The Designer(83)

Copper swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘We’ll always be friends.’

He nodded. ‘If there’s one thing my life has taught me, it’s to never give up hope.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Goodbye, Copper.’

After the door had closed, she went to the window and watched his tall figure walk down the street. Long before he mingled with the drab crowds, her eyes were blurred with tears.



By the second week, almost 200,000 visitors had been to see the Théatre de la Mode. The profits went to the Entraide Fran?aise, the national relief organisation that had been instituted during the Occupation; but the real beneficiaries were the fashion houses, whose triumphant displays made such a powerful impact. The great French designers, who had been compelled to serve the Nazis for four years, were finally making clothes for the French again – albeit in miniature.

Dior himself was not one of those whose names were being celebrated. It didn’t even appear in the catalogue. His employer, Lelong, took the praise for the adorable little creations.

‘That’s just the way it is,’ he said, when Copper expressed her chagrin at the Pavillon. ‘Don’t worry about me, ma petite. I’m not one for the limelight, you know that.’

‘I wish you were one for the limelight. Why should Monsieur Lelong get all the glory?’

‘Because he’s my employer,’ Dior said. ‘And I’m deeply indebted to him.’

‘One day,’ Copper vowed, ‘your name will be in lights.’

Dior shuddered. ‘How my mother would hate that. She always forbade me to put my name up over a doorway like a common shopkeeper.’

Copper was amused. ‘Wouldn’t she be proud of you?’

‘You didn’t know her,’ he replied darkly. ‘It was bad enough that I tried to run an art gallery. Becoming a dressmaker would have been too much for her.’

They returned to the rue Royale to see an extraordinary sight: a huge cloud of yellow butterflies had filled the street.

Dior was enraptured. They parked the car and walked along the street among the fluttering, buttery clouds. The butterflies were everywhere, filling the shops and the cafés, making women scream, half in alarm, half in delight; while the waiters rushed to and fro, attempting to flap the insects away with tablecloths. More hordes simply swirled in to take their place. Restaurants were being evacuated, diners hurrying out on to the pavement still clutching their napkins. The powdery yellow wings almost blotted out the spring sky at times.

Rising and falling in their millions, the butterflies had taken over the street. It was impossible at first to tell where they were coming from, and where they were going; then, gradually, it became evident that the butterflies were making their way, with countless pauses and detours, from the place de la Concorde, up the rue Royale, to the Church of the Madeleine. Copper and Dior followed the drifting multitudes to the place de la Madeleine, the huge, neoclassical church which seemed to be their destination. And as they watched, bemused, the butterflies began to settle on the towering stone pillars, thronging in ever-greater numbers, more and more, until each pillar was clad in a shimmering yellow gown pieced out of millions of beating wings.

‘They’re making a pilgrimage,’ Dior said, examining a specimen that had landed on his finger. ‘What can it mean?’

‘It’s a prophecy.’ Copper pointed at the bright clouds of wings. ‘These are all the women who’re going to wear your clothes one day and be made beautiful by you.’

‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Dior replied.

‘No. And nor should you.’

They found a café in the square and sat drinking coffee and watching the astonishing spectacle, lulled by the narcotic scent of the lime trees, until the sun slipped down behind the Madeleine, leaving the twilight suddenly chilly. They went to have an early dinner together.

The next morning, the butterflies had gone. They had flown away to wherever they were going. A street sweeper was using his broom to gather the ones that had not survived and that lined the cobbled street in golden seams.



Within a few days, Copper heard from Harper’s that the editorial staff had loved her Théatre de la Mode story, and that it would be printed in the next edition. This excellent news was accompanied by a substantial cheque – in dollars – that Copper picked up at Henry’s ‘dusty little bureau’ on the Champs-élysées. The dusty little bureau was actually a smart office in a smart block, with ‘Velikovsky et Cie’ in gilt letters on the door and a smart secretary at the desk. Henry himself had not yet returned to Paris and his secretary was tight-lipped as to his whereabouts. Copper had had dealings with her before, and while she was unfailingly pleasant, Copper had the strong feeling that she’d been instructed to fend off all curious enquiries about her employer, even from her. Perhaps especially from her.

Copper was missing Henry and felt she had still not been able to explain why she had done what she had done. Even though he seemed to understand, she felt they needed to talk.

The new edition of Harper’s Bazaar reached Paris and Copper’s article was in pride of place. She had been given a four-page spread, and the bracketing of strategically placed ads from some of the biggest American fashion names showed the importance that had been assigned to her work. She was given a sparkling byline – ‘Oona Reilly, Our Special Correspondent in Paris’.