Mademoiselle Chanel (39 page)

FEBRUARY 5, 1954

A
h, the applause at last—if one can call it that. It is muted, polite but faint; already the scraping of chairs pulled aside and the rustle of coats shrugged on, the sound of hasty kisses blown in the air and promises to have lunch soon, tell me everything I need to know. All those years I lived abroad, slowly forgotten by all but my intimate friends, even as I in turn ignored the foibles of the fashion world—this is my reward: a precipitous departure and disdainful silence, which to my ears is far worse than derision.

They are disappointed. Of course they are.

Should I descend to take my bow or leave the models standing there, with their numbered placards held before them, as the herd makes its exit?

I think I shall wait. They have seen my clothes. It is the return they have waited for, argued over, pretending surprise even as they wondered if I could recapture the glories of my youth. I have shown defiantly spare dresses in my neutral palette of black, navy, cream, and deep brown, with white camellias at the waists and sloping shoulders, my flat hats with ribbons, as well as my collarless suit in signature red. None of it is excessive.
Though Dior has returned us to the torments of wire-braced corsets and yardage, of tulle and crinoline sprouting from unnaturally cinched waists, like the inverted petals of an overblown flower, I refuse to comply.

Why should I, Coco Chanel, change for them? What I have presented is independence: clothes for women who need to move, work, and entertain. In time, they will see that while Hollywood princesses may waltz through celluloid fantasies in Dior’s ridiculous creations, ordinary women cannot. They
should
not. Fashion is not folly.

Now, they can do as they wish. I will not sacrifice my ideals. Yet as I stand on the staircase, hearing them depart, I feel their disillusionment; I almost hear their urgent whispers to each other that I have lost my touch. After ten years of exile, what could I expect, really? To find the world unchanged, waiting for me to return and dress it once more?

Still, the chilling suspicion creeps over me that my activities during the war have worked against me, even after all this time. Though I was never condemned by a court of law, have my colleagues and peers judged me in absentia? If so, then that, too, is something I must ignore.

As I start to turn away, to retreat to my atelier and contemplate my uncertain future, I hear footsteps below me, a tentative voice: “Mademoiselle?”

I reel about more sharply than I should, wounded by the indifference, though I know I must not show it. The woman standing at the foot of the stairs is pretty, dressed in a lovely suit. Not one of mine, I notice, and then, as I think this, I cannot resist a gruff chuckle under my breath. How could she be wearing anything of mine? She looks no older than twenty.

“Yes?” I say, with a smile that feels like a razor across my lips.

“I . . . I am the assistant to Bettina Ballard, editor of
Vogue,
” she says, and the tremor in her voice gives me satisfaction. She is all too aware of whom she addresses. My name, it seems, still carries weight. “Miss Ballard had to leave, unfortunately; she’s late for an appointment at our office, but we . . . we were wondering . . .”

I keep my gaze on her. Informing me that her employer has dispatched her, a hireling, to accost me, is hardly in the best of taste. “You mean American
Vogue,
I presume?”

She flushes, nodding. Her complexion is transparent, as is her expression. “Go on.” I wave my hand. After today’s disaster, what’s a little more humiliation?

Confidence propels her up the stairs until she is on the step below me, eagerly clutching a mannish portfolio while she balances a large, rather ugly handbag on her arm. It is made of quilted leather, similar to ones I’ve designed, though a poor imitation. As I look at it, I think that perhaps I should update my own handbag by adding a gold-chain-wrapped strap.

The girl says, “Miss Ballard thinks your collection . . .” But she falters again. I resist rolling my eyes as she glances at my foot tapping out my impatience.

“Miss Ballard thinks your collection might show very well in the United States,” she suddenly bursts out. “She would like to feature you in our February issue. An interview, along with photographs of your new clothes. The updated suit, in particular, and the black tiered evening gown with the camellias. We believe . . . that is, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

My stare unnerves her. She almost recoils as I extract a cigarette. Blowing smoke over her head, I remark, “Are you asking to take a closer look at my collection
now
?”

“Yes, please, if you would be so kind. We can arrange to return later with the photographer.” She hurries after me as I lead her toward my atelier. “He really is excellent,” she babbles, “one of the best in the business. Miss Ballard thinks he’ll be ideal for this shoot.”

American
Vogue
wants to sing my praises, as it always has. And if America embraces me, so must France. My clientele will return. Women are too intelligent to disdain common sense.

I resist a sudden, triumphant smile. Chanel is back.

May my legend gain new ground. I wish it a long and happy life.

U
pon Coco Chanel’s return to Paris and her new collection in 1954, French fashion critics lambasted her for being outdated and failing to adhere to the prevailing air of the times, dominated by Dior’s New Look, which returned women to an archetype of femininity as beautiful to see as it was uncomfortable to wear. Coco had refused to concede that corsets were again in style and presented simple, unrestricted dresses harkening back to her early days. Nevertheless, American
Vogue
—a lifelong champion of her work—rallied to her sustainable vision, in particular her seductive interpretation of her matching skirt, jacket, and hat. In time, the Chanel suit would become a perennial, much-copied classic that endures to this day.

Misia Sert died in 1950, five years after José María Sert, who succumbed to a massive coronary while painting a mural in Vichy. As a final gesture for the woman who was undoubtedly her closest friend, Coco returned to Paris to prepare Misia’s body for her funeral.

André Palasse suffered lifelong complications from his internment in Germany and died in Switzerland in the late 1940s. Vera Bate-Lombardi survived the fiasco in Madrid and returned to Rome with assistance from Churchill’s office; she died in 1948. After his ban from working in France for two years due to his collaboration with the Nazi regime, Serge Lifar
took the Paris Opéra Ballet on a triumphant tour of America, mesmerizing audiences with his virtuosity. In 1958, he had to resign his directorship of the company amid renewed controversy. Upon his death in 1986, he was buried in the Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois Russian Cemetery; his memoirs were published posthumously. Jean Cocteau became one of France’s most celebrated artists, his diverse portfolio including poetry, art, novels, plays, and films. He died in 1963. In the aftermath of World War II, the British arrested and held Hans Gunther von Dincklage; after a failed prior attempt, he gained entry to Switzerland in 1949, where he reunited with Coco. That same year, she appeared in Paris to address testimony given at the war-crime trial of Baron Louis de Vaufreland, a French traitor and German intelligence agent who had implicated her. She denied all accusations and no judgment was found against her. In 1953, she sold her villa La Pausa, which she often visited in the summer, sometimes with Spatz. He retired to a Balearic island, where he devoted his remaining years to painting erotica. He died in 1976.

Ironically, Coco’s relationship with Pierre Wertheimer lasted until her death. Upon his return to France after the war, he resumed control of her perfume company, leading to a series of legal entanglements that ended in 1947 when he reached a settlement with Coco that made her extraordinarily wealthy. Pierre would go on to become one of her trusted managers, financiers, and confidants despite frequent discord between them.

Following her 1954 collection, Coco went on to design several more, often updating her signature looks. Restored to international acclaim, she entertained friends and celebrity clients, as well as several lovers, defying all expectations of retirement until her death on Sunday, January 10, 1971, in her residential suite at the Ritz. She was eighty-seven. She left the world without apology, sighing, “So, that’s the way one dies.”

She was laid to rest in the cemetery of Lausanne, Switzerland, under a marble headstone bearing five lion heads, her zodiac sign and her talisman number forever linked. No other designer has left such a lasting impression on the fashion landscape or in our popular imagination.

T
his novel, perhaps more than any other I have written, was truly a labor of love. Chanel first entranced me in my teenage years when my burgeoning interest in fashion led me to pursue a career in it. I hoped to become a designer myself, but soon discovered during my education at the San Francisco Institute for Design and Merchandising that many around me had far greater talent. I switched my major to marketing and embarked on a twelve-year profession that took me from San Francisco to New York and back again, working as a retail buyer, freelance publicist, vintage-store manager, and fashion show coordinator for avant-garde couturiers.

My fascination with fashion and the personalities who create it has never abated, though I ceased working in the industry in the mid-1980s. Thus, the opportunity to write a novel about the legendary Coco Chanel, whose tumultuous rise to fame and dramatic personal trajectory left such an indelible mark on both her era and those that followed, was a dream come true.

I owe the fulfillment of this dream to many people, starting with my friend Melisse, who first encouraged me to set aside my sixteenth-century obsession for a career risk. My agent, Jennifer Weltz, applauded my new venture and steered me through the inevitable shoals of change that often
accompany a writing departure. My editor, Rachel Kahan, took an enthusiastic chance, fulfilling another long-held dream of mine to work with her, and her publishing team at William Morrow welcomed me with incredible expertise. I cannot express how grateful I am.

My husband supports me in all my endeavors, sustaining me through hours of solitary confinement at my desk and the highs and lows of being a working writer, as well as in our daily life, where I can, I must confess, be less than attentive when the muse is upon me. My cats, Boy and Mommy, bring us unrequited love every day, as well as reminders that there is life beyond the computer. Friends near and far, such as Sarah Johnson, Linda Dolan, Michelle Moran, Robin Maxwell, Margaret George, and Donna Russo-Morin, restrain me from becoming a recluse, as do my yoga instructors at Excelsior Yoga, who keep me nimble. I greatly appreciate all my Facebook friends and fans for their humor and support, as well as my Web mistress, Rae Monet.

Most of all, I thank you, my reader, for I simply could not do this without you.

You give my words heart.

SAN FRANCISCO

AUGUST 19, 2013–JANUARY 9, 2014

Many sources assisted me in discovering Coco’s intimate life. She remains controversial and mysterious to this day, as adept at obscuring the truth in death as she was in life, but every book about her fits another piece into her enigmatic puzzle. I relied most heavily on the following volumes. Please note that this annotated list does not represent a full bibliography:

Baillen, Claude.
Chanel Solitaire
. New York: Quadrangle, 1974.

Chaney, Lisa.
Coco Chanel: An Intimate Life.
New York: Viking, 2011.

Charles-Roux, Edmonde.
Chanel.
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1975.

Galante, Pierre.
Mademoiselle Chanel
. Chicago: Henry Regnery Company, 1973.

Haedrich, Marcel.
Coco Chanel: Her Life, Her Secrets
. New York: Little Brown, 1971.

Haye, Amy de la.
Chanel
. London: V&A Publishing, 2011.

Lifar, Serge.
Ma Vie
. New York: World Publishing Company, 1970.

Madsen, Axel.
Chanel: A Woman on Her Own.
New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1990.

Mazzeo, Tilar J.
The Secret of Chanel No. 5.
New York: HarperCollins, 2010.

.
The Hotel on the Place Vendôme
. New York: HarperCollins, 2014.

Morand, Paul.
The Allure of Chanel
. London: Pushkin Press, 2009.

Picardie, Justine.
Coco Chanel: The Legend and the Life.
London: HarperCollins, 2011.

Riding, Alan.
And the Show Went On: Cultural Life in Nazi-Occupied Paris
. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2010.

Vaughan, Hal.
Sleeping with the Enemy
. London: Chatto & Windus, 2011.

A former fashion executive,
C. W. GORTNER
is a lifelong admirer of Coco Chanel. His passion for writing led him to give up fashion, and his many historical novels have been bestsellers, published in over twenty countries. He lives in San Francisco.

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