The Designer(6)

Monsieur Christian rolled his eyes. ‘It is quite impossible for measurements to be taken with gentlemen present.’

‘What – not even the husband?’ Amory demanded.

‘Especially not the husband.’

‘She’s my wife, damn it.’

By way of an answer, Monsieur Christian indicated the door, his eyes closed. He was clearly not going to move – or open his eyes – until the men had departed. There was something commanding about this immobility, and to Copper’s amusement, Amory and Giroux both stamped out of the room, slamming the door behind them. Monsieur Christian opened his eyes with a sigh. ‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘If Madame will remove the camera? And the outer clothing?’

Deciding that she would discuss the issue of proper payment later, Copper took off the Rolleiflex, which was dangling heavily around her neck, and got out of her dungarees. Monsieur Christian folded her drab garments as carefully as if they were a queen’s robes, and then considered the spectacle of Copper in her underwear, pinching his fleshy chin between finger and thumb.

‘A pity,’ he said.

‘What’s a pity?’ Copper asked. Oddly, she felt no embarrassment at being appraised by the couturier in a state of semi-nudity.

‘Your proportions.’ He looped a tape measure around her bust and sucked his lip. ‘But this can easily be remedied.’ He produced a cardboard box and lifted the lid to reveal two generously rounded objects. ‘I always recommend these to those of my clients whom nature has neglected.’

‘Falsies?’

‘Foam rubber. Pre-war. Very hard to obtain nowadays.’

‘No, thank you. I’ll stick with what I have.’

He put them away. ‘Perhaps you are right. But you do not look like a Frenchwoman, Madame.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘The lack of curves would normally be a drawback which we would try to remedy with some padding.’

‘Please, no padding.’

‘But in your case – with these long legs, the high waist, the height, the vigour . . .’ He stood back and studied her, holding one elbow and stroking his cheek with his free hand. ‘You are obviously athletic.’

‘I hate sports. But American girls are quite active, you know.’

‘Indeed. There is a certain gar?on air – not a bad thing in itself, you understand. In fact . . .’ He seemed to be growing excited as he prowled around her. ‘In fact, stimulating. A challenge. The hair is passable. And the face, of course. The legs – flawless.’

‘I’m glad something meets with your approval.’

‘I recall a time when showing the ankles was considered the height of obscenity. Now we require the whole leg. Well, let’s begin.’

He set to work. As she allowed herself to be measured, Copper surveyed him in return. He had a long, beaky nose and a sensitive, soft mouth. She noted his gleaming black shoes and starched cuffs, the whiff of cologne.

The door opened, and one of the vendeuses stuck her head round it anxiously. ‘Pardon, Monsieur Christian, but the man Giroux is stealing everything he can lay his hands on. He’s stuffing his pockets.’

‘Let him take what he wants,’ the couturier said impatiently. ‘Go away.’

The door closed again. Monsieur Christian jotted down a great many figures in a notebook. ‘May I ask how an American woman comes to be in Paris in wartime?’

‘My husband is a war correspondent. He pulled strings to get me accredited so I could tag along.’

‘Not many women would be eager for such accreditation.’

‘Oh, I’m always ready for an adventure. I tagged along with my dad and brothers from the time I could walk. They even gave me my own placard to carry.’

‘A placard?’

‘It said, “A Fair Wage for a Fair Day’s Work”.’

‘A good sentiment.’

‘I guess it was formative.’

‘And your husband is a beautiful young man,’ Monsieur Christian pointed out. ‘Really, one of the handsomest men I have ever seen.’

‘Oh, he’s easy on the eye. But I can stand to tear my gaze away from him now and then. What I couldn’t stand was staying at home while he got all the fun. Besides, he’s pretty much helpless without me.’

‘“Fun”?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I have to tell you that you are my first American client, Madame Eat-Cot. But if they are all like you, the world is in for a shock.’

‘You bet it is,’ she agreed.

‘Hold yourself upright, if you please. Hand on hip, head to one side. Good. You have the carriage. It helps one so much. European women stay slim by starving themselves. It gives them what one might call a pinched look and they often remain flabby. This is something else. This slimness comes from musculature. And yet it’s not at all masculine. It’s really a very new idea.’

‘There are plenty more like me in New York,’ Copper replied wryly. ‘Women run around there all day long, trust me on that.’

‘And what, may I ask, will happen when you grow tired of “tagging along”?’

‘You mean, if I get cold feet?’

‘I mean, when you want something for yourself.’

‘Well, there’s always housework and the kitchen. There’s a lot to learn about vacuum-cleaning, you know. Perfecting the American apple pie has been a dream of mine since girlhood. And having six little rosy babies, just like Mom did.’