The Designer

by Marius Gabriel

  The great museum had been emptied, plundered by the Nazis, and some of its most legendary works, including the Mona Lisa, were still in Germany. But in the Pavillon de Marsan, devoted to the decorative arts, all was hustle and bustle. Dior led Copper into a large room, where several dozen people, wrapped in overcoats and scarves against the cold, were working on an exhibition. There were several sets being constructed and painted, all in small scale. They depicted the famous parks and boulevards of Paris – or in some cases, imaginary scenes.

  Dotted around these dream-like backdrops were mannequins made out of wire, about a third the size of real women. All had the same calm ceramic face; but these were not dolls. Each was being clothed in a diminutive couture outfit: dresses, coats, hats, tiny high-heeled shoes, belts and handbags.

  ‘Some of them even have underwear,’ Dior told her solemnly as they made their way around the crowded hall. ‘All hand-sewn. The couturiers are rounding up all the scraps of fabric that they’ve been hoarding, the stuff that would have been thrown away once upon a time, and making outfits.’

  ‘It’s extraordinary,’ Copper said.

  ‘The fashion houses are joining forces to put on this show – in miniature. They’re all here: Nina Ricci, Balenciaga, Schiaparelli, Rochas, Hermès. Isn’t it magical?’

  Copper stared at the activity all around her. ‘Only the French would think up something like this. “Magical” is exactly the word.’

  ‘Don’t you think this would make an interesting story?’ he said slyly. ‘Nobody knows that this is happening. The press are interested in nothing except the war. You’re the only fashion journalist in Paris right now.’

  ‘I’m not even a journalist, let alone a fashion journalist.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, indicating the camera slung around her slender neck, ‘now might be a good time to begin, n’est-ce pas?’

  It was as though a light bulb had gone on over Copper’s head. She raised the camera and focused on a group of young people erecting a pocket-sized Arc de Triomphe. ‘Monsieur Dior, you are a genius.’

  ‘I know,’ he said modestly.

  She took the shot and wound the film on, feeling excited. ‘If Harper’s don’t like my last story, they might go for this.’

  ‘Exactly. Tell the world what we’re doing, Copper. Tell them it’s not just death and destruction, and doom and gloom. People need something to be happy about.’

  A young man bustled past them carrying a cardboard Eiffel Tower and called a cheerful greeting to Dior. ‘That’s Marcel Rochas,’ Dior told her. ‘I’ll introduce you to him later.’

  The hubbub of argument, hammering, sawing, and bustling workmen echoed off the severe palace walls. The illusion of a miniature city being built was heightened by the clouds of cigarette smoke and condensation that rose to the lofty ceiling, hovering above the scene like a storm in a teacup. Dior took her around the outskirts to a set representing an ornate salon that had already been completed. Two dressmakers in black were kneeling on the floor fitting exquisite outfits on to the delicately poised dolls.

  ‘This is Maison Lucien Lelong’s display,’ Dior told her. ‘And this is my employer, Monsieur Lelong himself.’

  The famous couturier was a small, brisk man in a double-breasted, pinstriped suit. He had sharp eyes and a neat little moustache, and he bowed over Copper’s hand with old-school gallantry when Dior presented her to him. ‘Welcome to Paris, dear lady,’ he said. His expert glance summed her up swiftly. ‘You are a journalist? With which publication, if I may ask?’

  ‘I’m with Harper’s Bazaar,’ she declared boldly.

  ‘Excellent. I hope to see you in my salon very soon,’ he purred, adjusting the trim of his moustache. He presented Copper with his card. ‘I think we can show your readers that fashion is not, after all, dead in Paris.’

  ‘What you’re doing here is just astonishing.’ She crouched to look at the dolls. ‘And what adorable little gowns!’

  ‘Monsieur Dior is the great talent of our house,’ Lelong said, putting a hand on Dior’s shoulder.

  Copper saw Dior blush. ‘You are kind to say so, Maître,’ he murmured. Quietly, he explained the designs he’d made to Copper. There were evening dresses in glossy silk and some charming day frocks in polka dots. With his plump yet delicate fingers, he unfolded the Lilliputian creations to show the pains that had been taken: shoes that had been hand-stitched, buttons that really buttoned and zips that really zipped; belts with buckles that fastened; handbags and purses that contained tiny powder compacts and lace-edged hankies. Beneath the dresses were tiny camisoles and slips, embroidered as though by fairies.

  He drew her attention to the earrings in the tiny ceramic ears and the bangle on the ceramic wrist. ‘Gold and diamond,’ he murmured. ‘Made for us by Cartier.’

  For all his shyness, Dior took on a quiet confidence when talking about his designs. Whereas Lelong’s authority came from the status of ownership, Dior’s came from an artist’s inner certainty that his work was good.

  Lelong himself stood by proprietorially, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a cigarette. He had been an officer in the Great War, and years of leading Parisian fashion had not erased his military bearing. There could hardly be a greater contrast, Copper thought, between this vigorous martinet and the gentle Dior; but Lelong evidently knew the value of his employee.

  She listened carefully to what Dior told her, and made abundant notes. She also took several photographs, trying hard to make sure they were going to come out well. She had to be serious about this new career of hers – and she, too, had to take on the poise of someone doing a job confidently and well.

  Back home on the place Victor Hugo, and seated in front of George’s typewriter, she had something else to consider – the awkward task of explaining to her family, not to mention Amory’s, that she had left him. Or he had left her. In any case, that they had parted company in the middle of a war, thus fulfilling all the dire predictions both families had made about the marriage. After some thought, she wrote two letters: a short one to Amory’s father, which explained very little; and a long one to her eldest brother, which explained a great deal.

  She read through both letters when she’d finished. Sending them was yet another grave step on the path to separation from her husband. Once mailed, they could not be recalled. The stark state of her marriage would be revealed to all at home. Everyone would know. Patching up the marriage (not that she had any intention of doing that) would be much more difficult, if not impossible.

  But if she was serious about any of this, it had to be faced.

  She sealed both letters in the US Army Priority envelopes that they’d been given, and put them on the hall table to be mailed. Then she went back to George’s typewriter – her typewriter now – to work on her article.

  Five

  She started writing straight away. She was inspired by the subject. Her experience doing George’s articles for him also came in useful; she knew enough to keep her sentences short and lively, and to give vivid impressions of the weird and wonderful characters of the Paris fashion world. Human interest was the key to successful journalism. The result, after a day or two of work, was not unpleasing. Even better, it was certainly not unprofessional.

  The fly in the ointment was the photographs she had taken. The contact prints the laboratory sent back to her showed that all the interior shots were much too dark. If she was going to be taking lots of indoor photographs, she was going to have to invest in a flash lamp; something George had never bothered with since all his photographs were taken in daylight. And that meant yet more expense.

  There was one good shot of Christian Dior, but all the shots of the dolls were useless. She would have to get more on succeeding visits, once she’d equipped herself with a flash.

  A visit to the bric-a-brac markets that flourished along the banks of the Seine every afternoon proved fortuitous. Photographic equipment was scarce, the Nazis having confiscated everything they co
uld during the Occupation. But now that they’d left, various oddments were coming out of hiding. She found an old man with a collection of pre-war cameras and accessories laid out on a rickety table. Among them was a battered aluminium flash lamp that could be synchronized with a camera – or so it appeared from the faded instruction manual that had been printed in some strange language, perhaps Czech. At least there were diagrams. The old man assured her that the thing worked. Better still, he had a box of the magnesium bulbs the lamp used. She haggled fiercely for the lot, and eventually got them at what she thought was an exorbitant price.

  ‘Be careful of the bulbs, pretty lady,’ the old man warned her as he packed all the bulky equipment into a cardboard box for her. ‘They sometimes set things on fire.’ That sobering news was offset by the pleasure of being called pretty lady. She had posted her letters to America that morning and it seemed like a good omen.

  She took her treasure back to the apartment and set about working out how to attach the apparatus to the Rolleiflex. It proved something of a puzzle and the Czech instructions didn’t help. Whatever she did, she couldn’t get any of the bulbs to go off. Perhaps the old man had swindled her and they were all duds.

  While she was scratching her head over the problem, there was a knock at her door. She opened it to find a young woman on her doorstep. Copper recognised her instantly. It was the busty brunette Amory had absconded with on the night George had died. They stared at one another for a moment.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Copper snapped and slammed the door in the other woman’s face. Or tried to, but she had stuck a foot in the way. The shoe was not very stout, and the resulting thump was painfully loud.

  ‘Ow!’ the brunette yelped, hopping on one leg as she clutched her injured toes. ‘Bloody hell. What did you have to go and do that for?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have stuck your foot in the door,’ Copper retorted. ‘He’s not here, so you can take a hike, sister.’

  ‘I’m not looking for him,’ the brunette said, gingerly putting her foot back on the ground to try it out. ‘Good riddance, if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m not asking you,’ Copper said angrily.

  ‘He was a bad lot. You’re well shot of him.’

  ‘I’m certainly not going to thank you for getting rid of my husband.’

  ‘I didn’t get rid of him,’ the other said back in her cockney accent. ‘I think you’ve broken my foot.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Copper said with relish. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need somewhere to stay,’ she replied. And now Copper saw that a suitcase stood in the hallway. She was flabbergasted.

  ‘Are you seriously asking me to take you in?’ she gasped. ‘You must be crazy.’

  To her disgust, the other woman started to cry, pressing a handkerchief to her face. ‘I got thrown out,’ she sobbed. ‘I got nowhere to go.’

  ‘Well, you can’t stay here,’ Copper said shortly.

  ‘I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t desperate,’ she sniffed, wiping a reddened nose. ‘I’ve been walking for hours.’ She gulped. ‘Can’t I just come in for a glass of water? And rest for a moment?’

  Copper was annoyed. ‘You can have a glass of water and then be on your merry way. I don’t even want to look at you.’

  She’d barely finished speaking before the little brunette had hobbled swiftly into the apartment, hauling her suitcase, which was covered with luggage stickers from smart hotels. She flopped on a chair, stretching out her shapely legs. ‘You couldn’t stretch to a cup of tea, could you?’

  ‘You’ve got some neck.’

  ‘It’s just like a glass of water,’ the other woman wheedled, ‘except hot, and with tea leaves in it.’

  ‘I know what a cup of tea is. And I don’t drink it. I’m American. We drink coffee.’ Copper marched to the kitchen and filled a glass at the tap. ‘I’m not running a restaurant.’

  ‘Oh, bless you.’ The new arrival gulped the whole glassful down without stopping for breath. ‘I needed that.’ She was, on closer inspection, a rounded, pretty bonbon of a woman with a rosebud mouth, a pink-and-white English complexion, and bright blue eyes that were now suspiciously free of tears, though the dark lashes were still becomingly wet. She was not quite as young as she had at first appeared. Aware of being scrutinised, the woman drew herself up in the chair, puffing out her ample bosom like a pigeon. ‘They call you Copper, don’t they? Which is funny, really, because they call me Pearl.’

  ‘What’s funny about it?’ Copper growled.

  Pearl showed pretty teeth in a cheerful smile. ‘You know. Copper and Pearl.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Well, it sort of sounds like jewellery, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I heard people saying at La Vie Parisienne that your Monsieur Dior found you this place. Look, there’s something I need to say.’ She took a breath. ‘I’m sorry I went off with your husband that night. Really sorry. I was wrong. I could say I didn’t know you were married to him, but that wouldn’t wash, would it? I mean, you were sitting right there, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Copper said stonily. ‘I was sitting right there.’

  ‘But he’s a very attractive man, isn’t he? And oh-so-charming. I mean, how many men do you know who can make you really laugh?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  Copper’s grim expression wiped the smile off Pearl’s face. ‘Look, sweetheart—’

  ‘Do not call me sweetheart.’

  ‘He made it perfectly obvious that it had happened before. Lots of times. And that you didn’t care.’

  ‘But I did care.’

  ‘I know that now, don’t I? All right.’ Giving up attempts to explain her way out of it, Pearl pulled up the sleeves of her jacket. ‘This is what I got out of it.’ Livid on the plump white flesh were the purple marks of a man’s violent fingers.

  ‘Who did that to you?’ Copper asked, taken aback.

  ‘My old man. And there’s more. Elsewhere.’

  ‘Your father did that to you?’

  ‘No, sweetheart. Where I come from, your old man is your husband. Well, he’s not exactly my husband, Petrus, is he? More of a business manager. Cum boyfriend.’

  ‘I’m sorry about all this, but it’s your affair, and—’

  ‘And if I’m there when he gets back tonight, he’ll give me more. In fact, he’ll probably cut my throat.’

  Copper recoiled. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No, sweetheart. He’s got a knife about this long.’ Pearl held her hands apart. ‘I know he’s killed two men. He’d think nothing of killing me and dumping me in the river.’

  ‘Then you should go to the police.’

  ‘Yeah, and get myself in trouble. No, thanks. It’s nice here, isn’t it?’ Pearl said, looking around. ‘You’ve got it lovely. Such nice taste.’

  ‘It came furnished,’ Copper said, reluctant to take credit for the apartment.

  ‘Did it? My word! You’ve struck it lucky with your Mr Dior. Funny, I always thought he was a pansy.’

  ‘There’s nothing like that.’

  The china-blue eyes widened. ‘You mean he’s not paying the rent, so to speak?’

  ‘It’s time you left,’ Copper said stiffly.

  Pearl pulled down her neckline to show more cleavage, clearly a gesture she used when she wanted to be more appealing. ‘This place is far too big for one woman. I’ve got money.’ She dug in her brassiere and came up with a thick roll of banknotes. ‘See?’

  ‘Please put your bosom away.’

  ‘I’ve been saving up for simply ages. I knew I’d need to get away from Petrus before he killed me.’ She waved the bankroll to and fro. ‘Unless your old man has left you a pile of money, you’re going to need this.’

  Copper opened her mouth to retort, but the words didn’t come. She now had less than two months before she had to start paying the rent; and after today’s
expenses, her little supply of ready cash was even further reduced. The financial aspect certainly made sense.

  ‘From ear to ear,’ Pearl said in a chilling voice. ‘He says you have to completely sever the jugular vein and the windpipe to be sure. He’s done it before.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘He says their heads almost come off. And the blood shoots out like a fountain.’

  ‘Don’t be crass. I’m not going to be blackmailed like this.’

  ‘I’m not looking for charity,’ the brunette replied. ‘It’s strictly a business arrangement. And we’ve got things in common. We’ll be great chums.’

  ‘What could we possibly have in common?’

  ‘We both wound up with bastards,’ Pearl said succinctly.

  ‘Except you got your bastard and my bastard.’

  ‘You’re welcome to mine, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’ Pearl got up to examine the camera equipment spread out on the table. ‘You’re a reporter, aren’t you? Got all the gear, I see.’

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ Copper ordered.

  ‘I’ll model for you, if you like,’ Pearl volunteered. ‘That’s what I am, you know. A photographic model. Artistic, of course. Nothing vulgar.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘It’s how I met Petrus. Artistic photography. He’s a publisher.’

  ‘Oh, really? I suppose the men he killed were rival publishers.’

  Pearl looked surprised. ‘Yeah, how did you know?’

  ‘Just a lucky guess.’

  Pearl patted her glossy curls. ‘I’m his top model.’

  Copper snorted, and then had a thought. ‘Do you know anything about cameras?’

  ‘Of course. And how to develop film. Nothing to it.’

  ‘Would you know how to make this flash lamp work?’

  Pearl inspected the equipment. ‘You’ll need to put the batteries in. And then you need to plug this bit in to this socket. And you need to screw this bracket on to the bottom of the camera.’ With surprising deftness, Pearl assembled all the pieces. The dented aluminium dome of the flash looked rather imposing, attached to the side of the camera. The whole thing, in fact, had taken on a professional appearance. ‘Go on,’ Pearl said, handing her the camera. ‘Try it out.’ She pushed up her bosom even further and struck an enticing pose. That small mouth could stretch into a smile wide enough to show every one of her white teeth, and the blue eyes could widen like a child’s looking at a birthday cake.