The Designer(46)

‘Oh, Tian, what a sad thing to say.’

‘Sad but true. Simply put, it does not matter whether one likes the opposite sex or one’s own. The problems are identical. You see from the circle I live in that there is no single solution to the problem of desire. Look at Cocteau. He falls in love with women or men indiscriminately.’

‘The only person Cocteau really loves is himself,’ she replied dryly.

Dior laughed. ‘Perhaps you are right. Those who are beautiful are desired; those who are not, are not. I have never been beautiful, not even when I was young, when most people have some brief flowering. I never had such a flowering. I was always dull and plain. I remain dull and plain.’

‘You aren’t plain.’

‘But I am. And I have the congenital defect of being ineluctably drawn to the beautiful. With the result that, more often than not, I am rebuffed. Even derided for my presumptuousness. Or, if I manage to be accepted, I am soon discarded in favour of more appealing types.’

She laid her hand on his arm compassionately. ‘Even if it were true that you’re a plain man – and I think you have a lovely face – you have brilliance that goes well beyond mere surface beauty.’

‘In this world,’ he said with a wry shrug, ‘it is the appearance that matters far more than the content. If I’ve learned anything from my trade, I’ve learned that.’

‘I thought Amory would be my Mr Right,’ she said mournfully. ‘It was a long, slow process of disillusionment. I know what it’s like to be discarded in favour of more appealing types.’

He laid his hand over her own. ‘I have had my heart broken many times. At the age of forty, I no longer expect to find my Mr Right. I put everything into my work. But there’s no reason why you should live like that. Your Mr Right may be closer than you think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well . . .’ He turned back to his chestnuts. ‘There is Henry.’

‘Everyone has got the wrong idea about Henry,’ she said.

‘And what is the right idea about Henry?’

‘He’s a friend. That’s all.’

‘Are you sure that’s all?’

‘He’s interested in me.’

‘Aren’t you interested in him?’

‘He’s very attractive. But . . .’

‘But?’

‘Well, I’m a lot younger. I love my life. I love being a bohemian and having adventures. I’m not ready to give it all up for anyone. Besides, we think very differently. He’s with the big battalions and I rather sympathise with the oppressed.’

‘Shall we consult Madame Delahaye?’

‘I don’t think I need a fortune teller. I need a psychiatrist.’

‘Madame Delahaye is terribly reliable, you know. Each reading is exactly the same: Catherine is alive and well and will come back to me.’

‘I’m happy for you,’ she replied gently, thinking how na?ve he could be at times.

He nodded. ‘My dear, one should be able to try new things, especially at your age, without feeling one is condemning oneself to eating the same dish for evermore. Obey your instincts.’ He offered her a perfectly peeled chestnut. ‘The only advice I can give you is to do nothing you don’t feel is right.’

She accepted the warm little offering. ‘You’re lucky to have your work, Tian.’

‘Lucky in work, unlucky in love. I sometimes wish I were not the way I am. There are drawbacks. It is illegal, for one thing, and that means living in fear. For another, one constantly encounters the contempt, even hatred, of a certain class of person. Sometimes it is no more than a look, a particular kind of smile, or a carefully chosen word. The wounds can be deep.’ For a moment his expression was bitter. ‘It becomes easier to sublimate one’s desires. A gorgeous dress, a new fabric, an elegant line, can distract one from unhappiness.’ He folded the paper cone and put it into his pocket. ‘Speaking of which, I must get back to my dolls. Your session with Professor von Dior is at an end.’



Perhaps, she thought, as she entered the glittering portals of the Ritz, she should see a psychiatrist. Of the two possible romantic interests in her life, one was a man eighteen years older than she, and the other was a woman. What would Freud say? She had come a long way since the wide-eyed Brooklyn girl who had arrived in Paris a year ago.

Henry was waiting for her at their table, immaculate as always. Her heart always lifted at the sight of him. In a world of uncertainties, he was a dependable constant: always there, always supporting her. Perhaps that was the problem. Where Henry was dependable, Suzy was challenging. Where Henry was a constant, Suzy was as changeable as the moon. Where Henry made her feel safe, Suzy made her feel distinctly unsafe. It was not an easy choice – if it was a choice.

Henry kissed her three times, Russian-style, as she arrived. There was an orchestra tonight playing jazz, and elegant couples were dancing between courses.

‘Would you like to dance before we look at the menu?’ he invited her.

‘If you don’t tread on my feet.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ He took her in his arms and they drifted between the tables cheek to cheek. He danced well. His arms were strong, but he was light on his feet.

‘I tried to contact you at your office,’ Copper said. ‘Your secretary told me you were away from Paris this week.’