The Designer(41)

Velikovsky tugged at his ear, as though troubled and searching for the right words. ‘May I ask how old you are?’

‘I’m twenty-six.’

‘You realise that not many twenty-six-year-olds get an offer like this?’

‘I realise that. And maybe I sound arrogant or crazy. But I’ve just gotten myself out of a marriage. I’m not in a hurry to tie any more knots. I don’t want to be bound to any single publication, even one as prestigious as Harper’s Bazaar. Being freelance will let me keep my freedom.’

‘Is your freedom so important to you?’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘Even if a staff job puts bread on your table?’

‘Even if it puts caviar on my table,’ she said decisively. ‘I love journalism and I intend to follow it. But on my own terms. I’m so happy that Mrs Snow liked my article – and I really, really hope she likes my next one even more. I just want to be free to steer in my own direction and not be told what to write about.’

Velikovsky nodded slowly. ‘How did you come to write that article?’

‘It’s kind of awkward to explain, but I stepped into a dead man’s shoes.’ She told him about the Frightful Bounder and the story of how he had unwittingly taught her the basics of her trade, culminating in his grisly death and the extraordinary funeral at Père Lachaise with the surrealists. He was highly amused by her description, leaning back in his chair and laughing until his eyes watered.

‘It’s a serious matter,’ he apologised. ‘I shouldn’t laugh.’

‘Why not?’ she said, pleased to have amused this sophisticated, older man. ‘Even George would have laughed.’ She hesitated, remembering. ‘As a matter of fact, that was the last time I saw my husband. So we buried our marriage that day, as well as poor George.’ The waiter, perhaps impatient with waiting for them to finish talking, arrived to take their order, but Copper had found the menu daunting. ‘Please order for me,’ she said. ‘You know much more than I do.’

‘You flatter me. My tastes in food are simple, however. How long has it been since you had a really good steak?’

‘A long time,’ Copper said wistfully.

‘With French fried potatoes? And a good Cabernet Sauvignon?’

‘Sounds like heaven.’ She watched him as he gave the order. He was trim and fit for his age, she observed. His waistcoat lay flat against his stomach and his hands were strong and neat. He was a dandy, she suspected: his tuxedo fitted him snugly, the points of his collar were immaculately starched, and his bow tie expertly arranged. Either he paid a good deal of attention to his appearance, or there was a devoted woman at home. ‘Are you married?’ she heard herself asking.

‘Like you, I was once.’

‘And you didn’t like it?’

‘Well, my wife left me, but in a more permanent way than your husband left you.’

‘You mean she died? Oh, I’m so sorry.’

He made a brief gesture. ‘It was a long time ago. We met very young. God gave us some happy years before he took her away.’

‘You married young.’

‘We did everything young,’ he said. ‘I ran away from school in St Petersburg to fight the Germans during the Great War. I was fifteen. I wanted to be like my father, who was a general. I spent a few weeks at the front before my father found me and had me sent back home. A year or two after that, the Bolshevik revolution started. By then I was seventeen and my father and I fought side by side. Unfortunately, as you probably know, the world allowed the communists to take our country from us. Winter came and that was that. I buried my father on a snowy mountainside in the Caucasus and joined what was left of our army on the retreat to Constantinople. It was during that march that I met Katia. Like me, she was from a noble family. They had lost everything in the revolution. She was nursing our wounded. We married as soon as we reached Paris.’

‘That’s the most romantic story I ever heard,’ Copper said.

‘She developed leukaemia, which was less romantic,’ he replied. ‘There is no treatment, even if I could have afforded any.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Yes. The twenties were hard. But I discovered that I had remembered some mathematics, despite running away from school to kill the Kaiser. I managed to build up a little capital and became, in my small way, something of a financier. I worked night and day so as to recover from my grief. But we are not here to discuss me, my dear. We are here to learn about you.’

‘My story isn’t so romantic. My husband developed other women.’

‘None the less a tragedy. But it seems you lost him and found yourself?’

‘Something like that,’ she agreed.

‘And now you’re on your own?’

Copper nodded. ‘I guess you think I’m crazy for not jumping at Mrs Snow’s offer?’

‘Crazy? No. Carmel is keen to sign you up, and I admit that I will have to face her wrath if I don’t convince you to put your signature on a contract. But I sympathise with your desire to remain free. I am the same. The situation is fluid and you’re in a good position to jump on any story that turns up suddenly. You can write about what you like. And you can sell your work to whom you like. You are also free to accept assignments from anyone.’ He tugged his ear, which she had noticed was his habit when searching for words. ‘Naturally, there is the danger of starving to death. Paris is the only city on earth where starving to death is still considered an art. But I don’t think you will starve to death. You write well, which is rare, and you have a unique slant on things, which is even rarer. You’re not one of the herd.’