The Designer(22)

‘Do you really?’

‘Yes, but then I have to get up in the night. I must make sketches before I forget them.’ He showed her the fluid lines in his sketchbook. ‘These are cocktail gowns in satin. I saw the cut of the neckline in my dreams.’

‘Then you must really have fashion in your blood.’

He glanced at her from under his heavy lids. ‘Oh, I know what they say about me. Dior is a dilettante; Dior is an amateur, wasting what little talent he has on silly frocks for silly women. But there is more to it than that. Fashion is art, my dear. High art. Dior, in his way, strives to be a high artist, just like his friends.’

‘I can see that.’

‘It has taken me ten years to learn what little I know, first with Piguet, then with Lelong. It fascinates me more and more. Finding the right material to express my ideas. Knowing the easy fabrics, the difficult fabrics. Foreseeing the way each material falls, the way it drapes, the way it changes shape, like liquid, on a woman’s body.’ His hands caressed imaginary curves in the air. ‘Learning what one can achieve with a shantung, with a handsome tweed, with a heavy wool or a fine linen. How to cut on the bias so that every fold moves with the woman inside. How to disguise what is ugly and enhance what is beautiful. How to pleat, fold, gather, trim. Enfin, the mysteries of the trade.’

She gave a little laugh that was half a sigh. His light, gentle voice was soothing and Copper felt her shivering begin to subside. ‘You’re a very sweet man, Monsieur Dior. No wonder your friends all dote on you.’

He glanced at Bérard who had started to snore loudly. ‘They’re distinctly bohemian for the most part, aren’t they? And I, by contrast, am distinctly bourgeois. That has become something of an insult lately. In the mouth of Monsieur Giroux, for example, “bourgeois” is the vilest of epithets. But I know what I am and I am proud of it. I come from solid, Norman stock. What else can I be, but solid and Norman?’

‘Your friends say you’re a genius,’ she replied.

He hesitated. ‘Clothing comes between our own nakedness and the world. It can be a disguise, a fancy-dress costume, a fantasy. Or it can express one’s true self more accurately than any words. For men like me . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. ‘Are you really going to divorce your husband?’

‘Yes. But I’m not sure where to begin. Perhaps we’ll have to go the American embassy.’

‘Since you are both resident in France, and are divorcing par consentement mutuel, all you need to do is draw up an agreement and present it to a French judge. You could be free in as little as a month.’

‘A month!’

‘Thanks to the Emperor Napoleon, French divorce laws are very sensible.’

Copper felt a little breathless. ‘I didn’t know it could be so quick.’

‘Are you having second thoughts?’

‘No. My marriage is over. It was over a long time ago.’

‘If you like, I will help you with the agreement.’

‘Thank you.’

She found herself dozing, half-hearing the scribble of his pencil and the occasional rustle of logs slumping inside the stove. When she awoke again, she found that Dior must have led her, or perhaps even carried her, back to bed. The shivering had subsided, leaving her weak and limp. She rolled over and went back to sleep.





Four

George’s funeral was an unusual occasion for various reasons. For one thing, an unexpected number and variety of mourners arrived at Père Lachaise Cemetery to see him off. Several foreign correspondents and photographers turned up, many of whom were the Frightful Bounder’s drinking companions and were already, by noon, in various states of drunkenness.

In addition, all those of Dior’s circle who had promised to come arrived, and they brought with them a number of friends. Christian Bérard came wrapped in a billowing black coat, underneath which he was clearly still in his pyjamas, which were covered in cigarette ash and burn holes. His little white bichon frise, Jacinthe, was tucked under his arm.

Suzy Solidor was dressed as a man in a frock coat and top hat, carrying an ebony cane, her embroidered waistcoat hung with a gold chain. The two ballet dancers had come as Harlequin and Columbine and looked quite eerie flitting among the graves. There was also a person of indeterminate sex who had come in a crimson cloak. Though others were not actually in fancy dress, their hats and clothes were extravagant enough to draw attention. Some had brought flowers, or less conventional objects such as a hobby horse and a blue bicycle. The whole effect struck Copper as dreamlike, as if the occasion were not surreal enough.

The day was grey and windy. A pale sickle moon was suspended behind the trees, which were showering leaves on to the rows of monumental masonry. A marble angel nearby, streaked with green, stared at the odd gathering with blank eyes.

Amory met her at the vault where George’s coffin was to be interred. He was wearing his overcoat, his fair hair blowing in the wind. He was accompanied by Ernest Hemingway, the writer, who, it seemed, had become his friend. They were both drunk. ‘You’re not really serious about this damned divorce business, are you?’ he greeted her.

‘Yes.’ Copper spoke bravely, as though her terrors of the night hadn’t happened. ‘I’m serious. You’ll get the papers. All you have to do is sign them.’