The Designer(106)
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 women 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.
Certain people in high positions were going to have a collective heart attack. It was unlikely that the established designers would be very pleased at the bursting of this new rival upon the scene. There might even be legal repercussions from the powers that be; after all, Dior was breaking every tenet of Utility, which was still in force. Copper had a dizzy vision of Tian being marched off by fashion police and locked in some grey dungeon to repent his crimes of extravagance. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered beside the outpouring of colour, shape and sheer invention that he had unleashed on the world.
But Tian was missing his triumph. Copper slipped away through the crowd and made her way to the cabine. It was congested with buyers commanding, demanding, imploring. Tempers were flaring.