The Designer(14)

‘Oh, what a load. You got your claws into that woman and eloped with her in the jeep.’

‘Well, you seemed happy as a clam with the lesbian.’

‘What lesbian?’

‘The blonde bombshell. Solidor.’

‘Suzy? She’s not a lesbian.’

‘My dear Oona, you’re surely not that innocent.’

She hated it when he used her Christian name in arguments. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Come on. Don’t you know what that club is? Didn’t you notice that the women were all men and the men were all women?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a queer hang-out. Solidor’s a notorious dyke. Cocteau’s a queer, Poulenc’s a queer, and your Christian Dior is the biggest queer of all.’

She was taken aback. ‘I suppose you’ll tell me your little cockney was a lesbian, too?’

‘No. She was the only normal woman in the place. That’s why we went out for that breath of fresh air.’

Copper reflected on last night’s company, the people at the tables, the pressure of Suzy’s hand on hers, the strange, hoarse ‘women’ hanging around the doorway. Was Christian Dior what Amory dismissively called ‘a queer’? If so, he was the first she had met. At least, knowingly met. She’d only ever heard such a condition mentioned as a term of abuse, something wicked. Christian was anything but wicked. Yet there were the feminine touches, the perfect understanding of a woman’s point of view. The gentleness that was hardly masculine. ‘I don’t care,’ she said at last, shaking her head. ‘Christian behaved impeccably. He’s a better man than you are, any day.’

His face closed. ‘You’re being a bitch.’

She felt she was seeing him as he really was for the first time and it horrified her. Her response was anger at him, at herself. ‘I’m not going to be silenced by you, Amory. Last night was the end. You can’t imagine how terrible it was. You’re not even sorry that poor George is dead.’

He made an impatient gesture. ‘Of course I’m sorry he’s dead. But you heard the autopsy report. He brought it on himself. There was nothing anybody could have done. And I’m sorry you had a bad time.’

‘You don’t care about anything,’ she said. ‘I’ve never faced that until now. The only important thing to you is your own pleasure.’

He stood, thinking for a while, as though seriously considering her words, while jeeps and trucks trundled past. ‘It’s not simply pleasure,’ he said at last. ‘It’s more than that. It’s life. I’m a writer. I need experiences, Oona. If nothing goes into me, nothing will come out. I can’t say no to life.’

‘Are you blaming me for coming between you and life?’

‘You’ll never understand.’

‘No, it looks like I never will. Does it ever occur to you that you might catch something? And give it to me?’

‘I don’t sleep with that sort of woman.’

His brazenness appalled her. ‘I don’t think you bother to find out what sort of women they are.’ Copper took a deep breath. ‘I’m not going with you to Dijon. I’m staying here in Paris.’

He blinked. ‘You can’t just jump the boat. You’re my wife.’

‘I want a divorce.’

He rolled his eyes wearily. ‘Don’t be absurd.’

Copper clenched her fists. ‘Whatever you do,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘don’t patronise me, Amory.’

He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘You’ve changed, Copper. What’s got into you?’

‘I mean it. I want a divorce.’

‘Think what you’re saying. A divorce is a serious matter.’

‘It’s a few words mumbled over you by a judge,’ she retorted. ‘Just like marriage.’

‘You know you don’t really think that.’

‘I didn’t used to. You’ve changed my mind.’

‘I’ve never known you so cynical.’

‘I had a good teacher.’

‘If that’s what you want, okay, goddamn it. But wait until we’re back in New York.’

‘It’ll be just as good here.’

‘I’m not going to leave you on your own.’

‘I’m not a child. And I’m leaving you, not the other way around.’

‘You seem to forget that I’m responsible for you.’

That made her lose her temper completely. ‘Responsible? I wait on you hand and foot. And you treat me like a convenience. I’d like to know who’s responsible for whom.’

‘I can’t talk to you in this mood, Copper.’

‘I feel exactly the same way,’ she snapped. She turned and walked off, leaving him staring.

After a moment, he came after her and grasped her arm, turning her to face him. ‘What do you imagine you’re going to do here, all on your own?’

She shook her arm free. ‘What I’ve been doing – writing articles and taking photographs for the British papers.’

Amory’s lip curled. ‘Honey, covering for George now and then doesn’t make you a journalist.’

‘As a matter of fact, I think it does. George’s editor can’t tell the difference between my work and his. They’ve printed a dozen of my pieces without question. He never got around to posting my last article. It’s still on the hall table.’