The Designer

by Marius Gabriel

  ‘He has others,’ Pearl told Copper. ‘I didn’t want to believe it at first. I’m not very good at reading men, am I?’

  ‘Me neither,’ Copper said ruefully.

  As yet, she had heard nothing from Amory. It was as though he had never existed. Eighteen months of marriage had vanished overnight, leaving her in limbo. No doubt Amory had already forgotten her. He hadn’t even bothered to send a postcard.

  She did, however, receive two letters from America. The first, from Amory’s father, was very long and urged her to halt the divorce and patch things up with Amory as soon as possible for a variety of reasons, which he listed in great detail. She was surprised, since she’d never felt particularly valued by the Heathcote family.

  The other letter, from Michael, her oldest brother, was much shorter and to the point:

  You did the right thing, divorcing him. Don’t take him back whatever you do. Come home. I’ll send you a ticket if you’re broke.

  There were no I-told-you-so’s, for which she was grateful. There weren’t any expressions of sympathy, either. She knew that Michael spoke for the whole family; none of them had liked Amory, and none of them had approved of the marriage. She and Michael were particularly close, but he had never been one for many words. She appreciated his support, but she had no intention of heading for home just yet. She put off answering either letter for the time being.

  Her divorce papers came back. She signed her section and, in due course, Amory’s part arrived through the military mail, duly signed by him. She was free. She felt only a sense of regret for the years that had been wasted.

  And at last, she heard back from Harper’s Bazaar.

  The reply came in the form of a somewhat cryptic telegram, delivered to her door, which read simply: CALL HENRY VELIKOVSKY ELY-2038. It was signed, SNOW HARPERS.

  She stared at the telegram, her heart thumping. ‘Snow Harpers’ could only be the redoubtable Carmel Snow, editor-in-chief of the magazine. But who was Henry Velikovsky? Was this it? Could this be her breakthrough at last?

  Copper ran to the telephone and dialled the number. ELY was the prefix for the Champs-Élysées exchange. The male voice that answered was deep and cultured with a hint of a foreign accent.

  ‘Hello,’ Copper said breathlessly. ‘I’ve just got a telegram from Mrs Snow – at least I think it’s from Mrs Snow – to call you. At least, I think it’s you.’

  ‘It quite possibly is me,’ the voice replied urbanely. ‘And quite possibly it was Mrs Snow. The only unknown in the equation is you. Might I ask for your name?’

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m Oona Reilly.’

  ‘Of course you are. Will you be free to join me for dinner tomorrow night at the Ritz?’

  ‘The Ritz?’

  ‘Yes. I’m staying there, for my sins. Shall we say eight tomorrow evening?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Copper said breathlessly. She replaced the receiver. Pearl came into the room looking somewhat better than she had done over the past few days.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Someone from Harper’s Bazaar wants to see me,’ she said, still half-dazed. ‘Dinner tomorrow, at the Ritz.’

  ‘What are you going to wear?’ Pearl asked practically.

  ‘Dior.’ Copper exclaimed, her eyes widening. ‘I’ve got to see Christian Dior.’

  Walking through the lobby of the Ritz in her rose silk gown, Copper felt like one of those women in magazine advertisements who assured you that Product X had changed her life. She had never worn a garment like this in all her twenty-six years. The bodice clung to her slim torso while the skirt flared around her knees. It wasn’t just that it was beautiful; it fitted her perfectly, immaculately, as though it had been made for her –which of course it had. Christian Dior had seen exactly what would set her figure off best and had structured the dress around her, like a sculptor creating a second skin. He’d even forgiven her lack of bust, and had plunged the neckline between her slight breasts, showing off her delicate throat and shoulders with a chocolate-box bow over her heart. She was aware of the eyes that followed her as she swept along, her chin held high, as though she were not Oona Reilly from Brooklyn, but a visiting queen.

  ‘I’m meeting Mr Velikovsky,’ she told the head waiter at the restaurant reception desk.

  ‘Count Velikovsky is waiting for you,’ the man replied haughtily. He examined her dress and obviously decided to forgive her solecism. ‘Follow me, Mademoiselle,’ he said with an indulgent bow.

  Copper followed him into a different world of rococo swirls and golden drapes, snowy linen, quiet lighting and quieter music. The ceiling above her had been painted with clouds, and she walked on peacocks woven into the soft carpet under her feet. And flowers – a profusion of flowers everywhere, whose scent hung elusively on the air. The restaurant was crowded and the waiter led her on a circuitous path through the tables, clearly wanting to show her off to the other diners.

  Her date was seated at a table in one of the alcoves reading a magazine. A tall man in a close-fitting tuxedo and black tie, he rose as she approached. He extended a hand. ‘How do you do, Miss Reilly?’

  ‘I’ve been instructed that you’re a count,’ she said, somewhat breathlessly. ‘How do I address you?’

  ‘All that nonsense went out in the October Revolution,’ he said, bowing over her fingers graciously. ‘But you know what snobs waiters are. I am plain “Monsieur” now.’ He ushered her into her seat. ‘Or indeed, plain “Henry”, if you prefer.’

  ‘But I was really looking forward to saying “Your Grace” or whatever the correct title is. Forgive my ignorance. We don’t have counts in America.’

  ‘You have Count Basie and Duke Ellington,’ he pointed out. ‘Much more impressive.’

  Copper examined him as she settled down. He was in his early forties, she guessed, and striking, if not conventionally handsome. His dark eyes turned up at the corners, hinting at a Tartar ancestor. His nose was broad, his smiling lips full. He had the tan of a man who enjoyed the outdoors. His hair was combed back in a distinctly foreign way that was neither French nor American. ‘You’re Russian?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Does that present difficulties?’

  ‘Only if you eat babies and burn churches.’

  ‘Very seldom. I am a White Russian. My father and I fought the Bolsheviks with sabres in 1917. Unfortunately, they had machine guns so we got the worst of it.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I’m a bit of a Bolshevik myself.’

  His dark eyes sparkled. ‘You don’t look like any of the Bolsheviks I encountered.’

  ‘Well, we’re cunning at disguising ourselves, you know.’

  ‘So I see. Shall we have a cocktail? I have a weakness for vodka, of course, but I won’t insist if you prefer something more civilised.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had vodka. Go ahead and order for me.’

  ‘Two greyhounds, then,’ he commanded the waiter, who melted away obediently. Velikovsky examined her with interest. ‘Your disguise is one of the best I’ve seen. Rochas?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was made by a friend. Christian Dior at Maison Lelong.’

  ‘Dior? Now where have I heard that name? Ah yes. He’s the coming man, so they tell me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad people are talking about him. We’re all trying to persuade him to start his own fashion house.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘He’s afraid of letting down Monsieur Lelong, but he would make a fortune if he would just take the plunge.’

  ‘We’ll see what we can do to encourage him,’ he replied. ‘You seem very well-connected in the world of Parisian fashion.’

  ‘I find it a fascinating topic.’ She couldn’t restrain the question any longer. ‘Are you on the staff of Harper’s?’

  ‘I’m afraid my occupation is far less clearly defined than that. I keep myself busy moving small sums of money around.’

  She was disappointed. ‘You don’t sell oil we
lls in Brazil, do you? Or valuable rings you just happened to have found in the street?’

  He was amused. ‘No, I’m not a con artist.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘Carmel Snow and her husband George are friends of mine. I’ve made some investments with them in New York real estate. Mrs Snow was intrigued by the article you sent her and she asked me to meet you.’

  ‘She liked it?’ Copper asked, bright-eyed.

  ‘Very much. She’s going to print it in next month’s edition. In fact, one reason for our meeting here tonight is so that I can pass you payment for your work. Not a fortune, I’m afraid, but it is in US dollars. My dear, what on earth is the matter?’

  Copper hadn’t been able to hold back her tears. ‘Sorry,’ she gulped. ‘This means so much to me.’

  A snowy handkerchief, proffered by Henry Velikovsky, swam into her blurry vision. ‘Please, my dear. Dry your eyes. People will think I’m being cruel to you. My reputation for benevolence will be quite destroyed.’

  Copper blew her nose on the handkerchief, which was monogrammed and probably very expensive. ‘Thank you. That’s the best news I’ve had in weeks!’

  He leaned back. ‘Well, you’re good news for Carmel. Harper’s won’t be sending any journalists to France until the war is over. That puts you in an interesting position. You’re the only American woman journalist in Paris right now. Carmel has asked me to find out whether you have any other material.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘I do. I’m covering the most fascinating story right now.’ She started to tell him about the Théâtre de la Mode, the words almost stumbling over each other in her eagerness to get them out. She told him that she’d already interviewed Jean Cocteau and others, and had a portfolio of photographs. ‘I told them I was working for Harper’s,’ she confessed. ‘I guess I got a little ahead of myself there.’

  ‘Just a little.’ His exotically slanted eyes were watching her face and hands carefully, but with a hint of amusement. He made her feel somewhat gauche, and very American.

  ‘You’re laughing at me,’ she accused him.

  ‘Not at all. It’s just such a pleasure to see somebody so full of enthusiasm. After so many years of war, you know, the world is tired. It needs freshness, youth, joie de vivre. And you have these qualities in abundance.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘You do.’

  Their cocktails arrived – a mixture of vodka and grapefruit that she found intriguing. ‘I guess these are called greyhounds because they’re supposed to keep you lean and mean?’

  ‘Exactly. I gave the idea to Harry Craddock at the Savoy in London before the war. My chief contribution to Western civilisation.’

  ‘These sums of money you move around must be pretty hefty if they enable you to hang out at the Savoy and the Ritz,’ she commented.

  ‘I prefer pleasant surroundings. I assure you, I have been poor – very poor indeed – and I never take life’s little luxuries for granted.’

  ‘You don’t have Ernest Hemingway as a neighbour, do you?’

  His face lit up with amusement. ‘As a matter of fact, he has the room above mine. I hear him target-shooting with his pistol occasionally. He says there are mice, but I suspect pink toads. You are a married woman?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I’ve just divorced from my husband.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s turning into the best decision I ever made.’ Perhaps it was the greyhound, or perhaps it was those wise, warm eyes; either way, she found herself telling Velikovsky all about the trials of her marriage, her divorce from Amory, and her ambitions for the future. He listened carefully, putting down the menu to give her his full attention.

  ‘Your future is certainly a bright one,’ he said. ‘They thought highly of your article at Harper’s. You’re seen as a promising new talent.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Carmel was particularly impressed with the photograph. She’s seen plenty of photos of women having their heads shaved, but yours was special. The mother and child, like a tragic nativity. She said it was hard-hitting and poignant.’

  ‘Let me write that down,’ Copper said, basking.

  ‘And your proposed piece about the Théâtre de la Mode is just the sort of thing Carmel is looking for.’ He paused. ‘How would you feel about being assigned as a staff reporter for Harper’s, based in Paris for the next year?’

  Copper’s heart jumped into her throat. She felt her cheeks and throat flushing. She tried to control her excitement. ‘That’s a wonderful offer.’

  ‘I feel there’s a “but” coming.’

  ‘But I don’t think I should accept for the time being.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t want be a journalist?’

  ‘Oh, I do. You have no idea how much I want to be a journalist. I’ve thought about nothing else. But I’d rather be a stringer for the time being.’

  Velikovsky tugged at his ear, as though troubled and searching for the right words. ‘May I ask how old you are?’

  ‘I’m twenty-six.’

  ‘You realise that not many twenty-six-year-olds get an offer like this?’

  ‘I realise that. And maybe I sound arrogant or crazy. But I’ve just gotten myself out of a marriage. I’m not in a hurry to tie any more knots. I don’t want to be bound to any single publication, even one as prestigious as Harper’s Bazaar. Being freelance will let me keep my freedom.’

  ‘Is your freedom so important to you?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘Even if a staff job puts bread on your table?’

  ‘Even if it puts caviar on my table,’ she said decisively. ‘I love journalism and I intend to follow it. But on my own terms. I’m so happy that Mrs Snow liked my article – and I really, really hope she likes my next one even more. I just want to be free to steer in my own direction and not be told what to write about.’

  Velikovsky nodded slowly. ‘How did you come to write that article?’

  ‘It’s kind of awkward to explain, but I stepped into a dead man’s shoes.’ She told him about the Frightful Bounder and the story of how he had unwittingly taught her the basics of her trade, culminating in his grisly death and the extraordinary funeral at Père Lachaise with the surrealists. He was highly amused by her description, leaning back in his chair and laughing until his eyes watered.

  ‘It’s a serious matter,’ he apologised. ‘I shouldn’t laugh.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said, pleased to have amused this sophisticated, older man. ‘Even George would have laughed.’ She hesitated, remembering. ‘As a matter of fact, that was the last time I saw my husband. So we buried our marriage that day, as well as poor George.’ The waiter, perhaps impatient with waiting for them to finish talking, arrived to take their order, but Copper had found the menu daunting. ‘Please order for me,’ she said. ‘You know much more than I do.’

  ‘You flatter me. My tastes in food are simple, however. How long has it been since you had a really good steak?’

  ‘A long time,’ Copper said wistfully.

  ‘With French fried potatoes? And a good Cabernet Sauvignon?’

  ‘Sounds like heaven.’ She watched him as he gave the order. He was trim and fit for his age, she observed. His waistcoat lay flat against his stomach and his hands were strong and neat. He was a dandy, she suspected: his tuxedo fitted him snugly, the points of his collar were immaculately starched, and his bow tie expertly arranged. Either he paid a good deal of attention to his appearance, or there was a devoted woman at home. ‘Are you married?’ she heard herself asking.

  ‘Like you, I was once.’

  ‘And you didn’t like it?’

  ‘Well, my wife left me, but in a more permanent way than your husband left you.’

  ‘You mean she died? Oh, I’m so sorry.’

  He made a brief gesture. ‘It was a long time ago. We met very young. God gave us some happy years before he took her away.’

&nbs
p; ‘You married young.’

  ‘We did everything young,’ he said. ‘I ran away from school in St Petersburg to fight the Germans during the Great War. I was fifteen. I wanted to be like my father, who was a general. I spent a few weeks at the front before my father found me and had me sent back home. A year or two after that, the Bolshevik revolution started. By then I was seventeen and my father and I fought side by side. Unfortunately, as you probably know, the world allowed the communists to take our country from us. Winter came and that was that. I buried my father on a snowy mountainside in the Caucasus and joined what was left of our army on the retreat to Constantinople. It was during that march that I met Katia. Like me, she was from a noble family. They had lost everything in the revolution. She was nursing our wounded. We married as soon as we reached Paris.’

  ‘That’s the most romantic story I ever heard,’ Copper said.

  ‘She developed leukaemia, which was less romantic,’ he replied. ‘There is no treatment, even if I could have afforded any.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yes. The twenties were hard. But I discovered that I had remembered some mathematics, despite running away from school to kill the Kaiser. I managed to build up a little capital and became, in my small way, something of a financier. I worked night and day so as to recover from my grief. But we are not here to discuss me, my dear. We are here to learn about you.’

  ‘My story isn’t so romantic. My husband developed other women.’

  ‘None the less a tragedy. But it seems you lost him and found yourself?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she agreed.

  ‘And now you’re on your own?’

  Copper nodded. ‘I guess you think I’m crazy for not jumping at Mrs Snow’s offer?’

  ‘Crazy? No. Carmel is keen to sign you up, and I admit that I will have to face her wrath if I don’t convince you to put your signature on a contract. But I sympathise with your desire to remain free. I am the same. The situation is fluid and you’re in a good position to jump on any story that turns up suddenly. You can write about what you like. And you can sell your work to whom you like. You are also free to accept assignments from anyone.’ He tugged his ear, which she had noticed was his habit when searching for words. ‘Naturally, there is the danger of starving to death. Paris is the only city on earth where starving to death is still considered an art. But I don’t think you will starve to death. You write well, which is rare, and you have a unique slant on things, which is even rarer. You’re not one of the herd.’