The Designer(17)



‘I don’t care what he looks like. He’s my friend.’

He turned back to the sunset. ‘I’m setting off for Dijon after the funeral tomorrow. And I’m taking the jeep. You won’t have transport.’

‘I’ll get a bicycle.’

He let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Give it some thought, goddamn it.’

‘I’ve given it all the thought I need,’ she replied. She pushed the lid of her suitcase down and fastened the latches with a decisive click.



Of course, it wasn’t as easy as that. She wept bitterly for two hours on the banks of the Seine, clutching her suitcase, ignored by the crowds that flowed around her. Amory had been the centre of her existence for the past year and a half, her mate, the star she had followed. Being without him filled her with a grief that felt – at this moment – infinite. She had no idea how she was going to get through the next hour, let alone the rest of her life.

Enveloped in the darkness and trembling with the cold that rose from the inky river, she had never felt lonelier or more abandoned. More than once, she was on the verge of lugging her suitcase back to the rue de Rivoli.

At last, as nine o’clock approached, she got up and trudged, stiff with the cold, towards Christian Dior’s address on the rue Royale. The street was wide and grand, running from the place de la Concorde up to the Church of the Madeleine. On the way, she came across two boys selling mistletoe. A few francs bought her a wreath with plenty of pearly berries. Dior’s apartment was in a large block, up several very dark and draughty flights of stairs. She clambered up to the fourth floor, hauling her worldly goods, until she reached his door and knocked. Dior let her in, taking her coat and suitcase.

After the gloomy autumn chill, Dior’s rooms were a haven of softly lit elegance. He disappeared with her coat and case while she looked around. There were some old prints and some unusual modern paintings, a few pieces of sculpture and some fine-china pieces. The wallpaper was lush, red and gold flock, and the curtains, as she might have expected, were exquisitely done. The dining table was laid for two. A small, enamelled stove was providing some heat, but the apartment, like all of Paris, was ice cold. Nevertheless, she could have wept at the prettiness and light.

Dior reappeared, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now. An aperitif. I have Dubonnet or Noilly Prat.’

‘Oh, I think Dubonnet, thank you. I don’t like dry drinks.’ She presented him with the mistletoe she’d bought in the street. ‘I know it’s early, but I couldn’t resist. The berries are so fresh and pretty. I don’t know if it will last until Christmas. Don’t worry,’ she added. ‘I don’t expect you to kiss me under it, but I’m sure there will be someone you’ll want to kiss.’

‘In France, we wait until New Year to kiss under the mistletoe,’ he said, taking the wreath. ‘This is not the common mistletoe, you know, but the oak mistletoe. That’s much rarer and very good luck.’

He hung it over a doorway. He was wearing a dark red jacket and a cravat and looked quite dashing. She realised that he was not as middle-aged as she had supposed; the pinstripes he wore at Lucien Lelong, and his general air of conservatism, made him seem older, but he was probably no more than forty. In his own home, with his receding chin and sensitive mouth, there was something almost childlike about him.

‘You’re being so kind to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how I would have coped without you.’

‘I’m happy to have been able to help. One feels so helpless sometimes. To express things, I mean. To show gratitude for being liberated.’ He poured the drinks carefully. ‘The years of the Occupation were hideous. You cannot imagine how bleak they were. Pétain had allied us with Hitler. The Germans were sacking France – indeed, sacking Europe. We were crushed. People died of cold and hunger in Paris. In Paris! That was the Pax Germanica.’ He raised his glass to Copper. ‘It is an honour to show a little hospitality to the representative of our liberators.’

‘I am delighted to accept it on behalf of Franklin D. Roosevelt.’

They drank. ‘Besides’ – he raised a finger – ‘you really are an innocent abroad, you know. It is my duty to protect you. And now,’ he said, smacking his lips, ‘you must excuse me for a moment while I attend to affairs of the kitchen.’

Copper wandered around the flat while he busied himself with the supper.

She picked up a photograph of a young woman whose face was sufficiently like Dior’s for Copper to be certain this was his sister, Catherine. ‘Your friend Monsieur Poulenc told me about your sister. I’m very sorry.’

He peered round the kitchen door. ‘She will come back to me. Look at the back of the frame.’ He’d tucked two tarot cards behind the photograph. ‘The Six of Wands and The Chariot,’ he said. ‘They come up every time in Madame Delahaye’s readings. Signifying a safe return.’

‘She looks a lot like you.’

‘I wish the Gestapo had taken me instead of her. But, of course, it was her they wanted. I didn’t have the courage to do what she did: running around Paris on her bicycle, carrying messages for the Resistance. I wanted only to bury myself in my atelier and never face this world again.’

Copper was stricken by the look on his face. ‘You must have hope.’

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