The Designer(89)

‘What do you think of the designs?’ Dior asked her.

‘Quite sombre,’ Copper murmured. ‘And awfully conservative.’ Even if she had really been shopping for herself, she would have found it difficult to choose a garment she didn’t consider old-fashioned.

Oddly, however, Tian was interested in everything. He asked to be shown the latest models, the old stock, the accessories; in short, everything. He gazed around at the fittings, nosed behind the counters, and interrogated the vendeuses. There seemed to be no aspect of the establishment that he didn’t have an insatiable curiosity about. He even peered in while she was trying on a dress.

‘A lovely place to be embalmed,’ was his verdict on the changing room.

As always, where his own profession was concerned, he changed subtly; the shy and retiring Christian Dior became someone authoritative. His normally mild expression turned into a frown of concentration, and his tone became peremptory. By the time they left the shop – having bought nothing – the vendeuses were practically ready to throw them out physically.

They had spent almost two hours in Gaston, and it was now early evening, the air warm and balmy. One of the last remaining horse-drawn carriages clopped down the street, scattering a group of young novice nuns.

‘What did you think?’ Dior asked.

‘It’s a lovely shop, Tian. Why did you take me there?’

‘I wanted your opinion.’

‘Why does my opinion matter?’

‘Because, ma petite,’ he said, slipping his arm through hers, ‘Marcel Boussac has offered to make me the new director.’

‘And who is Marcel Boussac?’

‘He’s the Cotton King. When the First World War ended, he bought up all the linen which was used to make the aircraft in those days. He turned it into shirts and made a fortune. People used to say “as rich as Midas”. Now they say “as rich as Boussac”.’

‘And he owns Gaston?’

‘Yes. I trust you to be discreet, ma petite. This isn’t for public consumption.’

Copper hugged his arm excitedly. ‘Tian! You’ll be your own man at last!’

He disengaged himself from her, laughing. ‘Let’s pick up your husband and I’ll cook you both supper at my place. I’ve got a lovely big crab from Granville and a nice Muscadet to go with it.’



The three of them convened at Dior’s apartment, which was just around the corner from Gaston – an advantage that Henry pointed out. ‘You’ll be able to stroll to work every morning, swinging your gold-topped cane and tipping your top hat to your clients on the street. It could hardly be better.’

‘When I was a young man, Gaston was as famous as Chanel,’ Dior said, as he tied on a snowy apron and got to work in his little kitchen. ‘But it’s been in decline for years. And the war administered the coup de grace. As you saw, it’s old-fashioned and gloomy now. Boussac wants me to restore it to its former glory.’

‘It’s the opportunity of a lifetime!’

‘Hardly that, my dear.’

‘Tian, don’t tell me you’re going to look this gift horse in the mouth?’

‘It’s always important to look any horse in the mouth, mes amis. Marcel Boussac didn’t become the richest man in France by giving his money away.’ He plunged the crab carefully into the boiling water. ‘It may be flattering to be put in a museum, but I’m not sure I’m ready to be stuffed and mounted just yet.’

‘You mean – you’re going to say no?’

‘Yes, I’m going to decline.’

Copper threw up her hands. ‘Tian. For heaven’s sake!’

He was concentrating on his cooking now. She knew better than to interrupt him when he was playing chef; he took food preparation seriously. But she knew that Balmain was already preparing for his second collection. Tian was being left further and further behind by his contemporaries.

‘You can’t turn this down,’ she said when they were finally seated at the table.

‘Gaston is a mausoleum,’ he said, portioning out the crab. ‘And it smells like one. Mothballs and cobwebs and dust. I may be absurdly superstitious, but I’m not in the business of raising the dead.’

‘Gaston isn’t dead yet,’ Henry pointed out.

‘It’s dying, which is the same thing. Can you imagine trying to tell those old witches what to do? And as for the atelier – I would have to start by sacking the entire staff, and I can’t face that. I have a good job with Lelong, and it would be madness to leave it for something so uncertain. Better to be first mate on a luxury liner than captain of a sinking ship.’

‘You can always find an excuse not to do something,’ Copper said sharply. ‘You just don’t want to tell Lelong that you’re leaving.’

‘It’s true I wasn’t looking forward to that particular interview.’

‘I knew it!’

Infuriatingly, he was adamant. ‘Maison Gaston is moribund, and Boussac was misguided, even perhaps méchant, to have made the proposal. I have an appointment to see him tomorrow, and I will deliver a polite refusal.’

Saying goodbye to him after midnight, she grasped his lapel. ‘I hope you wake up tomorrow and change your mind, you obstinate man.’