself. They had a scant fortnight to get the dress ready. Much of that time was spent in fittings, shopping for accessories, arranging the reception (to be held at Henry’s house in the 7th arrondissement, which was being prepared for the occasion by an army of servants who had been marshalled by the master of the house) and getting acquainted with the elaborate Slavonic-rite marriage ceremony that Henry was so set on.
The ceremony was, in its most compact form, an affair many hours long, and the spiritual significance of each phase – the Betrothal, during which candles would be held; the Sacrament itself, during which the couple would be crowned; and the civil ceremony afterwards with bread and salt – were explained to Copper at great length by a solemn, bearded Orthodox priest who smelled of incense and garlic. She found it all a little overwhelming, not least the cathedral itself with its murky interior and towering, prison-like walls, from which gilded icons of saints and angels peered down at her suspiciously.
She tried to get into the spirit of the thing, even learning as many of the Russian phrases as she could remember. But the only part she was really looking forward to was the wineglass-smashing at the very end. By that time, she imagined, she would be in the mood to hurl a wineglass.
She also, with great reluctance, gave notice to the landlady at place Victor Hugo. Pearl would have to find new lodgings since, after the wedding, Copper would take up residence with her new husband.
‘I know you won’t want me as a bridesmaid?’ Pearl said, looking at Copper with heavy eyes. It sounded like a plea.
‘They don’t have bridesmaids at Russian Orthodox weddings,’ Copper replied tactfully, which was at least partly true – the priest had told her it was not traditional but she could have a bridesmaid if she really insisted on one. She just didn’t want any further complications in what was already turning into a cumbersome affair. ‘But you’ll be there to support me.’
‘I’ll get clean for the ceremony,’ Pearl promised; but they’d both heard that promise many times before.
Suzy had made no attempts to contact Copper except for a single bouquet of violets, without a note, which she’d had delivered to the place Victor Hugo. Perhaps it was an apology for the last words she’d thrown after Copper. The sweet scent of the violets faded, and Copper tried not to think about the woman who had sent them to her.
From Henry, there came a more permanent gift.
He presented her with an oblong leather box. ‘I hope you like this, my darling. It is my wedding present to you.’
Copper opened the box. Nestling in the velvet interior was an emerald-and-diamond necklace. She was overcome by the size and obvious value of the stones.
‘Oh, Henry, these are magnificent.’
‘They’re from Bucherer. I hoped you would wear them on our wedding day.’
‘You’re so generous. You overwhelm me.’
He helped her put on the necklace. The vivid green stones blazed against her pale skin. She stared at herself in the mirror; Henry’s handsome face was at her shoulder. ‘You look doubtful,’ he said gently.
‘If I do, it’s only because my mother always said emeralds were bad luck.’ She saw his expression change. ‘I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.’
‘Not at all,’ he replied gravely. ‘If you don’t wish to wear them, I will understand perfectly.’
‘Of course I will wear them,’ she said, turning to kiss him. ‘I’ll be proud to. You make me feel like a queen.’
The next day Copper found time to run to the Agence France-Presse newsroom to file a story. She found the clattering telex machines, which ceaselessly spewed out a history of the world, fascinating.
Coming out of AFP, she bumped into a familiar figure coming the other way. It was Hemingway, typically dishevelled and braving the cold in shirtsleeves. He put down the typewriter case he was carrying and hugged Copper tightly enough to leave her breathless. ‘How the hell are you?’ he demanded.
‘I’ll be fine when I get over my broken ribs,’ she said, smiling at him. It was good to see a fellow American, even if Hemingway was always more than a little overpowering.
‘Where can I get my typewriter fixed?’ he demanded. ‘It’s urgent, kid. I’ll buy you lunch in return.’
‘I don’t have time for lunch. I’m in a hurry.’
‘Don’t you dare brush me off.’
She sighed. ‘What make is it?’
‘A Remington.’
‘I know where the agency is. It’s ten minutes’ walk from here.’
‘Come along, then.’
As they walked towards the boulevard des Capucines, she asked him, ‘You’re not going to make another pass at me, are you?’
‘Not while I’m sober.’ He grinned. ‘I have too much respect for you. I saw your story in Life magazine. Not bad for a kid still wet behind the ears. You’re a born journalist.’
She was pleased with the praise. ‘I try.’
‘I still say it’s a whore’s trade, but you do your whoring neatly, I’ll give you that.’
At the Remington agency, he delivered his battered portable for repair and hired a substitute to use in the meantime, which he hugged to his chest. She was sympathetic; she could imagine what it felt like to be a journalist without a typewriter. Then, as he’d promised, he took her to lunch at a bistro. There, over a bottle of Burgundy and plates of duck confit, they caught up on each other’s news.
‘I hear you’re getting married to that mad Russian, Velikovsky?’
‘I guess he has to be mad to take me on.’
‘So it’s true. Well, you’ll never have to worry about money again.’
‘I’m not marrying Henry for his money, Ernest.’
‘Oh, sure. You just want a fatherly presence around the place.’
She had to point a knife at him to get him to stop teasing her. ‘I saw Amory a few weeks ago,’ she told him. ‘He was on his way back to Germany. I haven’t heard from him since.’
He frowned at her. ‘Then you don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
‘About his breakdown. He’s been shipped back to an army hospital in Belgium.’
Copper was shocked. ‘He was very edgy when I saw him. But I didn’t expect that.’
‘Well, they called it nervous exhaustion. He was writing a major article. It was going to win him that Pulitzer, you know? He worked day and night to try and capture the full horror. But he couldn’t take it in the end. He was on some pills the army medics gave him. He eventually swallowed the whole bottle. They found him just in time. Pumped his stomach out. Shipped him to Brussels packed in cotton wool.’
‘Poor Amory. I feel terrible.’
Hemingway held up his hands. ‘Now, look. Don’t go thinking this has anything to do with you. It doesn’t. Okay? Amory is a guy who always liked to pretend that things didn’t get to him. Well, this did. It’s not something you can forget, no matter how much war you’ve seen. They say Patton himself threw up at Ohrdruf.’
‘Amory told me he was addicted to horror.’
‘That can happen. Terrible events trigger something in certain people. They get a feeling of exhilaration, even euphoria. Like
any form of intoxication, it wears off, and then there’s a slump – depression, despair. They need to climb back up again. So they go back to what triggered them in the first place. It turns into a vicious cycle of highs and lows, until it sucks you in completely. It absorbs you and everything in your life. The high becomes the only thing that matters. It’s a dangerous sickness that ultimately ends by devouring you completely.’
‘You sound as though you know what you’re talking about.’
‘Maybe I do,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘Maybe it’s why I’m a writer. The cruelty in those camps was bestial, Copper. Unbelievable.’
‘This war has brought out the worst in people,’ Copper said.
‘It doesn’t take much to bring out the worst in people. You don’t need a war,’ Hemingway said, picking up his knife and fork again. ‘You’ve got a good brain, kid.’
‘For a woman, you mean?’ she asked sweetly.
He grinned through his beard. ‘For a “women’s journalist” who devotes herself to the world of dresses and hats.’
‘Well, I cover more than hats. But frankly, I’m glad to be writing about progress, rather than war.’
She was sickened by the news about Amory. But talking to Hemingway was always stimulating, even if his comments about her marriage to Henry had stung a little.
What really made her wince was his parting remark in the street:
‘Your roaming days are over, little gypsy.’
The pace of the preparations accelerated until the eve of the wedding was upon Copper. Oddly, she found herself in the same state as she’d been the night she’d parted from Amory: hot and cold shivers running through her body, sleep evading her. She felt quite ill. As on that occasion, she knew she was facing a momentous turning point in her life, and wondered whether she was taking the right path. She had been so independent up to now. Being lonely and vulnerable was part of that independence, though she’d found it hard at times.
The Designer Page 23