Mademoiselle Chanel (17 page)

B
oy was miserable. With our habitual tacit consent, he didn’t tell me as much, but it was evident in the way he melted against me afterward and fell fast asleep, in the slightly flaccid musculature of his body that betrayed he’d not been playing polo. I lay awake most of that night, holding him. By the morning, I had accepted this was how it must be. There would be challenges, times when I would regret my decision, when he returned to London and his family to spend months apart from me. I would hate and curse him then, rail at my own foolishness, but I would endure. I had no alternative, unless I banished him from my life again and that I could not do. I had tried and failed. And it did feel as if nothing had changed, not as far as we were concerned.

I was still the only woman he had ever loved.

MISIA GLEANED IT AT ONCE,
as soon as I sat at the table in the Ritz where she waited. She took one look at me and said, “So, you did it. You took him back. I knew you would.”

I braced for her avalanche of warnings that he’d destroy my peace of
mind. I was prepared to inform her, as I would anyone else who dared ask, that it was none of her business. To my relief, she went on in a surprisingly mild tone, “How could you not, with him mooning after you like a lovesick suitor, and you, frankly, impossible to be around without him?” She wagged her teaspoon at me. “No, no. Don’t tell me you weren’t. It was obvious. You hated us because we weren’t him. Cocteau told me how awful you looked when he went to see you at that villa of yours—and I’ll not even mention how upset I was that you saw fit to invite that ferret and not me. He said you looked like a ghost.”

I wondered if he’d also mentioned what he divulged about her. Somehow, I doubted it.

“But no matter,” she said, with the finality of a judge rendering a verdict. “You already look like yourself again, and that’s all that matters. If he makes you happy, I am happy.” She paused, eyeing me from under the brim of her hat—one of mine, which she’d ruined by adding a sprout of silk sunflowers, as though she were advertising one of Van Gogh’s paintings. “You do know I want only for you to be happy, darling? I simply couldn’t bear it if you thought I was in any way responsible for your misery.”

“Yes.” I reached across the table and took her plump hand in mine. “I know. I’m sorry for what happened. It was wrong of me to treat you that way.” An apology from me, I thought. Wonders never ceased. Boy certainly did have a salubrious effect on my temper.

She smiled, appeased. “What did he do to win you back? Send roses by the dozens, furs and expensive jewelry? No, it couldn’t possibly be jewels. You never care much about that. Well, what was it? Tell me everything.”

“Actually,” I said, lighting a cigarette and gesturing to the waiter. “He gave me dogs.”

She stared at me, openmouthed.

“Pita and Poppée. They’re adorable.”

“They’re not . . . ?”

“No, they’re not faux muffs. But I regret to say, they did urinate on your statues.”

She howled in laughter—a huge, belly-rumbling explosion of mirth that had us doubled over the table as the prim and proper dames of the Ritz glared at us.

“Dogs,” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “Who could have thought it would be so easy to win the impervious Coco Chanel?”

BOY SPENT TIME WITH ME
at Saint-Cloud. I delayed the debut of my evening wear collection; the silk had proved so problematic, I decided to order a jersey-silk blend instead, along with crêpe de chine, to see if these might work better. Until the new fabric was woven and delivered, I had a few days off to bask in Boy’s company.

We slept until noon, ate breakfast on the terrace, played tennis, and took long drives in his new car—a fast, convertible Bugatti in bright blue, which we raced through the hills into Paris. We stopped to eat at bistros and walked hand in hand along the Seine, thus spreading the word, without ever stating it, that we were back together and did not care who knew it.

Did I spare a thought for his wife back in England, nursing his newborn child? I did not, save to pity her for a fleeting instance as she had pitied me that night in the restaurant. She might be everything a man should want in a wife, but she had not won Boy’s heart. Though he would probably never divorce her, she was his wife in name alone, the mother of his children.

In a malicious moment of mischief, I suggested that we send her a package with my latest skirts and sweaters, which were made of Scottish wool and perfect for winter nights in manors.

He gazed at me from over his newspaper, sitting in his robe on a wicker chair on the terrace. “You are an imp, Coco. She will never accept them.”

“Why not? I’m the best designer in Paris, according to the most recent issue of
Vogue
.”

“She won’t,” he said, “because I already tried. I ordered your entire summer line from Biarritz for her. She would not even look at it. She gave the clothes to her sister.”

“Did she?” I was impressed. I could admire her spirit and liked that
she saw me as a threat. It meant I had nothing to worry about, for she did not threaten me anymore, not in the least.

BOY SERVED AS A WITNESS
at Antoinette’s wedding to her Canadian in October. I made her gown out of the silk I didn’t use for my collection, defeating its quarrelsome tendency to droop with appliqués of lace. Antoinette was delirious; she thought she had my blessing. She did not. I thought her officer sullen and his claim of an excellent family a fabrication, but who was I to protest? She was adamant, and nothing anyone said or did could change this. Moreover, to my exasperation, she had the full support of Adrienne, who still pined for respectability with Nexon and filtered my sister’s improbable dreams through her own. They connived to see Antoinette wed, and I was too content with Boy to let it bother me.

We saw Antoinette off on a steam liner to Canada with her new husband and seventeen trunks. Before she boarded the ship, my sister clung to me and wept, promising to write once she arrived and determined the best site to set up Chanel Modes, Ontario.

“Yes, yes,” I said, dabbing her tears. “Be safe. I hear there are bears in Canada.”

I did not think I would see her again. It was unlikely I would visit. As for the shop she wanted to open, it seemed to me an unlikely prospect, as well. Her husband did not seem like the type of man who would allow his wife to work outside the home.

Adrienne walked around like a mourner afterward. I was certain that when she went home to poor Maurice at night, she harassed him mercilessly about their eternal stalemate. If Nexon hadn’t been ready to capitulate before, I told Boy, he’d certainly find himself hard-pressed now, after my younger sister had gone and married before Adrienne.

It was December. As snow veiled Paris, Boy returned to England for a brief visit. I was back in the atelier, wrestling with my evening wear collection. I’d hoped to present it at a special spring fête on February 5, my established date for debuts, and invite my most prestigious clientele,
including Baroness Rothschild and Cécile Sorel, who’d been after me daily to let them see my samples before I showed them to the public. I finally relented, allowing each of them to try on one of the four gowns I’d prepared. Kitty swooned and begged me to let her buy hers on the spot. I refused. I wasn’t satisfied, but assured her she would have first choice once I was.

On December 20, three days before Christmas Eve, Boy was due to return to Saint-Cloud. Misia had dragged me all over Paris that day to buy coral to make Chinese Christmas trees—a thing I had never heard of and assumed must be exceedingly vulgar. “But they’ll match the decor in your apartment,” she bleated. “Everything there is styled à la Orient.”

She was right, of course. My Paris apartment needed an overhaul, though I’d come to appreciate the odd black lacquer ceiling and mirrors, and was considering a similar motif for the staircase between the private workroom and salon at my rue Cambon atelier.

I left her at her house on rue de Rivoli, insisting I had to get back to the villa, as Boy was expecting me. She harrumphed. She wanted us to spend the holidays with her and Sert, a catastrophe I was avoiding at all costs. Once again, she pressed her beleaguered butler and his family on me. “The Catalans are arriving in the New Year; Jojo is set on it. Would you have me turn out my own servants into the streets after years of loyalty?”

As usual, her crisis became mine. I nodded hastily, kissing her on the cheek. “Yes, yes. In the New Year, they can come work for me. I’ll need their help when I redecorate the Tokio apartment.
Joyeux Noël,
dearest Misia!” I called out as I raced down the stairs to my car and bundled up in the freezing backseat under my mink shawl.

I couldn’t wait to see Boy.

“SHE’S PREGNANT AGAIN.”
We reclined in the vast living room before the fireplace, nursing cognacs, and enfolded in each other. “She told me when I arrived.”

“It must be an immaculate conception,” I muttered. “You’ve barely been there at all.” Disgust writhed in me. Was the woman a sheep, to conceive at the first spurt of semen? I didn’t dwell on the inevitable fact that Boy had had something to do with it. Proper English ladies with three names didn’t take lovers, or at least none that I had heard of, and with me, at least, he still used his lambskin prophylactics.

“What will you do?” I finally asked as he twined my short curls between his fingers.

He sighed. “She insists that we spend the New Year in Cannes. She says winters in England are too harsh and she and our daughter, Anne, need a respite.”

More likely, she feels the need to wreck our plans, I almost said. We’d been invited by Balsan to his party at Royallieu to celebrate the start of a new decade.

“That means I won’t see you until 1920,” I quipped.

Boy kissed the tip of my nose. “We can still spend Christmas together. I told her I had to stay in Paris for business, so she will celebrate the holiday with her family. I’ll go to London afterward to fetch her and take her to Cannes. It’s a nine-hour drive in the Bugatti from here to there, so I’ll come here as much as I can. Diana wants her sisters, my sister Bertha, and Bertha’s mother-in-law to join us; in fact, Bertha and Lady Michelham are already in Cannes, staying at the Grand Hôtel. That’s too many women in one house for my taste. I’ll need a respite. Often.”

Here it was, one of those times I had dreaded: my submission to the wife’s caprices.

I made myself smile. “Then it’s settled. When will you go?”

“Tomorrow, I suppose. Early. That way, I drive to Cannes, visit with Bertha, find the house, and return the day after to see your—what did you call it?”

“Chinese Christmas tree.” I elbowed his ribs. “Misia thinks it’ll look perfect in my Oriental-themed apartment.”

“Along with her stuffed rhinoceros and blackamoors.” He cupped my
chin. “I, on the other hand,” he breathed, lowering his lips to mine, “will give you my Christmas gift now . . .”

He left at dawn, as lavender-tinged clouds crept across the icy sky and I huddled under the down coverlet, languid with sleep and too much cognac, our dogs snoring at my feet.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, ruffling my hair. “Wait for me.”

A
n urgent ringing of the doorbell sent Pita and Poppée lunging from the bed, barking and racing from the bedroom. I was groggy from the cognacs I’d imbibed after having waited all day to hear from Boy. I finally checked the telephone to discover that the bad weather must have shut down the line. Now, I fumbled for my slippers but couldn’t find them. Voices echoed in the villa’s foyer as I padded into the corridor.

The dogs’ frenzied barking ceased. The lights had been turned on below, making me blink as I descended the stairs. Balsan was standing in the foyer, his coat and hat speckled with snow. He spoke in a low voice to the villa’s butler, who had answered the door. With him was his friend Léon de Laborde, crouched by my dogs, soothing them. I should have put on a robe, I thought, raking my hands through my tousled hair as I stood facing them from the bottom steps in my pajamas and bare feet.

“It’s a bit late for carousing,” I said, my voice hoarse from smoking. “Even if it is Christmas. Could you find no better place to sleep it off?”

Laborde lifted his eyes. Something in his gaze chilled me. Balsan stepped forth, removing his hat. He was ashen. “Coco, there’s been an accident.” He paused. I didn’t speak. “Boy . . . a tire of his car blew out on the road. His sister tried to call here.”

“Yes, the phone,” I said haltingly, without moving a muscle. “It’s not working.”

“They called Misia instead. She called me. She would have come herself, only . . .”

Because she was drugged, I thought. She couldn’t.

“Coco.” Balsan took another step to me. I had to resist the impulse to fling up my hands and ward him off like a superstitious peasant. If I didn’t hear it, it wasn’t true. It was still in my head, a nightmare I could evade as soon as I made myself wake up. “The car overturned,” he said. “The injuries Boy sustained are serious.”

Behind him, Laborde whispered, “Tell her the truth, Étienne. She already knows.”

Balsan met my stare. “There was a fire.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry, Coco.”

I nodded. Without a word, I went back upstairs, the dogs following me, sensing my distress. They leaped onto the bed and lowered their heads between their paws, watching me as I went through my bureau, packing items of clothing I didn’t even look at into my travel bag.

When I returned downstairs, Balsan had taken off his coat and was leaning against Laborde. He saw me, and said haltingly, “Your butler went to make tea. Let’s sit down and—”

“No.” My voice was eerily calm. “I must go there. Now. Will you take me?”

As Balsan hesitated, Laborde said, “Use my car. I’ll stay here with her dogs.” He looked at me. “Anything you need, Coco. I mean it. Anything, just send word.”

I nodded, wanting to thank him but somehow unable to say the words. The butler returned to help me to the car, putting my bag in the trunk while I sidled onto the seat next to Balsan. “Can you drive?” I asked, for I could smell alcohol on him. Misia must have tracked him down at one of the artist garrets or one of the late-night clubs he frequented. I had thought him already at Royallieu, preparing for his party . . .

Then I realized I ruminated on things that didn’t matter—anything except what did.

“I can drive.” He started the engine, then reached toward me as if to take my hand.

“Don’t,” I whispered. If I felt one touch, one hint of compassion or sorrow, I’d fall apart. And I couldn’t do that, not yet.

Shifting the gear stick, Balsan drove down the hill.

I BARELY SAID A WORD
during the twelve-hour drive to Cannes. We arrived in the evening, pulling up at the Grand Hôtel where Boy’s sister and her mother-in-law were staying. Balsan was gray with fatigue, as I refused to make a single stop. The hotel was full, the manager informed us in the unctuous tone of a lifelong caterer to other people’s whims; the British had come en masse to celebrate the holidays, the first since the war had ended, and every hotel and casino in Cannes was overbooked.

“Do you know who she is?” Balsan yelled. I finally let myself graze his sleeve. “It’s fine, I’ll sleep anywhere, on the floor in the lobby if need be. Don’t shout.”

After the manager rang her suite, Bertha came downstairs. Her resemblance to Boy in the green of her eyes and her dark hair choked me. I had met her before, briefly, when I lived with her brother and she visited Paris. She had married into the aristocracy, her father-in-law an infirm lord who died a week after her wedding. Her marriage to his heir guaranteed her a fortune. As she made to embrace me, her eyes bruised from crying, I wanted to push her away, thinking the death of her father-in-law had been a harbinger of doom for Boy.

Bertha wept into my shoulder, disconsolate. When she finally managed to gain control of herself, I said, “I want to see him,” and she brought a trembling hand to her chest.

“You can’t. He . . . the coffin, it’s already been sealed at the morgue.”

I gazed at her as if she had uttered an obscenity. “Sealed?”

“Yes.” She shuddered, fighting back tears. “Gabrielle, he was burned beyond recognition. You wouldn’t have wanted to see him, not like that. He wouldn’t have wanted it. When he left us the day before, he was so eager to return to Paris, to be with you. He . . . he loved you so.”

He had been driving home. To Paris. To me.

I began to scream. I could hear it, startling the desk clerks and manager, the passing curious guests. But when I focused on Bertha, I saw the scream was only in my head. I felt Balsan cup my elbow. “Coco, you must rest. You can’t do anything more,” and I found myself allowing him and Bertha to accompany me to her suite.

THE NEXT MORNING, CHRISTMAS DAY,
I told Bertha I wanted to go to the site of the accident. Her mother-in-law, Lady Michelham—one of those very proper ladies with three or four very proper names—made a moue of distaste; she was already dressed from head to foot in black.

“How morbid. There is nothing to see except the car. We’ve made arrangements to have it hauled away, as it’s unsightly for travelers to encounter. The funeral is to be held in Paris,” she went on. “According to his testament, which Bertha witnessed, he wanted to be buried in the cemetery of Montmartre, a request we assume can be honored, as he was titled a knight of your Légion d’honneur for his contributions during the war.”

She imparted this news as if it were an item in a society column, in the voice of someone chastising an interloper for spilling wine on her tablecloth. No, not just any interloper: me. She did not welcome my unexpected intrusion in her family’s time of grief, my spending the night awake on a chaise lounge in her suite, smoking incessantly, without saying a word. I must have seemed unnatural, as baseborn as she supposed—the quintessential mistress, unable to recognize her proper place, which was nowhere near here. I could count myself fortunate that Boy had not yet gone to fetch his wife and daughter from London. Had they been here, I had no doubt his mother-in-law would have refused to grant me entry.

Ignoring her, I said to Bertha, “Balsan is exhausted. Can you lend me your car?”

She nodded, but when I went to the lobby, clad in my dark navy blue coat and hat, I found Balsan waiting. I knew it was futile to convince him otherwise. The firm set of his jaw assured me he would walk to the site if necessary.

Boy had not made it far, only an hour or so from Cannes. The road veered around a sharp curve; a kilometer stone near the site bore an angry smear of bright blue paint.

His beautiful automobile, the splendid Bugatti we’d sped around Paris in, was tilted on its side, a carbonized ruin, tires melted into the underside, its spokes twisted and blackened, sticking outward like imploring fingers.

Bertha’s chauffeur halted a short distance away. Balsan waited with the driver as I walked alone to the wreckage. My heels crunched over the charred ground. With the trembling grope of the newly blind, I reached out to touch the ruptured opening near the crushed side door, where they must have broken through to retrieve his body.

It was so quiet. So still. Not a single bird chirped in the nearby poplars; not a sough of wind rustled my skirt. It was as though the entire world held its breath, to allow me this moment as I stood before the unexpected annihilation of my existence and the loss of the only man I’d ever known whose life had been too magnificent, too intense, to be constrained by banal time.

He had been thirty-eight, just two years older than me.

I wished I had died with him.

Turning from the car, I staggered to the kilometer stone, gouged by the violence. I sat, buried my face in my hands, and let the frozen pit inside me melt, turn molten, submerging me in a wail of fury as hot and pitiless as the fire that had consumed him.

I sat there for an eternity. I might never have left had Balsan not finally moved to me, gathered me in his arms, and whispered, “Come, Coco. Let me take you home.”