The Designer(68)

‘The most terrible thing,’ Catherine told her, ‘was that we were tortured not by Germans, but by Frenchmen. Our own compatriots.’

Christian had tried frantically to get her released, begging his wealthy clients to intercede on Catherine’s behalf. None of them had been willing. Christian himself had been lucky not to be arrested, too.

Now he was overjoyed at Catherine’s return, but her weakened state terrified him. He talked of sending her to the country for the clean air and healthy food that were so hard to find in Paris, but he could not bear to be away from her, and in any case, she was exhausted and in no condition to travel any further.

‘She was always my pet,’ Dior whispered to Copper as Catherine lay sleeping, bundled up in blankets. ‘When we were children, I seldom played with my brothers. But Catherine—’ He smiled tenderly. ‘Catherine was special. I wasn’t allowed to have dolls, of course, so she became my doll. I would do her hair in ribbons and bows. I loved to make outfits for her, dress her up and take her out to show her off. With her, I could indulge all my secret passions for lace and frills.’

‘She was your first muse, in fact.’

‘Yes, she was. And such a sweet-tempered little muse she was; always smiling, always serene. My childhood would have been wretched without her. One of my brothers was insane and had to be put in an institution. My poor mother died soon after. I was never close to my father or my other brother, Raymond. I was a dreamer, living in my own world. Catherine was the only one who could enter that world with me. I really think that losing her would kill me.’

‘You haven’t lost her,’ Copper pointed out gently.

Dior laid his hand over Copper’s. ‘She needs a woman’s touch.’

‘I’m not much of a nurse, but of course I’ll do whatever I can, Tian.’

Copper took Catherine to see a doctor. The doctor, Séverine Lefebvre, was middle-aged and kindly, which was why Copper had chosen her. Catherine asked Copper to be with her for the examination. Standing on the doctor’s scales in her underwear, Catherine was even thinner than Copper had realised, her legs and arms stick-like, her ribs and hip bones prominent under the pale skin, which bore so many discolorations and bruises. The examination was very thorough and included an eyesight test.

At length, Dr Lefebvre invited them to sit at her desk while she wrote out, in her old-fashioned hand, a diet for Catherine to follow.

‘You are severely malnourished,’ she said as her pen scratched away. ‘And it’s essential that you receive the correct vitamins and minerals to make a recovery. It will not be easy for you, Mademoiselle Dior, but you must follow my diet to the letter.’

‘I will try.’

Before they left the surgery, the doctor embraced Catherine, and kissed her three times on the cheeks. ‘You are an example to all of France, Mam’selle,’ she said quietly.

Getting Catherine to eat was the greatest challenge of all. The doctor’s diet, full of nutritious meat dishes, was well-meaning, but Catherine was unable to keep her food down. Overstepping her capacity by even a spoonful would precipitate retching that would leave her exhausted and weaker than before. This occurrence regularly reduced both Dior and Copper to despair.

Nor was food easy to obtain in Paris now that the war was in its final phase. There were no more lobsters from Granville to be had. Even if there had been, the trains were no longer running. Between the strikes and the war, in fact, the shops were empty, and people were reduced to scavenging for scraps, as they had done during the darkest days of the Occupation. The meat and wine that Dr Lefebvre had prescribed were almost unobtainable. It was heartbreaking to see Catherine bring up the beef or chicken that had been bought at such expense and with such difficulty.

Copper was starting to worry. Catherine had not put on an ounce – in fact, she had lost a little every day since her return. Copper had been brought up poor. She knew something about making nutritious dishes, and she told Dior so.

‘This is all very well in theory,’ she said, indicating the diet sheet the doctor had given them. ‘But it’s not working in practice. If you let me, I’ll try and feed Catherine my own way.’

‘Whatever you think best,’ Dior agreed with a tremulous sigh. ‘We can’t go on like this.’

‘Right, then.’ Copper went to the market and returned with a laden basket.

‘What on earth are those things?’ Dior asked in horror, as Copper triumphantly unloaded her shopping.

‘My mother called this a neat’s foot,’ Copper said, examining the grisly object with a critical eye. ‘It’s a cow’s shin and hoof.’

‘But is it edible?’ he demanded.

‘Very much so. This is what my mother made us when we were ill.’

‘I thought America was such a rich country,’ Dior said, backing away from the stove.

‘Not my part,’ Copper replied. ‘We had to feed seven of us on a millhand’s wages. And we didn’t get lobsters, believe me.’

Several hours’ hard work reduced the neat’s foot into a wholesome broth and a translucent, amber jelly. To Dior’s delight, Catherine partook of the broth – and wasn’t sick.

‘You’re a genius,’ he exclaimed, hugging Copper in the kitchen.



From then on, she produced the dishes of her childhood for Catherine. Her mother had died young, but not before passing on the cookery of her native Ireland – meals that were healthy and nutritious but far from rich. In the absence of chicken, she made rabbit pie; with a few beef bones, she made a delicate broth. Above all, she made vegetable dishes. The humble potato was a godsend now, as were barley, cabbage and beans. Her instinct was that before Catherine could digest the protein dishes the doctor had prescribed, she needed bland, starchy foods that would give her energy, allow her stomach to recover and restore her appetite.