The Designer(78)

The ceremony was, in its most compact form, an affair many hours long, and the spiritual significance of each phase – the Betrothal, during which candles would be held; the Sacrament itself, during which the couple would be crowned; and the civil ceremony afterwards with bread and salt – were explained to Copper at great length by a solemn, bearded Orthodox priest who smelled of incense and garlic. She found it all a little overwhelming, not least the cathedral itself with its murky interior and towering, prison-like walls, from which gilded icons of saints and angels peered down at her suspiciously.

She tried to get into the spirit of the thing, even learning as many of the Russian phrases as she could remember. But the only part she was really looking forward to was the wineglass-smashing at the very end. By that time, she imagined, she would be in the mood to hurl a wineglass.

She also, with great reluctance, gave notice to the landlady at place Victor Hugo. Pearl would have to find new lodgings since, after the wedding, Copper would take up residence with her new husband.

‘I know you won’t want me as a bridesmaid?’ Pearl said, looking at Copper with heavy eyes. It sounded like a plea.

‘They don’t have bridesmaids at Russian Orthodox weddings,’ Copper replied tactfully, which was at least partly true – the priest had told her it was not traditional but she could have a bridesmaid if she really insisted on one. She just didn’t want any further complications in what was already turning into a cumbersome affair. ‘But you’ll be there to support me.’

‘I’ll get clean for the ceremony,’ Pearl promised; but they’d both heard that promise many times before.

Suzy had made no attempts to contact Copper except for a single bouquet of violets, without a note, which she’d had delivered to the place Victor Hugo. Perhaps it was an apology for the last words she’d thrown after Copper. The sweet scent of the violets faded, and Copper tried not to think about the woman who had sent them to her.



From Henry, there came a more permanent gift.

He presented her with an oblong leather box. ‘I hope you like this, my darling. It is my wedding present to you.’

Copper opened the box. Nestling in the velvet interior was an emerald-and-diamond necklace. She was overcome by the size and obvious value of the stones.

‘Oh, Henry, these are magnificent.’

‘They’re from Bucherer. I hoped you would wear them on our wedding day.’

‘You’re so generous. You overwhelm me.’

He helped her put on the necklace. The vivid green stones blazed against her pale skin. She stared at herself in the mirror; Henry’s handsome face was at her shoulder. ‘You look doubtful,’ he said gently.

‘If I do, it’s only because my mother always said emeralds were bad luck.’ She saw his expression change. ‘I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.’

‘Not at all,’ he replied gravely. ‘If you don’t wish to wear them, I will understand perfectly.’

‘Of course I will wear them,’ she said, turning to kiss him. ‘I’ll be proud to. You make me feel like a queen.’



The next day Copper found time to run to the Agence France-Presse newsroom to file a story. She found the clattering telex machines, which ceaselessly spewed out a history of the world, fascinating.

Coming out of AFP, she bumped into a familiar figure coming the other way. It was Hemingway, typically dishevelled and braving the cold in shirtsleeves. He put down the typewriter case he was carrying and hugged Copper tightly enough to leave her breathless. ‘How the hell are you?’ he demanded.

‘I’ll be fine when I get over my broken ribs,’ she said, smiling at him. It was good to see a fellow American, even if Hemingway was always more than a little overpowering.

‘Where can I get my typewriter fixed?’ he demanded. ‘It’s urgent, kid. I’ll buy you lunch in return.’

‘I don’t have time for lunch. I’m in a hurry.’

‘Don’t you dare brush me off.’

She sighed. ‘What make is it?’

‘A Remington.’

‘I know where the agency is. It’s ten minutes’ walk from here.’

‘Come along, then.’

As they walked towards the boulevard des Capucines, she asked him, ‘You’re not going to make another pass at me, are you?’

‘Not while I’m sober.’ He grinned. ‘I have too much respect for you. I saw your story in Life magazine. Not bad for a kid still wet behind the ears. You’re a born journalist.’

She was pleased with the praise. ‘I try.’

‘I still say it’s a whore’s trade, but you do your whoring neatly, I’ll give you that.’

At the Remington agency, he delivered his battered portable for repair and hired a substitute to use in the meantime, which he hugged to his chest. She was sympathetic; she could imagine what it felt like to be a journalist without a typewriter. Then, as he’d promised, he took her to lunch at a bistro. There, over a bottle of Burgundy and plates of duck confit, they caught up on each other’s news.

‘I hear you’re getting married to that mad Russian, Velikovsky?’

‘I guess he has to be mad to take me on.’

‘So it’s true. Well, you’ll never have to worry about money again.’