The Designer(90)

‘Trust me. I won’t.’



‘He just won’t push himself forward,’ she said to Henry as they walked home. ‘Sometimes I think Tian will never get out of his rut. Perhaps he doesn’t even want to get out of his rut. He’s happy to be stuck in it forever, growing old in Lucien Lelong’s back rooms, happy with his life of parties and dinners, never taking a risk.’

‘You’ve just described a contented man.’

‘You are the last person to condone laziness, dear Henry.’

Copper’s husband of twelve months had made her happier than she had believed possible. There seemed to be no man kinder or more loving than Henry Velikovsky, and no house more lovely than the home they had made together. Unlike her marriage to Amory, which had begun with a rush of passion and had soon cooled off into apathy and then disillusionment, her marriage to Henry just kept getting better.

She loved his company, hurried back to him each time she was away, and found that despite herself, she pined for him when he had to travel. As for the passion, that had grown steadily. She felt loved and desired, and she loved and desired him in turn. That her husband was crazy about her was evident in everything he did. To be supported and appreciated, to be cherished and adored, these were the sexiest feelings she knew.

It was a life filled with romance and beauty. The old house covered in vines required a staff of five persons to maintain it, including a lady’s maid, that most indispensable adjunct to a fashionable Parisienne – even one who had once been arrested for trying to overthrow the state. But Henry’s fortune covered all that amply, and it was surprising how quickly one grew accustomed to such a life. There had been a wonderful surprise – the collection of antique furniture and Impressionist paintings stolen by the Nazis had been located and returned from Germany, and now graced the house again.

Copper looked back now on her tough upbringing in Brooklyn and her bohemian existence with Amory with nostalgia. Was that Copper really the same woman as the Countess Velikovsky, who now had a front-row seat at all the défilés de mode haute couture, who knew every designer in Paris, whose judgments were published in the great fashion magazines?

She had kept her byline, Oona Reilly. Being a countess was a kind of play-acting, which people demanded of her even though she (and Henry) were amused by it. As Henry had said on the night they’d met, people were snobs and loved to be associated with aristocracy, even one which no longer existed outside of the history books.

‘My darling, I’ve had a communication about your ex-husband.’

She felt an unpleasant shock pass through her heart. ‘Nothing bad, I hope?’

‘I’m not sure. He’s here in Paris. He’s asked to see you.’

‘When you say, here in Paris . . . ?’

‘He’s in a sanatorium. The director passed the message on to me.’

‘A sanatorium? So he’s still sick?’

‘They didn’t say anything about his state of health, but presumably he isn’t well.’

‘I see,’ Copper replied heavily.

‘My dear,’ Henry said. ‘I want you to know that this is your decision. If you decide not to see him, I will not reproach you. And if you decide to see him, I will not be discomposed.’

‘You’re sure?’

He pressed her arm firmly. ‘Quite sure. It’s up to you completely.’

‘Thank you, Henry. I’ll think about it.’



Copper’s decision to see Amory was not an easy one to reach, but she felt a sense of obligation. She had, after all, been his wife for eighteen months, and she ought not turn her back on him now, even though that time had not been a very happy one.

The Marie-Thérèse Sanatorium was set in a leafy park on the banks of the Seine. Americans who fell ill in Paris went there; and indeed, the robust nursing sister who met her, wearing a blue-striped uniform, spoke in the clear tones of the American Midwest.

‘My name is Sister Gibson. I’ve been engaged by Mr Heathcote’s family to provide additional care. Thank you for coming to see him.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He was admitted after he tried to kill himself.’

‘Again?’ Copper felt cold all over. ‘When was this?’

‘A month ago. He’s still recovering from the wounds he inflicted on himself, but he’s not in danger anymore. Not from the wounds, at any rate. The danger is inside him, which is why his family suggested I contact you. He’s in the day room.’

The day room was sunny and almost over-warm, its rows of tall windows giving expansive views of the river through the trees. There were patients and visitors seated in groups here and there. Amory was alone at a table at the far end of the room scribbling in a notebook, around which he had thrown his free arm, as though shielding what he was writing from all eyes.

Copper had somehow got it into her mind that Amory had cut his wrists, but she saw with a shock that there was a large dressing on the side of his head. As he raised his head to look at her, she saw the dark bruising that extended over the right half of his face. The eye on that side appeared to have somehow moved position, as though he had developed a squint, and the white was flooded with crimson.

It was all she could do to greet him with something like a composed expression.