The Pink Suit: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

Once the clothes were finished, they were sent by special diplomatic courier to Washington—as were frequent shipments of Chanel No. 5. Not only the parfum, with its rich bourbon vanilla and bougainvillea overtones, but also the eau de parfum, with its forward notes of may rose and ylang-ylang, and even the eau de toilette, which was heavy with sandalwood. The supposed Sicilian noblewoman bought Chanel No. 5 in all its variations and complications for morning, noon, and evening—and the bill was mailed to the First Lady’s father-in-law in Hyannis Port. It was laughable, at best.
    This request from Chez Ninon for a muslin toile, a test garment, was tiresome. While it was not unusual to create line-by-line replicas of designs—they were even regulated by the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture et du Prêt-à-Porter as a way to appease the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union—Chanel was always reluctant. To make a copy was one thing—it would always be inferior—but to give the ability to replicate exactly her work, her vision, and her art was completely another. Why should she allow another name to be put on her work? She’d resigned from the Chambre Syndicale in 1957. They had no jurisdiction over her. She could do what she wanted, and she simply did not want to.
    Although it was interesting that the request did not come from Oleg Cassini, who was now ordained her official “dressmaker,” as he had said. That is good, Chanel thought. Maybe there is a falling-out.
    Everyone was shocked when the editor at Harper’s Bazaar, Mrs. Vreeland, championed Cassini to the First Lady. Why Vreeland promoted a man with such a playboy reputation was beyond understanding. His first press conference was held in New York and made headlines. At the Pierre Hotel, with a cocktail in hand and a crooked, debonair smirk, he announced that there would be two press showings a year featuring the First Lady’s wardrobe, but the press would not be invited. The events would be held exclusively for the New York Couture Group, the garment manufacturers in the city.
    â€œPress knows nothing about fashion,” he announced. Everyone gasped.
    His cologne was overwhelming, too.
    It was the first, and also the last, press conference Mr. Cassini ever gave. How could the First Lady, a woman who was such a devotee of Chanel and French couture and, more important, the chemise—which Cassini openly ridiculed in a fashion show by making a version in burlap and having the model litter the runway with potatoes—how could this particular woman have chosen such a man as her designer?
    Inexplicable. A falling-out would be very good, indeed.
    â€œWe are done,” Chanel said to the model, and then smiled, charmingly. “See you tomorrow, then?”
    â€œ Oui, mademoiselle. Merci. ”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œThe telegram?” the assistant asked again. “And what shall I answer, mademoiselle?”
    â€œI am going home to think.”
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    Hôtel Ritz had been Chanel’s home on and off for decades, since the beginning of World War II. It was right across the alley from her shop. Her room was unlike any other. It was not opulent but small and tucked out of the way, in the attic. It was just a bed with white sheets in a room with white walls. The only decoration was a spray of wheat, which her father once told her was a talisman that would bring her luck. The room was profoundly quiet, much like the convent school where she spent her youth. It was a good place to think.
    Chanel washed her hands and face with lye soap; she hated the scent of skin. She lit another cigarette and went out onto the rooftop with a glass of red wine and looked out over Paris. From that height, the city seemed to be made of buttercream—but yellowed and dusty, as if sculpted for a cake that would not be eaten, just remembered in one’s dreams. It was no longer the city of her