Mademoiselle Chanel Page 12

  “Poiret held a ball in his atelier, a masquerade à la Arabian Nights, and stole away ten of Worth’s clients, the most influential ones.” Lucienne sniffed, her reaction to everything. “He seizes advantage in change. Worth has become outmoded, his designs too confining. Poiret has banned corsets; he offers flowing skirts and harem pants. He’s also developed a signature parfum, Nuit de Chine, which he gave away at his masquerade. It’s a musky horror but all his clients use it. He reaps a fortune. Worth is furious.” She paused in emphasis, forcing me to look up from my littered worktable. “He’s heard of you, as well, mademoiselle. Several of his clients now wear your hats.”

  “They do?” I was incredulous.

  She nodded. “Something you would be aware of if you ever set foot outside this workroom. Everyone grows curious; they want to know who this Gabrielle Chanel is.”

  “I . . . I don’t like attending customers,” I said, haltingly, though we had had this discussion before. At the salons, as she so often informed me, designers personally attended their clients, serving them coffee and cake, catering to their every whim. A woman could easily spend an entire afternoon in an atelier, between her arrival, fitting, and departure; it was how the couturier exerted his stranglehold, compelling them to wear only his designs.

  “You’ll need to learn to like it,” she said. “Or hide your dislike of it. In order to succeed, you must be seen. The customer wants to see the hands that design what she buys.”

  “But only on her terms,” I riposted. “Not even Poiret, for all his influence, is granted entrée to her home or social circle. Once she leaves his atelier, he does not exist.”

  “Ah, but he is there, nevertheless. On their very person, sans corset.” Lucienne turned back into the shop as the bell rang. “Consider this,” she added, tossing her wisdom at me over her shoulder. “He influences them even when he is absent. That right person, at the right time, with the right approach, can exert more impact than we realize. Do you not wish to do the same?”

  I stared after her. I did wish it. More than anything. But to my dismay, running a shop was not as I had imagined. I worked nonstop, filling orders. Lucienne proved a godsend and managed to lure away two Maison Lewis assistants to help with our production, but we clashed over everything—prices, styles, sales methods, displays. I wanted to move as many hats as I could; whenever Émilienne and her friends swarmed us (dear Émilienne, with her relentless cheer), I let them take as much as they could, reasoning they would be seen wearing my hats, and entice others. Already, one of her actress friends had worn a hat of mine onstage and it was commented upon in the widely circulated gazette Comoedia Illustré; surely, this type of free advertising would reap rewards.

  “Yes,” stormed Lucienne. “Indeed, it will! We’ll have a mob of more tawdry actresses seeking something for nothing. Are we running a charity? Because last time I checked the account books, you haven’t enough to buy supplies, much less pay me or your sister.”

  We sparred like ruffians, shouting until Antoinette piped up with one of the rondelles from the coffeehouses in Moulins and halted us in our tracks. “ ‘I’ve lost my poor Coco, Coco my lovable dog,’ ” she sang out, “ ‘lost him, close to the Trocadéro. You didn’t happen to see my Coco?’ ”

  I started to laugh, doubled over as Lucienne pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her rare giggle before the three of us launched into the chorus: “ ‘Co at the Tro. Who has seen my Coco?’ ”

  One evening as we dined at the Café de Paris, Boy finally asked me how business fared.

  “Wonderful,” I said. “I’m making lots of money and contacts. It’s so easy, all I have to do is oversee the workroom and write checks.” I wasn’t about to admit that I could have fallen dead asleep with my head in the soup, that my feet were sore with blisters, and my stiff hands felt like claws. Everything had to seem wonderful. Boy seemed to ratchet up success after success with ease; he would never understand how overwhelmed I felt.

  “Is it?” He regarded me without a hint of a smile. “Why are you lying to me, Coco? I set up a security on your account at the bank to cover the shop’s expenses; I receive the statements. You overdrew on your line of credit again, the fifth time in as many months.”

  My heart started a rapid thumping that made me queasy. “How is that possible?”

  “It tends to happen,” he said dryly, “when we spend more than we earn.”

  “But I—I deposit money every week. They wouldn’t give me any if I didn’t have it.”

  He sighed. “They give it to you, my love, because I give it to them. Your deposits do not cover the shop’s expenses. They barely cover Madame Rabaté’s salary.”

  “So, you’re saying . . . I’m in debt to you?”

  He met my horrified gaze. I shoved back my chair, staggered from the table in the middle of the crowded restaurant, grabbing my coat and hat and running out. It was pouring rain, one of those autumn tempests that turned the city into a swamp. I started down the street, blinded by the rain and my own furious tears. I didn’t hear him coming after me, didn’t acknowledge his shouts until he grasped my arm and pulled me around, his drenched hair plastered to his head as he said, “Coco, stop this! Be reasonable. It’s only a business.”

  “Yes, my business!” I wrenched my arm from him. “Mine! I don’t want to be kept by you or anyone else. I never asked for it. That was never our agreement.”

  He stood still, rain pooling over his shoulders. “I told you, I would help you if you let me. If you don’t want my help, all you have to do is say so.”

  “Help?” My laughter exploded—ugly and raw, colored by shame and my realization that I had exchanged one gilded cage for another. “You told me once that what we don’t earn for ourselves is never ours, that it can always be taken away. Is that what your help means? Will you close my shop whenever you please?”

  His own fury, rare to kindle but implacable once lit, darkened his eyes. “You insult me. What’s worse, you insult us. You cannot run a business properly? Fine, you don’t have to. Hire an accountant. Do what you do best and leave the numbers to those who know how. But don’t ever tell me again that I will snatch anything from you. I will not stand for it.”

  I went limp, suddenly feeling the sodden weight of my clothes, the chill of the rain. I averted my face. “I’m not saying that.”

  “Yes, you are. I told you, I am not Balsan. What I give you now, you will repay. I know you will. What I want is for you to know it. To believe it. It doesn’t matter how much I must invest if you’ll only trust in your talent and tell me the truth.”

  I bit down on my quivering lip. “I will repay it. Every last centime.”

  “So I hope.” He gave me a pensive look. “You’re the proudest person I know, but remember, you are still only a woman. And though I love you for it, pride will make you suffer.”

  Only a woman . . . In the end, was this how he saw me? A helpless creature, dependent on his goodwill? It terrified me to even consider it. It was Balsan all over again, only this time I was in love and had no defense against it.

  I did not speak as he engulfed me in his arm, leading me back to our motorcar. Upon my arrival at the shop the next day, I summoned my staff and announced, “I’m not here to spend money as if it grows on trees. Henceforth, I must authorize every expense. And,” I added, with a glance at Lucienne’s satisfied face, “no more free hats.”

  It was a small step, in light of my profligacy, but hard earned, nevertheless.

  Money was freedom. I did not intend to squander freedom again.

  III

  In the summer of 1911, Boy took me on vacation to the resort of Deauville.

  He insisted on it, though I did not want to leave my shop. Through a harsh regimen of fifteen-hour days and many sleepless nights, I had begun to prosper. Not meteorically, but my clientele steadily increased and improved in stature, the courtesans and actresses augmented by a select list of society women who embraced Poiret’s modernized dress and found my h
ats the perfect accompaniment. The grandes dames of the haut monde remained enslaved by Worth and other luxury ateliers that garbed them from head to toe; they eschewed me. But others with less to lose, hostesses welcoming artists and bohemians to their salons, began to exchange my plain white calling card among themselves. During my remorseless weekly reviews of my accounts, I finally saw I’d turned a corner and could repay Boy some of the debt I owed him. Soon, I would no longer need his retainer on my line of credit.

  He didn’t comment on it, though he must have seen the statements that arrived at his office. I appreciated his discretion, his ability to observe my improvement without gloating over it, and when he suggested it was time to take a holiday, I reluctantly agreed.

  Deauville proved to be the balm I needed. Situated on the Normandy coast, before the English Channel, it was full of glamorous restaurants, hotels, casinos, and lengthy promenades. Here, I experienced a relaxation I rarely allowed myself, swimming every day in a daring bathing costume that exposed my arms and shoulders and dining at night in our suite at the Hôtel Normandy, overlooking the pier.

  One night, I asked Boy to meet me for dinner in the casino. We had spent several evenings there in the company of his friends—people I’d never met who also lived in Paris, who welcomed him with a familiarity that made me clench my teeth. Among them were long-nosed, beautiful women shimmering with jewels who eyed me from behind languid swishes of their fans. I could practically hear their cruel appraisal of the tradeswoman whom Arthur Capel had seen fit to take up with. I was determined to show them who I truly was.

  In a boutique in town, I bought a white silk dress that clung to the body, supple and tucked high at the waist, a dress for sultry nights, unlike any I had seen in Paris. Pairing it with a length of pearls that Boy had given me, I sauntered into the casino with my hair swept back into a chignon at the nape of my neck, held by a piqué band; my long throat and arms were tan from the sun, a touch of kohl at my eyes enhanced their luster.

  Boy waited at the table. As he saw me approach, he stood with a knowing smile and drew out my chair. Around us, the haut monde dined on caviar and poached salmon in mint sauce. Champagne by the gallon cooled in buckets of ice. I paused, marking my prey, then leaned to Boy and grazed his cheek with my lips. I heard the rustle of alarm ripple through the dining room, as if the walls had turned to tissue, an urgent susurration as all eyes shifted to watch me sit, not across from Boy as was customary, but directly by his side.

  The rest of our table’s chairs, as I had ensured, were empty.

  After dinner, they gathered in the mirrored salon to greet me. I was at my most charming, exchanging witticisms and bestowing smiles as though I mixed with such company every hour of every day. With that uncanny intuition women have for threats, I was besieged at the end of the evening for my card, along with promises that as soon as they returned to Paris, they would call upon me at my shop.

  “So daring,” they said, “this bronze color of yours. Do you not fear getting spots from the sun? No? And that dress and pearls—oh, my dear, it’s sublime. You say you make hats? Well, I simply must see them. I’m so terribly bored with the usual.”

  When we returned to our hotel, Boy watched me loosen the knot at my nape and allow my hair to fall. He mused, “You would look exquisite with short hair, I think.”

  I smiled. “One thing at a time. We mustn’t frighten the herd too much at first.”

  “Frighten them?” he growled, and he stalked across the room to seize me in his arms. “You’re a lioness. You’ll eat them all alive and still be ravenous for more.”

  He was right. Those credulous gazelles would not sate a hunger like mine.

  But it was a start.

  WHEN WE ARRIVED BACK IN PARIS, he said he would drive me to the shop. I was eager to get back to work, to see how many orders had come in during my absence, and get everything ready for the stampede I anticipated. I had no doubt that every one of the women I’d met in Deauville would come.

  Boy did not take the route to boulevard Malesherbes, however. Instead, he turned toward the place Vendôme and the district that sold the finest furs, jewelry, and perfumes, driving down the exclusive rue de Saint-Honoré onto rue Cambon across from the back entrance of the Hôtel Ritz, an eighteenth-century palace converted into a luxury hotel renowned for its exclusivity. He brought the car to a halt before a white building festooned with stucco garlands and cherub heads over its classical block façade.

  “What is this?” I asked, bemused. Reaching into his pocket, he handed me a set of keys.

  “I signed a lease. The back room and mezzanine are yours. It is time.”

  With the keys clutched in my hand as he stood behind me grinning, I passed speechless into my new premises. Applause greeted me. Through a haze, I saw my counters and displays with my hats, arranged in black-and-white symmetry to match the decor, with Antoinette, Lucienne, and our assistants, Angèle and Marie-Louise, welcoming me with joy in their eyes.

  As I spun about to look back at Boy, he waved from outside and drove away.

  THUS DID I INAUGURATE CHANEL MODES. My new address was elite enough to beckon first the rich wives and daughters of the Deauville set, followed by a few countesses and minor princesses. By 1912, I was photographed for the Comoedia Illustré modeling my creations and the popular review Les Modes declared me “an original artist.”

  Business was brisk, requiring long hours and constant supervision. Boy and I often just passed each other in our apartment on avenue Gabriel, snatching a kiss, a coffee, a quick tumble in the bed, before we parted for our assignments. He was investing heavily in coal, as rumblings from abroad predicted that a looming conflict with Germany would skyrocket the price of fuel. I focused on my immediate turf, gauging the ongoing feud between Poiret and Worth. After everyone else went home, I would experiment in my workroom with certain styles of blouses, belted jackets, and my favored plain skirts. I had begun to hanker for more than hats. I had room to expand if I desired it, but my lease at rue Cambon prohibited me from selling dresses, as there was already a dressmaker in the building—a sour-breathed crone who liked to poke her nose into my shop to wag her finger and threaten, “If I see a single dress in here, I’ll see you evicted.”

  What to do?

  My answer came from Boy again, though this time it was unintentional. He’d gone to England on business, returning with suitcases packed with items he couldn’t buy in Paris. Fishermen sweaters in cable-knit wool, cardigans of Scottish tartan in subtle hues, and pullovers in a durable fabric called jersey, which I’d not seen before, utilized by English tailors for school blazers, sporting clothes, and military uniforms, but never for women’s apparel.

  I tried on one of his pullovers. The fit overwhelmed me, for Boy was much taller, but I loved the way the ingenious knit draped without the need for excess seams, seeming to have a sense of its own of where to adjust and where to hang loose.

  Boy was amused. “I bought those for me,” he said as he found me padding about the apartment in his pullover, getting a feel for how the fabric held up. “They’re for polo games. You’re going to make them smell like you, and then I’ll be too distracted to play.”

  I could barely draw a straight line but that didn’t stop me from spending many nights at my worktable trying my hand at different looks I could make with jersey. When I showed these rudimentary sketches to Lucienne, she shook her head. “We only just got off our knees with the hats and now you want to add dresses? Absolutely not. Our lease forbids it. Would you have us thrown out?”

  Tapping my foot, I pushed the sketches toward her. “They’re not dresses. They are jackets, blouses, sweaters, coats, and skirts. Not one dress.” I paused, grimacing. “As if any of us needs another frock, with the way those tyrants Poiret and Worth smother us. These are for women like us, everyday women on the streets, made to complement our lifestyle.”

  Lucienne did not glance at my designs. “Women on the streets can shop in cheap department stores. Thes
e will be too expensive to produce. We would need more staff, have to purchase sewing machines. It’s too difficult. We cannot possibly compete.”

  Our sparring had become so routine, none of the staff paid us any mind. Today, however, something different must have heated our tones, for Antoinette approached carefully, scrutinizing each sketch before she ventured, “Why not try? These designs are unique; they go with our hats. I think our customers will like them.”

  Seeing that my sister almost never offered an opinion, she managed to quell Lucienne, who took in my regard before she said, “I’m not a modiste. Selling clothes is not my expertise.”

  “Then as you once advised me, you shall have to learn,” I said. “We all must learn. I want to grow Chanel Modes. It is the perfect time, with so much attention on our hats, and our client list gaining prestige. No one else is offering this type of fashion. I know it can be a success.”

  “Not with me,” said Lucienne. “It’s not why I came to work for you.”

  “Then you needn’t stay,” I told her, and I heard Antoinette gasp. “But I will do this, with or without you. I’ll provide you with an excellent reference, of course,” I added, refusing to let sentimentality or fear dissuade me. Boy had said I must believe in myself, and I believed in this new enterprise even more than I had believed in my hats.

  Lucienne nodded and turned away. As I looked at my sister, Antoinette asked nervously, “How will we manage without her?”

  I collected my sketches. “We’ll manage. I always do.”

  LUCIENNE DEPARTED FOR ANOTHER HAT ATELIER. In time, she would become its director, lauded as Paris’s top milliner. I missed her determination and drive—she was one of the few women I’d met who could match my own—but I’d learned enough by now to supervise the workroom myself and I did not miss our quarrels.