The Designer(48)

Copper shook her head. ‘Is there nothing you don’t know?’

‘I keep my ear to the ground. I heard what you did to her – ah – manager.’

‘You hear a lot of things, dear Henry.’

‘And is it true that he had a knife?’

Copper’s large grey eyes sparkled. ‘I hit him with a Lalique ashtray. He never stood a chance.’

‘You could have been killed.’

‘But I wasn’t. And at least he doesn’t come around to the apartment anymore. He’s Pearl’s bête noir.’

He put his hand over hers. ‘My dear, I know you’re having fun, but it’s a dangerous world.’

‘You’re right,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘That it’s a dangerous world?’

‘No, I don’t care about that. But I am having fun. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to realise it until now.’

His expression was a little sad. ‘Too much fun to settle down?’

It took her a moment to get what he was implying. ‘Oh, Henry.’

‘I know it’s very soon. And I know I’m twenty years older than you—’

‘Eighteen,’ she put in automatically.

‘But I can offer you a great deal as a husband.’

‘Henry—’

‘I would never stand in the way of your career or want you to change who you are.’ For a moment, his strong fingers pressed hers, hard. Then he released her hand. ‘You don’t have to answer now, or even soon. Just consider it.’

‘I will,’ she promised. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘And I’m deeply honoured. Whatever happens.’



A proposal from Henry Velikovsky was not something to be dismissed lightly. And yet she felt she couldn’t accept. Not now and perhaps not ever. Even if, as he said, he would not stand in the way of her career, there would be a loss of freedom; the very freedom that she so cherished.

Becoming his wife – the Countess Velikovsky, if one cared about such things – would bring with it obligations. Inevitably, her energies would be diverted, even if only in part, from her work, and would be directed towards the man she was married to. She knew that from her first marriage. And then, if children came . . .

She did love Henry already. She loved him for his kindness and his charm, for the security he offered. The fact that he was older was part of what attracted her to him.

Whether that warmth could ignite into the enduring heat required to drive a marriage was another question. Perhaps it could. But only if she added fuel to the flames. So far, they had danced together, laughed together and inhabited a sparkling world that was too like a fairy tale to be trusted. They had never gone to bed together, and until that happened they would remain in the antechamber of passion, so to speak. And she didn’t know whether she wanted to open that door.

After they’d parted, Copper felt an odd mixture of elation and sadness. It was an undeniable boost to her confidence to have a man like Henry on her arm. But also, it was frustrating to see her newfound freedom jeopardised already, just when she’d attained it.

Sorting out her feelings towards Henry wasn’t easy. There was a substantial age gap between them, and a substantial difference in their political instincts. She didn’t like the way he made her feel like the wide-eyed orphan – childish, na?ve, needing to be rescued from the difficulties she got herself into.

The fact that he was very attractive made her feelings all the more complicated. Having got rid of one overbearing, manipulative husband, she was in no hurry to acquire another.

And that was as far as she got.





Eight

In the Pavillon de Marsan, activity was feverish. The opening of the show was close now. The designers were adding the final touches to the dioramas. Most of the dolls had been completed: enigmatic mannequins wearing perfect little outfits, poised in inscrutable groups. Dior himself was using some of the silk they had gone to fetch in the Simca. Copper left him fussing over his own designs and walked around the hall with her camera, picking details out of the confusion of whirring sewing machines and banging tools.

They were all here, the great couturiers of Paris. She had learned to recognise them and identify their styles. Here was the young, frail Jacques Fath, in his thirties and already regarded with awe by the fashion world. Here, too, was Elsa Schiaparelli, aristocratic and mystical, all in black and hovering over her display with dark, intense eyes. Not far from her, the Basque, Balenciaga, similarly dark and haunted, worked with equal concentration. And behind him stooped Jeanne Lanvin, shattered by the war and said by Suzy, who was her friend and wore her designs, to be dying.

As Copper gazed around her, a voice called her name cheerily. It was Christian Bérard, spattered all over with sky-blue paint, including blobs in his huge, tangled beard. His bright eyes, which were almost the same colour as the paint, were wicked. He carried his little white bichon frise under one arm, as always, and with the other he held the large paintbrush he had been using. ‘Copper! Where is your Anactoria?’

‘Hello, Bébé. Who is my Anactoria?’ she asked cautiously, for Bérard’s mind was a strange one and his jokes sophisticated.

‘Why, Suzy Solidor, of course.’

‘I don’t get it.’