Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [45]
‘Does she have a preferred designer?’
‘Hard to say. I doubt if she can tell one style from another. She hates turning up for fittings so they take a chance on what she’ll like and send her lots of their designs, hoping she’ll be seen about town wearing them . . . I think Madame Vionnet suits her best and Schiaparelli . . . her bias cut is very flattering . . . Lanvin . . . of course . . .’
‘And your outlet for these dazzling couture items?’ he asked. ‘I’m assuming you don’t acquire them simply to decorate your room.’
‘I send them on to my mother. She has a little business in Lyon. We started it together when my father died. Location de costumes – but not your usual rag and bone enterprise. We’re building up a well-heeled client list – plenty of money about down there. Industry’s booming and it’s a very long way from Paris. Everyone wants a Paris model for her soirée!’ She indicated her sewing machine. ‘I can undertake adjustments here at source if I have a client’s measurements. Then the lady’s box is delivered and she tells her friends it’s straight from Paris – just a little confection she’s had specially run up for the Mayor’s Ball or whatever the event . . . And the label – should her friend happen to catch a glimpse of it – has a good deal to say about the success of her husband’s enterprise. And her taste, of course. We rent out things by the day, the week. A surprising number we sell.’
‘I’m talking to someone with a keen eye for fashion then? Someone acquainted with the work of the top designers of Paris?’ he said, raising an admiring eyebrow.
‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk fashion,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but – yes – you could say that. I could have been a mannequin if I’d been three inches taller. If I’d been five inches taller I could have been a dancer. But I’m not really interested in “could have been”. I’m a going-to-be,’ she said with emphasis. ‘Successful. Rich. I haven’t found my niche quite yet. But I will.’ And, angrily: ‘It won’t, of course, be in the professions or politics or any of the areas men reserve for themselves. We can’t vote . . . we can’t even buy contraceptives,’ she added, deliberately to embarrass him.
‘But some girls have the knack of attracting money and don’t hesitate to flaunt it . . . Does it annoy you – in the course of your work – to be seen in rusty black uniform dresses when the clientele are peacocking about in haute couture?’
‘No. Why would it? The black makes me faceless, invisible. The work is badly paid – no more than a starvation wage – but the tips are good. Men are so used to being greeted by old harridans with scarlet claws whining for their petit bénéfice, they are rather more generous to me than they ought to be. Sometimes, I flirt with the older ones,’ she said with a challenge in her look. ‘And, before you ask – no, I don’t take it any further. But they toy with the illusion that it might develop into an extra item on the programme and tip accordingly. No man wants to be perceived as a tight-wad.’
‘A five franc tip?’ he reminded her.
The eyes rolled again. ‘I pitied that girl!’
‘Ah yes. Now tell me . . . the dress she was wearing . . .’
She put her hand over her mouth and stared at him over it. ‘Ah! So you really did come here to talk fashion! Well, I talked myself into that, didn’t I?’
‘You did rather,’ he agreed. ‘So, come on! Expert that you are – I think we’ve established that much – tell me all. You divulged almost nothing to the Chief Inspector. What was it now . . .? Under twenty-five and fair? Oh, yes? Bit sketchy, I thought. Huh! Your poor old ten franc tip with his rheumy old eyes gave a fuller description of the disappearing blonde from thirty yards away! A seam by seam account of her gown! And he wouldn’t know his Poiret from his Poincaré . . . I want to know everything about her