The Designer(19)
Shortly after they had finished their drinks, there was a knock at the door. ‘I hope you don’t mind a few of my friends,’ Dior said. ‘They always drop in after dinner.’
An apparition came through the door in the form of Suzy Solidor in a lustrous, full-length sable coat. The sable was unfolded to reveal that the singer was sheathed in a shimmering, silver lamé dress. She looked like an art deco sculpture in gleaming platinum. Almost ignoring Dior, she made for Copper with both hands outstretched. ‘My little Copper. They tell me you have been bathed in blood.’ Her strong, icy fingers grasped Copper’s, and her chilled lips kissed her cheeks. She drew back to inspect her like a bird of prey judging a dove. ‘It has made you immortal. How charming you look.’
Close behind her, and no less alarmingly, appeared a fat man with wild hair and a huge, tangled beard surmounted by two cheeks like cooking apples, and a pair of protuberant blue eyes that fixed on her brightly. ‘So, this is Christian’s little pet,’ he boomed, a lighted cigarette bobbing between his lips. ‘My God! What a wolf he is. Does he keep you locked in the attic, my dear? And the key on a chain around his neck?’
Dior seemed undisturbed by these extravagant salutations. ‘You know Suzy, of course,’ he said to Copper. ‘And this is my dear friend and namesake, Monsieur Christian Bérard.’
‘No “Monsieur”, please,’ Bérard said. He carried a small white dog under his arm. He extracted the cigarette, stooped over Copper’s hand and snuffled it like a boar rooting for truffles. ‘They call me Bébé. Like Mimì. I don’t know why. And this,’ he added, presenting the dog, ‘is Jacinthe.’ He peered into Copper’s face. ‘How charming, that youthful complexion.’ He showed stained teeth in a carnivorous smile. ‘And you have left your husband, they tell me?’
‘Bébé!’ Dior hissed. He had obviously instructed everyone to avoid the subject of Copper’s marriage.
‘I can’t stay long,’ Suzy announced, smoothing her silver scales like a mermaid. ‘I must be at the club in an hour.’
‘Are you going to throw “Lili Marlène” in their faces again?’ Bérard asked.
‘Tonight and every night.’
‘Until they string you from your lamp post?’
‘Let them try,’ Suzy replied. ‘I’m not afraid of that rabble.’
‘You should be. They’ve got it in for you.’
‘You want me to run to Switzerland like Chanel?’ Suzy Solidor made a contemptuous face. ‘I never knew she was such a timid old bitch.’
‘Chanel is a genius,’ Dior said. ‘I won’t hear a word against her.’
‘Nevertheless, something of an old bitch, I agree,’ Bérard put in. ‘I should know, I worked for her long enough.’
‘She adored you.’
‘Oh, everyone adores me,’ Bébé replied loftily. He sniffed the air. ‘I smell lobster. That means a little package from Granville has arrived. Was there, by any chance, also a bottle of Calvados, my dear boy? It’s as cold as hell out there.’
Smiling, Dior produced an unlabelled bottle. The spirit was fiery enough to make Copper’s head spin, but Bérard swilled it down without wincing. They huddled around the stove, into which Dior carefully fed a couple of small logs.
‘I don’t know why everyone is so anti-Chanel,’ he said. ‘She did exactly what the rest of us did.’
‘Not exactly,’ Bérard replied, lighting a second cigarette from the stub of the first. ‘She spent the war cosily tucked up in the Ritz with her Nazi lover, toasting the German victory in confiscated champagne, and now she vanishes in a cloud of Number Five. You, of all people, should resent her, my darling.’
‘Chanel did not arrest my sister,’ Dior said simply.
‘No, her boyfriends did. And Coco didn’t lift a finger to help.’
‘Why should she help me? I am nobody.’
‘Nonsense. She’s jealous of you. Jealous of all the young designers. Besides, she looks like a superannuated monkey these days, and that is unforgivable, even if nothing else is.’
While the men wrangled, Suzy Solidor put a tanned arm around Copper’s neck and drew her close. ‘Come to the club with me tonight,’ she said in a thrilling whisper, close to Copper’s ear. ‘I have some divine hashish from Morocco. We’ll have such fun, you and I.’
‘I really couldn’t,’ Copper replied faintly.
The open mouth caressed her neck, sending shivers down her back. ‘Why not? Your husband isn’t here.’
‘Well, you know I – I’m actually in mourning,’ Copper stammered, aware of sounding idiotic. ‘My friend died only last night. The – the funeral is tomorrow.’
‘Did I hear the word “funeral”?’ Bérard said, turning.
‘Yes.’
‘Whose?’
‘George Fritchley-Bound’s. He was a journalist. A friend.’
Bérard brightened. ‘But I simply adore funerals. You must allow me to attend.’
‘Well, I’m sure George wouldn’t mind,’ Copper replied, nonplussed. ‘There’s certainly not likely to be a crowd. It’s at Père Lachaise Cemetery, tomorrow at noon.’