The Designer

by Marius Gabriel

  ‘I want to know that you really forgive me.’

  ‘Would I be here – doing this – if I hadn’t forgiven you?’

  ‘Come to me.’ She lay back on the bed as he slid on top of her. ‘I love you, Henry.’

  ‘And I love you,’ he replied, taking her in his arms. ‘Always and forever.’ They gazed into each other’s eyes in the magical moment that he entered her. And then there were no more words or thoughts.

  When Copper next saw Dior, he was in a panic.

  ‘Boussac has consulted his board, and they’re interested. They want to know details of my proposal.’

  ‘Then tell them at once,’ Copper said.

  ‘Why did I ever open my mouth? I never meant this to happen.’

  ‘Henry will help you draw up a business plan,’ Copper promised. And, indeed, Henry dropped his own work to spend much of each day sitting with Dior in his study, working out figures and projections to show Boussac’s people.

  ‘Tian knows the fashion business intimately,’ Henry told Copper after one of these brainstorming sessions. ‘The problem is one of temperament. He’s highly strung, and his self-confidence is fragile. He’ll be in the middle of some grandiose scheme and suddenly he’ll be crushed by self-doubt. He’ll bury his head in his hands and cry, and say it’s impossible, it’ll never work. I have to cajole him back to the desk like a child.’

  ‘He is a child in some ways,’ Copper replied, putting her arm around her husband’s neck. ‘A talented, delicate child. Be gentle with him, darling.’

  ‘I am being as gentle as I can. But Boussac won’t be.’

  But within a few days, Tian had given up.

  ‘I couldn’t take it anymore,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent Boussac a telegram, calling everything off.’

  Copper gasped. ‘Tian, you haven’t.’

  ‘I have. I’ve told him that it’s impossible; quite impossible. I’m going to stay with Lelong.’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘I was mad to even begin this. Thank God it’s over.’

  ‘Tian,’ Henry said brusquely. ‘This was most unwise. If you reject this opportunity, it will never come again. And worse than that, you’ll have given yourself a reputation for flightiness that you will never shake off. Nobody else will approach you. You’ll stay in a backwater for the rest of your days.’

  But Copper knew that this kind of talk wouldn’t work with Tian. ‘We’re going to see Madame Delahaye,’ she said decisively.

  Copper hurried into the hallway to make the call. ‘Madame Delahaye,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’m going to bring Monsieur Christian to you for a reading. He’s at a critical point in his career. Not to put too fine a point on it, he’s about to throw away the greatest chance he’ll ever have of success. I hope you understand what I’m getting at.’

  ‘Bring him to me immediately,’ came the response. ‘You may be sure that I will give him the correct advice.’

  That afternoon, Copper found herself once again in Madame Delahaye’s neat little apartment with the potted plants and the lace doilies. The fortune teller laid out the rows of cards in a deathly silence. Dior sat gloomily fidgeting, his eyes following her movements.

  ‘The Four of Cups,’ Madame Delahaye exclaimed suddenly. She held up the card for Dior to see. ‘Look! He sits with his arms folded, refusing the great gift that is being offered to him.’

  ‘Is that me?’ Dior asked doubtfully.

  ‘Of course. The cards show that you are dreaming while your great opportunity passes you by.’

  Dior inspected the card anxiously, tugging at his ear. ‘Are you sure that’s what it means?’

  ‘Have I ever been wrong?’

  ‘Never,’ Dior admitted.

  ‘You must accept the offer, whatever the conditions. Nobody will ever make you a better one,’ she ordered sternly. ‘You must create Maison Christian Dior no matter what your fears. It is your destiny.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Monsieur Dior, your future is glorious! It’s in your name – “Di-Or”, the Golden God.’

  As they were leaving the apartment, Madame Delahaye put a plump hand on Copper’s arm. ‘And tell me,’ she said gently, ‘the golden-haired woman I saw in your last reading – did she cast her shadow over you, as I predicted?’

  Copper was struck. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten about that. You were right, I think. She did.’

  ‘As for the hand from the east which places a coronet on your head – I think we know what that meant, Countess.’ Madame Delahaye laughed with a touch of glee. ‘I never forget my readings. And I remember how your hands were black with soot that day, Mademoiselle. Now they are clean. You didn’t need to tell me what to say today. It was all in the cards.’

  The word of the woman who had predicted his beloved sister’s safe return was holy writ to Dior. As soon as they were home, he made a nervous call to Boussac gabbling explanations and apologies. He listened to the answer and then came back to Copper. He seemed calmer. ‘There. That’s done.’

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

  ‘Someone intercepted my telegram, so Boussac never received it.’

  ‘Wonderful. What else?’

  Dior sat down, looking thoughtful. ‘They’re prepared to offer me the directorship of my own establishment, Christian Dior Limited. With a starting capital of six million francs, and unlimited credit.’

  Copper was flabbergasted. ‘Balmain started with a tenth of that.’

  Now that his mind was made up, Dior had changed. The breathless, palpitating butterfly was gone. ‘It will do to get started,’ he said. ‘What date are we now?’

  ‘The middle of May,’ she replied, awed by his sudden sangfroid.

  ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’

  She accompanied his sober, sleek figure down the avenue Montaigne. ‘You know, petite, there was something I loved about you the moment we met.’

  ‘My foie gras?’

  ‘Your innocence.’

  ‘Well, thanks to you and your friends, I’ve lost that.’

  ‘You’ll never lose it,’ he replied gently.

  ‘You were so kind to me, Tian. I will never forget the way you helped me.’

  ‘What you have given me in return for a little help is very precious to me.’ He stopped. ‘Many years ago, I dreamed of having my own couture house. I knew exactly what I wanted. I even saw the exact place. I would walk past it often, very often, and be filled with yearning. But of course, I had no way to acquire it. It wasn’t even for sale. Just yesterday, I heard that it is now empty and that the lease is available.’ He turned her to look at the building behind them. ‘Here it is.’

  It was a large house, built out of stone the colour of pale honey. A neoclassical archway carved with the head of a goddess sheltered the entrance, and stone corbels supported a balcony. The whole impression was of compactness and restrained grace.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she exclaimed.

  He pointed to the bel étage. ‘The salon will be there, with those large windows for illumination. The studios will go on the floor up above. And you see those windows, up in the roof? We’ll put workrooms there, in the attics. It’s simple and elegant, just the way I like things.’

  She got her camera ready. ‘We need a photograph.’

  ‘Mightn’t that bring bad luck?’

  ‘Nothing can jinx you now,’ she promised. ‘Take that frown off your face.’

  She bullied him into posing at the entrance of 30 avenue Montaigne. He managed a smile, but his eyes were somehow melancholy. As she pressed the shutter release, she thought of the changes that he was going to face. The carefree frequenter of disreputable clubs, boiler of lobsters, thrower of bohemian parties, rescuer of waifs and strays, was at the threshold of another world.

  She lowered the camera, stricken. ‘Oh, Tian. I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘Nor I you. But weren’t you and your husband the ones pushing me forward?’

  ‘Yes, and we still are. But your lif
e is going to change.’

  He put his arm around her. ‘We will always be friends.’

  With a last, lingering look at the classical, golden house, they walked away together.

  During the excitement surrounding Dior’s negotiations with Marcel Boussac, other things had been happening in the old house covered in vines. To be more accurate, certain familiar things had stopped happening, while other, newer things had been observed. To get an authoritative opinion on these phenomena, Copper and Henry paid a visit to the family doctor. He made an examination of Copper while Henry waited rather anxiously on the other side of the screen.

  ‘Congratulations, Madame la Comtesse,’ he said, shaking Copper’s hand once she was decently dressed again. ‘You are expecting a baby. You are in excellent health, I am glad to report. However, I should like to see you each month from now, so that we can monitor your progress.’

  Henry appeared dazed by the news. Copper had been certain in her own heart that she was expecting, but had wanted it confirmed. However, Henry was so silent on the drive home that Copper began to fear he was not pleased by the news. She stopped talking about nurseries and cots and fell into a silence as profound as his.

  But once they were in their home, with their door closed, he took her in his arms and covered her face with kisses. ‘My darling,’ he said, with tears in his eyes. ‘Once again you have made me the happiest man in the world.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she sighed. ‘I thought you were upset.’

  ‘I was overcome by emotion. I never dared hope that I would be a father.’

  ‘You have to admit that you’ve been doing everything in your power to become one,’ she replied gravely.

  He burst out laughing. ‘And you have played your part, my beloved.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve wanted nothing more than to have our first child. I’m not as young as I was, you know. I’ll be twenty-eight by the time our baby comes.’

  ‘The most perfect of ages. God has truly blessed us.’

  In that same week, the news came that Henry was to be awarded the Legion d’honneur for his services to France. The honour would be conferred on him by the provisional president, Charles de Gaulle – and by a happy coincidence, others to be decorated on the same day included Catherine Dior and Hervé des Charbonneries. There was to be a reunion of friends and relatives.

  The ceremony took place at the Élysée Palace. Christian Dior was one of the guests, with his father and his brother Raymond. General de Gaulle, an enormously tall figure in full uniform, towered over the occasion. He had aged visibly over the past two years of political struggle. His short speech expressed the hope that France was entering a period of stability and progress in the Fourth Republic. After he had pinned the medals on to the lapels of the awardees, there was a pleasant surprise: Copper was presented with a box of exquisite silk scarves from eight of the most famous Paris fashion houses.

  Drinking champagne in the gilded splendour of the president’s salon after the ceremony, they caught up with each other’s news. Copper was delighted to see Catherine again, her skin summer-tanned. She was now an official mandataire en fleurs coupées, sending bouquets of freshly cut French flowers all over the world. ‘The authorities gave us the work as a reward for our war service,’ she told Copper. ‘They asked us what we would like to do, and that was my choice. We have to start work every morning at four a.m. to get our blooms to the market of Les Halles, but what better career than to be surrounded by flowers?’

  ‘So you have followed your mother, after all,’ Copper said.

  ‘You are right. I think of her every day.’ She studied Copper, her expression changing subtly. ‘Forgive me for asking – are you expecting a baby?’

  Copper laid her hand instinctively over her womb. ‘I didn’t think it showed yet.’

  ‘It doesn’t. Not there, anyway. It’s in your eyes.’

  ‘You’re very perceptive, Catherine.’

  ‘You and I are friends,’ Catherine replied. ‘And we understand one another well. There’s a special light about you, Copper. You’re luminous. You must be very happy.’

  ‘I am happier than I deserve to be.’

  ‘So I am right?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  ‘Congratulations, my dear.’ She kissed Copper on both cheeks. But as she drew back, her expression was wistful, her eyes sad. ‘You are lucky. I wonder if you know how lucky you are.’

  ‘Oh, Catherine. What’s to stop you having a child?’

  ‘Hervé has three children already. He doesn’t want any more, especially not illegitimate ones. And after what I saw at Ravensbrück, I don’t think I would make a good mother, anyway. It changes one’s perspective.’

  Copper touched the little enamel cross on Catherine’s lapel. ‘We’re so proud of you; of how you endured.’

  Catherine grimaced. ‘It’s a fine thing to be a chevalière de la Legion d’honneur, isn’t it? They’re arresting the people who betrayed me and tortured me, and killed my friends. There’ll be a court case, and those men will all appear with their lawyers, defending themselves, explaining that they were only following orders; doing the best thing for France. I’ll be interrogated all over again, asked to justify my evidence, humiliated and made to look dishonest. I’m not looking forward to that, I can tell you.’

  ‘That’s so unfair,’ Copper exclaimed.

  Catherine shrugged. ‘We have to play by the rules, even if they didn’t.’

  There was a gala dinner that evening attended by the American and British ambassadors. It was a glittering occasion: the men in white tie wearing all their decorations, and the women dressed by the great designers – Rochas, Schiaparelli, Balmain. Copper herself was in a spectacular crimson gown designed and made for her by Dior, which attracted a great number of compliments. She in her turn was bursting with pride over her husband, who looked so magnificent in his black tailcoat, wearing the Legion d’honneur and all his other decorations.

  At dinner, Copper was seated next to Gertrude McCarthy Caffery, the American ambassador’s wife. A woman in her fifties, she was soberly, rather than fashionably, dressed; but she had caught the rumours that Marcel Boussac was about to invest in an unknown fashion designer, and questioned Copper with skilled diplomacy.

  ‘Is he as good as Molyneux, Rochas and the rest?’ she enquired. ‘He seems such a shy little man.’

  Copper looked across the scintillating banquet table to where Dior was sitting, pink-faced and beaming. ‘He doesn’t just copy what the others are doing. He starts with something fresh and new every time. And the result is different from anyone else’s work.’

  The ambassador’s wife examined Copper’s gown carefully. ‘I take it this is an example of his work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s certainly highly original. And if I can say so, it’s perfectly suited to you.’ Gertrude Caffery put her glasses on and looked meaningfully at Copper’s midriff. ‘After so many years of sacrifice and horror, isn’t it wonderful to have all sorts of things to celebrate?’

  Copper blushed. The intelligence service at the American embassy was obviously immaculate.

  Seventeen

  In a few months, the austere calm of 30 avenue Montaigne had given way to something very different.

  Workmen jostled one another through the doorway, carrying pipes, ladders, boards, bags of tools, buckets of paint, coils of electrical cable, sacks of plaster and planks of wood. As Copper tried to get into the building, she was brought up short by four men carrying a huge crystal chandelier bundled into a white sheet. She had to back away, clutching her bump. She followed their progress into the house and up the sweeping staircase. With shouts and grunts, the heavy thing was manoeuvred around the curve, under the great window, and up to the bel étage, where the salon was being set up.

  Dior was staring anxiously up at the high ceiling. He was wearing a white coat and a worried expression.

  ‘What if the ceiling’s not strong enough?�
� he greeted Copper, who was herself puffing somewhat after the climb.

  ‘It’ll make a magnificent crash if it comes down.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘They know what they’re doing, Tian. You don’t need to worry about things like that.’

  ‘I worry about everything,’ he said gloomily. ‘Especially you. When is this baby of yours coming?’

  ‘A few more weeks.’

  ‘Well, I wish it would hurry up,’ he said, pulling up a chair for her. ‘You’re fraying my nerves terribly. I’ve had to advertise for mannequins. I don’t have nearly enough. We’re having a parade tomorrow to choose. Will you come and help?’

  ‘Of course.’

  A towering stepladder was brought in and set up. Dior had already gathered an impressive workforce around himself. He’d shown especial kindness to those who’d lost their places during the war and who were currently unemployed. Many of his vendeuses had come from this group. They were all distinguished by their loyalty to him and their belief in his genius.

  The chandelier was hoisted into place and with the ladder creaking and swaying, was attached on to its hook. The men gingerly let it hang free. Dior grabbed Copper’s hand, but contrary to his fears, the ceiling did not come down. One of the men began fitting the lightbulbs into their sockets while another, clinging to his mate’s waist, attached the crystal drops. Finally, the last parchment shade was in place and the last glass ball – a copy of Madame Delahaye’s crystal gazing ball – had been fitted on the very bottom. The electrician switched it on. The winter gloom fled. Golden light poured from the chandelier, eliciting admiring oohs and aahs. Applause broke out.

  ‘Before they take the ladder away, can I get some photos?’ she asked Dior.

  ‘Of the ladder?’

  ‘Of you, with one foot on the first rung, looking up.’

  Dior, always sensitive to symbolism, was delighted. ‘Excellent.’ Normally shy about being photographed, he posed happily for her, while she clicked off several shots with the Leica. The golden light of the chandelier shone down auspiciously on his upturned face.