The Designer(38)

‘Nope, he’s just lights out. Nobody socks me and gets away with it,’ Copper said grimly, bending over Petrus and retrieving the knife from his nerveless fingers. ‘Mother of God, will you look at that thing.’ She found the catch and carefully folded it closed. Petrus was by now groaning and stirring into life. He clutched at his streaming nose and tried to sit up. ‘Uh-uh,’ Copper said, poising the ashtray over his face again. ‘Want some more?’

‘No,’ he said, sputtering blood. He shrank away from Copper’s forbidding expression, holding up a shaking hand. ‘No more.’

‘Listen to me, tough guy. Next time you show your ugly face around here, I’ll bust it open. And I’ll call the cops to haul your sorry carcass to the pen. Understand me?’

‘Oui,’ he said thickly, bloodshot eyes fixed on the ashtray.

‘Stay away from Pearl from now on. She’s out of your life and you’re out of hers. Got that?’

‘Oui,’ he grunted. ‘I understand.’

‘Okay.’ Copper backed away. ‘You can go now.’

By now, a curious crowd of neighbours had gathered in the lobby. They watched as Petrus stumbled out, clutching his injured nose. ‘Bravo, Madame,’ someone called. There was laughter. Copper bade them all goodnight and locked her door.

‘He would have done me in,’ Pearl said. ‘That’s the bravest thing I ever saw.’

‘I grew up in a tough neighbourhood. Now, let’s get you to bed.’





Six

Over the next few days, Copper helped Pearl through her withdrawal symptoms. She shivered constantly and cried from pains all over her body. All she wanted was milky tea and Copper soon became an expert in making this English concoction, which was oddly comforting in its peculiar way.

She learned a bit more about Pearl’s background. Like Copper herself, she’d grown up in a poor neighbourhood – the East End of London.

‘My real name’s not Pearl at all. It’s Winifred Treadgold. But I’m still waiting to tread on any gold,’ she added wryly. She’d been a pretty child, which hadn’t gone unnoticed. An older man named Uncle Alf had started ‘messing about’ with her before her twelfth birthday. By thirteen, she’d had a backstreet abortion and her childhood – such as it had been – was over.

Work had been an escape. She’d started out in a laundry, putting in ten-hour days and sleeping huddled next to the washtubs with the other girls, enduring the choking fumes of lye in exchange for warmth. Other men had followed Uncle Alf. She’d learned that she could use them, as they used her.

Hitler’s Luftwaffe had pounded the East End relentlessly during the Blitz, killing thousands and leaving much of the city a wasteland. She’d come to Paris as soon as it was liberated, lured by the bright lights that no longer shone in battered old London, hoping for a career in modelling or a chorus line, and had fallen into the clutches of Petrus. It had taken only a few weeks before she was a slave to his needle and descending into the degradation that he had planned for her.

‘He has others,’ Pearl told Copper. ‘I didn’t want to believe it at first. I’m not very good at reading men, am I?’

‘Me neither,’ Copper said ruefully.

As yet, she had heard nothing from Amory. It was as though he had never existed. Eighteen months of marriage had vanished overnight, leaving her in limbo. No doubt Amory had already forgotten her. He hadn’t even bothered to send a postcard.

She did, however, receive two letters from America. The first, from Amory’s father, was very long and urged her to halt the divorce and patch things up with Amory as soon as possible for a variety of reasons, which he listed in great detail. She was surprised, since she’d never felt particularly valued by the Heathcote family.

The other letter, from Michael, her oldest brother, was much shorter and to the point: You did the right thing, divorcing him. Don’t take him back whatever you do. Come home. I’ll send you a ticket if you’re broke.

There were no I-told-you-so’s, for which she was grateful. There weren’t any expressions of sympathy, either. She knew that Michael spoke for the whole family; none of them had liked Amory, and none of them had approved of the marriage. She and Michael were particularly close, but he had never been one for many words. She appreciated his support, but she had no intention of heading for home just yet. She put off answering either letter for the time being.



Her divorce papers came back. She signed her section and, in due course, Amory’s part arrived through the military mail, duly signed by him. She was free. She felt only a sense of regret for the years that had been wasted.

And at last, she heard back from Harper’s Bazaar.

The reply came in the form of a somewhat cryptic telegram, delivered to her door, which read simply: CALL HENRY VELIKOVSKY ELY-2038. It was signed, SNOW HARPERS.

She stared at the telegram, her heart thumping. ‘Snow Harpers’ could only be the redoubtable Carmel Snow, editor-in-chief of the magazine. But who was Henry Velikovsky? Was this it? Could this be her breakthrough at last?

Copper ran to the telephone and dialled the number. ELY was the prefix for the Champs-élysées exchange. The male voice that answered was deep and cultured with a hint of a foreign accent.

‘Hello,’ Copper said breathlessly. ‘I’ve just got a telegram from Mrs Snow – at least I think it’s from Mrs Snow – to call you. At least, I think it’s you.’