‘I hope he never is,’ she said, putting her arms around them both and looking down at Pierre-Henri’s sleepy face. ‘I hope he’ll be as lucky as I’ve been. There’s been so much destruction and unhappiness around me – and my life has been a fairy tale.’
Carmel Snow was nothing like Copper’s expectations. She turned out to be a small, spry sixty-year-old with a blue rinse and pearls. She had a narrow, lined, Irish face with an upturned nose, and there remained a trace of Dalkey brogue in her voice, despite having left Ireland long ago as a small child.
However, as Copper swiftly discovered, this was no sweet little old lady.
Carmel Snow was determined not to miss a second. She seemed not to need sleep at all, and was as lively at four a.m. as she was at noon. Nor did she appear to suffer from hunger or tiredness. Keeping up with her was a constant scramble. The only thing she demanded – and never missed – was lunch. And as Copper learned to her cost, lunch for Mrs Snow meant several large martinis.
‘You know what I’m like with alcohol,’ Copper sighed to Henry, rubbing her aching temples. ‘One martini, and I’m fried to the eyeballs. At three, I’m comatose. You should have warned me.’
‘Pour them into a potted plant when she’s not looking,’ Henry advised. ‘That’s what I do. I’ve known Carmel for twenty years and I’ve never been able to keep up with the three-martini lunch.’
Carmel had all the energy of a woman who had turned Harper’s Bazaar from a dowdy periodical for the middle-aged into the most stimulating women’s magazine of the era in just ten years. And she was determined to sign Copper up as a staff correspondent.
‘Your story about the prostitutes was magnificent,’ she told Copper.
‘You read it?’
‘It’s funny yet it’s hard-hitting. You’re asking some fascinating questions. Whether the profession of offering sexual services is so distant from the profession of being fashionable; the profession of being a woman in a world which doesn’t give us a fair break. That’s ground-breaking journalism.’
‘I’m glad you liked it.’
‘It has one glaring fault.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It was written for Vogue. I don’t want you writing for Vogue any longer,’ she declared briskly. She herself had started out working at Vogue, but had quit the magazine, leaving bad blood behind, which had never been forgotten on either side. ‘I need a well-placed Paris staffer. I’ll pay well.’
‘I’m flattered that you want me, Mrs Snow,’ Copper said cautiously. They were lunching together at Harry’s Bar – a croque monsieur and a dewy pitcher of martinis – prior to visiting Balenciaga, one of Mrs Snow’s favourite designers. ‘But I value my freedom.’
‘Oh, I know all about freedom. But there’s more to life. There’s being part of a movement. Harper’s isn’t just for well-dressed women, it’s for women with well-dressed minds. And that’s you, my dear. You’ve got something to say, and I want you to be saying it for Harper’s, not for the opposition.’
‘Let me think about it.’
‘You can achieve far more as part of a team – the best team in the business – than as an individual.’ She poured them the third martini of the lunch. Copper’s head was already swimming, and there was no handy pot plant at Harry’s to transfer it into. ‘I want my readers to learn how to live, not just be fashionable. I want them to take chances. Do things they’ve never done before. Expand their horizons. You belong with us.’ She nodded, her pale eyes as bright and cool as the icy cocktail. ‘Now. Tell me about Christian Dior. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the fact that you’ve been raving about him. I saw a suit of his I liked before the war, when he was with Piguet in 1937, I think. But I don’t believe that he’s capable of designing a whole collection.’
‘I think he’s the most brilliant designer in Paris right now.’
‘Better than Balenciaga?’ Mrs Snow scoffed.
‘Different. More spontaneous, more pizzazz.’
The word ‘pizzazz’, coined by Mrs Snow herself in an earlier issue of Harper’s, got a smile. ‘So what am I going to see on Wednesday?’ Dior had somehow kept the tight blanket of secrecy intact over 30 avenue Montaigne, and very few outsiders had any idea of the designs that were being so feverishly assembled within.
‘I can’t give you any details. Tian would kill me.’
‘What’s the big secret?’ Carmel, a neat little figure in an immaculately cut Balenciaga suit, crossed her bony legs with a swish of nylon stockings. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen it all. Hemlines to the thigh? Necklines to the navel?’
‘It’s more than a question of hemlines or necklines.’ Copper hesitated. ‘It’s a whole new look.’
Carmel carried her ‘bag of scraps’ everywhere with her: a folder of magazine clippings, fabric swatches and notes to herself. She uncapped her pen now and wrote: ‘A whole new look. That’s a big promise. I hope I’m not going to be disappointed.’
Nineteen
And, at last, the day of days had come – Wednesday, 12 February 1947. Copper arrived at avenue Montaigne just after dawn to find the place already seething. There was a crowd of curious spectators in the street outside the shop who had heard that something special was happening today, and who were hoping for a glimpse through the windows of the activity within. That the whole of Paris seemed to know about the Dior show was a tribute to word-of-mouth publicity, since the Paris newspapers had been on strike for over a month. Some of the crowd were clamouring for tickets from the doormen; but every seat had long since been sold, and without a ticket, nobody would be admitted.
Copper slipped inside. The flowery scent of the new perfume Tian had designed – to be called ‘Miss Dior’ after Catherine – hung in the air, as a girl with an atomiser scuttled up and down the stairs, squirting extravagantly. Dior had entrusted the great florists of rue Royale – Lachaume – with the floral arrangements. Their men were now bringing in huge bouquets of hothouse flowers and arranging them in sheaves wherever there was space. There wasn’t much: little, hard, white chairs were being crowded together cheek by jowl, each one numbered. Pillar ashtrays had been laid out between them, an essential measure since everyone in the fashion industry chain-smoked. The last inch of space had been utilised. The walkway that the models would use had been reduced to a tight circuit with a space no more than a few feet in diameter in which to make the turn. The dresses were going to be fluttering in the faces of the spectators. Compared to the quiet dignity of most Paris fashion shows, this was already turning into a circus. As Dior had predicted, workmen were still busy here and there, hammering in the last carpet tack and fitting the last moulding in place. The whole place breathed excitement, money, glamour and – despite Dior’s predilection for exclusivity – a certain vulgarity.
Dior himself, in a morning coat and with a lily of the valley in his buttonhole, was pale with nerves. Copper found him in the fitting room administering some final touches to the ninety-four outfits that were hanging there: evening gowns, dresses and suits, in groups.
‘I’m terrified,’ he greeted Copper with something like despair.
‘You don’t need to be. It’s going to be a huge success, Tian. They’re already gathering in the street, trying to look in the windows.’
He clapped his hands over his ears. ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear.’ He clearly hadn’t slept and his nerves were ragged.
Copper went over to the models, who were crowded into a corner of the cabine, two to a dressing table, putting the final touches to their make-up. There were only six of them. It was a small number to show such a large quantity of outfits. They would be working fast. But Dior had been unable to find any more with the qualities of grace and vivacity he had been searching for. Copper watched them craning their long necks as they thickened eyelashes with mascara, outlined pouting lips with lipstick and dusted their amazing cheekbones with rouge. The hairdresser fluttered behind them, combs of various kinds stuffed between her teeth, putti
ng the final touches to their coiffures. All had their hair in curls, piled on the top of their heads.
Having been used as no more than dummies over the past weeks, patiently enduring the hours of fittings, they were now the most important members of the team. How the clothes were viewed would depend on their charisma and exuberance. They had to show off – but not dominate – the qualities of each garment. They had to enchant the viewers, yet remain neutral, so as not to distract from the outfits they were modelling.
The hands of the clock were sweeping inexorably around. A large queue of eager ticket holders had formed at the door, waiting impatiently. It was almost nine thirty, and the opening could no longer be delayed. The final workman was whisked away, a broom hastily swept up the last scattering of sawdust. The doors of 30 avenue Montaigne opened, and the guests poured in. Instantly, the atmosphere became even more highly charged. The building filled with a hubbub of shrill voices and excited laughter. After greeting the first few arrivals, Dior fled upstairs and refused to appear again.
Squabbling over seat numbers began almost immediately. It was astonishing how ruthless civilised women could become, pushing themselves shamelessly forward into seats allocated to others, and objecting loudly when asked to return to their own places.
Carmel Snow was an early arrival. Copper greeted her in the foyer.
‘The hour of judgment has come,’ Mrs Snow said. She raised her retroussé Irish nose and sniffed the air like a connoisseur. ‘Hmmm. I smell panic. Where’s your Monsieur Dior?’
‘He’ll be along in a minute,’ Copper lied. She knew that he had retired to his cubbyhole to hide, his nerves shattered with the effort of the past few days. ‘Let me show you to your seat.’
The flood grew. By ten thirty, the salons were full to bursting. People were even squashed three abreast all the way up the stairs. The premières and other members of staff hung over the balustrades above, peering down at the crowd. The smoke from dozens of cigarettes hazed the air.
Famous faces graced the front rows: Carmel Snow was seated next to Bettina Ballard of Vogue, who had long been predicting that French fashion was dead and who was wearing an expression of amused disdain. Marlene Dietrich was next to Jean Cocteau. Christian Bérard, his bushy beard wild as usual, sprawled in his chair, his pinpoint pupils indicating that he’d already had his morning opium. Jacinthe, as ever, was in his arms. Close to him sat the Comtesse de La Rochefoucauld, known as the smartest woman in Paris. Lady Diana Duff Cooper, the British ambassador’s wife, was there – as was (Copper was surprised and pleased to see) Mrs Caffery, the American ambassador’s wife. Actresses, society hostesses, women who were familiar from the newspapers and the newsreels were all jammed together, and apparently happy to be there.
Copper, with her camera slung around her neck, had been given a place next to the door of the main salon from which she could photograph both the models entering and leaving, and the audience. Dior was obsessed with the fear of having his designs stolen and had forbidden any camera other than Copper’s on the premises. The Leica was proving invaluable now, light and quick as she snapped off the shots. She herself was wearing the first outfit Dior had ever made for her, hoping it would bring luck. The purse slung over her shoulder was stuffed with spare reels of 35mm film. And the parade was about to begin.
The first model, as luck would have it, was the inexperienced young secretary, Marie-Thérèse. She was dressed and ready to go in. But she was in a trembling state of nerves, tearfully whispering, ‘I can’t do it,’ to the director as the announcer was calling, ‘Numéro un! Number one!’
‘You can do it. And you will.’
The director gave Marie-Thérèse the sort of push given by master sergeants to unwilling parachutists. Marie-Thérèse shot forward into the room, white-faced. Copper followed her with the camera. Marie-Thérèse made her way down the narrow aisle somehow – and then, on the turn, disastrously stumbled and sprawled headlong into the audience with a crash. Copper’s heart sank. What an awful beginning! Thank God Tian had not witnessed it. There were exclamations and giggles as she recovered and groped her way back out again, sobbing. Nobody had even noticed the outfit, which now had a cigarette burn in it. She was plainly incapable of showing another dress that morning.
But her place was taken by Tania, whose sweet, open face belied her experience. With supreme confidence, she stalked past the crowd, stepping high like a doe. There was an exclamation of outrage from someone in the audience. The deep red dress she wore, with its double-flared skirt, was not like anything that had been seen before, at least not since ration books and clothes coupons and mannish uniforms and khaki serge had come to dominate the clothes women wore. This was a living, walking fuchsia flower, wasp-waisted, full in the bust. The two layers of the spreading skirt made the waist even narrower.
Tania paused, looking around the room. All eyes were upon her. Then, smiling slightly, she pirouetted. As she did so, the skirt began to lift. Its multitude of exquisitely pressed pleats had disguised the fact that it had been made with a full twenty-five yards of crimson fabric. Before the disbelieving eyes of the audience, the red dress burgeoned, blossomed, filled the room with life and colour, expanding and billowing in astonishing lavishness, sweeping away the years of privation and gloom.
There were gasps. Then the audience burst into spontaneous and excited applause. Copper saw that notebooks were being produced and scribbled in, meaningful whispers were being exchanged. Something remarkable was about to happen. The atmosphere, already charged with expectation, had become electric. The air had begun to crackle.
The next model was already coming out, sleek and feline in an evening dress called ‘Jungle’, a bold leopard print, the waist cinched with a broad leather belt, and a wide-brimmed hat perched on the model’s head. The daring, the effrontery of the look produced more gasps. Was this a slap in the face for restraint and economy?
The fourth outfit was one of the stars of the collection, the ‘Suit Bar’, a Dior classic that Carmel Snow had seen a version of in 1937. The severe, cream shantung jacket was tailored closely around the bust and hips, producing an impression of almost oriental sexiness; the heavy black skirt swung boldly with the model’s gait. Indeed, the models – whether on Dior’s instructions, or by mutual agreement – had all adopted a swift, pirouetting walk that was quite different from the stately progress that was customary. These girls pranced and danced. They looked lively; more than lively, they looked alive. They looked modern. They looked like women who were going places. Their walk was so swift that there was almost no time to take in the design; one had to be quick-eyed and alert.
And they pranced in the daintiest, lightest shoes anyone had seen for years, with pointed toes, thin straps and spike heels. Copper saw with amusement that the women in the front row were glancing ruefully at their own durable, heavy shoes, and trying to tuck them out of sight.
Three evening gowns in shimmering shades of blue followed, the models making miraculously swift changes in the cabine. And there were only five to carry the show now: the unfortunate Marie-Thérèse was hors de combat. Her outfits were already being distributed among the survivors.
Rapturous applause now greeted each new model. Pencils were racing over notebooks. The faces of the buyers were intent. There were whispered confabulations. To her joy, Copper saw assistants already sliding out of their seats and hurrying to the cabine. There could be only one explanation: the chequebooks were opening to secure early orders and cut out the opposition. Behind the scenes, the vendeuses would be busy. The occasional sound of raised voices from that direction indicated that buyers were already squabbling over the outfits.
The designs flew past with such panache that occasionally a flounce would sweep over an ashtray, or slap an incautious observer on the cheek. The announcer intoned the deliberately provocative names – Soirée, Amoureuse, Pompon, Caprice, Amour – with a tone of increasing excitement.
Copper overheard one of the Bloomingdale’s wome
n say, ‘God help the buyers who bought before they saw this. This changes everything.’
And in French, she heard a man say, ‘Dior has saved the season!’
She glanced across the room at Carmel Snow, and their eyes met for a moment. Mrs Snow nodded her blue-rinsed curls and mouthed the words, ‘You were right.’
By eleven thirty, the first four dozen outfits had been shown, each one greeted more euphorically than the last. Dior’s vision had stunned the room. Not a single corner had been cut. After the years of rationing, top-class traditional fabrics were almost impossible to obtain; but he had somehow obtained them. He had wanted silks dyed in the yarn, a process almost nobody bothered with any longer. Nowadays the fabric was dyed once it was woven. But this meant a loss of colour intensity, and Dior would not put up with that.
He had demanded real taffeta, faille and duchesse satin. These refined and expensive materials had long since stopped being made, and had been replaced by cheaper and coarser substitutes. Buyers had scoured the length and breadth of France to find the real thing.
He had insisted on twenty-four-carat gilding for accessories. Gold-tone was not acceptable. With gold almost unobtainable, this alone had meant a vast expenditure. The softest leather, the laciest lace, the work of the most skilled hands – all these had been sourced so that there should be no fault found in the smallest detail.
And now it had all paid off dazzlingly. The eye could hardly take in such a rainbow of colours: from rich, sulphurous yellows to deep crimson; from shimmering ultramarine to the palest pearl. Colours such as nobody had seen since the first shot was fired in 1939.
And the quantity of fabric – the sheer, extravagant, glorious abundance of it in each garment – was enough to make one faint. With their nipped-in waists and bell-like skirts, which imitated flowers, the outfits emphasised everything that was feminine and womanly. After almost a decade of tight, straight, drab little garments that skimped on everything, this was a feast beyond any anticipation. For fashionable women, it was coming from starvation to a banquet; and Copper knew that Christian Dior had planned exactly that effect. His genius was undeniable. He had dared to declare that the war was over. Rationing might exist, but in the magical kingdom of Christian Dior, it no longer applied.
The Designer Page 31