The Designer(16)

‘Thank you for the coffee. The best I’ve had in many weeks. Where will you spend the night?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You can’t stay here in this atmosphere.’ He gave her a little pasteboard card. ‘My address. You must come to me for the night.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t impose, but thank you.’

‘Do you intend to reconcile with your husband?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Copper said slowly. ‘I don’t think that’s going to be possible.’

‘Then you must come to me while you work things out. As a single woman, you will not be given a hotel room in Paris.’ His voice changed subtly. ‘You know that you have nothing to fear from me?’

‘I know that.’

‘Good. Dinner is at nine. I will expect you.’

She saw him to the door. The prospect of having a welcoming place to sleep was a great relief. An hour after he left, a boy arrived with a large package of baking soda and a note from Dior telling her to spread the powder over the stain and let it work for an hour. He had signed it whimsically, ‘+tian’. As she shook the powder over the floor, Copper had the feeling that she had at least one friend in Paris.



Amory returned to the apartment in the late afternoon. His expression was wary as he looked into the bedroom. ‘I’ve taken care of George.’

‘How have you taken care of him?’ she asked in a grim voice.

‘I’ve got him a niche in Père Lachaise Cemetery. He’d have liked that. The funeral’s tomorrow at noon.’

‘That was efficient of you.’

‘I have my uses.’ He eyed her suitcase, which she was packing on the bed. ‘You’re not really going through with this, are you?’

‘If you mean, am I really leaving you? Yes, I am. You had me fooled for a while, Amory. But not anymore. I’ve wised up.’

‘Jesus, Copper. What’s got into you? This is not like you at all.’

‘Matter of fact, it’s very like me. It’s the me you prefer to ignore.’

‘This is a ridiculous overreaction. You’re blaming me for George’s death.’

‘No, I’m not.’ She folded a sweater briskly. ‘I’m blaming you for destroying our marriage. And now I’m doing what I have to do.’

‘And what’s that?’

She thought of Dior’s good-luck charm. ‘Following my star.’

He sighed. ‘Okay, you may have a gift for writing. But there’s one thing you can’t change: you’re a woman. They’ll never let you near the fighting.’

‘I’m not going to cover the fighting,’ she retorted. ‘There are a dozen fascinating stories waiting to be covered right here in Paris. The story I’ve just written, for a start – about that poor woman with her baby. I can sell that article to one of the women’s magazines. Maybe even Harper’s. Text and photos.’

‘If you’re lucky. So you have one story to your credit. You’ll never get another one.’

‘Oh yes, I will. Paris is bursting with stories. Human stories. The recovery of French haute couture, for a start. Paris re-establishing herself as a centre of culture and fashion.’

‘Women’s journalism,’ he said with a grimace.

‘You can laugh if you want. Paris is the first great city to be liberated from the Nazis. It’s a hell of a story and people are going to want to read it – men and women. I’m going to find magazines who’ll take my stuff.’

He nodded slowly. ‘So this is more than just being mad at me.’

The question surprised her for a moment. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, as though considering that for the first time. ‘It’s much more than that.’

‘At least that’s something. I suppose I’ve been intolerable.’

‘I couldn’t have chosen a better word.’

‘But I don’t know how I’m going to get along without you.’

‘You’ll manage.’

‘I suppose I will.’ He went to look out of the window at the sky. ‘Do you have to leave right now?’ he asked without turning round.

‘I can’t spend the night here.’

‘I don’t mind. If George’s ghost comes to visit, it will be a merry one.’

‘You didn’t have to scrub George’s blood out of the planking with baking soda,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s not an experience I’m going to forget.’

‘We can go to a hotel.’

‘No, thank you. I’ve got an invitation.’

Amory turned in surprise. ‘Who from?’

‘Monsieur Dior.’

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree there, Oona,’ he said dryly. ‘Monsieur Dior is not a ladies’ man.’

‘I think he’s every inch a ladies’ man,’ she replied evenly. ‘But not in the way you mean. And I think it’s disgusting of you to suggest anything like that. He’s kind and courteous, and a perfect gentleman.’

‘Well, I suppose I am none of those things.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘He looks like a Kewpie doll.’