The Designer(21)

Copper glanced at Dior. With his rosy cheeks, epicene shape and manicured hands, he resembled a parish priest more than a great couturier. It struck her as odd that such a conservative man should have such colourful friends, inhabiting a world where, as Amory had put it, the women were all men and the men were all women.

‘Doesn’t he have a – a friend?’ she asked delicately.

‘You mean a lover? From time to time. He doesn’t have the gift of keeping them. Even in love he’s too reticent. The insecure make bad lovers, you know.’

‘He’s so kind.’

‘He and his circle are all of a type, I’m sure you see that. But they don’t find love with one another. They fall in love with a different class of man altogether – men who are not like them and often don’t respond.’

‘That’s sad.’

‘He thinks you bring him luck,’ Suzy replied obliquely. ‘Apparently, your coming was foretold by that old gypsy soothsayer of his. Even down to the red hair and the gift. The foie gras, you know. Which, by the way, is the last thing he should be eating; he’s far too fat.’

‘Oh dear. I hope I do bring him luck. I’ve never thought of myself as a lucky person.’

Suzy brushed the hair away from Copper’s brow. ‘Do you think of yourself as a beautiful person?’

‘Oh, no. Not at all.’

‘Yes. One can see that. The day that you realise how beautiful you are, the world will get a surprise.’

Copper was discomfited. ‘I’ve never been pretty.’

‘With those eyes, that mouth? My dear, some women flower late. Some early, some not at all. The late flower is usually the finest.’ Her mouth, which could be tightly compressed, broke into a brief, fresh smile. She glanced at the little emerald-set watch on her wrist. ‘I must go. We’ll see each other tomorrow.’ She kissed Copper on the cheek, leaving a perfect lipstick impression, and went to get her sable.

After Suzy Solidor had left, Copper lapsed into a drowsy state while visitors came and went and the conversation flowed around her. Poulenc arrived and gave her his condolences in a rather formal way, but she barely heard his voice. No doubt she was missing sparkling repartee, but she was simply exhausted, her French was running out, and it was a relief when the last guests departed and Dior showed her to her tiny room.



She fell instantly asleep, but not for long. An hour later, she was awake again, shivering violently. For a moment she was confused, not knowing whether she was hot or cold. It was not that she was cold; Dior had piled bedclothes on to her and she was hot, rather than otherwise. It was an intense, nervous tremor that shook her like a rat in the jaws of a terrier. She couldn’t control it, no matter how she tried. Perhaps she had contracted a fever? She began to be afraid of the spasms that convulsed her and wouldn’t die away, no matter what she did. At last, she realised that it was an emotional reaction to her break-up with Amory. In fact, what she was facing was nothing less than a crisis in her life. She’d never felt so alone and so panic-stricken.

Twining her life around Amory’s had given her support. If that support were taken away – if she allowed Amory to leave Paris without her – would she not simply collapse, like an ivy plant stripped off a wall?

Her bold plans to continue alone, to launch her career as a journalist, seemed absurd as her teeth chattered and her legs twitched in this dark, alien room. What did she really know about journalism or photography? Let alone about life? Who was she trying to kid? She should jump up now, seek out Amory, beg him to forgive her and take her back. The alternative was to risk falling into an abyss: a black void, out of which she would never be able to crawl.

Disconnected impressions of the past few days flashed through her mind. The mother clutching her baby as the pastry cook hacked off her hair. George’s milky, half-open eyes, his face caked in congealed blood. Amory’s expression when she’d told him she wasn’t going to Dijon with him. The erotic touch of Suzy Solidor’s mouth on her throat. Bérard’s staring blue eyes, impersonating a desire he did not feel. The images now all seemed so sinister to her that her shuddering intensified and her skin crawled with horror. What was she doing here? Had she destroyed her life? Had she been too harsh with Amory? She missed him dreadfully. Why had she sent him away? It had been madness.

She peered at her watch. It was three in the morning. Despite that, she couldn’t stay in bed a moment longer. She emerged from the mountain of bedclothes into the icy darkness, wrapping her dressing gown around her shivering body, and tiptoed out of her room. There was a light burning in the little salon. Dior was awake, huddled by the stove with a drawing pad on his knees. He looked up in surprise.

‘Are you unwell?’

‘I – I can’t stop trembling,’ Copper said through chattering teeth. ‘I think it’s nerves.’ She suddenly saw the figure of Christian Bérard slumped on the sofa behind Dior. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.’

‘Don’t worry about Bébé. He has smoked two pipes of opium and he won’t wake up.’

‘Opium?’

‘He’s an addict. It will kill him one day. I think I am doomed to lose all those whom I love. Come and sit with me.’ He put another precious log into the stove and a dim glow flickered behind the murky glass of the door. ‘It’s natural to have nerves. You have been through a great deal.’ He was bundled into a red paisley robe with a woollen scarf wound around his throat. He took off the scarf and transferred it to her in a fatherly way. She’d somehow imagined his body to be pink and smooth, but she glimpsed a triangle of surprisingly hairy chest. ‘I always dream of dresses, you see.’