The Designer(104)

‘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, putting the final touches to their coiffures. All had their hair in curls, piled on the top of their heads.