The Designer(18)

‘But we hear terrible things. They told us that Ravensbrück was clean and healthy. Now we hear about disease, starvation, torture. And there is more. They say that the Nazis are systematically killing prisoners. A policy of extermination. Thousands – millions – gassed, and the bodies thrown into incinerators.’

She didn’t know how to comfort him. ‘We’ve heard the same thing. At first we couldn’t believe it.’

‘I believe anything of the Nazis. One will never forget their unique flavour.’

She continued her exploration while he cooked. He’d done up the apartment tastefully, but – she guessed – on a shoestring, using ingenuity rather than spending money. He’d created an impression of richness that was rococo without being exactly feminine. She noticed a delicate, yellow-silk Chinese screen, behind which was hidden an erotic bronze male nude. That made her think of Amory. Where was he spending the night? With the cockney? Or with someone even newer? She didn’t want to dwell on that.

‘Is this your mother?’ she asked, picking up a silver-framed photograph of a woman in Edwardian dress.

‘Yes, indeed. Don’t you love the hat? Look at the ostrich feathers.’

‘You must miss her greatly.’

‘I do. It’s been twelve years.’

‘My mother died young, too. My father never remarried. He was a factory worker born in Ireland. He worked his way up to foreman, but we never seemed to have enough money. And he was passionate about working conditions. When he started, people worked a sixty-hour week for pitiful wages. The factories were so dangerous that machine operators often lost limbs or were burned to death. He led the fight against all that. But it cost him. He died of a heart attack a few weeks after Amory and I were married.’

‘My father was the opposite of yours,’ Dior told her. ‘He was a rich man. He had a big factory. He wanted me to follow him into the family business. He was furious when I chose a career in art. Then he went bankrupt. Now I’m the one who supports him and my two brothers with my art.’

‘How ironic.’

‘Perhaps. But it’s partly my fault that he lost everything.’

‘How?’

‘When he saw that neither I nor my brothers were going to take over the company, he took money out of the business and invested heavily in the stock market. The Great Depression wiped him out. I managed to buy a little farmhouse and he lives quietly there in the zone nono.’

‘Nono?’

‘Non occupée, you understand. They called us ja-ja France; they accused us of living under the Germans because we liked it. But I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that without the work I have here, my father and my brothers would have starved.’

‘You’re a good man, Monsieur Dior.’

‘I am so-so. Neither ja-ja nor nono.’ He emerged smiling from the kitchen in a fragrant cloud of steam. He was carrying a platter, on which was a large, crimson lobster.

‘Holy Toledo,’ she exclaimed.

‘Sent to me from Granville, my home town,’ he beamed. ‘Don’t you think it’s most appropriate? A denizen of the sea that links your country and mine. And look what a magnificent ensemble she’s wearing. What colours! What frills and bows! And look at her skirts. Not even Schiaparelli could dream up a costume like that.’

‘How do you know it’s a female?’

‘My dear, I grew up next to the sea. I know my lobsters.’

The lobster was a gourmet feast. There was even a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé to go with it. She hadn’t eaten so well since leaving the States. But halfway through, she started crying again.

‘What’s the matter?’ Dior asked in alarm.

She put her knife and fork down and grabbed her napkin to blot her eyes. ‘Everyone tried to talk me out of marrying him, but I just wouldn’t listen.’

Dior patted her hand. ‘But then, you know, there is the next one to look forward to.’

She laughed painfully through her tears. ‘I’m not planning any others, Monsieur Dior. I think Amory was my first and last.’

‘That is how you feel now. But you’re young. Love will come along soon enough.’

‘Is that the way it is with you?’ she ventured. ‘One ends and another begins?’

The corners of his mouth drooped. ‘Well, I don’t think you should take me as an example. I am not exactly – typical.’

‘Nor am I. So what do you do – when you set off along the tightrope and you find it’s wobbling like mad, and you can’t stop or turn back?’

‘As you said earlier. One falls.’

She looked up at him with solemn grey eyes. ‘Then behold a falling woman, Monsieur Dior. It remains only to be seen how far, and how many bones will be left intact.’

His fingertips stroked her wrist gently. ‘You’ll see, ma petite. A parachute will pop open like a white cotton ball and you will drift safely to earth.’

‘That’s consoling,’ she said, unconvinced.

‘You shall stay here for as long as you like,’ he said, with a little pressure of his fingertips.

‘You’ll get sick of the sight of me.’

‘I doubt it. You are very ornamental.’

He had made a compote of winter berries for pudding, apologising for the absence of cream, sugar and butter. There was also a tiny cup of coffee each, made from what she guessed was a long-hoarded store. She determined to get some fresh coffee for him as soon as she could.