The Designer(47)

‘I had some things to attend to.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Boring things.’

‘You expect me to tell you every detail of my life,’ Copper complained. ‘But you won’t tell me a thing about yours.’

‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘What is it you want to know?’

‘Where you went this week and what you did there.’

He was silent for a moment, swaying her in his arms. ‘The battle with the Germans is in its final phase,’ he said at last. ‘But a new battle is already being prepared for. The communists would like to swallow France as they are swallowing Eastern Europe.’

Copper snorted. ‘That old chestnut. The bosses were selling the same scare story in the thirties and using it to keep their employees slaving for pennies in dangerous, freezing factories.’

‘This isn’t a question of working conditions in a few factories,’ he said patiently. ‘They’re gearing up for civil war.’

‘Okay, Daddy Warbucks.’ She laughed. ‘You can ease off the propaganda now. I don’t want to fight you.’

They danced for a while and then sat at the table to drink what had become ‘their’ cocktail – greyhounds made with vodka. He was smiling at her with those turned-up, mysterious eyes of his, and his tone remained light.

‘You must be careful, my dear Copper.’

‘Of the bloodthirsty communist hordes?’

‘Of scandal. People are talking about you.’

‘Are they?’

‘Paris is a small world. I hear tongues wagging about a friendship between a certain French chanteuse and a certain young American reporter.’

‘I see,’ Copper said thoughtfully, looking into the pink grapefruit juice. ‘I had no idea I was so famous.’

‘You are new. And you are striking. Of course you are noticed, and people want to know who you are, where you come from.’

‘And where I’m going – which I guess is to hell in a handcart.’

‘Parisians are very tolerant. I don’t think anyone has consigned you to the infernal regions yet. But your friend is not exactly discreet.’

‘At least she’s not ashamed of what she is.’

Henry shrugged. ‘Lesbianism has been a public spectacle in Paris since the 1850s. It’s practically a profession. One of the performing arts.’

‘In Paris, being a woman is in itself a profession,’ Copper said ironically.

‘Suzy came to Paris as a ragamuffin. She’s the illegitimate child of a charlady from Saint-Malo. Her name was Suzanne Rocher. It was Yvonne de Bremond who turned her into Suzy Solidor.’

‘Who is Yvonne de Bremond?’

‘Yvonne is a lesbian aristocrat who was one of the great beauties of the twenties and thirties. A little older than Suzy. In fact, she and Suzy look like sisters. She took Suzy in, made her a pet project. It took her years to sculpt the raw material into a work of art.’

‘How did she achieve that?’ Copper asked, interested.

‘Yvonne knew everything that Suzy didn’t: the right books to read, the right clothes to wear, the right wines to drink, the right way to talk. She paraded Suzy in all the fashionable resorts. One saw them, in the pre-war years in Biarritz or Cannes, bowling along in Yvonne’s Rolls Royce convertible with a huge dog in the back seat. Quite a sight, I assure you.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ Copper said thoughtfully. It sounded rather like what Suzy was doing with her. ‘And then?’

‘Suzy dumped her. It was quite sudden and it broke Yvonne’s heart. But Suzy was tired of being the protégée. She wanted to spread her wings – and voilà. Adieu, Yvonne.’

‘I didn’t know any of this.’

Henry picked up the huge, leather-bound wine list. ‘It was almost as though she had hated Yvonne all along and allowed herself to be petted until the time was right. Then she took her revenge.’

‘Revenge? For what?’

‘No good deed goes unpunished.’ He perused the list. ‘Yvonne has a smart shop on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. She’s awfully fashionable; an antiquarian, an expert on eighteenth-century furniture. Her Christmas window displays are legendary. But she doesn’t see Suzy anymore. Hmm, they have some of the 1922 Chateau Latour. Should we order a bottle?’

She put one fingertip on the top of the wine list and pushed it down so she could look into his face. ‘Is this a warning, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry?’

‘It’s just a suggestion’ – he smiled – ‘that perhaps you shouldn’t let Suzy make a spectacle out of you.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘You think I’m interfering.’

‘Oh, I get this all the time from Pearl.’

He put down the menu. ‘It never ceases to amaze me that you took in your husband’s paramour. You really are an extraordinary woman, Copper.’

‘Poor Pearl wasn’t exactly Amory’s paramour. More what we Americans call a one-night stand.’

‘Still, you showed great forgiveness. Few women would have been so kind.’

‘Pearl has her own problems.’

‘You mean she’s a drug addict.’