Copper swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘We’ll always be friends.’
He nodded. ‘If there’s one thing my life has taught me, it’s to never give up hope.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Goodbye, Copper.’
After the door had closed, she went to the window and watched his tall figure walk down the street. Long before he mingled with the drab crowds, her eyes were blurred with tears.
By the second week, almost 200,000 visitors had been to see the Théâtre de la Mode. The profits went to the Entraide Française, the national relief organisation that had been instituted during the Occupation; but the real beneficiaries were the fashion houses, whose triumphant displays made such a powerful impact. The great French designers, who had been compelled to serve the Nazis for four years, were finally making clothes for the French again – albeit in miniature.
Dior himself was not one of those whose names were being celebrated. It didn’t even appear in the catalogue. His employer, Lelong, took the praise for the adorable little creations.
‘That’s just the way it is,’ he said, when Copper expressed her chagrin at the Pavillon. ‘Don’t worry about me, ma petite. I’m not one for the limelight, you know that.’
‘I wish you were one for the limelight. Why should Monsieur Lelong get all the glory?’
‘Because he’s my employer,’ Dior said. ‘And I’m deeply indebted to him.’
‘One day,’ Copper vowed, ‘your name will be in lights.’
Dior shuddered. ‘How my mother would hate that. She always forbade me to put my name up over a doorway like a common shopkeeper.’
Copper was amused. ‘Wouldn’t she be proud of you?’
‘You didn’t know her,’ he replied darkly. ‘It was bad enough that I tried to run an art gallery. Becoming a dressmaker would have been too much for her.’
They returned to the rue Royale to see an extraordinary sight: a huge cloud of yellow butterflies had filled the street.
Dior was enraptured. They parked the car and walked along the street among the fluttering, buttery clouds. The butterflies were everywhere, filling the shops and the cafés, making women scream, half in alarm, half in delight; while the waiters rushed to and fro, attempting to flap the insects away with tablecloths. More hordes simply swirled in to take their place. Restaurants were being evacuated, diners hurrying out on to the pavement still clutching their napkins. The powdery yellow wings almost blotted out the spring sky at times.
Rising and falling in their millions, the butterflies had taken over the street. It was impossible at first to tell where they were coming from, and where they were going; then, gradually, it became evident that the butterflies were making their way, with countless pauses and detours, from the place de la Concorde, up the rue Royale, to the Church of the Madeleine. Copper and Dior followed the drifting multitudes to the place de la Madeleine, the huge, neoclassical church which seemed to be their destination. And as they watched, bemused, the butterflies began to settle on the towering stone pillars, thronging in ever-greater numbers, more and more, until each pillar was clad in a shimmering yellow gown pieced out of millions of beating wings.
‘They’re making a pilgrimage,’ Dior said, examining a specimen that had landed on his finger. ‘What can it mean?’
‘It’s a prophecy.’ Copper pointed at the bright clouds of wings. ‘These are all the women who’re going to wear your clothes one day and be made beautiful by you.’
‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Dior replied.
‘No. And nor should you.’
They found a café in the square and sat drinking coffee and watching the astonishing spectacle, lulled by the narcotic scent of the lime trees, until the sun slipped down behind the Madeleine, leaving the twilight suddenly chilly. They went to have an early dinner together.
The next morning, the butterflies had gone. They had flown away to wherever they were going. A street sweeper was using his broom to gather the ones that had not survived and that lined the cobbled street in golden seams.
Within a few days, Copper heard from Harper’s that the editorial staff had loved her Théâtre de la Mode story, and that it would be printed in the next edition. This excellent news was accompanied by a substantial cheque – in dollars – that Copper picked up at Henry’s ‘dusty little bureau’ on the Champs-Élysées. The dusty little bureau was actually a smart office in a smart block, with ‘Velikovsky et Cie’ in gilt letters on the door and a smart secretary at the desk. Henry himself had not yet returned to Paris and his secretary was tight-lipped as to his whereabouts. Copper had had dealings with her before, and while she was unfailingly pleasant, Copper had the strong feeling that she’d been instructed to fend off all curious enquiries about her employer, even from her. Perhaps especially from her.
Copper was missing Henry and felt she had still not been able to explain why she had done what she had done. Even though he seemed to understand, she felt they needed to talk.
The new edition of Harper’s Bazaar reached Paris and Copper’s article was in pride of place. She had been given a four-page spread, and the bracketing of strategically placed ads from some of the biggest American fashion names showed the importance that had been assigned to her work. She was given a sparkling byline – ‘Oona Reilly, Our Special Correspondent in Paris’.
This most recent accolade really put her in the public eye. The telephone began to ring with offers of work. A number of newspapers in the States and Britain were eager for short pieces about the renaissance of French fashion. These were short opinion pieces that she could knock out in a day or so, and that brought in decent money. She was also approached by Picture Post to cover Pierre Balmain’s opening with an article and photos. With the war still raging, no American staff were being sent to Europe. She was perfectly placed to do the work, and she accepted the offer with alacrity. Her career as a journalist had well and truly taken off.
The war news now was exhilarating and terrible. The German Eastern and Western Fronts had crumbled. A million and a half German prisoners of war had been taken by the Allies; tens of thousands were still being killed on both sides. Berlin had been reached, and a vast battle was raging, with Hitler beleaguered in his bunker. The Nazi state was in its terrifying death throes. In Italy, Mussolini had been shot by partisans, his body strung up like a butchered pig’s beside that of his lover, Clara Petacci. After six years of bloodshed such as the world had never seen, it seemed that the war was finally approaching an end.
And then, one morning, the bells of Paris began to chime, first in isolation, then in a universal clangour.
‘Something has happened,’ Copper said.
‘Something terrible, perhaps,’ Dior said in alarm.
They hurried out into the street. The bells were tolling across the city, louder and louder. People were cheering, laughing and hugging one another. They were confronted by a newspaper kiosk. A man was pasting up a placard with a headline in huge black letters. It said simply, HITLER EST MORT.
Copper and Dior clasped each other’s hands, hardly able to believe it. But there it was, in black and white. They bought a newspaper and read the front page together. Doenitz had announced Adolf Hitler’s death and proclaimed himself the Führer’s successor. The monster was dead. The end of the war was surely imminent. Throwing the paper into the air, they grabbed each other’s hands and began to dance in the street along with thousands of others.
Fourteen
The real party started a few days later with the announcement that the Nazis had surrendered unconditionally and war had ended – in Europe at least. The whole of Paris erupted in communal celebration even wilder than the Liberation. The Tuileries and every other public space filled with multitudes of Parisians in their gayest clothes. It was typical of the times that even in this joyous moment, the political divisions cut deep. While a huge crowd gathered in place de la Concorde to hear Charles de Gaulle make a victory proclamation, the communists held their own
triumphs and speeches, waving the red flag. There were inevitable fights, clashes with the police, arrests.
For Copper, it was a strange moment. The war had brought her to France, and now it was over. Perhaps she should go home?
Getting riotously drunk in a bar with a motley collection of communists, American GIs and journalists, she wondered where home was. Had Paris become her home? Was her American life over? It was easy, borne along on the river of champagne, singing ‘La Marseillaise’ at the top of her voice, to feel a deep and abiding love for France. For France and for Henry Velikovsky. She danced in the street, kissed every man in uniform, climbed up monuments and on to café tables, gulped champagne straight from the bottle until the bubbles and the alcohol made her vomit in the gutter.
After twenty-four straight hours of celebration, she dragged herself away from the party, wrapped in a French flag like something out of a Delacroix painting, to sleep it off. On the way back, she found herself in front of Henry’s house in the 7th arrondissement.
She had heard nothing from Henry since that sombre visit after the wedding-that-wasn’t. She had deliberately pushed him to the back of her mind. But he wouldn’t stay there.
Knowing she was terribly drunk, she rang the bell. If he answered, she would throw her arms around him and beg him to forgive her. Tell him that she’d been a terrible fool at the cathedral, that if the past weeks had shown her one thing, if they’d shown her anything at all, it was that she loved him more than she’d known. That she’d grown to love him almost without realising it. That she didn’t want to keep living without him.
But there was no answer. The old house covered in vines was silent as the grave. There was no Henry to whom to blurt out her words of remorse.
She hoisted herself unsteadily up on the cast-iron railings to peer in. The place appeared deserted, the windows shuttered – even the window of the bedroom where they’d lain together. She’d remembered that afternoon in all its sweetness and joy, the aperitif to a feast that would never materialise.
Was it just the drink and the weariness that made her burst into tears in the street now? Sitting in the gutter, huddled in her flag, she’d never felt lonelier. Welling up in her was a deep yearning for stability. A life of adventure was all very well, but she wanted a home. She wanted a family. That was something she’d never considered with Amory. Married couples had children as a general rule; but she’d never felt the rule applied to her and Amory.
There was only one man she loved, and she didn’t even know whether he was dead or alive.
The day after the party, her head aching and her bleary eyes shielded with sunglasses, she called the Ritz, but he wasn’t currently occupying his room. He hadn’t been heard from in some time, and no, they were not expecting him at present. His room, of course, remained at his disposal.
She went round to his ‘dusty little bureau’ on the Champs-Élysées to speak to his secretary, determined to get some answers.
She greeted Copper with a pleasant smile.
‘Bonjour, Madame. Isn’t the news wonderful? Is there something I can do for you?’
‘I wondered whether you’d heard from Henry – Monsieur Velikovsky – lately?’
The secretary, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman, shook her head. ‘Désolée, Madame. I have heard nothing from my chief.’
‘But – he’s all right?’
The answer was bland. ‘I have no reason to think otherwise.’
‘You’re not expecting him back in Paris, then? Now that the war is over, I mean?’
The woman shrugged slightly. ‘As you know, Monsieur Velikovsky is a busy man. He comes when he comes. I can take any message you care to leave.’ She picked up her pencil and pad, ready to write down anything Copper might say.
‘Just ask him to call me,’ Copper said, after considering and rejecting various alternatives.
‘Bien sûr, Madame.’
Copper walked away feeling empty. At the cathedral, marriage had seemed impossible. She couldn’t have gone through with it, even with a pistol to her head. Now, the prospect of marriage to a man she was sure she loved was possible. More than possible – it was essential to her happiness.
Copper arrived back at the apartment a few days later to find a note from Suzy Solidor on the hall table. Written in violet ink, it read simply, ‘I am leaving Paris. Will you come to say goodbye?’
It was not an invitation she could refuse. She went to see Suzy straight away. Suzy’s eyes widened as she opened her door to Copper.
‘You came,’ she said. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t.’
Copper entered the apartment to find it greatly altered. It was almost empty. The paintings had all been taken down from the walls. Only the largest pieces of furniture remained; the rest had been removed.
So it was true, then. Suzy was going. Copper felt a sharp pang pass through her heart. She gazed around the deserted rooms where half-filled packing crates stood with their lids propped against them.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To America. They tell me they like blondes there.’
‘Oh, Suzy! But why?’
‘You haven’t heard? They have tried me and found me guilty of collaboration. I am forbidden to perform in France for five years.’
‘The hypocrites,’ Copper burst out. ‘How dare they?’
‘This is the France of the post-war,’ Suzy said with a little shrug of one shoulder, as though it meant nothing to her. ‘Everybody wants to proclaim himself a hero of the Resistance, and shave his neighbour’s head.’
‘I can’t believe this has happened.’
‘I am a public figure. I am to be made an example of. The future belongs to such as your Catherine Dior – not to such as me.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Five years.’ Suzy’s face, as always, was mask-like. She was wearing nothing but a white chemise. Beneath it, she was naked. Her sculpted body was summer-golden; she looked like an ancient Greek goddess as she packed. ‘At my age, it is a sentence of death. Who will remember me in five years?’
‘Nobody can forget you,’ Copper said in a low voice. ‘It’s not possible.’
‘You seem to have had no difficulty accomplishing this supposedly impossible feat,’ Suzy replied dryly.
‘I haven’t forgotten you.’
Suzy replied with one of her enigmatic smiles. ‘Well, I am going into exile. And all for “Lili Marlène”. She made my fortune, the whore, and now she has ruined me.’ She pushed the lid of a trunk down and turned to Copper. ‘I’m so glad to see you, chérie. Will you have a vermouth with me?’
She opened the doors to the terrace, but they did not go out. They sat on the sofa in the cool breeze that blew the curtains in graceful arabesques. Suzy had produced a bottle of Lillet. The resinous, citrusy drink was one of her favourites. ‘And so you are becoming famous,’ she said to Copper in her husky voice. ‘I cannot open a magazine these days without reading your name.’
‘That’s an exaggeration. It took me some time to find out what I wanted to do with my life, but now that I’ve found it, I’m happy.’
‘I am happy for you, chérie. You are doing well.’
‘I’m all right. I have plenty of work. And I’m saving to buy a new camera, a thirty-five millimetre Leica. Lighter and more practical.’
‘Lighter and more practical,’ Suzy repeated. ‘You are a young woman on the move, my dear. You make me feel so old.’
‘You look magnificent as always, Suzy.’
‘Thank you.’ In truth, Suzy did not seem to age. Her face remained flawless, and her body was that of a woman of half her years. ‘I might say the same about you. I heard that you abandoned your Russian count at the altar.’
‘Yes. But I know now that it was a mistake.’
Suzy grimaced. ‘I see. So you have decided to become a Russian countess after all?’
‘If he will have me. I haven’t heard from him in weeks.’
‘Has he turned his back on
you? Or have the communists strung him up?’
‘I ask myself the same question,’ Copper said, trying to sound light, though she felt far from it.
‘I am sorry,’ Suzy said. ‘I wish you the best of luck.’
She lifted her glass and Copper’s eye was caught by the smooth hollow of Suzy’s armpit. ‘You’ve shaved under your arms.’
‘They tell me the Americans insist on it.’ She lifted the hem of her chemise. ‘Here, too. Just in case anyone wants to look. Are you blushing, chérie?’ she asked, catching Copper’s expression.
‘You always take me by surprise.’
‘Do I? I am at ease with my body, you see. I like it. I’m not in the least ashamed of it.’ Her long fingers stayed between her thighs. ‘You’re afraid of this, I think. Yet you have one just the same. We could have pressed them together, kissed one another, given each other heaven. I was dripping for you. Only for you. But you ran like a rabbit. Why did you run?’
‘There was a gate that I couldn’t pass through. Don’t reproach me.’
‘You found me disgusting?’
‘No. Just the opposite. I had to run because I found you all too alluring.’
‘I suppose that is a compliment.’ Suzy emptied her glass and reached for the bottle again. ‘You know, I sang in the girls’ choir in the church at Saint-Malo,’ she said as she poured for them both. ‘Can you imagine that? A skinny gamine with pigtails and a flat chest?’
Copper smiled. ‘It’s hard to imagine.’
‘Well, that was me. Nobody noticed me, although I always thought I had a good voice. Then one day, the priest stopped the choir and asked, “Who is the boy who is singing with the girls?” They found it was me. La fille qui chante comme un garçon. They all turned to stare at me. I was excited. Excited and ashamed at the same time. I felt my power from that moment. They called me la garçonne, and so I became that creature. The mermaid, never quite one thing or the other. For ten years, there was Yvonne. Then others. Some men, some women. I have spent my life living out the fantasies and desires of others. But I regret none of it. It has been a good life, all in all. I only wanted to make others happy. You think I am as much a putain as Lili Marlène, I am sure?’
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