The Designer(32)

‘Turning on the waterworks won’t cut it. Out!’

Pearl’s tears dried up, as though on tap. ‘Tell you what I’ll do for you.’ She dug out the roll of banknotes and offered it to Copper. ‘Here. Take it.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘There’s three months’ rent in advance there. Plus enough to get in some groceries. And you can look after the rest for me. Hang on to it. I’ll only blow it. Don’t tell me you don’t need the money,’ she added shrewdly. ‘He’s left you with nothing, hasn’t he?’

Copper stared at the money in frustration. This woman was as difficult to get rid of as a stray cat. But the bankroll felt so good in her hand. Real money. Her fingers tightened around it. ‘You better behave,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘No monkeyshines or I swear I will throw you out. And I’ll use the window, not the door.’

‘Oh, bless you.’ For a moment, it seemed as though Pearl were going to hug her, but the expression on Copper’s face forestalled that. ‘We’re going to be great chums.’

‘We are not going to be chums,’ Copper retorted. ‘This is my apartment, and you’re my tenant. So let’s get that straight. What I say goes.’

‘Absolutely, sweetheart.’

‘I’m not sweetheart, or ducky, or darling, or any other British endearment you can think of.’

‘Right you are, I’ll call you Copper Pot.’ Pearl popped the suitcase open and started pulling out what looked like very frilly and brightly coloured underwear. ‘What about that cup of tea, now?’

Copper did not dignify that with an answer. She went back to the kitchen to attend to her wounds, hoping that she hadn’t just burned her fingers in more than one sense.



Armed with the flashgun, Copper returned to the Pavillon de Marsan, where activity was even more feverish. This time, she took greater care over her photographs, knowing that each shot would use up one of her precious flashbulbs – and God knew if she would ever be able to get any more.

The surrealist Jean Cocteau, seated on a film director’s high chair, was easily recognisable by his mass of frizzy, salt-and-pepper hair. On a similar chair beside him was his friend, Suzy Solidor, wearing a pale-amethyst trouser suit.

Seeing Copper, Suzy slipped off the chair and came swiftly towards her. Copper was reminded of an otter, or some other sinuous animal, sliding off the bank to pursue a tasty fish.

‘Chérie,’ she said, giving Copper a lingering kiss on each cheek. ‘How enchanting to see you. I have thought about you so much. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ Copper said, trying to back away from her. But a lissom arm had wrapped around her waist, trapping her.

‘I am preparing a room for you to stay at my place. The sweetest, daintiest little room you can imagine. You’ll simply adore it.’

‘Oh, thank you. But I’ve just—’

‘You can’t possibly stay with dreary old Christian, my darling. You will die of boredom.’ The rich brown eyes seemed to want to drown Copper in their depths. ‘You will have much more fun with me, I promise.’

‘You’re so kind,’ Copper said faintly. ‘But I was just about to tell you that I’m not with Monsieur Dior anymore. He’s found me a lovely apartment on the place Victor Hugo.’

Suzy’s strongly marked eyebrows descended. ‘Cancel it.’

‘But I can’t. I’ve moved in already.’

‘Move out.’

‘And I’ve even got a tenant.’

‘Quel dommage,’ Suzy said, severely displeased. ‘A waste of money. You would be far better off with me. I wish that foolish Dior had consulted me first.’

Copper had other ideas on the subject. Moving in with Suzy would have been rather like a mouse taking up lodgings in a cat’s ear. But she didn’t say that, of course. ‘He’s the kindest man in the world. If you only knew how he’s helped me over the past weeks.’

‘He’s kind enough, I grant you that. But entirely lacking in charisma.’

‘Oh, I think he’s wonderful. So kind; such a gentleman.’

That surprisingly strong arm was still preventing Copper from escaping. The chanteuse studied her face with alarming intentness. ‘Mon Dieu. How exquisite you are. That hair. That skin. The Irish strain, of course. You are a princess from a Celtic legend. I am a Celt too; did you know that?’

‘Er – no.’

‘Yes. I was born in Saint-Servan in Brittany. You could practically swim to Ireland from my doorstep. We are of the same blood, you and me.’ She smiled, showing a line of perfect teeth. There was something charming about Suzy Solidor, and the over-the-top seductress routine was certainly effective. She probably got exactly what she wanted from women who were so inclined. ‘Come to my club tonight. I will expect you.’

‘Well, I’ll try to come, but I’ve got my article to write—’

‘écoute-moi, chérie,’ Suzy cut in. ‘There’s a lot I can do for you. I can introduce you to the right people, tell you the right places to be, the right things to wear. I can teach you. If you are willing to learn. Come tonight. You won’t regret it.’

‘Okay,’ Copper said, yielding to these blandishments. ‘I’ll drop by.’