The Designer(10)

If she didn’t go with him, she’d have no idea what he was up to. But the idea of having to keep tabs on her husband was repugnant. It wasn’t much of a choice. Sitting home wondering what shade of lipstick he would get on his collar was marginally worse.

‘Okay,’ she said emptily. ‘I’ll come.’



La Vie Parisienne turned out to be just the sort of place that Amory liked. In every city they’d been together, he’d found such haunts where he seemed able to relax and enjoy himself, observing, taking notes and getting drunk.

The place was located in a narrow street close to their apartment. The entrance was grotto-like, and a number of raucous women in garish clothes were standing outside, apparently squabbling over money. They ogled Amory as he made his way between them.

Inside, the impression was even more cavern-like. The rooms were crowded, dark and smoky. The walls were hung with hundreds of portraits. At the far end was a piano where a fat woman in a man’s suit and bowler hat was playing jazz. A few couples were dancing. All the tables seemed full. Copper was put off by the atmosphere of the place, but Amory cheered up immediately. ‘This is more like it. Let’s get a drink.’ The bar was crowded and people were staring at them with apparent hostility. Suddenly, a sleek form floated out to meet them. It was Christian Dior in evening dress, his smooth cheeks flushed. ‘What a surprise to see you here.’

Copper was happy to see a familiar and friendly face. ‘Monsieur Dior!’

He took their arms. ‘Come to our table. It’s in the corner where we can watch everyone. It’s our favourite occupation.’ Edging their way to the far corner of the bar, they passed a table where a shock-haired man with a thin face was holding forth to a circle of devoted listeners. ‘Cocteau,’ Dior told them. ‘He never stops talking. I want you to meet my dear friend Francis Poulenc, the composer. Francis, this is the American beauty I told you about, and this is her husband.’

Poulenc was a pleasantly ugly man with hair cut en brosse, who greeted them courteously as they squeezed around the cramped table. Copper, who was not musical, had never heard of him, but Amory obviously had.

‘Monsieur Poulenc, I’d be glad of the chance to interview you. I’m a war correspondent.’

‘Well, I’m not General de Gaulle, though I have been a humble infantryman.’

‘You were in the army?’

‘Poulenc and I were called up together. We performed the only glorious part of an inglorious campaign,’ Dior said. ‘We dug onions. Wearing hideous wooden sabots. Each foot weighed two kilos, I assure you.’

‘Three, at least,’ Poulenc said. ‘If you wish to understand the term saboteur, you need only consider the French sabot in all its massive, indestructible majesty – a shoe to derail a train or crack even a German cranium.’

‘The soul of France,’ Dior agreed. ‘Unyielding to the last. What will you drink?’

‘Something French,’ Copper said. Her spirits were lifting for the first time since that morning. ‘No – something Parisian.’

‘Leave it to me,’ Dior said, and disappeared into the crowd again.

‘He’s been describing you to me,’ Poulenc told Copper.

‘Really?’

‘He’s impressed with you. He says you are a new breed of woman and the world is in for a shock.’

‘I’m not sure if that’s exactly a good thing.’

‘It’s rare for him to make new friends. He’s very shy.’

‘But he likes to get his own way.’

‘Ah, so you’ve learned that about him already,’ Poulenc said solemnly. ‘You began well with the gift of a whole foie gras, I might add. That was a good start to the friendship.’

‘I only took it to him because I had nothing else to give.’

‘You couldn’t have chosen better. He’s as greedy as a child. You may be sure that he has eaten the whole thing already.’

‘He’s too fat,’ Amory said from behind his notebook.

‘Yes, don’t you think he looks like a penguin in his dinner jacket? And I, a seal?’

‘He seems to have done well under the Germans,’ Amory commented.

‘His sister, Catherine, was arrested by the Gestapo,’ Poulenc said mildly. ‘Just a few weeks before the invasion began. She was in the Resistance. They’ve sent her to Ravensbrück, a concentration camp in Germany.’

‘Oh, how terrible,’ Copper exclaimed. ‘Is there any news of her?’

‘Only from the clairvoyants Dior consults every day. He’s very superstitious, you know. They assure him that she’s alive, but—’ He shrugged.

Dior had returned with a waiter who was bearing a tray of drinks. ‘Kir Royale,’ he announced. ‘Made with Dom Pérignon, of course. I adore Dom Pérignon.’ They raised their glasses. ‘Do you like this place?’ Dior asked her, his head on one side. He was subtly different out of the atelier, Copper thought – more relaxed and less inhibited.

‘It’s interesting,’ she replied diplomatically. ‘But tell me – are those strange-looking women outside prostitutes?’ she asked.

Dior’s eyebrows rose in surprise and he seemed at a loss for words. Amory grinned at her. ‘I’m sure you’re half-right, anyway, honeybun.’