The Designer(95)

But once they were in their home, with their door closed, he took her in his arms and covered her face with kisses. ‘My darling,’ he said, with tears in his eyes. ‘Once again you have made me the happiest man in the world.’

‘Thank goodness,’ she sighed. ‘I thought you were upset.’

‘I was overcome by emotion. I never dared hope that I would be a father.’

‘You have to admit that you’ve been doing everything in your power to become one,’ she replied gravely.

He burst out laughing. ‘And you have played your part, my beloved.’

‘Of course. I’ve wanted nothing more than to have our first child. I’m not as young as I was, you know. I’ll be twenty-eight by the time our baby comes.’

‘The most perfect of ages. God has truly blessed us.’



In that same week, the news came that Henry was to be awarded the Legion d’honneur for his services to France. The honour would be conferred on him by the provisional president, Charles de Gaulle – and by a happy coincidence, others to be decorated on the same day included Catherine Dior and Hervé des Charbonneries. There was to be a reunion of friends and relatives.

The ceremony took place at the élysée Palace. Christian Dior was one of the guests, with his father and his brother Raymond. General de Gaulle, an enormously tall figure in full uniform, towered over the occasion. He had aged visibly over the past two years of political struggle. His short speech expressed the hope that France was entering a period of stability and progress in the Fourth Republic. After he had pinned the medals on to the lapels of the awardees, there was a pleasant surprise: Copper was presented with a box of exquisite silk scarves from eight of the most famous Paris fashion houses.

Drinking champagne in the gilded splendour of the president’s salon after the ceremony, they caught up with each other’s news. Copper was delighted to see Catherine again, her skin summer-tanned. She was now an official mandataire en fleurs coupées, sending bouquets of freshly cut French flowers all over the world. ‘The authorities gave us the work as a reward for our war service,’ she told Copper. ‘They asked us what we would like to do, and that was my choice. We have to start work every morning at four a.m. to get our blooms to the market of Les Halles, but what better career than to be surrounded by flowers?’

‘So you have followed your mother, after all,’ Copper said.

‘You are right. I think of her every day.’ She studied Copper, her expression changing subtly. ‘Forgive me for asking – are you expecting a baby?’

Copper laid her hand instinctively over her womb. ‘I didn’t think it showed yet.’

‘It doesn’t. Not there, anyway. It’s in your eyes.’

‘You’re very perceptive, Catherine.’

‘You and I are friends,’ Catherine replied. ‘And we understand one another well. There’s a special light about you, Copper. You’re luminous. You must be very happy.’

‘I am happier than I deserve to be.’

‘So I am right?’

‘Yes, you’re right.’

‘Congratulations, my dear.’ She kissed Copper on both cheeks. But as she drew back, her expression was wistful, her eyes sad. ‘You are lucky. I wonder if you know how lucky you are.’

‘Oh, Catherine. What’s to stop you having a child?’

‘Hervé has three children already. He doesn’t want any more, especially not illegitimate ones. And after what I saw at Ravensbrück, I don’t think I would make a good mother, anyway. It changes one’s perspective.’

Copper touched the little enamel cross on Catherine’s lapel. ‘We’re so proud of you; of how you endured.’

Catherine grimaced. ‘It’s a fine thing to be a chevalière de la Legion d’honneur, isn’t it? They’re arresting the people who betrayed me and tortured me, and killed my friends. There’ll be a court case, and those men will all appear with their lawyers, defending themselves, explaining that they were only following orders; doing the best thing for France. I’ll be interrogated all over again, asked to justify my evidence, humiliated and made to look dishonest. I’m not looking forward to that, I can tell you.’

‘That’s so unfair,’ Copper exclaimed.

Catherine shrugged. ‘We have to play by the rules, even if they didn’t.’



There was a gala dinner that evening attended by the American and British ambassadors. It was a glittering occasion: the men in white tie wearing all their decorations, and the women dressed by the great designers – Rochas, Schiaparelli, Balmain. Copper herself was in a spectacular crimson gown designed and made for her by Dior, which attracted a great number of compliments. She in her turn was bursting with pride over her husband, who looked so magnificent in his black tailcoat, wearing the Legion d’honneur and all his other decorations.

At dinner, Copper was seated next to Gertrude McCarthy Caffery, the American ambassador’s wife. A woman in her fifties, she was soberly, rather than fashionably, dressed; but she had caught the rumours that Marcel Boussac was about to invest in an unknown fashion designer, and questioned Copper with skilled diplomacy.

‘Is he as good as Molyneux, Rochas and the rest?’ she enquired. ‘He seems such a shy little man.’