The Designer(28)

‘So you’ve got two months to find your feet,’ Dior said with his usual optimism. ‘Plenty of time.’

The rent was a great deal higher than she thought she could ever afford, and she quailed at the prospect of having to pay it in two months’ time. There were three bedrooms and it was a lot bigger than she needed. But it was a refuge for the time being. And it was undeniably convenient. In addition, the place was still furnished with the collaborator’s excellent furniture and his fine collection of Lalique glassware. Dior had even found a kindly bonne named Madame Chantal, who would help with the cleaning twice a week. He had paid her wages two months in advance.

However, Copper was not permitted to luxuriate in these indulgences. As soon as she had unpacked her suitcase, Dior dragged her out to see the project he was so excited about, making sure that she brought the camera she had ‘inherited’ from George Fritchley-Bound. Somewhat to her surprise, Dior took her to the Louvre.



The great museum had been emptied, plundered by the Nazis, and some of its most legendary works, including the Mona Lisa, were still in Germany. But in the Pavillon de Marsan, devoted to the decorative arts, all was hustle and bustle. Dior led Copper into a large room, where several dozen people, wrapped in overcoats and scarves against the cold, were working on an exhibition. There were several sets being constructed and painted, all in small scale. They depicted the famous parks and boulevards of Paris – or in some cases, imaginary scenes.

Dotted around these dreamlike backdrops were mannequins made out of wire, about a third the size of real women. All had the same calm ceramic face; but these were not dolls. Each was being clothed in a diminutive couture outfit: dresses, coats, hats, tiny high-heeled shoes, belts and handbags.

‘Some of them even have underwear,’ Dior told her solemnly as they made their way around the crowded hall. ‘All hand-sewn. The couturiers are rounding up all the scraps of fabric that they’ve been hoarding, the stuff that would have been thrown away once upon a time, and making outfits.’

‘It’s extraordinary,’ Copper said.

‘The fashion houses are joining forces to put on this show – in miniature. They’re all here: Nina Ricci, Balenciaga, Schiaparelli, Rochas, Hermès. Isn’t it magical?’

Copper stared at the activity all around her. ‘Only the French would think up something like this. “Magical” is exactly the word.’

‘Don’t you think this would make an interesting story?’ he said slyly. ‘Nobody knows that this is happening. The press are interested in nothing except the war. You’re the only fashion journalist in Paris right now.’

‘I’m not even a journalist, let alone a fashion journalist.’

‘Well,’ he said, indicating the camera slung around her slender neck, ‘now might be a good time to begin, n’est-ce pas?’

It was as though a light bulb had gone on over Copper’s head. She raised the camera and focused on a group of young people erecting a pocket-sized Arc de Triomphe. ‘Monsieur Dior, you are a genius.’

‘I know,’ he said modestly.

She took the shot and wound the film on, feeling excited. ‘If Harper’s don’t like my last story, they might go for this.’

‘Exactly. Tell the world what we’re doing, Copper. Tell them it’s not just death and destruction, and doom and gloom. People need something to be happy about.’

A young man bustled past them carrying a cardboard Eiffel Tower and called a cheerful greeting to Dior. ‘That’s Marcel Rochas,’ Dior told her. ‘I’ll introduce you to him later.’

The hubbub of argument, hammering, sawing, and bustling workmen echoed off the severe palace walls. The illusion of a miniature city being built was heightened by the clouds of cigarette smoke and condensation that rose to the lofty ceiling, hovering above the scene like a storm in a teacup. Dior took her around the outskirts to a set representing an ornate salon that had already been completed. Two dressmakers in black were kneeling on the floor fitting exquisite outfits on to the delicately poised dolls.

‘This is Maison Lucien Lelong’s display,’ Dior told her. ‘And this is my employer, Monsieur Lelong himself.’

The famous couturier was a small, brisk man in a double-breasted, pinstriped suit. He had sharp eyes and a neat little moustache, and he bowed over Copper’s hand with old-school gallantry when Dior presented her to him. ‘Welcome to Paris, dear lady,’ he said. His expert glance summed her up swiftly. ‘You are a journalist? With which publication, if I may ask?’

‘I’m with Harper’s Bazaar,’ she declared boldly.

‘Excellent. I hope to see you in my salon very soon,’ he purred, adjusting the trim of his moustache. He presented Copper with his card. ‘I think we can show your readers that fashion is not, after all, dead in Paris.’

‘What you’re doing here is just astonishing.’ She crouched to look at the dolls. ‘And what adorable little gowns!’

‘Monsieur Dior is the great talent of our house,’ Lelong said, putting a hand on Dior’s shoulder.

Copper saw Dior blush. ‘You are kind to say so, Ma?tre,’ he murmured. Quietly, he explained the designs he’d made to Copper. There were evening dresses in glossy silk and some charming day frocks in polka dots. With his plump yet delicate fingers, he unfolded the Lilliputian creations to show the pains that had been taken: shoes that had been hand-stitched, buttons that really buttoned and zips that really zipped; belts with buckles that fastened; handbags and purses that contained tiny powder compacts and lace-edged hankies. Beneath the dresses were tiny camisoles and slips, embroidered as though by fairies.