The Designer(105)
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.