The Designer(98)

He raised his exotic eyebrows. ‘I would have done, by and by. When I heard the end of the story. But you’ve just told me it.’

‘The end of the story?’ she repeated. ‘Wait a moment. Did you have something to do with all this?’

‘I may have dropped a word here or there,’ he replied smoothly.

‘Henry!’

‘You said yourself he was Pearl’s bête noir.’

‘So you played St George.’

‘Pearl came to me for help,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘Petrus was becoming more and more violent. There’s a psychosis that comes from cocaine abuse. She was afraid he would kill her. I still have friends in certain places. I made sure he was – ah – removed from the picture.’

‘You’re so devious,’ she said, not sure whether she was amused or appalled.

‘Not at all. I’m as straight as a die.’ He took the gold cufflinks out of the cuffs of his silk shirt and rolled up his sleeves to expose strong brown forearms. ‘Now turn around, so I can continue to rub your delicious back.’

‘My God,’ she said, turning around again. ‘I’m married to an ogre.’

‘Kind of you to say so. And what is happening in the avenue Montaigne?’

She allowed him to dodge the subject. ‘You can’t imagine the commotion. I don’t think Monsieur Boussac’s six million francs are going to last long. Tian certainly knows how to spend money.’

‘Do you think it’s all a terrible mistake?’

‘Time will tell. Oh gee,’ she exclaimed, ‘he recognises your touch.’ She guided Henry’s hand on to her belly so he could feel the vigorous kicking that was going on within. She loved the expression that came over her husband’s face at these moments. ‘Feel that?’

‘Yes,’ Henry murmured. ‘Our little ogre baby.’

‘Do you think he has fangs and claws, like his father?’

‘I hope so.’

She winced. ‘Ouch. I can feel them. I think he’s starting to feel cramped in there.’

‘That does it. You’re not leaving the house again.’

‘I can’t stay cooped up,’ Copper said, laughing. ‘It might be weeks longer.’

‘I ought to lock you up and keep the key in my vest pocket,’ he said sternly.

‘My beautiful Bluebeard,’ Copper smiled, nestling into his arms. ‘You would never be so cruel.’

‘Don’t count on it. What if you went into labour in the street?’

‘So long as it was a smart street with lots of nice clothes shops, I wouldn’t mind at all.’

‘You’re impossible,’ he said, kissing her tenderly.

‘But I have to be with Tian tomorrow. He wants me to help him choose the mannequins for the fashion parade.’

‘That’s all very well, but what if you slip in the snow? What if you catch cold?’

‘No more scolding.’

‘As if I could ever scold you,’ he sighed. He cradled her in his arms and looked down adoringly into her face. ‘I know you’re the chronicler of the age, but the age is a slippery one. I won’t have you trudging through the snow like Orphan Annie any longer. Please promise me you won’t go anywhere without the car from now on.’

‘All right,’ she said, kissing his lips. ‘That’s a deal.’



It seemed that there had been a good response to Dior’s advertisement for models. Several dozen women had already arrived and were queuing on the pavement outside number 30. Copper slipped past them and went to find Dior.

She was ushered carefully to the largest chair and given a notebook and a pencil to write down her observations. A runway had been cleared for the candidates to walk along.

The first hopeful was called in. ‘Numéro un! Entrez, s’il vous pla?t.’

The woman entered the salon, swinging a parasol insouciantly. She was heavily made-up – much too heavily for daytime. As she made her circuit, she stared boldly at her audience. One of Dior’s entourage clicked her tongue disapprovingly. For a model to make eye contact with the viewers was anathema; a haughty indifference was the correct form. Copper wrote down a single word – ‘unsuitable’.

‘That will do, Mademoiselle,’ Dior called. ‘Next!’

The next was extremely buxom. That alone would have disqualified her, let alone her flaming red hair and rouged face; but in addition to that, she walked with a provocative, hip-rolling gait that was all too familiar from the pavements of Paris. There were whispers of dismay.

The third was of the same type; a handsome, confident woman, though not in the first flush of youth, who tossed her hair and sashayed with one hand on her hip.

‘My God,’ someone said when she’d left. ‘They’re prostitutes. What on earth are they doing here?’

‘They can’t all be prostitutes,’ Dior said. ‘Let’s see the next one.’

But the next was clearly in the same category. Dior threw up his hands and called a halt to proceedings. ‘We need an explanation for this.’

One of the vendeuses was sent to get the explanation. She returned, appalled. ‘The police have closed down all the brothels. The ladies are out of business, and they saw Monsieur Dior’s advertisement, so . . .’