The Designer(96)

Copper looked across the scintillating banquet table to where Dior was sitting, pink-faced and beaming. ‘He doesn’t just copy what the others are doing. He starts with something fresh and new every time. And the result is different from anyone else’s work.’

The ambassador’s wife examined Copper’s gown carefully. ‘I take it this is an example of his work?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s certainly highly original. And if I can say so, it’s perfectly suited to you.’ Gertrude Caffery put her glasses on and looked meaningfully at Copper’s midriff. ‘After so many years of sacrifice and horror, isn’t it wonderful to have all sorts of things to celebrate?’

Copper blushed. The intelligence service at the American embassy was obviously immaculate.





Seventeen

In a few months, the austere calm of 30 avenue Montaigne had given way to something very different.

Workmen jostled one another through the doorway, carrying pipes, ladders, boards, bags of tools, buckets of paint, coils of electrical cable, sacks of plaster and planks of wood. As Copper tried to get into the building, she was brought up short by four men carrying a huge crystal chandelier bundled into a white sheet. She had to back away, clutching her bump. She followed their progress into the house and up the sweeping staircase. With shouts and grunts, the heavy thing was manoeuvred around the curve, under the great window, and up to the bel étage, where the salon was being set up.

Dior was staring anxiously up at the high ceiling. He was wearing a white coat and a worried expression.

‘What if the ceiling’s not strong enough?’ he greeted Copper, who was herself puffing somewhat after the climb.

‘It’ll make a magnificent crash if it comes down.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘They know what they’re doing, Tian. You don’t need to worry about things like that.’

‘I worry about everything,’ he said gloomily. ‘Especially you. When is this baby of yours coming?’

‘A few more weeks.’

‘Well, I wish it would hurry up,’ he said, pulling up a chair for her. ‘You’re fraying my nerves terribly. I’ve had to advertise for mannequins. I don’t have nearly enough. We’re having a parade tomorrow to choose. Will you come and help?’

‘Of course.’

A towering stepladder was brought in and set up. Dior had already gathered an impressive workforce around himself. He’d shown especial kindness to those who’d lost their places during the war and who were currently unemployed. Many of his vendeuses had come from this group. They were all distinguished by their loyalty to him and their belief in his genius.

The chandelier was hoisted into place and with the ladder creaking and swaying, was attached on to its hook. The men gingerly let it hang free. Dior grabbed Copper’s hand, but contrary to his fears, the ceiling did not come down. One of the men began fitting the lightbulbs into their sockets while another, clinging to his mate’s waist, attached the crystal drops. Finally, the last parchment shade was in place and the last glass ball – a copy of Madame Delahaye’s crystal gazing ball – had been fitted on the very bottom. The electrician switched it on. The winter gloom fled. Golden light poured from the chandelier, eliciting admiring oohs and aahs. Applause broke out.

‘Before they take the ladder away, can I get some photos?’ she asked Dior.

‘Of the ladder?’

‘Of you, with one foot on the first rung, looking up.’

Dior, always sensitive to symbolism, was delighted. ‘Excellent.’ Normally shy about being photographed, he posed happily for her, while she clicked off several shots with the Leica. The golden light of the chandelier shone down auspiciously on his upturned face.



The grimy streets of Montmartre were grudgingly taking on a Christmas sparkle. Fairy lights glimmered in the windows of dilapidated apartments; mistletoe wreaths were being sold on the street corners. Legless war veterans sold roasted chestnuts and sweet potatoes. Braving the dirty snow, a brass band played in the place Pigalle. A small crowd listened dourly, shuffling to keep warm, tossing a few centimes into the bandleader’s hat between numbers.

Close by, in a wine bar, Copper found Pearl already waiting in a dark corner.

‘Hullo, Copper Pot. Bloody hell, you’re huge,’ Pearl greeted her. ‘Just how many have you got in there?’

‘Only the one, according to the doctor,’ Copper assured her. They kissed. Pearl had already ordered – and started on – a bottle of wine. She poured a slug for Copper and they clinked glasses. ‘How are you, darling?’

‘Never better.’

Copper peered at Pearl. In the gloom of the crowded little bar, she could make out that Pearl was pasty-looking with dark smudges around her eyes. ‘Has Petrus been beating you up again?’ she demanded.

Pearl drained her glass and poured another. ‘Petrus won’t be beating anyone up anymore.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘Next best thing. He’s been sent back to Africa.’

‘Oh, Pearl.’

‘The police picked him up. He didn’t have any papers, not proper ones. He’s been here illegally for years. They deported him. He’ll never be back.’

‘I can’t say I’m sorry for him,’ Copper commented. ‘But I know it must be hard for you. What are you going to do?’