The grimy streets of Montmartre were grudgingly taking on a Christmas sparkle. Fairy lights glimmered in the windows of dilapidated apartments; mistletoe wreaths were being sold on the street corners. Legless war veterans sold roasted chestnuts and sweet potatoes. Braving the dirty snow, a brass band played in the place Pigalle. A small crowd listened dourly, shuffling to keep warm, tossing a few centimes into the bandleader’s hat between numbers.
Close by, in a wine bar, Copper found Pearl already waiting in a dark corner.
‘Hullo, Copper Pot. Bloody hell, you’re huge,’ Pearl greeted her. ‘Just how many have you got in there?’
‘Only the one, according to the doctor,’ Copper assured her. They kissed. Pearl had already ordered – and started on – a bottle of wine. She poured a slug for Copper and they clinked glasses. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘Never better.’
Copper peered at Pearl. In the gloom of the crowded little bar, she could make out that Pearl was pasty-looking with dark smudges around her eyes. ‘Has Petrus been beating you up again?’ she demanded.
Pearl drained her glass and poured another. ‘Petrus won’t be beating anyone up anymore.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Next best thing. He’s been sent back to Africa.’
‘Oh, Pearl.’
‘The police picked him up. He didn’t have any papers, not proper ones. He’s been here illegally for years. They deported him. He’ll never be back.’
‘I can’t say I’m sorry for him,’ Copper commented. ‘But I know it must be hard for you. What are you going to do?’
‘I’ve taken over the business,’ Pearl said succinctly.
‘What business?’
‘You know. The girls. The postcards. Everything.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Funny, isn’t it? I’m doing just fine. Got a stable of my own now.’
‘A stable?’
‘Stupid tarts, like I used to be. They think it’s fun. I don’t disillusion them.’
‘Where do they come from?’
‘London East Enders like me, most of them. Longing for the bright lights and the high life. They haven’t had a bar of chocolate or a glass of champagne in their lives. I bring them over on the ferry. Juicy and fresh, and they don’t speak a word of French.’
Copper exclaimed in dismay, ‘Darling, how can you do that to other women?’
‘Easy. I know the ropes, don’t I?’ The door of the bar swung open, letting in a shaft of wintry light. It illuminated Pearl for a moment, showing Copper that Pearl’s face, once so pretty, had taken on a tough, hard look. The pasty sheen came from heavy make-up. But her clothes were showy and smart, and there were flashy rings on her fingers. The door slammed shut again, and the vision retreated into shadow. ‘They’re suckers. Why should I feel sorry for them?’
‘Because they’re innocent, the way you were.’
‘Nobody’s innocent,’ Pearl retorted. ‘They’re here for a good time, and I make sure they get it.’
‘But that’s cruel. You know what’s going to happen to them.’
‘They could end up like me, running their own business, if they’ve got the brains.’
‘Or end up dead in the gutter.’
‘Can’t you be happy for me? At least I’m off the cocaine.’
‘Really?’ Copper asked sceptically.
‘Well, at least I can afford my own stuff now. I don’t have to go on my knees to Petrus anymore.’
‘No, you get other women to do that for you.’
‘Don’t lecture me, Copper. You live your life and I’ll live mine, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Copper said sadly.
‘So tell me, how’s your Monsieur Dior?’
‘Spending money like water. Crystal chandeliers, mirrors ten feet high. It’s a palace.’
‘Is he going to sell some frocks after all that?’
‘He’s astonishingly extravagant. I get quite frightened sometimes. He was always so frugal, but now nothing’s too much.’
‘Having someone else’s six million francs in your pocket will do that,’ Pearl commented dryly. ‘I hope Boussac keeps signing the cheques.’
‘I have faith in Tian, of course. But when I say he’s extravagant, I don’t just mean what he’s doing at avenue Montaigne. I mean the clothes he’s designing. Some of the designs use twenty or thirty yards of silk. They have to have hundreds of pleats, just to make them wearable. It’s wonderfully romantic – but who’s going to pay those prices? And with everything still rationed!’
Pearl shook her head. ‘You can keep a bunny in a cage, but when you let it out, it’ll hop, hop, hop. Maybe that’s why Lelong kept him locked up all those years. How’s married life with Henry?’
‘He’s an angel. I couldn’t be happier.’
‘Does that mean you’re not bored yet?’
‘I’m married, not dead.’
‘Hold on to him.’ Pearl’s eyes gleamed in the dark for a moment. ‘He’s a handy fellow to have around.’
‘I intend to.’
Pearl dug in her handbag and started applying lipstick heavily to her mouth. ‘Can’t sit here all day chatting,’ she said, snapping her bag shut. ‘Much as I’d love to. I’ve got a business to run. Ta-ra, Copper Pot.’
They parted in the cold square. Copper watched Pearl walk away. She had the confident swagger of a woman of means. She’d landed on her feet, Copper supposed, but not in the way Copper had expected.
She began to feel really tired and sore on the walk home. She reached the house to be faced by an agitated Henry.
‘I’ve been worried sick about you,’ he exclaimed, helping her off with her coat. ‘Walking around the streets in this weather – and in your condition.’
‘Perhaps I did overdo it on this occasion,’ she sighed, allowing herself to be propelled to the sofa in front of the fire. ‘I’m a bit tired. Would you rub my back, darling?’
He obeyed solicitously, firm hands gently soothing away the aches. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I went to see Pearl in place Pigalle. You’ll never guess – Petrus has been deported and she’s taken over the business.’
For a moment, his hands paused. ‘Really?’
‘She’s covered in diamonds. Mistress of her own destiny. Did you ever?’
‘Life is full of surprises,’ he said, resuming the massage.
Something in his voice made her suspicious. ‘You’re not surprised at all.’ She turned to face him. ‘You knew!’
‘Well, one keeps one’s ear to the ground,’ he said blandly.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
He raised his exotic eyebrows. ‘I would have done, by and by. When I heard the end of the story. But you’ve just told me it.’
‘The end of the story?’ she repeated. ‘Wait a moment. Did you have something to do with all this?’
‘I may have dropped a word here or there,’ he replied smoothly.
‘Henry!’
‘You said yourself he was Pearl’s bête noir.’
‘So you played St George.’
‘Pearl came to me for help,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘Petrus was becoming more and more violent. There’s a psychosis that comes from cocaine abuse. She was afraid he would kill her. I still have friends in certain places. I made sure he was – ah – removed from the picture.’
‘You’re so devious,’ she said, not sure whether she was amused or appalled.
‘Not at all. I’m as straight as a die.’ He took the gold cufflinks out of the cuffs of his silk shirt and rolled up his sleeves to expose strong brown forearms. ‘Now turn around, so I can continue to rub your delicious back.’
‘My God,’ she said, turning around again. ‘I’m married to an ogre.’
‘Kind of you to say so. And what is happening in the avenue Montaigne?’
She allowed him to dodge the subject. ‘You can’t imagine the commotion. I don’t think Monsieur Boussac’s six million fran
cs are going to last long. Tian certainly knows how to spend money.’
‘Do you think it’s all a terrible mistake?’
‘Time will tell. Oh gee,’ she exclaimed, ‘he recognises your touch.’ She guided Henry’s hand on to her belly so he could feel the vigorous kicking that was going on within. She loved the expression that came over her husband’s face at these moments. ‘Feel that?’
‘Yes,’ Henry murmured. ‘Our little ogre baby.’
‘Do you think he has fangs and claws, like his father?’
‘I hope so.’
She winced. ‘Ouch. I can feel them. I think he’s starting to feel cramped in there.’
‘That does it. You’re not leaving the house again.’
‘I can’t stay cooped up,’ Copper said, laughing. ‘It might be weeks longer.’
‘I ought to lock you up and keep the key in my vest pocket,’ he said sternly.
‘My beautiful Bluebeard,’ Copper smiled, nestling into his arms. ‘You would never be so cruel.’
‘Don’t count on it. What if you went into labour in the street?’
‘So long as it was a smart street with lots of nice clothes shops, I wouldn’t mind at all.’
‘You’re impossible,’ he said, kissing her tenderly.
‘But I have to be with Tian tomorrow. He wants me to help him choose the mannequins for the fashion parade.’
‘That’s all very well, but what if you slip in the snow? What if you catch cold?’
‘No more scolding.’
‘As if I could ever scold you,’ he sighed. He cradled her in his arms and looked down adoringly into her face. ‘I know you’re the chronicler of the age, but the age is a slippery one. I won’t have you trudging through the snow like Orphan Annie any longer. Please promise me you won’t go anywhere without the car from now on.’
‘All right,’ she said, kissing his lips. ‘That’s a deal.’
It seemed that there had been a good response to Dior’s advertisement for models. Several dozen women had already arrived and were queuing on the pavement outside number 30. Copper slipped past them and went to find Dior.
She was ushered carefully to the largest chair and given a notebook and a pencil to write down her observations. A runway had been cleared for the candidates to walk along.
The first hopeful was called in. ‘Numéro un! Entrez, s’il vous plaît.’
The woman entered the salon, swinging a parasol insouciantly. She was heavily made-up – much too heavily for daytime. As she made her circuit, she stared boldly at her audience. One of Dior’s entourage clicked her tongue disapprovingly. For a model to make eye contact with the viewers was anathema; a haughty indifference was the correct form. Copper wrote down a single word – ‘unsuitable’.
‘That will do, Mademoiselle,’ Dior called. ‘Next!’
The next was extremely buxom. That alone would have disqualified her, let alone her flaming red hair and rouged face; but in addition to that, she walked with a provocative, hip-rolling gait that was all too familiar from the pavements of Paris. There were whispers of dismay.
The third was of the same type; a handsome, confident woman, though not in the first flush of youth, who tossed her hair and sashayed with one hand on her hip.
‘My God,’ someone said when she’d left. ‘They’re prostitutes. What on earth are they doing here?’
‘They can’t all be prostitutes,’ Dior said. ‘Let’s see the next one.’
But the next was clearly in the same category. Dior threw up his hands and called a halt to proceedings. ‘We need an explanation for this.’
One of the vendeuses was sent to get the explanation. She returned, appalled. ‘The police have closed down all the brothels. The ladies are out of business, and they saw Monsieur Dior’s advertisement, so . . .’
One of the hopefuls was brought in to corroborate the story. She told them proudly that she was from Le Chabanais, the most famous and luxurious brothel in Paris, once patronised by Edward VII and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
‘The hypocritical bastards have shut us down because we screwed the Germans. As if they weren’t in the same queue.’
‘We have to cancel this charade at once,’ someone said.
‘We can’t,’ Dior replied. ‘These people are without work. And they’ve all come in response to my advertisement. We have to be courteous, at least. We’ll see them.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes, all of them.’
‘But, Monsieur Dior—’
‘Proceed, please.’
The pageant went on. Dior was courtesy itself, though the faces of the women in his entourage were stiff with affront. He had a kind word for all the applicants, but the task appeared hopeless. Every prostitute in Paris seemed to have read the unfortunately timed advertisement. More kept arriving at the sober portals of 30 avenue Montaigne. Copper, behind the sofa, took several photographs, trying to capture the contrast between the opulent surroundings and the raw vitality of the streetwalkers. Some of them were very pretty indeed, but none were remotely suitable for Dior’s purposes – except for a single ‘respectable’ applicant, a shy young secretary called Marie-Thérèse, whose name was taken, and who was asked to come back at a more opportune time.
‘I’ll never advertise for models again,’ Dior said wearily after a long morning with the streetwalkers of the city. ‘What a debacle.’
But Copper had been fascinated by this absurd intersection between two of Paris’s strata: one public and the other hidden. Her journalistic antennae were twitching. There was an article to be written here, possibly a daring and interesting article. She hurried out to interview some of the disappointed prostitutes before they dispersed back into the streets of Paris.
Anticipating an imminent confinement, Copper decided to gather some reading material. She’d been working hard, and the idea of leafing through an amusing book, plumped up with pillows, was very attractive.
Her waters broke while she was halfway through this errand in Shakespeare and Company. There was a hot gush and she found herself with drenched stockings and buckle shoes, holding a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (which was currently banned everywhere except in France) standing at the centre of a spreading puddle of amniotic fluid.
‘May I help you, Madame?’ a male assistant enquired discreetly.
‘Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry. I seem to have—’
‘Not at all, Madame. Allow me.’
The charming young man rescued her from behind the polished wooden shelves, mopped up, called her husband and got her into her car. The embarrassment soon gave way to alarm. She was going into labour. These birth pangs were nothing like the twinges she’d had hitherto. They were terrifying. She clutched her swollen self, feeling the muscles of her womb contracting in a businesslike way. Her chauffeur hunched over his wheel, driving as fast as he dared through the morning traffic. She prayed she wasn’t going to give birth on the gleaming leather seat. The contractions were coming at regular intervals, and they were getting perceptibly stronger.
Henry was waiting for her at the hospital. She was by now sweating and frightened. ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ he said, holding her hand as they wheeled her along the corridors. ‘The great day has arrived.’
‘Nobody told me it was going to be like this.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re in the best hands.’
Copper clambered on to the bed as instructed. Her body had grown so unwieldy in these last weeks, her breasts and belly getting in the way of everything she tried to do. ‘Where’s the midwife?’
‘She’s on her way,’ Henry assured her, heading for the door. ‘I called her as soon as the bookshop called me. Oh, and they say you owe them thirty francs for the book.’ She was still clutching Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
The nurses got her ready. Her contractions were now coming fewer than five minutes apart and were lasting an agonising minute each, by the large watch pinned on to the matron’s uniform. Every time her wo
mb clenched, she curled up, clutching herself. Each time, the nurses pushed her back down on to the pillows.
Hazily, she was aware of Henry coming back into the room, accompanied by the obstetrician who was wearing his gloves and surgical apron, and Angelique, the midwife. They all were remarkably calm given the dire state she was in; they did not seem to appreciate just how awful this was becoming. The obstetrician examined her. ‘Dilating nicely,’ he said.
‘Henry, I’m scared,’ she gasped, clutching at his hand.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he said. He, who had been so solicitous, so anxious about her safety during the pregnancy, was now as cool as a cucumber. ‘Just concentrate on what Angelique tells you to do, my beloved.’
Copper cried out as her womb convulsed. ‘I want gas and air!’
‘They say you don’t need it yet.’
‘How would they know? It’s me having the goddamned baby!’
None of this was as she had expected. Nobody had told her it was going to be like this – frightening. She didn’t want to be screaming in front of everyone. But the process was starting to take her over. All self-consciousness was fading away. She just had to get through this, as all mothers did. Panting and pushing as instructed by Angelique, she clung to the iron rails of the bed and heaved at this being inside her who was so determined to get its very large self out of her very small door. It didn’t feel possible that she could give birth without some major and irreparable injury to her insides. And all around her was a general air of business in the room: people chatting to each other, going in and out, generally behaving like the spectators at a prize fight.
Things got better for a while, as the obdurate thing seemed to settle down for a rest; and then they got far worse again when it woke up refreshed. At last, by dint of screaming the worst words she knew at her husband, she succeeded in getting the gas-and-air machine. It was wheeled in and set up beside her. She grabbed the mask in both hands and sucked the mixture into her lungs. A woozy, floaty feeling flooded her. The contractions were still there, but she found she didn’t care about them so much. The more she breathed the mixture, the further away she floated. But the mask was taken away from her, and awful reality came rushing back. She raged at them, but nobody seemed to understand.
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