The Designer(99)

One of the hopefuls was brought in to corroborate the story. She told them proudly that she was from Le Chabanais, the most famous and luxurious brothel in Paris, once patronised by Edward VII and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

‘The hypocritical bastards have shut us down because we screwed the Germans. As if they weren’t in the same queue.’

‘We have to cancel this charade at once,’ someone said.

‘We can’t,’ Dior replied. ‘These people are without work. And they’ve all come in response to my advertisement. We have to be courteous, at least. We’ll see them.’

‘All of them?’

‘Yes, all of them.’

‘But, Monsieur Dior—’

‘Proceed, please.’

The pageant went on. Dior was courtesy itself, though the faces of the women in his entourage were stiff with affront. He had a kind word for all the applicants, but the task appeared hopeless. Every prostitute in Paris seemed to have read the unfortunately timed advertisement. More kept arriving at the sober portals of 30 avenue Montaigne. Copper, behind the sofa, took several photographs, trying to capture the contrast between the opulent surroundings and the raw vitality of the streetwalkers. Some of them were very pretty indeed, but none were remotely suitable for Dior’s purposes – except for a single ‘respectable’ applicant, a shy young secretary called Marie-Thérèse, whose name was taken, and who was asked to come back at a more opportune time.

‘I’ll never advertise for models again,’ Dior said wearily after a long morning with the streetwalkers of the city. ‘What a debacle.’

But Copper had been fascinated by this absurd intersection between two of Paris’s strata: one public and the other hidden. Her journalistic antennae were twitching. There was an article to be written here, possibly a daring and interesting article. She hurried out to interview some of the disappointed prostitutes before they dispersed back into the streets of Paris.



Anticipating an imminent confinement, Copper decided to gather some reading material. She’d been working hard, and the idea of leafing through an amusing book, plumped up with pillows, was very attractive.

Her waters broke while she was halfway through this errand in Shakespeare and Company. There was a hot gush and she found herself with drenched stockings and buckle shoes, holding a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (which was currently banned everywhere except in France) standing at the centre of a spreading puddle of amniotic fluid.

‘May I help you, Madame?’ a male assistant enquired discreetly.

‘Oh, dear. I’m terribly sorry. I seem to have—’

‘Not at all, Madame. Allow me.’

The charming young man rescued her from behind the polished wooden shelves, mopped up, called her husband and got her into her car. The embarrassment soon gave way to alarm. She was going into labour. These birth pangs were nothing like the twinges she’d had hitherto. They were terrifying. She clutched her swollen self, feeling the muscles of her womb contracting in a businesslike way. Her chauffeur hunched over his wheel, driving as fast as he dared through the morning traffic. She prayed she wasn’t going to give birth on the gleaming leather seat. The contractions were coming at regular intervals, and they were getting perceptibly stronger.

Henry was waiting for her at the hospital. She was by now sweating and frightened. ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ he said, holding her hand as they wheeled her along the corridors. ‘The great day has arrived.’

‘Nobody told me it was going to be like this.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re in the best hands.’

Copper clambered on to the bed as instructed. Her body had grown so unwieldy in these last weeks, her breasts and belly getting in the way of everything she tried to do. ‘Where’s the midwife?’

‘She’s on her way,’ Henry assured her, heading for the door. ‘I called her as soon as the bookshop called me. Oh, and they say you owe them thirty francs for the book.’ She was still clutching Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

The nurses got her ready. Her contractions were now coming fewer than five minutes apart and were lasting an agonising minute each, by the large watch pinned on to the matron’s uniform. Every time her womb clenched, she curled up, clutching herself. Each time, the nurses pushed her back down on to the pillows.

Hazily, she was aware of Henry coming back into the room, accompanied by the obstetrician who was wearing his gloves and surgical apron, and Angelique, the midwife. They all were remarkably calm given the dire state she was in; they did not seem to appreciate just how awful this was becoming. The obstetrician examined her. ‘Dilating nicely,’ he said.

‘Henry, I’m scared,’ she gasped, clutching at his hand.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he said. He, who had been so solicitous, so anxious about her safety during the pregnancy, was now as cool as a cucumber. ‘Just concentrate on what Angelique tells you to do, my beloved.’

Copper cried out as her womb convulsed. ‘I want gas and air!’

‘They say you don’t need it yet.’

‘How would they know? It’s me having the goddamned baby!’

None of this was as she had expected. Nobody had told her it was going to be like this – frightening. She didn’t want to be screaming in front of everyone. But the process was starting to take her over. All self-consciousness was fading away. She just had to get through this, as all mothers did. Panting and pushing as instructed by Angelique, she clung to the iron rails of the bed and heaved at this being inside her who was so determined to get its very large self out of her very small door. It didn’t feel possible that she could give birth without some major and irreparable injury to her insides. And all around her was a general air of business in the room: people chatting to each other, going in and out, generally behaving like the spectators at a prize fight.