The Designer(15)

‘That’s George’s last story!’

‘It’s my story,’ she retorted angrily. ‘I covered it. I took the pictures. I wrote it. George had nothing to do with it. He was in a drunken stupor the whole time. And you know what? It’s a damned good story.’

‘So that makes you a journalist?’

‘Don’t try to put me down, Amory. George is dead. I’ve got his camera and his typewriter. I’ll get accreditation from the Brits and I’ll speak to his editor. If they don’t want to pay me a salary, I’ll go freelance.’

‘You’ve thought it all through, I see.’

‘As I mopped up George’s blood, yes. I thought it all through.’

She walked away again, and this time he didn’t follow her.



Dior popped into the apartment at noon; a dapper figure with cheeks made ruddy by the autumn wind.

‘I have one hour for my lunch,’ he greeted her. ‘I came to see how you are after such a terrible shock.’

‘You’re so kind, Monsieur Dior. I don’t know how I would have coped last night without you.’

‘Not at all. I hear it was an ulcer?’

‘Yes.’ They both stared at the huge stain on the wooden floor that she was trying to mop. ‘I’ve tried bleach, but it hasn’t helped much.’

‘I’ll get you some baking soda. We have no flour in Paris,’ he added wryly, ‘but plenty of baking soda.’

‘Is that good for bloodstains?’

‘Well, I remember the butcher telling me so as a little boy.’

‘It’s like something out of Agatha Christie,’ Copper said. ‘Except not in the slightest bit amusing.’

‘You can’t stay here,’ Dior replied. ‘It’s more Grand Guignol than Agatha Christie. You’ll have terrible nightmares.’

‘I’m going to have to find alternative digs anyway. I’ve split up with Amory. I’ve asked him for a divorce.’

‘Ah, mon Dieu. Was that necessary?’

‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘It was.’

‘Well, I know you Americans think nothing of divorce—’

‘That’s not true,’ she snapped. ‘This American takes divorce extremely seriously. The same way I take marriage.’

‘All right, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘But you look most unwell.’

‘The longer I stay with him, the sicker I’ll get.’

Dior’s eyes could be very sad. ‘Sometimes, my dear, we have to put up with the infidelities of the beautiful in order not to lose them.’

‘That’s the way I’ve thought, up until now. But I think I’d rather be alone than be hurt all the time.’

‘Loneliness hurts, too,’ he said quietly.

‘One gets used to it.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘One does.’

‘He says he has to be unfaithful to me otherwise his inspiration will dry up. How can I live with that?’

‘It sounds like something Cocteau would say. Speaking for myself, I don’t draw my inspiration from infidelities. I would give anything to have someone to love.’

She sighed. ‘You’re missing your lunch. I could make you something.’

‘No, thank you.’ He patted his waistcoat. ‘It’s good for me to practise a little abstinence.’

‘I’ve got some real coffee.’

‘Ah. That’s different.’

‘I should never have married him,’ she said, half to herself, as she was preparing the cafetière. ‘It was a terrible mistake.’

Despite the cold wind, they sat on the balcony overlooking the rue de Rivoli so they would be as far away from the stain as possible. ‘Life is a tightrope,’ Dior said. ‘You set off along the wire and no matter how much it wobbles, there is no stopping or turning back.’

‘There is falling.’

‘Yes. I have fallen many times. And had my heart broken each time.’

She recalled what Amory had said about Dior. The affairs he was referring to had presumably been with other men? It was odd, but that didn’t disturb her. In fact, she felt a kind of solidarity with him. ‘Well, I guess this is my first – and last.’

‘Heaven forbid.’ He dug in the pocket of his trousers, producing a string of silver trinkets. ‘I’m going to give you one of my good-luck charms. For protection.’ He detached one of them and gave it to her. ‘Two hearts entwined. That means you will find true love one day. Keep it safe.’

‘I will,’ she promised. ‘What are the others?’

‘This is a lily of the valley, so that I can always find work. This is a lucky horseshoe. This is a rabbit’s foot. This is an initial “C”.’

She was amused and touched by the solemn recital. ‘And the star?’

‘Ah. That’s the most important of all. My mother gave me that before she died. It’s my star. You know – my dream, my hope, my ambition, which I must always follow.’

‘And what is your dream, Monsieur Dior?’

‘Fame and fortune; what else?’

Copper smiled, thinking that it would be somewhat capricious of fame and fortune to favour this retiring, bashful man.