The Designer(12)

Poulenc shook his cropped head. ‘That one makes up to every man in sight.’

Chairs were being pushed together to accommodate new arrivals: Jean Cocteau, Suzy Solidor and some others had joined them. Poulenc beckoned the blonde singer to the chair next to Copper.

‘This is Copper, Suzy. She wants to meet you. She is Christian’s latest muse.’

Suzy was not as young as Copper had first thought; perhaps in her mid-forties. But she was a beautiful woman, with a face that was somehow mask-like. She examined Copper with hooded brown eyes to her platinum hair. ‘Christian always has excellent taste,’ she said in her husky voice.

‘Oh, I’m sure I’m not Monsieur Dior’s muse in any way at all,’ Copper said, embarrassed.

The singer’s hand covered Copper’s smoothly. ‘You are a breath of cool air,’ she purred. ‘Youth, energy, freshness. That’s what we crave. We have become so tired of the greyness. Tell me all about yourself.’

‘There’s nothing to tell, Madame.’

‘Suzy, please. You will make a perfect muse for Christian. When American women are beautiful, they are more beautiful than any others. Now, tell me everything.’ She smiled, showing teeth that were – like the rest of her – healthy and handsome.

This rather steamy attention, flattering as it was, made Copper feel hot all over. She found herself gabbling, her tongue loosened by the cocktails, about her childhood, the death of her mother, her whirlwind romance with Amory. The chanteuse listened, her chin resting on her cupped hand, her eyes dreamily fixed on Copper and her nostrils arched, as though inhaling some rare incense. As Copper’s recitation tailed off, Suzy leaned over to Dior.

‘What a discovery, Christian. This child is exquisite.’

Dior nodded. ‘But of course she is.’

‘I intend to steal her from you.’

‘I will not permit that.’

Though she knew she was just being teased, Copper felt uncomfortable, and tried to squirm away from the limelight. Miss Solidor kept hold of her hand, a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring, but made her feel somewhat trapped. Luckily, Jean Cocteau was now holding forth, his hypnotic eyes sweeping over them all. Copper’s rusty French – and the Dom Pérignon – made it hard for her to follow his words.

‘What’s Le Théatre de la Mode?’ she asked, catching a phrase that Cocteau was repeating.

‘It’s an idea of Lelong’s,’ Poulenc said.

‘It’s not Lelong’s idea, it’s Nina Ricci’s,’ one of the mannequins said.

The others chimed in. ‘Not Nina Ricci’s, either; it came from her son, Robert.’

‘I thought it was Cocteau’s idea.’

‘Not mine,’ Cocteau said. ‘Fashion bores me.’

‘Wherever it came from, it’s sheer genius.’

Dior explained. ‘We must show the world that, despite the war, Paris is still the capital of haute couture,’ he said. ‘Not New York. We must have a spring fashion show, of course. But there are eighty or ninety fashion houses in Paris. That means thousands of new models to be made. And we don’t have enough fabric. We have hardly any silk. The Germans took it all. We don’t have buttons, thread, leather, fur, anything we need. So the idea is—’

‘To have a fashion show with dolls,’ one of the Schiaparelli models interrupted excitedly.

‘Dolls?’

‘Little figurines, two feet high, wearing miniature outfits.’

‘On miniature sets.’

‘Yes. Each fashion house would make a little stage with a theme. A fairy tale, a Paris scene. And the new models would be on display.’

‘It’s a ridiculous idea,’ someone said, laughing.

‘I think it’s a wonderful idea,’ Copper exclaimed, beguiled by the vision. ‘It’s enchanting.’ She looked for Amory to share her enthusiasm with him, but he had slipped away, together with the English ‘model’, and was nowhere to be seen. Her heart fell sickeningly. Where had they gone? Perhaps they were in the lobby?

She got up. ‘I need some air.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Suzy Solidor asked her.

Without answering, Copper left the table and pushed through the crowd and into the lobby. They weren’t there, either. She hurried out into the street. The jeep was gone. Amory and the ‘model’ had departed.

Dior appeared beside her. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘My husband has disappeared.’ She tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. ‘He’s gone where the grass is greener.’

Suzy Solidor had followed her, too. ‘Let him go,’ she advised. ‘Men are all the same.’ She took Copper’s arm. ‘Come back to the bar.’

Copper disengaged herself. ‘Thank you, but I think I’ve had enough. I’m going home.’

‘Then let me call you a taxi,’ Dior offered.

‘I’ll walk. It’s just a few streets. Besides, I don’t want to arrive too soon. That mightn’t be very delicate.’

‘I’ll walk with you,’ Dior said. ‘Let me get our coats.’ He went back inside.

The blonde singer was studying Copper. ‘I know the type,’ she said. ‘He’s not worth your tears.’