The Designer(11)

‘What do you mean?’

Nobody answered her. The champagne cocktails were followed by another round. The bar was becoming even noisier and more crowded. To a burst of applause, a handsome and statuesque blonde woman went up to the piano and began to sing in a rich contralto.

‘That’s Suzy Solidor,’ Poulenc said to Copper. ‘She owns the bar. Cocteau put up the money. He’s very shrewd – they’re making a fortune. You see all these paintings on the walls? They’re all of Suzy.’

Looking closely, Copper saw that Poulenc was right. ‘There are so many. Some are better than others, though.’

He pointed. ‘That’s the best one. De Lempicka. Over there is a Picasso. And next to it, Braque. She’s determined to become the most painted woman in history. It’s colossal vanity or genius; nobody can tell which.’

‘I think she’s wonderful,’ Copper said, rapt by the singer’s striking face, platinum bob and throbbing voice.

‘You think so?’ Poulenc said, watching her. ‘I can introduce you, if you want. At your own risk.’

‘Oh, I’d like that.’

‘Of course,’ he replied with a half-smile. But again, she had the impression of not quite getting something that was obvious to others. The pianist now struck up ‘Lili Marlène’. Though the song was popular with Allied soldiers and being sung in French tonight, it was a German song, and Copper was surprised to hear it here and now. And indeed, there were catcalls and boos from some of the audience – and something defiant in the way Miss Solidor delivered it.

‘It’s her signature song,’ Poulenc put in. ‘She sang it to Nazi officers every night. The Resistance hate her. She sings it to show she’s not afraid of them now.’

‘Suzy is brave, but not wise,’ Dior said.

Copper smiled wryly. ‘Funny. Someone said that about me recently.’

Poulenc leaned over to her and murmured, ‘She and Cocteau dined with Coco Chanel at the Ritz every week during the Occupation. Only the close friends of the Germans were allowed to stay there. Chanel had a suite. There was a certain sector sympathetic to the Nazis – you understand?’

A group of three young women now took the table next to theirs; young, beautiful and beautifully dressed. ‘Schiaparelli’s mannequins,’ Dior said. ‘The envy of every couturier in Paris. Aren’t they marvellous?’

Copper stared at the women, resplendent in their satin gowns. They were so ravishing that she didn’t even feel embarrassed at her own scruffy outfit. Their clothes were astonishing. No matter how she dressed, she could never be as brilliant as one of these women.

The gossip round the table was wild, punctuated with bursts of frenzied laughter. The Allies had reached the Marne. Coco Chanel had been exposed as a Nazi spy and had fled to Switzerland with her German lover. The communists were poised to take over Paris. The Maquis had shot Maurice Chevalier as a collaborator and were hunting Mistinguett. They had killed Marshal Pétain and stuck his head on a spike. It was dizzying how many rumours were sweeping to and fro.

And the champagne was dizzying, too. She hadn’t drunk like this for a long time, and after a while her head was spinning. But not enough to prevent her seeing that Amory was now talking to a young, curly-haired woman whose low-cut dress displayed a spectacular cleavage, to which he was giving his full attention. Copper saw the woman throw back her head to laugh gaily at something he said.

She turned away from him to Poulenc and Dior, who were sitting together like shy children at a grown-up party. ‘Everyone is entitled to be loved,’ she said, her words slurring.

‘Francis and I are too plain to have lovers,’ Dior said, draining his glass. ‘I think we need more drinks.’

‘He has a very low opinion of himself,’ she said to Poulenc when Dior had gone.

‘Very low and very high.’

‘He stands at the window all day, looking out as though he is waiting for something.’

‘Ah, yes. We’re all wondering what will come next for our little Monsieur Dior. He’s quite the genius, you know. He had a terrible disappointment. His father went bankrupt, and Christian was forced to close his art gallery and sell all his paintings – masterpieces by Dufy, Miró, Dalí and the rest – for a song. Now he designs dresses for ladies.’

‘Amory says fashion is dead.’

‘They told me music was dead. That every possible combination of notes had been exhausted and that there were no new melodies to be written. And yet, I flatter myself that I have managed to compose some new tunes that nobody has heard before. Perhaps simple, but pleasing, easily remembered and fresh. I should be surprised if Dior is not capable of the same feat.’

‘Then perhaps that will make him rich and famous.’

‘He has friends who love him anyway. And he has luck. With Dior, there are three things you can count on: his luck, his talent and his friendship.’

The talented Monsieur Dior returned with another round of drinks. Amory’s companion was still squealing with laughter, her bright blue eyes sparkling, her brown curls dancing around her face as she flirted. Copper noted that she was English with a saucy cockney accent.

‘Who is that woman?’ she asked Dior.

‘A Londoner. She calls herself a model.’

‘She’s making up to my husband.’