Mademoiselle Chanel

by C. W. Gortner

  “Don’t you have people who work for you?” he asked in genuine bafflement.

  “Yes, but I still design and oversee the production of every article of clothing. That is why you want to hire me, yes?” I flicked my lighter. “Because of my talent?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, but I saw at once that it wasn’t. “Your talent, yes,” he went on, quickening his pace, like a train gathering speed over a bumpy track. “Fine, so you can’t be away a year. You can come by invitation to dress my stars and then we’ll see.”

  “Your stars,” I said, giving him another smile. “You say they will wear my designs in your films and in their private lives? Forgive me, Mr. Goldwyn, but I have been around the theater; actresses are an opinionated breed. Surely you cannot oblige them to wear Chanel all the time?”

  “They’ll do whatever I say,” he blared, making Dmitri and the others at the table jump. “I pay them. I made them. If they don’t do as I say when I say it, they’re out. Finished.”

  “I see.” I widened my smile, for I did see. All too well. And he apparently saw it, too, for he dug into his roast chicken, muttering between mouthfuls, “My offer stands at a million dollars. Upon contract. You can come and see what my pictures have to offer, and if you like it, well, then we both sign on the dotted line. Agreed?”

  The silence that fell was so absolute that I clearly heard Misia’s sudden gasp. Dmitri arched a brow at me. It was indeed, as I had said, extraordinary. I would be a fool to refuse. Still, I could not bring myself to say yes, despite Goldwyn’s puffed chest and Misia’s imploring eyes, until Goldwyn added, “I’ll pay your expenses—the trip, accommodations, everything. You can even bring a companion, if you like, a secretary or an assistant designer. I suppose you have people like that on your staff?”

  Misia was about to leap from her chair. Shooting a warning glare at her, I stubbed out my cigarette and took up my glass of wine. “By invitation only? And if I agree, you grant me full control over my designs? If I don’t like it, I am free to go?”

  “Yes, yes, but you’re going to love it,” he beamed. “Everyone loves Hollywood.”

  I was not convinced, but as I nodded and Misia laughed aloud for the first time in months, I thought it would certainly be an adventure, if nothing else.

  BEFORE I LEFT FOR AMERICA, I helped organize, after nearly thirty years of waiting, Adrienne’s wedding to Nexon. My youngest aunt was radiant in the white organza and silk bias-cut gown I designed for her, her baron now paunchy but otherwise distinguished as they exchanged their vows. I had to marvel at their commitment; Nexon might have done what Boy and Bendor had, marrying for convenience and maintaining Adrienne on the side, but he had remained faithful through it all, a man more in love than any other I had known.

  Afterward, Adrienne came to me and said, “I want to stop working. I’ll give you plenty of time, delay, even, until you return from America, but Nexon would like us to live at his family château, and . . .” She did not elaborate further, but I understood. Though she and I were the same age, she still wanted to try to have a child.

  “Of course,” I said. “Don’t trouble yourself another moment about it. Go. Be his baroness. You’ve earned it.”

  “But what will you do?”

  “Hire someone else. Countess Hélène de Leusse has been inquiring about a position. She knows all our clients. You might train her before you go, if you don’t mind?”

  Adrienne nodded, though she looked crestfallen until I leaned to her and kissed her cheek. “You can always return. You must know that by now. When I said I would replace you, I did not mean anyone can fill your shoes.”

  She brightened. “Thank you, Gabrielle.” She was so relieved that I didn’t have the heart to tell her I thought she would indeed be back. Though she had lived for the day when she would be Nexon’s wife, she had found independence in my success. She wouldn’t be able to stay away for long, not unless she miraculously became pregnant, which was highly unlikely at her age.

  Still, I felt an unusual sentimentality as I watched her and Nexon dance at their wedding reception. Though far past the initial glow of infatuation, there was no mistaking the love in their eyes. To my surprise, Balsan, who’d traveled to Paris from Royallieu for the wedding along with his own new fiancée, asked me to dance. I found myself again in his arms after so many years, his expression as sardonic as ever, though he was weathered now, with an unseemly gut that pressed against my stomach.

  “You need to do something about that,” I said as he swept me around in the waltz. “You’ll give your horses a hernia if you keep eating so much.”

  “Ah, yes. The sedate comforts of age: good food, old friends, boring sex—” He smiled. He had that same devil-may-care air, and it made me laugh despite myself. “But you, Coco, you remain untouched by time. No compromise for you, is there?”

  “I have no idea what you mean. I, too, am growing old.”

  “Not like the rest of us.” His smile faded. Gentleness came over his face and almost made me falter in our steps. “Do you still miss Boy?”

  Only he would have dared. No one else. And I would only have ever allowed it from him. “Every day,” I whispered.

  He held me closer. “That is good. You loved and were loved. It is all we can ask from this life. Some people never have it.”

  I departed the reception early, citing the need to get home to start packing. In truth, I couldn’t get away fast enough, dashing to my Rolls as if the hotel was on fire.

  Only as my chauffeur pulled into the driveway of my home on Faubourg Saint-Honoré did I realize that what I felt was more than sorrow. It was the intangible melancholy of the end of an era. Adrienne had shared my first longings to become more than I was; she had encouraged me, even after I became Balsan’s mistress. Balsan had provided refuge, setting me unwittingly on the path to my future by introducing me to Boy. Now, Boy was dead; both Adrienne and Balsan had found spouses with whom to share the rest of their lives, while I remained alone.

  The house door opened. Misia came trudging out, with Cocteau, fresh from another month in rehabilitation, scampering after her. “Coco!” he cried out, exasperated. “Tell her she cannot take that hideous straw hat of hers to California. They’ll think she’s your governess!”

  I laughed, stepping from the car.

  How could I ever think I’d be alone when I had so many orphans in my life?

  II

  I thought being trapped on an ocean liner with Misia would be a purgatory. Even at La Pausa, with all the extra room, the house often felt too small with her in it, strewing her belongings wherever they happened to fall, chattering ceaselessly about everything and nothing, silence being anathema to her, not the great solace it was for me. I also fretted about leaving my dogs, Pita and Poppée, who were old now, almost thirteen, plagued by arthritis and bad teeth, but as devoted to me as I was to them. Joseph had convinced me a long voyage would not be good for them; he’d take excellent care of them, he assured me, as did Cocteau, who, while sullen that Misia and I were leaving without him (another worry of mine, as he was still fragile), promised my dogs would be with him at all times.

  Yet once we boarded the SS Europa on March 1, 1931, with the Atlantic around us and nothing to do but stroll the decks, dine, read, and gossip, I discovered an experience much like the one I’d shared in Moulins with Adrienne—intimate time with a friend, during which I could relax and forget my obligations.

  Misia reveled in the novelty, and we found ourselves giggling as we sat on deck under an awning, drinks in hand, as I told her about Bendor’s visit with his fiancée to my house.

  “You should have seen her expression. She looked as if I might eat her alive. Bendor made some excuse and left us alone, the coward! If I’d said I disapproved, I rather think he’d have informed her the wedding was off.”

  “But you didn’t.” Misia gave me a pointed look from over her sunglasses. “You wanted him to marry her because that way, he couldn’t marry you.”<
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  I shrugged, sipping my cocktail. “She reminded me of that custard the British love—all cream and sugar, without any spice. I arranged myself like a queen on my chaise lounge, wearing as much of my jewelry as I could,” I said as Misia snorted. “Pita and Poppée were on the chairs, so she had to perch on a stool at my feet. I didn’t say a word. Finally, she blurted out that her papa had given her one of my necklaces for Christmas and she loved it. Can you believe it? I made her describe the necklace to me.”

  “And . . . ?” said Misia, her teeth showing. “Was it yours?”

  “Oh, yes. But I told her it couldn’t possibly be, because I would never allow anything so vulgar to carry my name. She was mortified. After that, our conversation was over. Later, Bendor called me to say she had found me very much what she expected.”

  Misia cackled. “She thought you were a monster!”

  “Naturally.” I gazed out to the ocean. “But she’ll never forget me, either.”

  Misia turned pensive. When I did not speak, she said, “Do you regret it? You could have been his wife. He was in love with you; I believe he still is. A man only brings his fiancée to his mistress for approval when he wants her to tell him she’s unsuitable.”

  I contemplated this. Had Bendor truly hoped I would crush his resolve by declaring Loelia Ponsonby as insipid as pudding? It had occurred to me at the time; I had known within minutes of meeting her that she would either bore him to distraction or lead him on a merry dance to his grave so she could enjoy life as his widow. I could have ruined his illusions, or even retained him as a lover after the wedding. But I had not. I told him she was lovely and let them proceed to their nuptials.

  “No,” I finally said. “I don’t regret it. God knows, I want love. But the moment I must choose between a man and my dresses, I choose my dresses. He would have insisted that I stop working and I could never do that. There have been other duchesses of Westminster, but there can only be one Coco Chanel.”

  Misia reached over, squeezing my hand. “Everyone admires you for it. Me most of all. Look at me, thrice divorced, without much to my name. I am almost sixty. Who will ever love me again?”

  “I love you,” I said, and I realized that I did. She was my one constant. As infuriating as she could be, she knew me better than anyone else, and in her own inimitable way, was unfailingly honest with me, even when I did not appreciate it.

  “Yes, well. Pity we’re not lesbians,” she rejoined, and as I chuckled, she added, “Besides, if it’s any consolation, you did the right thing. Bendor is not the gallant knight he seems. Did you read the papers before we left? No? Well, he gave his new duchess a fine wedding present. He told the king that his own brother-in-law William Lygon, Earl of Beauchamp, is a homosexual, and ruined the man’s reputation. It was a disgrace. Lygon was obliged to relinquish his political duties by the king’s order and his wife petitioned for a divorce.”

  I stared at her, aghast. “There was nothing in the newspapers about that!”

  She gave a mischievous smile. “Wasn’t there? Then I must have heard it somewhere. He is quite the barbarian, your Bendor. He has also given several speeches in Parliament about how Jewish greed brought about the collapse of the stock market in America, and if Europe doesn’t do something to stop them, we’re headed for the same. He is not someone you want to be associated with; he’d alienate all your friends. In time, you would despise him for it.”

  Her pronouncement unsettled me. For all her apparent self-involvement, Misia had always cultivated an ear for scandal, so I did not doubt her report. Moreover, I had heard Bendor make disparaging remarks about Jews; but then, so many in his circle did. And like Boy, he nursed a paranoiac distaste for homosexuals, but again it was so common among men of his class, I had scarcely paid it any mind. Besides, when he met my eclectic mix of friends, many of whom were Jewish or queer or both, he had seemed amenable enough, even if he had suggested, albeit innocently, that Cocteau write about his dogs.

  I shuddered, the air turning chill, the ocean whipped into froth by a rising wind. A shadow came over me. Turning to Misia, I said, “Let’s go inside and nap until dinner. I’m tired.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “So am I.”

  III

  New York was a bewildering fury, a multitude of impossibly tall buildings raking the sky and thousands of people scurrying below them; hundreds of flashing signs and an endless barrage of car horns and shouting, a deafening cacophony that made me want to cover my ears and hide.

  It did not help that I disembarked with a cold that had me feverish and sneezing, the first time in years I could recall being ill. Misia fed me hot soup while I sweated out the fever in our hotel suite, even as hordes of reporters besieged the lobby in hopes of catching a glimpse of me.

  Once I felt sufficiently recovered, I donned one of my red jersey dresses with white cuffs and rounded collar, and invited the reporters to my room, hiding my astonishment at their eagerness to interview me. All they wanted to know was what I planned to do in Hollywood.

  “I have not brought my scissors,” I told them, “I’m simply going to see what the studio can offer. It’s by invitation, without commitment.” By the next morning, the papers were reporting all sorts of erroneous declarations attributed to me, including the remark, Misia read aloud, that “long hair would be back in style” and I found “men who wore scent disgusting.” The papers also predicted I would find Hollywood a challenge, given my preferred method of work, during which I designed a dress, saw it to the workroom, and rarely touched it again. Mr. Goldwyn’s film stars, noted the New York Times, would demand more personalized attention from Chanel.

  “I don’t doubt it,” I grumbled.

  The subsequent twenty-hour train ride to California was a claustrophobic misery made more so by glimpses of tar-shack towns and vagabonds at every stop, the visible poverty reminding me so much of my childhood that I pulled the blinds shut. The accompanying reporters continued to barrage me, as if I might disclose some master plan to drape every actress in sight in tweed and jersey.

  Los Angeles was so . . . bright. I had no other description for it. Although it was only late March, the sprawling metropolis seemed ablaze under its merciless sun, so white and vast it was like a movie set itself. Everything in America seemed oversized to me—the buildings and cars, the numbers of people, the bewildering array of products in storefronts. Los Angeles epitomized this excess, snarling with traffic, the endless beaches full of hopefuls and has-beens, with the bold Hollywoodland sign overseeing the city like a deity.

  It had been less than two weeks and I missed Paris already. My cold had not fully abated. I wanted to hole up with Misia in the immense suite in the Chateau Marmont that Goldwyn had reserved for me but I was obliged to attend an ostentatious reception, where I sat, sniffling at his side, as he presented an assortment of his talent. I was surprised by how small boned these famous sirens of the screen were in their slinky lamé, practically curtsying as they gushed, “Oh, Miss Chanel, you are absolutely my favorite designer!” It was obvious they’d never worn a thing of mine in their lives. I might have started laughing at the rehearsed ridiculousness of it all had I not been trying to keep from sneezing. I was only amused when I met Greta Garbo, whose sad eyes and surprisingly big feet caught my attention, as did her whisper, “I would be nowhere without your raincoat and hat, mademoiselle,” alluding to my rain gear for women. I was supposed to dress her for her next film.

  The following day, I toured Goldwyn’s cavernous soundstages, glaringly illuminated by banks of overhead lights. I was impressed. How could I not be? He had made millions by peddling fantasies. But I was not impressed enough to believe this was where I belonged. In fact, as the days passed and I found myself obliged to read horrid scripts to get a sense of the characters for whom I would design, I began to feel something I had not experienced since my earliest days: insecurity.

  I knew my clothes worked. Thousands of women could not be wrong. But could I translate my vision
of restraint for a medium that thrived on exaggeration, where artificial grandeur replaced reality? I had built my career on comfort and style; even as my couture became inordinately expensive, I firmly believed that fashion did not succeed until women on the streets adopted it. Now I was expected to produce designs that must not only remain relevant during the two years it took to complete filming but also exalt the very stars who wore them, women reared on plumage and sequins, who reveled in excess and unattainable ideals.

  It was the most perplexing dilemma I’d faced; from the beginning, I had the disquieting sense that I would fail.

  But Goldwyn insisted, introducing me to everyone, and the flattery proved overwhelming. Here, I was indeed a legend. I signed for a year, pocketing the million-dollar fee on the condition that I could do the required work in Paris and send my designs to fitters in Hollywood for completion.

  With the designs for my first film approved, I hauled Misia back to New York. There, I again submitted to the onslaught of reporters and meetings with editors who covered my work.

  Vogue escorted me on a tour of New York’s fashion district. In the upscale department stores on Fifth Avenue, I discovered my perfume No. 5 selling at such a brisk rate they could barely keep it in stock. My suspicion was aroused. The Wertheimer brothers, with whom I had signed a contract for 10 percent of the proceeds, were obviously making a killing off my name. I decided to consult a lawyer when I returned to Paris. The Wertheimers could not expect me to be satisfied with a meager percentage of what was obviously a fortune in sales.

  I was also fascinated, and appalled, by the burgeoning trade in ready-to-wear. In a discount department store called S. Klein on Union Square, while Misia yawned and tapped her foot, I watched women browse through apparel hung on plain racks, trying on the dresses in barren dressing rooms under signs warning that shoplifters would be arrested. To my disbelief, some of the clothing was marked down to under a dollar! The turnover, my escort from Vogue explained, was merciless. If an item failed to sell in two months, it was sold at a base rate to make room for new merchandise—of which there was an endless supply. Mass production in assorted sizes by large sweatshops had replaced the time-consuming process of samples followed by fittings. Finally stepping to a rack, I forced myself to sift through it. Within minutes, with a shudder I located one of my own designs in basic cotton, almost identical, right down to the white piqué cuffs.