The Designer(39)

‘It quite possibly is me,’ the voice replied urbanely. ‘And quite possibly it was Mrs Snow. The only unknown in the equation is you. Might I ask for your name?’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m Oona Reilly.’

‘Of course you are. Will you be free to join me for dinner tomorrow night at the Ritz?’

‘The Ritz?’

‘Yes. I’m staying there, for my sins. Shall we say eight tomorrow evening?’

‘I’ll be there,’ Copper said breathlessly. She replaced the receiver. Pearl came into the room looking somewhat better than she had done over the past few days.

‘What was that all about?’

‘Someone from Harper’s Bazaar wants to see me,’ she said, still half-dazed. ‘Dinner tomorrow, at the Ritz.’

‘What are you going to wear?’ Pearl asked practically.

‘Dior.’ Copper exclaimed, her eyes widening. ‘I’ve got to see Christian Dior.’



Walking through the lobby of the Ritz in her rose silk gown, Copper felt like one of those women in magazine advertisements who assured you that Product X had changed her life. She had never worn a garment like this in all her twenty-six years. The bodice clung to her slim torso while the skirt flared around her knees. It wasn’t just that it was beautiful; it fitted her perfectly, immaculately, as though it had been made for her –which of course it had. Christian Dior had seen exactly what would set her figure off best and had structured the dress around her, like a sculptor creating a second skin. He’d even forgiven her lack of bust, and had plunged the neckline between her slight breasts, showing off her delicate throat and shoulders with a chocolate-box bow over her heart. She was aware of the eyes that followed her as she swept along, her chin held high, as though she were not Oona Reilly from Brooklyn, but a visiting queen.

‘I’m meeting Mr Velikovsky,’ she told the head waiter at the restaurant reception desk.

‘Count Velikovsky is waiting for you,’ the man replied haughtily. He examined her dress and obviously decided to forgive her solecism. ‘Follow me, Mademoiselle,’ he said with an indulgent bow.

Copper followed him into a different world of rococo swirls and golden drapes, snowy linen, quiet lighting and quieter music. The ceiling above her had been painted with clouds, and she walked on peacocks woven into the soft carpet under her feet. And flowers – a profusion of flowers everywhere, whose scent hung elusively on the air. The restaurant was crowded and the waiter led her on a circuitous path through the tables, clearly wanting to show her off to the other diners.

Her date was seated at a table in one of the alcoves reading a magazine. A tall man in a close-fitting tuxedo and black tie, he rose as she approached. He extended a hand. ‘How do you do, Miss Reilly?’

‘I’ve been instructed that you’re a count,’ she said, somewhat breathlessly. ‘How do I address you?’

‘All that nonsense went out in the October Revolution,’ he said, bowing over her fingers graciously. ‘But you know what snobs waiters are. I am plain “Monsieur” now.’ He ushered her into her seat. ‘Or indeed, plain “Henry”, if you prefer.’

‘But I was really looking forward to saying “Your Grace” or whatever the correct title is. Forgive my ignorance. We don’t have counts in America.’

‘You have Count Basie and Duke Ellington,’ he pointed out. ‘Much more impressive.’

Copper examined him as she settled down. He was in his early forties, she guessed, and striking, if not conventionally handsome. His dark eyes turned up at the corners, hinting at a Tartar ancestor. His nose was broad, his smiling lips full. He had the tan of a man who enjoyed the outdoors. His hair was combed back in a distinctly foreign way that was neither French nor American. ‘You’re Russian?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Does that present difficulties?’

‘Only if you eat babies and burn churches.’

‘Very seldom. I am a White Russian. My father and I fought the Bolsheviks with sabres in 1917. Unfortunately, they had machine guns so we got the worst of it.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I’m a bit of a Bolshevik myself.’

His dark eyes sparkled. ‘You don’t look like any of the Bolsheviks I encountered.’

‘Well, we’re cunning at disguising ourselves, you know.’

‘So I see. Shall we have a cocktail? I have a weakness for vodka, of course, but I won’t insist if you prefer something more civilised.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever had vodka. Go ahead and order for me.’

‘Two greyhounds, then,’ he commanded the waiter, who melted away obediently. Velikovsky examined her with interest. ‘Your disguise is one of the best I’ve seen. Rochas?’

‘As a matter of fact, it was made by a friend. Christian Dior at Maison Lelong.’

‘Dior? Now where have I heard that name? Ah yes. He’s the coming man, so they tell me.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad people are talking about him. We’re all trying to persuade him to start his own fashion house.’

‘Indeed?’

‘He’s afraid of letting down Monsieur Lelong, but he would make a fortune if he would just take the plunge.’

‘We’ll see what we can do to encourage him,’ he replied. ‘You seem very well-connected in the world of Parisian fashion.’