The Designer(67)

‘Ah, Copper. You are as kind as my brother says you are.’

‘It’s the other way around. He has been kindness itself to me.’

‘Kindness is the currency of humanity. Even in the camps one found it. Debased and broken, but one found it.’ She leaned forward to look at the clothes. ‘You have lovely things.’ But she made no effort to touch anything.

‘I thought you might like this cardigan. It’s very warm – lamb’s wool. And this beret, until your hair grows.’ Copper held the garments out in an effort to get Catherine interested.

‘So pretty.’ At last, Catherine reached out hesitantly and stroked the pale-blue wool. With a shock, Copper saw for the first time that on Catherine’s left wrist a number had been crudely tattooed, indigo against the white flesh: 57813. ‘Ah, yes. My number. I hate to see it.’

Copper tried to hold back her emotions. She had heard of these things being done, but it was the first time she had seen them. ‘Perhaps it can be removed.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I’ll get you some gloves, if you want them.’

‘A pair of cotton gloves? That would be most kind. I’m so ashamed for Hervé to see me like this. He won’t recognise me.’

‘He will understand. Won’t you try the cardigan on? You must feel the cold.’

Stiffly, Catherine pulled on the soft wool garment. ‘It does feel very nice,’ she sighed, hugging herself. ‘Thank you.’

‘Please keep it. I don’t need it.’

‘That I find hard to believe. But you are most kind,’ she repeated.

Dior emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on his apron. ‘We are nearly ready. To the table, please, ladies.’

They sat at the little dining table. Dior brought in the food, which let off a mouth-watering aroma. He had baked the soufflés in individual ramekins, and they were perfect, each with a fluffy, golden cloud of crust. He opened a bottle of Chablis and filled their glasses. ‘To Catherine.’

Catherine laughed, but Copper noticed she barely tasted the wine. She put down her glass and sat looking at the soufflé before her, in much the same way as she had looked at Copper’s clothes.

‘Eat,’ Dior coaxed. ‘I’ve made it just the way you like it. Like at Granville. And we have to feed you up.’

‘Yes,’ Catherine said. But it seemed to be an effort for her to pick up her fork. She took a mouthful and closed her eyes. Dior was watching her expectantly.

‘Is it good?’ he asked.

She swallowed. ‘It’s a masterpiece.’

He beamed. ‘Go on. You know a soufflé doesn’t last forever.’

Catherine took a few more mouthfuls. Suddenly, she pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped. She ran to the toilet, where they could hear her being painfully sick. Dior looked appalled.

‘What is wrong with her?’ he whispered to Copper.

‘I think it’s too rich for her,’ she whispered back.

He struck his own forehead. ‘My God. What a fool I am.’

Catherine came back to the table. ‘I’m so sorry, Tian. Your soufflé is delicious. But my stupid stomach doesn’t know how to behave anymore.’

‘Oh, chérie, I am so sorry.’

‘What can you eat?’ Copper asked.

‘In the prison, they gave us potato soup every day. It was really just dirty water. If one found a scrap of potato, one hoarded it all day. We were lucky. We worked in the factories, so they kept us alive. The others often got nothing at all . . .’ Her voice trailed off, her eyes growing absent, looking into another world.

Copper went quietly to the kitchen. There were a few potatoes, some carrots and leeks, and a bunch of parsley. She chopped them finely and put them on to boil. She could hear Dior and Catherine talking in low voices.

When the vegetables were tender, she took them in to Catherine. ‘I feel I’m being a dreadful nuisance,’ Catherine said. ‘I’m not really a fit companion for decent people anymore. I’m so sorry about the soufflé, Tian.’ She began to eat the soup slowly and carefully, while Copper and Dior watched in silence. Neither of them had any appetite now, and the soufflés deflated slowly in their ramekins, untasted.

Catherine wasn’t sick again, but after a while, her eyes began to close, and her shaven head drooped on its slender stalk. She dipped her spoon into the dish one last time, and then seemed unable to lift it out again.

‘You must sleep,’ Dior said.

Catherine raised her head wearily. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep on the train. I was so excited to see you again, Tian. And now that I’m here, I’m such poor company . . .’

Between them, they helped her into her bed and tucked her in like a child. She was asleep before they closed the door.

In the sitting room, Dior whispered, white-faced, ‘She’s dying.’

‘Don’t even think that. She’s come so far.’

Dior covered his face with his hands. ‘I never thought I could hurt anyone. But I could kill the people who did this to her.’

‘So could I,’ Copper said quietly.



Over the next days, Copper learned something of Catherine’s history. She had fallen in love with a dashing young man in the Resistance, Hervé des Charbonneries. Before long, she was involved in the secret struggle against the Nazis. It was her task to memorise critical information about German troop movements and weapons production and relay them to General de Gaulle’s Free French. They’d hoped that a pretty young woman on a bicycle would escape the attention of the Gestapo, but they were wrong. She had been betrayed. A message to meet an agent at the Trocadéro had turned out to be a Gestapo trap. She had been arrested and tortured in the notorious dungeons of La Santé prison.