The Designer(61)
‘I’ve never known anybody like you,’ Copper said crossly, aware of the heat in her cheeks.
She watched Suzy as she dressed. Her underwear was enviable, all made for her by a corsetière on the rue Cambon from silk and lace in diaphanous pinks. Her smooth, white-gold body disappeared into it, and then into a dark wool suit. She surveyed Copper thoughtfully. ‘Today calls for something special. Take off your clothes.’
‘I’m quite happy the way I am.’
Suzy made an irritated noise. ‘I am not happy. Undress.’
This was a ritual that Suzy insisted upon from time to time. The best thing was simply to obey. Copper took off her dress. Suzy hunted in her closet. They were almost the same size, and most of Suzy’s clothes fitted Copper well. On this occasion, Suzy picked out a silk outfit, deep black with delicate, emerald-green stripes. She also insisted on doing Copper’s make-up, squinting with concentration as she painted Copper’s lips and shaded her eyelids.
‘Put your glasses on,’ Copper said, ‘or you’ll have my eye out with that brush.’
‘I hate my spectacles,’ Suzy muttered, but put them on nevertheless. They were round with tortoiseshell rims and had a slightly comical appearance on Suzy’s narrow face. Yet it was when Suzy showed these rare signs of weakness, Copper felt, that she loved her most.
The make-up completed to her satisfaction, Suzy found her a pair of Chanel shoes with little gold bows and finished her off with a dainty hat and a scrap of black veil that enhanced, rather than concealed, Copper’s large, grey eyes.
‘I feel like a Christmas present,’ Copper commented, examining her gleaming reflection in the cheval mirror.
‘Which is exactly what you are,’ Suzy said, pulling on a pair of fawn kid gloves. ‘And you may keep the clothes if you like them.’
They went out together. The afternoon threatened rain, so they walked quickly, arm in arm, laughing like old friends.
Afternoon tea at Maxim’s was one of Suzy’s favourite treats. It was an especially feminine ritual. There were red hothouse roses in Chinese vases on the tables, and the tea was served on delicate art-nouveau crockery that was surely as old as the restaurant itself. The rose-scented macarons, a speciality of the house, melted in the mouth. There were cream cakes and Florentines, and vol-au-vents that arrived crisp, hot and light as a feather, and even Darjeeling tea; in short, it was as though the war were already over. It was as though there had never been a war at all.
The tables around them were almost all occupied by smartly dressed women, some in groups, but many in couples, their heads close together in murmured confabulation. Copper wondered how many of these female pairs were lovers. She caught many glances coming her way, some of them unabashedly admiring. One woman, thin and dark, stared at her with an intensity that was positively disturbing; and a square, red-cheeked woman with large green eyes smiled at her constantly, like the Cheshire cat. She responded to none of these advances.
But how different the friendships of women were to those of men. How much more elastic, more nuanced, encompassing an intimacy than men seemed incapable of. Copper had grown up with four brothers and their friends. Her sister had been older, married and working as a nurse by the time Copper was ten. With no mother, she’d had few female contacts.
She had learned a great deal from Suzy in these past weeks about what the friendship of a woman could offer. Her relationship with Suzy included shades of almost every sensation; not just wit, excitement, the unfettered enjoyment of whatever life had to give – but also something romantic.
After the tea, they walked together down the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, looking in the windows of the expensive salons, which were now being lit up as the evening closed in. The rain had held off and crowds of prosperous Parisians were taking the same promenade. Again, Copper had the sensation that Paris was an island where the war had ceased, floating in the calm eye of a vast cyclone that was circling them, shattering everything in its path but leaving the centre eerily undisturbed.
They went into Lanvin, one of the oldest fashion houses in Paris and Suzy’s personal favourite couturier. The clothes were charming, but with her newly educated eye, Copper could see that they already felt outdated, with their intricate embroidery work and beading. Even the delicate, flowery colours seemed to hark back to a simpler and more innocent age. As she wandered among the models, she inhaled the scent that hung in the air.
‘My God. That’s divine.’
‘It’s “My Sin” – Jeanne Lanvin’s own perfume. Do you like it?’
‘I adore it.’
‘It’s heliotrope and musk.’
‘I’ve never smelled anything like it.’
Suzy went to the counter where she was greeted with the deference due to a valued client. ‘Give me a flacon of My Sin, please.’
‘Is that for me?’ Copper asked, surprised.
‘Of course.’
‘But you hate perfume.’
‘You shall wear it when I’m not there.’
Copper was enchanted by the little, round, black bottle with the golden cap, and by the box it came in with its wicked black cat. ‘You’re so kind to me,’ she murmured to Suzy.
‘Really? And just this morning I was so unkind.’
‘You can be both.’
‘Indeed.’ Suzy had taken her compact from her bag and was carefully reapplying her lipstick. She examined herself intently in the little mirror and then snapped it shut decisively. ‘Come.’