The Designer(7)

‘You’re making fun of me.’

‘Yes, I am,’ she admitted. ‘Sorry. I’m enjoying the ride so far, Monsieur Christian. I don’t think too far ahead.’

‘Remarkable,’ he said. ‘I will make some drawings and perhaps you can return in a day or so?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all. You may dress yourself now.’

As they said goodbye, he bent gallantly over her hand so she could almost see her reflection in his balding pate. He was obviously amused by her and she was glad to have amused him. The impression she got from him was of gentleness and reserve rather than the haughty arrogance she would have expected from a Paris couturier. He saw her to the top of the stairs and watched as she walked down. She got a last glimpse of his hazel eyes following her.

‘You embarrassed me,’ she told Giroux roundly at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Asking that sweet little man to make me a wardrobe!’

‘That “sweet little man” dressed the wives of Nazis.’

‘I don’t suppose he had much choice.’

‘Everyone has a choice, Mam’selle. Dior made his.’

‘Dior?’

‘That is his name. Christian Dior. He’s one of Lelong’s best men. The other is Pierre Balmain, but they say Dior is better.’

She noticed that Giroux’s pockets were bulging with loot. A large pair of pinking shears protruded from one of them and silk ribbons spilled from another. He was giving a new meaning, she thought dryly, to the Liberation of Paris.





Two

As Copper had anticipated, the Frightful Bounder was too ill to write the article, so she did it; pounding away at his portable Underwood until her fingers were numb. George had once been a good journalist and she knew how to mimic his laconic style, so it came out well. The developed photographs were dramatic, too. The whole piece was good, if biting in tone, and an antidote to the usual gushing stuff that filled the pages of the newspapers. No sooner had George managed to raise himself from his bed than he began drinking again, so Copper even had to package up the story and the photos to be sent off to his editor. His total contribution to the article was to add his shaky signature to the covering letter. She left the package on the table for him to send. He could at least manage that much.

He was, however, pathetically grateful to Copper, and returned from his next drinking session with a gift for her – something wrapped in an oily parcel of brown paper tied with butcher’s string.

‘What’s this?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Foie gras. Goose liver. Great delicacy among the French.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Very grateful to you, old thing. Can’t say it enough times.’

She hadn’t ever tried foie gras and didn’t much like the look of the stuff; but struck by a thought, she took it with her as a gift when she went back to Lucien Lelong a day later.

She went alone this time, leaving Amory working at his typewriter in their flat. She found the salon in the same quiet state as before. The vendeuses were in little groups, whispering to each other. They followed Copper with kohl-rimmed eyes as she made her way between the displays and up the stairs, like gazelles watching a leopard.

There was more activity in the atelier, however: three young women were working together, bent over what was evidently a wedding dress. Their coarse hair and strong arms made a contrast to the white satin on to which they were swiftly sewing sequins. They glanced at her, unsmiling. The whole place, she thought, was like something out of a surrealist film. She found Christian Dior in the little salon in the same attitude, gazing out of the window. He turned his long-nosed face to her apprehensively. ‘Yes?’

‘Good morning, Monsieur Christian.’

He brightened at the sight of her. ‘Ah, Madame Eat-Cot. I have a design for you.’

‘Please, everyone calls me Copper.’

‘Copper?’ he repeated in surprise.

‘I have my brothers to thank for that.’ She gestured at her hair. ‘Because of this. My real name is Oona, but nobody ever calls me that.’

‘I much prefer Oona. Copper is an ugly name for such a striking woman,’ he said frankly.

She proffered the parcel. ‘I brought you this. I hope it’s acceptable.’ She felt embarrassed at delivering such a greasy package in such a spotless setting. But as he unfolded the paper, his eyes widened.

‘A whole foie gras,’ he gasped.

‘Is it all right? I was told it was good.’

‘This is for me?’

‘If you’ll accept it.’

She was dismayed to see that his eyes were suddenly moist. ‘Excuse me.’ He hurried from the salon with the package. In his absence, she went to the window where he had been standing. The smart street below was quiet. Why did he stand here all day, looking out, waiting – for what?

He came back into the room without the foie gras. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were puffy. ‘I hope I didn’t upset you?’ she said anxiously.

‘I was a little overcome. You are very kind. The cards foretold a gift for me today, but I had no idea it would be from you. It has been a long time since I tasted foie gras – my favourite dish of all.’

‘Oh, I’m so happy.’

‘Where is your husband?’