The Designer

by Marius Gabriel

  Copper watched Suzy’s face. Under the strength and the beauty, there was something cold, a pain that would never be confessed. ‘No, I don’t think that. You made me very happy.’

  ‘I could have made you much happier.’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I know I could have made you much happier. You’ve been so kind, so generous. I didn’t deserve any of it.’

  ‘Of course you deserved it.’ Suzy leaned over and kissed Copper on the lips.

  Copper closed her eyes with sadness for this girl who sang like a boy, this woman who desired her like a man. She put her arms around Suzy’s strong neck and pulled her tight. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me for hurting you.’

  ‘Can’t you love me, even now?’ Suzy demanded, her mouth pressed hotly against Copper’s throat.

  ‘I do love you,’ Copper whispered. She found she was crying. ‘I’m going to miss you so terribly, Suzy. I want to thank you – for everything you’ve done for me, everything you’ve given to me, the love you’ve shown me.’ She rose to leave. ‘I can never forget you.’

  The sight of a horse-drawn carriage waiting outside 10 rue Royale was not altogether unusual, although now that petrol was more readily available in France, thanks to the United States Army, the horse-drawn hackney carriages were disappearing from the streets again. They had come out of retirement during the hard years of the Occupation, like the ghosts of a past glory. But now there were fewer to be seen every day, as they drifted back to whatever tumbledown stables they’d come from.

  Thinking Dior might be in it, Copper went up to the fiacre and peered inside curiously. The door swung open. Seated on the red leather, holding the door open, was Henry. He was wearing a beard now.

  For a moment, she felt that her heart had stopped, robbing her of breath. Then it started beating again, unsteadily. ‘That beard will have to go,’ she heard herself say.

  ‘I thought you could help me get rid of it.’

  ‘The sooner the better, I should say.’

  ‘Then get on board.’

  She got in and climbed on to his lap like a child. ‘I thought you would never come back,’ she said in a choked voice.

  ‘At times, nor did I.’ He crushed her in his arms. ‘My secretary called me to say you were looking for me. I dared hope. Forgive me. I have had to be away from you and remain silent.’

  They held each other tightly for a long while, rocking to and fro. At last, she drew back and took a shuddering breath. Her heart was still pounding so hard that she found it difficult to talk coherently. ‘You look like a stranger!’

  He touched his bushy, dark beard. ‘I’ve had to become one of the proletariat to get into the right places. If they’d had any inkling of who I really was, I assure you I would now be more dead than alive.’

  ‘Henry!’

  ‘Dinner at the Ritz?’

  ‘I’m hardly dressed for the Ritz.’

  ‘You look magnificent, as always.’

  ‘So long as I can powder my nose when we get there.’ The fiacre set off with a lurch. Rattling along in the smell of horse and harness leather, she tried to catch her breath. ‘How long are you in Paris for?’

  ‘I’m back for good.’

  She turned away, not wanting him to see her tears. ‘Is that a promise?’ she asked in a choked voice.

  ‘Yes. I’ve come for you – if you want me.’

  Copper accepted the handkerchief he offered her. ‘I’ll let you know when I make up my mind. What’s with the horse and cart?’

  He smiled. ‘There are not many cities left where you can still get a carriage to pick up the love of your life. I couldn’t resist it.’

  ‘You always were an incurable romantic,’ she said.

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I’ve been sick with worry about you,’ she said. ‘Are you smiling? I can’t see your expressions under all that face-fungus.’

  ‘My expression is a happy one, I assure you.’

  ‘Do you forgive me for leaving you at the altar?’

  ‘If you forgive me for being a Bluebeard.’

  ‘Done. Speaking of beards, I really need to remove yours. Can we stop at your house on the way?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They reached Henry’s house and went in. Everything was bright and clean, and the air smelled of polish and fresh paint.

  ‘It looks wonderful.’

  ‘It’s coming back to life,’ he agreed. ‘It’s waiting for a new mistress.’

  The bedroom was full of flowers, as before. In the white marble bathroom, he gave her scissors, a razor and the other materials necessary for removing his beard. He stripped to his waist so she could get to work. She made him sit on the edge of the bathtub and began by trimming his beard close to his jawline with the scissors.

  ‘I read your article in Picture Post,’ he said. ‘Balmain must be grateful to you. You gave him an excellent launch.’

  ‘He’s brilliantly talented.’

  ‘And when will you be doing the same for your friend Dior?’

  She concentrated on cutting the thick curls without damaging his skin. ‘One of these days, I suppose. I keep urging him to do something about leaving Lelong. But he can be disgustingly timid. Or disgustingly lazy. Or both.’ She lathered his stubbly face abundantly with shaving soap and then set to work with the razor.

  ‘You’ve done this before?’

  ‘Twice a week until I left home. I was the one who shaved my father, Mondays and Wednesdays. Stop trying to kiss me or I won’t be responsible for any cuts.’ In fact, her hands were trembling in a way that threatened Henry’s life, but she managed to get them under control. It helped if she didn’t meet his eyes but focused on shearing away the foam to reveal the familiar contours of his face. ‘Where have you been? Tell me the truth.’

  ‘There has been a war for the soul of France. The communists have been doing everything in their power to destabilise the country and annex it for Soviet Russia. But at last the tide is turning and their strength is starting to fade a little. And strangely, that has less to do with me and my beard than with Stalin’s own brutality.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The glorious Red Army has been the communists’ chief propaganda weapon. For years, they’ve been telling French workers tales of how the Red Army are coming to liberate them from slavery. But now we can all see what liberation by the Red Army really means. We saw the rape and looting which followed them at every step. We’ve seen them turn Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia and the rest into prison nations. Now we see them turning Berlin into a prison city. And Berlin, my dear, is not so far from Paris. My task, in the end, lay merely in pointing out these details in the right company and allowing them to draw their own conclusions.’

  ‘There must have been more than that. You said you would tell me the truth.’

  ‘Well, it was not always easy to get into the right company. And playing one side against the other is always difficult. The Reds would like to take sole credit for defeating the Nazis. According to them, every Resistance hero was a Stalinist. Dispelling that myth was vital.’ His dark, slanted eyes took her in hungrily. ‘You are so beautiful. I’ve dreamed of you. But my dreams always fall short of the reality.’

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she said, taking in his lean torso.

  ‘I haven’t been eating very much. I’m looking forward to our dinner at the Ritz grill.’

  ‘You can’t keep living at the Ritz,’ Copper heard herself saying. ‘Not with this magnificent home standing empty. It’s an unnecessary expense.’ She scraped off the last patch of foam. ‘And we can’t keep eating restaurant food, either. It’s not good for us. We need healthy, home-cooked meals.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ He caught her wrist. ‘Copper – how long are you going to keep me waiting?’

  She was silent for a moment. Then she freed herself gently and rinsed the razor under the silver tap. ‘If you really want me, I’m yours.’

  ‘M
y beloved!’ He put his arms around her. ‘I thank God for you.’

  She laughed a little unsteadily. ‘Henry, you’re the only man I know who actually says things like that.’

  ‘I say them because I mean them.’

  ‘I know you do.’ She put down the implements and turned in his arms, looking up into his freshly shaven face. ‘There, that’s better. Now you look like you again.’

  ‘I will try to make you a better husband than the previous incumbent,’ he said, gazing down at her adoringly. ‘You are not going to run away again?’

  ‘No. I promise. And I will try to be a good wife to you, my darling,’ she replied. ‘And I promise—’

  But she had to leave the rest of the promise unspoken, because his warm lips sealed hers.

  The second ceremony, as she had requested, was held at the office des mariages in the local mairie. It was very quiet. No Russian duchesses were present, nor any Parisian bohemians. Only Christian, Pierre Balmain, Hervé and Catherine came, serving as witnesses.

  The room was not a very glamorous one, lined with filing cabinets on one side, but the other side had large windows with a fine view of the Arc de Triomphe, and the public notary was a charming woman who kissed them all roundly after the ceremony. Copper wore a sheer pink dress with a turn-down collar made for her by Tian, and carried a small bouquet of rosebuds, as she had wanted. The men all wore morning suits and coats with top hats. They exchanged plain gold rings, and were filled with quiet joy.

  After the ceremony, the wedding party went for lunch in a private suite at the Ritz. The table was decked with cream lilies and the meal was equally elegant and beautiful, beginning with oysters and continuing with lobster and salmon, accompanied by vintage champagne.

  Hervé and Tian both proposed toasts. Hervé’s was very dignified, but Tian choked up during his and had to be given a handkerchief to dry his eyes before he was able to continue.

  Catherine was now on the road to recovering her strength. She and Hervé were living near Grasse, in the south of France. It was she who had supplied the bouquet of rosebuds, gathered from her own garden. Copper could see curves in her figure that hadn’t been there before, and her hair had grown; but nothing, Copper suspected, would take the haunted look from her eyes. Several times during the course of the lunch, she caught Catherine staring into nothing, her hands clenched. A touch on her arm was enough to break the spell of what were almost certainly terrible memories, but Copper knew there was a long way to go yet. Catherine still found it difficult to eat more than a few mouthfuls, even though Copper coaxed her.

  ‘When we first got to Ravensbrück,’ she said, ‘our stomachs used to rumble so loudly in the hut at night that they made us laugh. Really, it was comical. We had competitions to see who could make the loudest gurgles. But after a while, our stomachs shrank and they stopped making any noises at all.’ In the silence that followed, she looked apologetic. ‘I shouldn’t talk about these things.’

  ‘Of course you should,’ Copper said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured to Copper as conversation resumed. ‘I don’t want to spoil your special day.’

  ‘You’re making it beautiful. But I can see that you’re still in pain.’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘When I was in the camps, I could think of nothing but France. And now that I am home, my thoughts return constantly to the camps. My mind is like a monkey that never does what I tell it to do.’

  ‘I know the problem,’ Copper said ruefully.

  Catherine pressed her hand. ‘I’m well. Enjoy your day. It gives me such joy to see you married.’

  ‘She deserves to be happy,’ Copper said that evening, as she nestled in Henry’s arms in the old house covered in vines.

  ‘Yes, she does. And so do you.’

  ‘I couldn’t be happier,’ she replied, stroking his cheek.

  ‘Nor could I. I can still hardly believe that you are my wife.’

  ‘You were right about one thing, though,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The registry office ceremony was awfully drab. The cathedral would have been much nicer.’

  He stifled a groan, rolling his eyes. ‘You will drive me mad.’

  ‘Probably,’ she admitted.

  ‘We can still arrange the cathedral, if you want.’

  ‘No, thank you. I’ve been married quite enough times.’ She kissed him on the lips. ‘And now I think it’s time you made me yours.’

  Fifteen

  ‘You’re going to be my wife,’ Dior told Copper.

  ‘I have a perfectly serviceable husband,’ she pointed out. ‘You may have noticed that we’ve already had our first wedding anniversary.’

  ‘He won’t mind. I’m just borrowing you for the afternoon.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We’re going to go shopping for an outfit for you.’

  ‘That sounds fun. Chanel? Schiaparelli?’

  ‘Somewhere much more discreet – Maison Gaston. After all, we’re a staid old couple, not young gadabouts.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Copper snorted.

  Dior had asked her to meet him on the rue Saint-Florentin, but would not explain why. He led her into Maison Gaston now, arm in arm like a respectable married pair.

  The shop was redolent of old-fashioned Parisian charm. The bustle of the rue Saint-Florentin seemed to fade behind them. The clothes were somewhat severe. Almost every garment was trimmed with sable or mink, unappealing for the summer, but as Tian pointed out, autumn would soon be here. Middle-aged, black-clad vendeuses glided around them, combining icy politeness with an impression of unassailable superiority.

  ‘What do you think of the designs?’ Dior asked her.

  ‘Quite sombre,’ Copper murmured. ‘And awfully conservative.’ Even if she had really been shopping for herself, she would have found it difficult to choose a garment she didn’t consider old-fashioned.

  Oddly, however, Tian was interested in everything. He asked to be shown the latest models, the old stock, the accessories; in short, everything. He gazed around at the fittings, nosed behind the counters, and interrogated the vendeuses. There seemed to be no aspect of the establishment that he didn’t have an insatiable curiosity about. He even peered in while she was trying on a dress.

  ‘A lovely place to be embalmed,’ was his verdict on the changing room.

  As always, where his own profession was concerned, he changed subtly; the shy and retiring Christian Dior became someone authoritative. His normally mild expression turned into a frown of concentration, and his tone became peremptory. By the time they left the shop – having bought nothing – the vendeuses were practically ready to throw them out physically.

  They had spent almost two hours in Gaston, and it was now early evening, the air warm and balmy. One of the last remaining horse-drawn carriages clopped down the street, scattering a group of young novice nuns.

  ‘What did you think?’ Dior asked.

  ‘It’s a lovely shop, Tian. Why did you take me there?’

  ‘I wanted your opinion.’

  ‘Why does my opinion matter?’

  ‘Because, ma petite,’ he said, slipping his arm through hers, ‘Marcel Boussac has offered to make me the new director.’

  ‘And who is Marcel Boussac?’

  ‘He’s the Cotton King. When the First World War ended, he bought up all the linen which was used to make the aircraft in those days. He turned it into shirts and made a fortune. People used to say “as rich as Midas”. Now they say “as rich as Boussac”.’

  ‘And he owns Gaston?’

  ‘Yes. I trust you to be discreet, ma petite. This isn’t for public consumption.’

  Copper hugged his arm excitedly. ‘Tian! You’ll be your own man at last!’

  He disengaged himself from her, laughing. ‘Let’s pick up your husband and I’ll cook you both supper at my place. I’ve got a lovely big crab from Granville and a nice Muscadet to go with it.’

  The
three of them convened at Dior’s apartment, which was just around the corner from Gaston – an advantage that Henry pointed out. ‘You’ll be able to stroll to work every morning, swinging your gold-topped cane and tipping your top hat to your clients on the street. It could hardly be better.’

  ‘When I was a young man, Gaston was as famous as Chanel,’ Dior said, as he tied on a snowy apron and got to work in his little kitchen. ‘But it’s been in decline for years. And the war administered the coup de grâce. As you saw, it’s old-fashioned and gloomy now. Boussac wants me to restore it to its former glory.’

  ‘It’s the opportunity of a lifetime!’

  ‘Hardly that, my dear.’

  ‘Tian, don’t tell me you’re going to look this gift horse in the mouth?’

  ‘It’s always important to look any horse in the mouth, mes amis. Marcel Boussac didn’t become the richest man in France by giving his money away.’ He plunged the crab carefully into the boiling water. ‘It may be flattering to be put in a museum, but I’m not sure I’m ready to be stuffed and mounted just yet.’

  ‘You mean – you’re going to say no?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to decline.’

  Copper threw up her hands. ‘Tian. For heaven’s sake!’

  He was concentrating on his cooking now. She knew better than to interrupt him when he was playing chef; he took food preparation seriously. But she knew that Balmain was already preparing for his second collection. Tian was being left further and further behind by his contemporaries.

  ‘You can’t turn this down,’ she said when they were finally seated at the table.

  ‘Gaston is a mausoleum,’ he said, portioning out the crab. ‘And it smells like one. Mothballs and cobwebs and dust. I may be absurdly superstitious, but I’m not in the business of raising the dead.’