The Designer(5)

After twenty minutes, they arrived at a sober storefront on a smart street close to the Champs-élysées. Copper saw the name Lelong, and her spirits rose. Lucien Lelong was the very breath of what she had been longing for: powder and perfume and gowns, things that rustled and smelled sweet.

‘You’ve heard of Lelong?’ Giroux asked, seeing her expression.

‘Oh yes, I’ve heard of Lelong,’ Copper said. She was almost prepared to forgive Giroux for that repulsive episode with the collaboratrice. To have anything, anything at all bearing the Lelong label, symbol of the most classical French fashion, would be a dream. Then her hopes fell. ‘But I can’t afford a dress from here.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I am a practitioner of jiu-jitsu.’

‘Jiu-jitsu?’

He tapped his nose. ‘I know how to apply pressure in the right places.’

The salon was everything Copper had expected: painted in pearl tones and hung with grey silk; lit with sparkling chandeliers.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ she sighed. It was as though the war, with its dreary utility clothes, was already over. Here were understated gowns and sophisticated outfits displayed with matching hats and accessories. The very air was scented and soft music flowed from some unseen loudspeaker. A few vendeuses stood quietly behind counters. There was nobody else. Copper fingered an exquisite jacket. The vendeuse nearby gave her a glassy smile.

‘May I be of assistance, Mademoiselle?’

‘We’re here to see Monsieur Christian,’ Giroux said curtly, and led them up the staircase at the back of the salon.

They climbed to the second floor and reached the atelier, a long room, well-lit by a row of windows. It was silent and deserted. A dozen half-finished outfits hung, pinned together, on wooden mannequins, but there were no seamstresses and their tools were scattered on the work benches as though they’d fled halfway through their work.

Giroux pushed open a door and they entered a little salon. It was curtained in grey crêpe de chine, panelled in pearl white and lit with bronze wall brackets. There were several large mirrors for clients to admire themselves in, but this room, too, was empty – except for a man who stood looking out of the window. He was half-obscured by the curtains and wearing a pin-striped suit. He turned a pale face to them with an expression of apprehension.

‘This is Monsieur Christian,’ Giroux announced. ‘I’ve brought you a customer, mon vieux.’

Monsieur Christian, who was balding and evidently in early middle age, came out from behind the drapes with the air of some timid creature flushed from its refuge. ‘Enchanted.’ He took Copper’s hand in his own soft, warm one, and bent over it politely.

‘How do you do?’ Copper said, feeling awkward. ‘So sorry to intrude into your private sanctum.’

He waved that away. ‘You are most welcome, Madame . . . ?’

‘Heathcote.’

He struggled with the Anglo-Saxon syllables. ‘Madame Eat-Cot.’ He looked her up and down with his head on one side. ‘And what was it you were thinking of?’

Before she could reply, Giroux cut in. ‘An outfit. Complete with hat. And accessories.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I could afford all that,’ Copper said with a nervous laugh. ‘All I wanted was a frock, perhaps—’

‘It will be Lucien Lelong’s pleasure to present you with the outfit as a gift,’ Giroux said. ‘Won’t it?’

Monsieur Christian flinched. ‘A gift?’

Copper was mortified. ‘I couldn’t possibly accept.’

Giroux ignored her. ‘Where are all your customers?’ he asked the couturier contemptuously, showing his sharp teeth. ‘Your shop is deserted. Perhaps that is because your customers were all Nazis, collaborators and black-market queens. And perhaps it is healthier for those sorts of persons to remain at home these days.’

Monsieur Christian’s cheeks went pink and he sucked his lower lip like an embarrassed child. Copper turned to Giroux. ‘This isn’t what I wanted, Monsieur Giroux. I don’t expect anything for free. Just tell me how much it will cost.’

‘It will cost nothing,’ Giroux insisted. ‘The House of Lelong collaborated with the Nazis for four years. Now there is atonement to be made.’

‘The House of Lelong kept the Germans at bay for four years,’ Monsieur Christian said in a low voice, his face redder than ever. ‘It is thanks to Lelong that we have any couture remaining in Paris at all.’

‘Who cares about couture?’ Giroux demanded. ‘You and Chanel, and the other bourgeois parasites, you pander to the rich and the decadent whatever language they speak. You’re all traitors.’

‘You will permit me to disagree with you, Monsieur,’ the dressmaker said, his voice sinking even lower. He was clearly not a man who relished confrontation, but he had a quiet dignity. ‘We have our own opinion on the matter. But it’s of no account and it will be a pleasure to accommodate Madame.’

‘I can’t accept that,’ Copper said, glaring at Giroux.

‘I assure you, Mademoiselle, it will make a welcome change from standing here all day without clients,’ Monsieur Christian said with the lightest irony. ‘If the gentlemen will leave the room, I will take measurements.’

‘Why should I leave the room?’ Giroux growled.