The Designer(82)
It added poignancy that Paris was entering her luminous spring. The cherries were in blossom, the skies were blue. Life was burgeoning everywhere; while Bébé Bérard had the appearance of a dying man.
For Copper herself, the opening of the exhibition provided a welcome distraction from the debacle of her wedding-that-wasn’t, and the thought of the pain and humiliation she must have caused Henry. It also marked the end of her most ambitious journalistic project to date. She was able to take her final photographs of the masses of visitors passing through the hall, and write her final paragraphs.
By far the most spectacular of the scenes was an extraordinary tableau of a burning tenement with silk-clad figures flying through the air. This was the brainchild of Jean Cocteau.
‘My set is a tribute to the film I Married a Witch with Veronica Lake,’ he told her. ‘You’ve seen it, of course?’
‘Of course,’ Copper said animatedly. ‘What a charming idea.’
‘This is the scene where the hotel burns down. Very dramatic, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes. And what extraordinary gowns.’
‘Oh, the gowns? The gowns are nothing to me,’ he said loftily. ‘To me, fashion is of no interest whatsoever. I am merely supporting my friends.’ He waved a long cigarette holder to take in the whole enterprise. ‘The idea is absurd, and it is the absurdity that calls to me.’
‘Well, perhaps we won’t tell the readers that,’ Copper said, scribbling in her notebook.
Everywhere she looked, little miracles had been wrought. Tiny handmade buttons had been sewn on to jackets; miniature leather shoes, made by some cobbler goblin, had been fitted on to miniature feet; and the hats! Hats as extravagant as the imagination could make them, with flowers and veils and ribbons.
Elaborate coiffures had been made for the poupées, cascades of curls or towering bouffants. Their china faces had been carefully painted to look alive. Tiny tassels swung from exquisite capes; shimmering silks of every imaginable colour swathed miniature bosoms. The smell of sericin was intoxicating. Bows, feathers, frills and swags described lavish curls. Sumptuous flounces disguised the bare wire frames beneath. The wire hands wore diminutive gloves, miraculously stitched, and the wire wrists dripped bracelets made by Cartier or Van Cleef & Arpels, and carried fairy bags by Hermès and Louis Vuitton. Skilled fingers had sewn tiny beads, pearls and sequins on to the fabrics, and experienced eyes had seen to it that every design carried the sense of something much larger; something important.
From the debris of a world devastated by war and plundered by the conqueror, a vision was being created – the vision of a new world where beauty and style once again reigned supreme. It was as though a company of elves had crept out after the horror and had begun to stitch the torn pieces together. It was a fairy-tale story, Copper thought, and it touched her heart and filled her with admiration.
With Henry still silent, Copper had re-entered the world of Dior and Bérard. When Dior himself was too wearied to nursemaid Bérard, Copper nursemaided Dior. Copper, as the only one who could drive, was in charge of transport, and took the two men around during the exhibition. Much of her own magazine article had centred on the genius of Bérard, without whose presiding artistic authority the Théatre de la Mode would have been unthinkable. As Dior put it: ‘Marshalling dozens of Paris fashion houses was not a job for a mere mortal.’
A week after the opening, however, while she was working at her typewriter in her room, the doorbell chimed and, shortly afterwards, Dior poked his head round her door.
‘It’s Henry,’ he said, his eyebrows perched on the top of his head. ‘He’s asking to speak to you. Shall I send him away?’
‘No,’ Copper said. It was time for her to face the music. ‘I’ll see him.’ Girding her metaphorical loins, Copper rose from the little bedside table that served her as a desk, and went out to confront Henry.
He was standing at the window looking out over the rue Royale, immaculately dressed as always. He turned to her, his face grave.
‘I’m going out for a walk,’ Dior said nervously, snatching up his overcoat and hat and making a diplomatic exit.
When Dior had gone, Copper opened her mouth to start on the speech she’d rehearsed so many times.
‘Henry, my marriage to Amory ended so painfully—’
But he held up his hand to stop her. ‘I’ve come to apologise.’
She was taken aback. She stammered awkwardly. ‘What for?’
‘For everything. For insisting on the cathedral when it was the last thing you wanted. For those unlucky emeralds. But not just for that. For pushing you to marry me when you weren’t ready. For trying to override your doubts and make you ignore your misgivings. For forgetting that you’ve already had one awful experience and haven’t yet healed from that. For being so desperate to make you my wife that I accepted an offer you made when you were afraid and alone. I should have known better, and I’m ashamed of myself. For all that, I apologise. I just hope that you will be able to forgive me. And that this won’t be the end of us.’
‘Oh, Henry!’
She could now see in his face the hurt she’d caused him. He looked like a man who hadn’t eaten or slept in days. ‘You don’t have to say anything now. I’m leaving Paris for a while on business. But I’ll be back, and if I’m far luckier than I deserve, perhaps we can be friends again.’