THE EMPEROR
HAS NO CLOTHES !!!
Or, Coco Chanel & Christian Dior
Spend a Night at the Museum
A Gloriously Camp, Occasionally Scandalous, thoroughly Mischievous adventure in Fashion, Fame, Fortune & the Extraordinary business of getting Dressed.
A fictional encounter between two very real fashion legends.
Chapter One: Two French Ghosts &
A Very British Fog
London.
November.
11:47 p.m.
The sort of November night that makes even the pigeons consider emigrating.
A thick fog had descended upon
South Kensington, wrapping the elegant Victorian buildings in a grey blanket so dense that the street lamps appeared to be illuminating nothing more substantial than boiled cabbage.
Outside the Victoria and Albert Museum,
a black Rolls-Royce materialized from the mist.
It stopped.
Its rear passenger door opened.
Out stepped a small, slender woman wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, a string of pearls, a neat little hat and an expression suggesting that the entire British nation had committed some unforgivable social error.
Behind her emerged a distinguished gentleman in an immaculate dark overcoat, silk scarf, polished shoes and a hat that had clearly cost more than the average British family earned in a week.
The woman surveyed the building.
"Well, Christian. Here we are."
The gentleman adjusted his scarf.
"Magnificent architecture, Coco."
"Rather gloomy."
"It is Victorian."
"That explains it.
The British have always had
an extraordinary talent, for making even
Pleasure look like a punishment."
He smiled.
"Perhaps we should knock?"
She turned.
"Knock?"
"At the door."
"Christian, darling, it is nearly midnight."
"Precisely."
"We have been "DEAD" for decades."
"Yes."
"Then who, exactly,
do you propose should answer?
The Archbishop of Canterbury?"
Christian Dior sighed.
Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel,
better known to the world as Coco.
Had not become any easier to deal with since departing the earthly plane.
If anything, death had made her more opinionated.
An achievement many had previously considered impossible.
"Besides," she continued,
"I have absolutely no intention of paying an admission fee to look at my own clothes."
"Nor mine," Dior replied.
"Then come along."
She marched towards a side entrance.
The door was locked.
Coco examined it.
"How inconvenient."
"Shall we return tomorrow?"
"Christian!"
"What?"
"We are ghosts."
"Oh!!!"
"Honestly!!! Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to design a collection."
She walked straight through the door.
Dior hesitated.
"That cannot possibly be hygienic."
"COME ALONG!"
He followed.
So, on a foggy November night,
two of the most influential designers in the history of fashion entered
one of the world's greatest museums.
Without tickets.
Without permission.
Most importantly, without the slightest intention, of behaving themselves.
Chapter Two: The Museum of Beautiful Imprisonment
The galleries were silent.
Long corridors stretched into darkness, lined with treasures from centuries of human creativity.
Jewellery.
Textiles.
Furniture.
Paintings.
Sculptures.
Of course, clothes.
Thousands upon thousands of garments, representing humanity's extraordinary determination, to cover its nakedness while simultaneously attracting attention to it.
Coco stopped before an elaborate
18th Century gown.
Its skirts were enormous.
Its waist impossibly narrow.
It's decoration extravagant.
"Good Heavens."
Dior approached.
"Exquisite."
"Exquisite? Christian, that woman must have required planning permission to enter a room."
"Look at the embroidery."
"Look at the width!"
"The craftsmanship!"
"The inconvenience!"
"The elegance!"
"The fire hazard!"
Dior folded his arms.
"You never appreciated grandeur."
"I appreciated women being able to sit down."
"Fashion is theatre."
"Fashion is life."
"Fashion is fantasy."
"Fashion should not require three servants and a structural engineer merely to visit the lavatory."
He chuckled.
"Some things never change."
"Unfortunately, Christian, some things do."
She examined another display.
A corset.
A particularly formidable example.
She stared at it with the expression of someone examining a medieval torture device.
"That," she announced, "is not underwear. It is an instrument of revenge."
"Some women enjoyed the silhouette."
"Some prisoners become accustomed to their cells."
"You're being dramatic."
"I am being practical."
"An unusual claim from a woman wearing pearls to burgle a museum."
She gave him a look.
A dangerous look.
The sort of look that, in life, could have reduced an entire fashion house to tears.
"Careful, Christian."
He bowed slightly.
"Naturally, Mademoiselle."
They continued.
Eventually they reached the twentieth-century collections.
There, standing proudly beneath the soft gallery lighting, was a silhouette that caused Coco to stop dead.
Which, considering her present condition, was quite an accomplishment.
She stared.
A fitted jacket.
A dramatically cinched waist.
A full, sweeping skirt.
Dior's, famous New Look 1947.
Coco slowly turned towards him.
"Oh, for heaven's sake."
Dior smiled.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"It looks like a woman has been gift-wrapped."
"It restored elegance after the war."
"It restored corsets after women had finally escaped them."
"It celebrated femininity."
"It celebrated the upholstery industry."
"Women adored it."
"Some did."
"Many did."
"Some probably wondered why they needed several metres of fabric to buy a loaf of bread."
Dior approached the display with genuine affection.
"After years of deprivation, rationing and hardship, people wanted beauty.
They wanted hope.
They wanted something extravagant."
Coco's expression softened.
Only slightly.
"I understand that."
He looked surprised.
"You do?"
"Naturally. I simply believe hope should allow a woman to breathe."
He laughed.
"I believe beauty sometimes deserves a little inconvenience."
"Spoken like a man who never had to wear a girdle."
They stood together before the dress.
Two giants of fashion.
Two entirely different philosophies.
Two people who, despite their disagreements, understood something the modern world was rapidly forgetting.
A garment could be more than clothing.
It could be an idea.
A declaration.
A rebellion.
A dream.
Or, in certain unfortunate circumstances, a very expensive mistake.
Chapter Three: The Kardashian Revelation
They entered a gallery exploring contemporary fashion and its relationship with popular culture.
A digital screen flickered into life.
Images appeared.
Red carpets.
Celebrity appearances.
Designer gowns.
Social media photographs.
Reality television personalities.
Coco stopped.
"Christian."
"Yes?"
"Who are these people?"
He studied the screen.
"Apparently, the Kardashians."
"Are they royalty?"
"No."
"Actresses?"
"Some have appeared in television programmes."
"Singers?"
"Not principally."
"Designers?"
"They have fashion and beauty businesses."
"Ah! Industrialists!"
"Among other things."
Coco leaned closer.
"Why are there so many photographs of their bottoms?"
Dior coughed.
"Coco!"
"It is a perfectly reasonable question."
"Apparently, they are enormously influential."
"Influential in what?"
"Fashion.
Beauty.
Lifestyle.
Popular culture."
"Good heavens. In my day one needed to accomplish something before becoming celebrated."
Dior raised an eyebrow.
"That is not entirely true, Coco. Society has always adored celebrity."
"Yes, but at least our celebrities occasionally pretended to have a talent."
He laughed.
"These women have built enormous businesses."
"Then they are clearly not fools."
"Indeed."
"And that,"
Coco continued, "
is what interests me."
She studied another photograph.
"People dismiss them as frivolous, yet they have persuaded millions to follow their appearance, purchase their products and discuss their lives."
"Quite remarkable."
"Remarkable? Christian, it is genius!"
He looked astonished.
"You approve?"
"Of their business instincts? Absolutely. Of everything else? Certainly not."
She pointed towards the screen.
"Look at the faces."
"What about them?"
"So similar."
"Perhaps that is the fashion."
"Precisely the problem."
She folded her arms.
"Fashion should encourage individuality. Yet here we have millions of women apparently attempting to resemble the same handful of celebrities."
Dior nodded thoughtfully.
"Beauty has always had fashionable ideals."
"Yes, but now the ideals can be manufactured."
"Cosmetic procedures?"
"Procedures.
Filters.
Digital alterations. Lighting.
Editing.
Artificial perfection."
She paused.
"Christian, we used to alter dresses to fit women."
"And now?"
"Now women are encouraged to alter themselves to fit the dress."
Dior fell silent.
It was a rather uncomfortable observation.
Especially for a man who had spent much of his career celebrating a highly specific silhouette.
Coco noticed.
Naturally.
"Don't look so innocent, darling. We helped create some of these expectations."
Dior nodded.
"Perhaps we did."
"At least we should have the decency to admit it."
They watched another celebrity glide across the screen in an extraordinarily revealing gown.
Dior considered it.
"That is certainly daring."
"Daring? Christian, there is so little fabric that a determined moth could render her completely naked."
"Perhaps that is the intention."
"Then why employ a designer? A pair of scissors and a strong breeze would achieve the same result."
They both laughed.
Somewhere in the museum, a motion detector registered a disturbance.
The security guard glanced at his monitor.
Nothing.
He returned to his crossword.
A wise decision.
Chapter Four: The Influencers Have Arrived
The next screen presented a montage of social media personalities.
Young women and men posing in luxury hotels.
Opening enormous boxes.
Displaying handbags.
Attending fashion shows.
Promoting cosmetics.
Filming themselves walking down streets.
Filming themselves eating breakfast.
Filming themselves doing absolutely nothing.
Coco watched in growing fascination.
"What is an influencer?"
Dior consulted the explanatory display.
"Someone whose online presence can affect the purchasing decisions of others."
"Like an advertising executive?"
"Not exactly."
"A model?"
"Sometimes."
"A salesperson?"
"Often."
"A journalist?"
"Occasionally."
"A designer?"
"Some are."
Coco considered this.
"So the profession consists of being several things without necessarily being particularly accomplished at any of them?"
"That would be unfair."
"Probably. But entertaining."
Dior smiled.
"Some are genuinely creative. They photograph beautifully, communicate effectively and introduce new designers to enormous audiences."
"That I admire."
"Others simply promote products."
"That I understand."
"Some receive considerable sums for a single photograph."
Coco turned.
"How considerable?"
He mentioned an enormous figure.
She stared.
"FOR A PHOTOGRAPH?"
"Apparently."
"Of themselves?"
"Yes."
"Wearing somebody else's clothes?"
"Yes."
"Which somebody else has given them?"
"Frequently."
Coco removed her hat.
Placed it on a nearby bench.
Then sat down.
"Christian."
"Yes?"
"I believe I have died in the wrong century."
He laughed so loudly that a nearby mannequin trembled.
"Imagine,"
she continued, "
what I could have accomplished with this internet."
"Quite a lot, I suspect."
"I could have advertised my perfume to the entire planet before breakfast."
"Indeed."
"Sold handbags in every country."
"Certainly."
"Insulted my competitors internationally."
"Without question."
"Never once had to leave the Ritz."
Dior shook his head.
"That last part would have suited you."
She smiled wickedly.
"But there is something terribly wrong."
"What?"
"Influence without responsibility."
He considered her words.
"Explain."
"If millions of people listen to you, then surely what you say matters."
"Naturally."
"If you encourage them to buy things they cannot afford, to dislike their own bodies, to envy lives that may not even exist, then you are doing more than selling a handbag."
"You are selling dissatisfaction."
"Exactly."
Dior studied the screen.
A young woman was presenting her latest collection of luxury purchases.
Behind her stood a wardrobe large enough to house a small family.
"Perhaps," he said quietly, "the modern world has confused possessing beautiful things with living a beautiful life."
Coco smiled.
"Christian, darling, that is almost profound."
"Almost?"
"Don't become accustomed to compliments."
Chapter Five: Supermodels, Super Egos and Supermarket Prices
They entered another gallery.
Photographs of famous models filled the walls.
Naomi Campbell.
Cindy Crawford.
Linda Evangelista.
Christy Turlington.
Kate Moss.
Contemporary runway stars.
Dior's face brightened.
"Now, this I understand."
"Naturally. Beautiful women wearing beautiful clothes."
"Extraordinary presence."
"Extraordinary cheekbones."
"Wonderful posture."
"Wonderful publicity agents."
He laughed.
"You're impossible."
"Merely observant."
Dior studied a photograph of
Naomi Campbell.
"She has magnificent command of the runway."
"Indeed."
"And Kate Moss possessed an extraordinary ability to give clothes an attitude."
Coco nodded.
"Some models have genuine artistry."
"Exactly."
"But," she continued, "When did the model become more important than the garment?"
Dior considered this.
"Perhaps when the public became more interested in personalities than craftsmanship."
"Precisely."
She gestured towards the photographs.
"In our day, we created clothes. The models presented them. The clients purchased them."
"Now?"
"Now the model becomes a celebrity,
the celebrity becomes a brand, the brand becomes a business, somewhere at the bottom of the arrangement is a poor dress wondering why nobody has noticed it."
Dior smiled.
"Fashion has always required spectacle."
"Yes, but spectacle should have a purpose."
"Sometimes the spectacle itself is the purpose."
"Then we have arrived
at the circus."
She paused.
"Although I must admit, some of these women are magnificent."
Dior looked delighted.
"A compliment!"
"Don't get excited."
She approached a display of contemporary runway photographs.
One model wore an enormous sculptural creation.
Another appeared to be enveloped in transparent plastic.
A third was dressed in something resembling a collapsed tent.
Coco stared.
"Christian."
"Yes?"
"Has there been a shortage of mirrors?"
He examined the designs.
"Experimental fashion."
"Experimental?"
"Designers exploring form, structure and meaning."
"Darling, I have seen more convincing structures after an earthquake."
Dior laughed.
"Some runway garments are not intended for everyday wear."
"Clearly. One would require a police escort to cross the road."
"They challenge conventions."
"So does walking into a restaurant wearing a lampshade. That doesn't make one a genius."
He smiled.
"Yet you were a revolutionary yourself."
Coco stopped.
That had struck a nerve.
"Quite right."
"Your clothes shocked people."
"They liberated people."
"Some said they were ugly."
"Some people have dreadful taste."
"Some people say that about these designs."
She looked again.
Then, unexpectedly, smiled.
"Touché, Christian."
He bowed.
A small victory.
He intended to savour it.
Chapter Six: Project Runway, Project Nonsense
The museum's educational display introduced the designers to television fashion competitions.
A programme began.
Contestants rushed about a studio.
Fabric flew.
Sewing machines rattled.
A clock counted down.
A judge frowned.
A designer cried.
Another designer shouted.
Someone announced that the challenge would determine their future.
Coco watched.
Dior watched.
Neither spoke.
Eventually Coco whispered:
"Christian."
"Yes?"
"Are they designing clothes or defusing a bomb?"
He laughed.
"Apparently, they have very little time."
"Why?"
"Because it makes entertaining television."
"Does the fabric become more beautiful under threat?"
"Not necessarily."
"Does the stitching improve?"
"Probably not."
"Does creativity flourish?"
"Sometimes."
"Then why is that woman crying into a sewing machine?"
"Pressure."
"Ridiculous."
The programme continued.
A judge criticised a garment.
Another praised it.
A third declared that the designer had failed to communicate a clear vision.
Coco leaned forward.
"Who is that?"
"A judge."
"Has she ever designed anything?"
"I don't know."
"Then why is she judging?"
"Perhaps she understands fashion."
"Understanding fashion and creating fashion are two entirely different occupations."
Dior nodded.
"Criticism can be useful."
"Certainly. But humiliation is not instruction."
A contestant was eliminated.
Dramatic music thundered.
The young designer began to weep.
Coco stood up.
"Enough!"
The screen flickered.
"These people are being treated like gladiators!"
Dior smiled.
"Fashion houses have not always been gentle places, Coco."
She looked at him.
"Neither have television studios, apparently."
He folded his arms.
"We should not pretend our own workshops were entirely free from pressure."
"Quite true."
"Or harsh criticism."
"Also true."
"Or impossible deadlines."
"Christian, are you trying to ruin my argument?"
"Merely tailoring it."
She smiled.
"Very clever."
They watched another contestant proudly present a beautifully constructed gown.
For a moment, both designers were silent.
Then Dior spoke.
"That young person has talent."
"Yes."
"Real talent."
"Determination ."
"Perhaps these programmes do
some good."
Coco nodded reluctantly.
"They give opportunities to people who might never enter the traditional fashion establishment."
"Exactly."
"People without wealthy families."
"Yes."
"Without connections."
"Indeed."
"Without the correct surname."
Dior looked at her.
"Now that is something worth celebrating."
Coco smiled.
"Provided somebody remembers to teach them how to sew."
Chapter Seven: The £5 Dress and the £40.000 Handbag
They reached a display examining the environmental and social consequences of fashion.
Photographs showed enormous piles of discarded clothing.
Textile waste.
Polluted waterways.
Overfilled landfills.
Garment factories.
Workers producing clothes at extraordinary speed.
Coco stopped smiling.
Dior read the information carefully.
Neither spoke for some time.
Finally he said:
"How much?"
Coco examined a label.
"Five pounds."
"For a dress?"
"Apparently."
"Five pounds?"
"Yes."
"But the fabric alone..."
"I know."
"The cutting..."
"I know."
"The sewing..."
"I KNOW, CHRISTIAN!"
He stared at the photograph.
"How is that possible?"
Coco's expression hardened.
"Somebody, somewhere, is paying the difference."
They walked slowly along the display.
Dior looked troubled.
"Affordable clothing is not inherently wrong."
"Of course not."
"People deserve to dress well regardless of income."
"Absolutely."
"But clothing cannot be infinitely cheap without consequences."
Coco nodded.
"Here is the terrible irony."
"What?"
"We spent our lives trying to make women feel better through clothing."
"Now?"
"Some parts of the industry make clothes so disposable that neither the garments nor the people producing them are properly valued."
Dior examined a photograph of discarded textiles.
"Look at the waste."
"Extraordinary."
"Entire mountains of clothes."
"Some barely worn."
"Such extravagance."
"Such stupidity."
They stood before another image showing workers in a garment factory.
Coco looked closely.
"These women."
"What about them?"
"They are the ones making the clothes."
"Yes."
"Yet they are almost invisible."
Dior nodded.
"The fashion world celebrates the designer, the model, the celebrity and the brand."
"But rarely the person at the sewing machine."
He sighed.
"We knew the names of many people in our ateliers."
"Depended upon their skill."
"Every stitch mattered."
"Every seam."
"Every fitting."
"Every alteration."
Dior placed a hand against the glass.
"Perhaps the greatest tragedy is that the world has forgotten the value of making something properly."
Coco considered him.
"Not entirely."
She pointed towards a small display featuring contemporary designers working with recycled materials, traditional techniques and sustainable production.
"Look."
Dior smiled.
"Hope."
"Possibly."
"New generations."
"New ideas."
"New methods."
"Perhaps ," Coco added, "a return to the simple notion that a garment should survive more than three trips through a washing machine."
Dior laughed.
"You're incorrigible."
"Naturally."
Then she glanced at a photograph of a luxury handbag.
Its price was displayed beside it.
She stared.
"Christian."
"Yes?"
"Forty thousand pounds."
"For what?"
"A handbag."
He examined it.
"Interesting construction."
"It looks like a shopping bag."
"Perhaps the materials are exceptional."
"Perhaps it contains a small apartment in Paris."
"Luxury is about more than materials."
"Indeed. It is also apparently about finding people willing to pay forty thousand pounds for somewhere to keep their lipstick."
They both laughed.
But the laughter faded.
Because the contrast between a five-pound dress and a forty-thousand-pound handbag had revealed something neither could ignore.
Fashion had become an industry capable of extraordinary beauty.
And extraordinary absurdity.
Sometimes simultaneously.
Chapter Eight: Paris, Mon Amour
A large photograph of Paris illuminated the gallery.
The Seine.
The Eiffel Tower.
The grand boulevards.
The elegant façades.
The city that had shaped both their lives.
Coco approached it.
For once, her expression was gentle.
"Paris."
Dior stood beside her.
"Home."
They remained silent.
Then Coco spoke.
"Do you think she has changed?"
"Of course."
"For better?"
"In some ways."
"For worse?"
"In others."
"How diplomatic."
Dior smiled.
"Cities are living things, Coco."
"Paris is more than a city."
"Yes."
"She is an attitude."
"A history."
"A culture."
"A collection of contradictions."
"A beautiful woman who knows exactly how beautiful she is."
Dior laughed.
"And charges accordingly."
Coco smiled.
"Quite."
They considered the changes that had occurred since their lifetimes.
Paris was still a centre of haute couture.
Still home to legendary fashion houses.
Still attracting
designers,
artists,
craftspeople and dreamers from around the world.
But the business had changed.
Fashion houses had become global corporations.
Luxury had become an enormous international industry.
The relationship between French identity and international creativity had grown increasingly complex.
Dior spoke thoughtfully.
"Would our houses have survived without changing?"
"Probably not."
"Would we have approved of every change?"
"Certainly not."
"Then perhaps we should be careful."
Coco looked at him.
"Careful?"
"Not to confuse nostalgia with wisdom."
She smiled.
"Christian, darling, you are becoming annoyingly philosophical."
He continued.
"Paris has always changed. Artists have always arrived from elsewhere. New ideas have always challenged old traditions."
"Quite true."
"France has always argued about what it means to be French."
"Usually over lunch."
"Naturally."
Coco studied the photograph.
"But I worry about the loss of craftsmanship."
"So do I."
"The little workshops."
"The skilled hands."
"The apprentices."
"The knowledge passed from one generation to another."
"The independent designers."
"The small businesses."
Dior nodded.
"That is where much of fashion's soul resides."
Coco turned towards him.
"What of the great luxury companies?"
"They preserve many remarkable skills."
"Yes."
"Employ thousands of people."
"Yes."
"But they must also satisfy shareholders."
Coco sighed.
"Ah, shareholders."
Dior smiled.
"You sound disappointed."
"Christian, darling, there is nothing wrong with making money."
"Naturally."
"I made plenty."
"Indeed."
"But there is something rather vulgar about allowing money to become the only measure of success."
He nodded.
"Beauty cannot always be calculated on a balance sheet."
"Nor can imagination."
"Nor originality."
"Nor courage."
Coco looked again at Paris.
"Do you know what I miss?"
"What?"
"The excitement."
"Of what?"
"Of creating something nobody had seen before."
Dior smiled.
"That still happens."
"Does it?"
"Of course."
"Then perhaps Paris is not finished."
"Paris will never be finished."
Coco laughed.
"Neither will the French. They will still be arguing about it when the rest of the world has moved to Mars."
Chapter Nine: The Changing Shape of Womanhood
They entered a gallery devoted to fashion and identity.
Garments from different periods demonstrated how clothing had reflected changing expectations of gender, class, sexuality and beauty.
Coco examined a contemporary ensemble.
"Interesting."
Dior looked surprised.
"You approve?"
"I do."
"Why?"
"Freedom."
"Of movement?"
"Of choice."
She gestured towards the displays.
"Women can wear trousers,
dresses,
suits,
trainers,
evening gowns,
whatever they please."
"Within the expectations of their societies."
"Naturally. Freedom is rarely complete."
Dior examined a beautifully tailored trouser suit.
"Elegant."
"Very."
"Comfortable ."
"Even better."
He smiled.
"You have always been fond of trousers."
"Because women have legs, Christian. It seemed absurd that fashion should pretend otherwise."
They continued.
A display addressed the changing representation of bodies in fashion.
Different sizes.
Different ages.
Different identities.
Different expressions of beauty.
Dior considered the garments.
"Fashion is becoming more inclusive."
"In some ways."
"That is good."
"Certainly."
"But there are still narrow ideals."
"Of course."
Coco stopped before a photograph of a mature woman modelling contemporary clothing.
"Magnificent."
Dior nodded.
"She has presence."
"She has character."
"Experience."
"Confidence."
"Wrinkles."
He looked at her.
"Wrinkles?"
"Yes, Christian. Those extraordinary little marks that prove a person has actually lived."
He laughed.
"Not everybody wishes to display them."
"Then they may do as they please. But nobody should be made to feel ashamed of growing older."
Dior smiled.
"That is a rather generous philosophy."
"Do not spread it around. I have a reputation to maintain."
They passed another display.
A dramatic gown worn by a male performer.
Dior examined it.
"Beautifully constructed."
Coco nodded.
"Excellent shoulders."
"The embroidery."
"Superb."
He smiled.
"Would such a garment have surprised our contemporaries?"
"Some of them."
"And you?"
Coco considered.
"Christian, I spent my life challenging the rules of how women should dress. It would be rather hypocritical to insist that men must obey rules I found ridiculous."
Dior laughed.
"Quite."
She studied the gown again.
"Besides, if a man wishes to wear a magnificent dress, the least he can do is wear a magnificent one."
"Naturally."
"Bad tailoring is an offence regardless of gender."
They both nodded solemnly.
On this matter, there could be no disagreement.
Chapter Ten: The Ghosts of Their Own Past
It was approaching three in the morning.
They had wandered through centuries of fashion.
Argued about beauty.
Mocked celebrity.
Defended craftsmanship.
Questioned consumerism.
Nearly caused a supernatural incident involving a particularly unfortunate pair of designer shoes.
Now they found themselves before displays featuring their own work.
Coco approached a Chanel suit.
Dior stood before one of his gowns.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
The silence was unusual.
Almost alarming.
Finally Dior said:
"Do you ever wonder whether we were right?"
Coco turned.
"About what?"
"Everything."
She laughed softly.
"Good heavens, Christian.
What a question."
"We believed so passionately in our ideas."
"Naturally."
"We fought for them."
"Yes."
"We criticised one another."
"Frequently."
"And yet here we are."
"Dead?"
"Remembered."
Coco looked at the suit.
"That is a strange thing."
"What?"
"To see something you created outlive you."
Dior nodded.
"I remember the first time I saw a woman wearing one of my designs in the street."
"What did you feel?"
"Pride."
"Naturally."
"Fear."
"Fear?"
"That she might not be happy in it."
Coco smiled.
"That is the difference between a designer and a manufacturer."
He looked at her.
"Explain."
"A manufacturer worries whether the garment will sell."
"A designer?"
"Worries whether the person wearing it will feel extraordinary."
Dior smiled.
"Beautifully put."
"Thank you."
A pause.
Then Coco added:
"Although I also worried whether it would sell. I had bills to pay."
They laughed.
But Dior's expression soon became serious.
"We were not perfect, Coco."
"No."
"We made mistakes."
"Many."
"We could be cruel."
"Certainly."
"We were ambitious."
"Terribly."
"Sometimes our ambition came at a cost to others."
Coco looked away.
For a moment, the woman who had spent a lifetime constructing an image of invulnerability appeared strangely vulnerable.
History had not been equally kind to every part of her life.
Her wartime conduct and associations had become subjects of enduring scrutiny and controversy.
Dior, too, understood that fashion did not exist outside history, politics or the compromises of survival.
Neither could honestly claim that beauty excused everything.
"No," Coco said quietly. "We were not saints."
"Far from it."
"Perhaps that is something the modern world should remember."
"What?"
"That talent does not automatically make a person virtuous."
Dior nodded.
"Nor fame."
"Nor wealth."
"Nor influence."
"Nor beauty."
They stood together.
Two extraordinary talents.
Two complicated human beings.
Two legacies that continued to inspire admiration, argument and examination.
Then Coco broke the silence.
"Still, Christian."
"Yes?"
"My suit is rather lovely."
He laughed.
"Indeed it is."
"Your gown..."
"Yes?"
She hesitated.
"...is not entirely dreadful."
Dior clutched his chest.
"Mon Dieu! A compliment!"
"Don't make me regret it."
Chapter Eleven: The Girl With the Mop
At 3:15 a.m., a young cleaner entered the gallery.
Her name was Elsie.
She was twenty-three years old.
She worked nights at the museum, studied fashion design whenever she could afford the time, and lived in a tiny rented room with a sewing machine that sounded like an elderly tractor attempting to climb a mountain.
Her clothes were inexpensive.
Her trainers were worn.
Her cardigan had been repaired several times.
But her dress was extraordinary.
Not because it was expensive.
It wasn't.
Not because it carried a famous label.
It didn't.
Not because a celebrity had worn it.
Nobody famous had ever seen it.
It was extraordinary because it had been made with imagination.
The fabric came from discarded curtains.
The lining from an old silk blouse.
The buttons from a charity shop.
The design was entirely her own.
Coco noticed immediately.
"Christian."
"Yes?"
"Look."
He turned.
The young woman was pushing a cleaning trolley.
"At what?"
"The dress."
He examined it.
"Interesting."
"Very."
"The proportions are good."
"Excellent."
"The waistline."
"Beautifully judged."
"The movement."
"Natural."
"The fabric."
"Unexpected."
"The construction."
"Remarkable."
Coco smiled.
"Who designed it?"
They approached.
Elsie, unaware of their presence, was humming softly.
Coco leaned closer.
"She made it herself."
"How do you know?"
"Look at the stitching."
Dior examined it.
"Hand-finished."
"Yes."
"Carefully."
"Very."
"The fabric has been reused."
"Precisely."
They watched her work.
She paused before one of Dior's gowns.
Studied it.
Then took a small notebook from her pocket.
She began sketching.
Dior looked delighted.
"She understands the shape."
Coco nodded.
"She is not copying."
"No."
"She is learning."
"Exactly."
Elsie moved towards a Chanel display.
She studied the jacket.
Then sketched again.
This time she changed the proportions.
Altered the pockets.
Adjusted the sleeves.
Coco smiled.
"Cheeky little thing."
Dior laughed.
"She is improving your design."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Look."
Coco examined the sketch.
A long silence.
Then:
"Hmm."
Dior grinned.
"Hmm?"
"Not bad."
"Not bad?"
"Quite good."
"Quite good?"
"Oh, shut up, Christian."
Elsie closed her notebook.
She sighed.
"If only I could afford proper fabric."
Neither ghost spoke.
"If only somebody would give me a chance."
Dior looked at Coco.
Coco looked at Dior.
Something passed between them.
An understanding.
A recognition.
They had spent hours discussing the modern fashion industry.
Its wealth.
Its vanity.
Its celebrity.
Its excess.
Its contradictions.
Here, in the middle of the night, was a young woman who possessed the one thing neither money nor fame could guarantee.
Talent.
Real talent.
A love of making beautiful things.
Dior whispered:
"Perhaps we have been looking in the wrong places."
Coco nodded.
"Perhaps."
"The future of fashion..."
"...is not necessarily sitting in the front row of a fashion show."
"Or posing for photographs."
"Or counting followers."
"Or collecting sponsorships."
"Or appearing on television."
They watched Elsie return to her cleaning.
Dior smiled.
"Perhaps it is pushing a mop."
Coco laughed.
"Christian, darling, I think we have found our next collection."
Chapter Twelve: The Midnight Collection
Coco approached the young woman's notebook.
"Shall we?"
Dior looked surprised.
"Shall we what?"
"Help."
"How?"
She smiled.
"Christian. We are ghosts."
"Yes."
"We have spent the entire night walking through walls."
"Indeed."
"You are asking how we might interfere with a notebook?"
He considered this.
"Fair point."
Elsie placed her notebook on a nearby bench while she polished a display case.
A faint breeze passed through the gallery.
The pages fluttered.
One sketch changed.
Then another.
A sleeve became more elegant.
A collar more daring.
A skirt more fluid.
A jacket more beautifully balanced.
Elsie turned.
"That's odd."
She approached the notebook.
Looked at the drawings.
Frowned.
"I don't remember doing that."
Coco smiled.
Dior adjusted his scarf.
Elsie turned another page.
A new design appeared.
Then another.
Then another.
Her eyes widened.
"Bloody hell."
Coco looked delighted.
"A woman after my own heart."
Dior laughed.
Elsie sat down.
She began sketching furiously.
Ideas flowed.
Shapes emerged.
Colours suggested themselves.
Fabrics came to life in her imagination.
For the first time in months, she forgot her exhaustion.
Forgot her bills.
Forgot the rejection letters.
Forgot the people who had told her that the fashion industry was impossible to enter without money or connections.
She simply created.
Coco watched.
Dior watched.
For a brief, extraordinary moment, the two legendary designers were no longer concerned with their own reputations.
They were concerned with somebody else's future.
"She will need help," Dior said.
"Naturally."
"Money."
"Possibly."
"Training."
"Certainly."
"Opportunity."
"Absolutely."
"Also Luck."
Coco smiled.
"Christian, darling, luck is simply opportunity wearing a very convincing disguise."
He considered this.
"That is rather good."
"Naturally."
Chapter Thirteen: The Gift Shop Incident
At 4:30 a.m., Coco announced that they should leave.
Dior agreed.
They had seen enough.
Or so he thought.
Unfortunately, they passed the museum gift shop.
Coco stopped.
Stared.
And gasped.
"CHRISTIAN!"
He hurried over.
"What?"
"LOOK!"
She pointed towards a display.
Tote bags.
Mugs.
Scarves.
Notebooks.
Pencils.
Keyrings.
Fashion-themed souvenirs.
Coco picked up a mug bearing the image of a famous designer.
She examined it.
"Good heavens."
Dior smiled.
"A souvenir."
"A souvenir?"
"Yes."
"They have put a fashion designer on a coffee mug."
"Apparently."
She turned it over.
"Fourteen pounds!"
Dior laughed.
"Quite reasonable by modern standards."
"Reasonable? Christian, this is ceramic advertising!"
She examined a tote bag.
"THIS?"
"A shopping bag."
"With a famous name printed on it."
"Yes."
"Twenty-five pounds!"
"Perhaps it is well made."
"It is a rectangle with handles!"
Dior was laughing uncontrollably.
Coco marched around the shop.
"Look at this nonsense!"
A notebook.
A pencil case.
A tea towel.
A decorative plate.
She stopped before a particularly unfortunate souvenir scarf.
The colours clashed.
The pattern was chaotic.
The fabric looked suspiciously synthetic.
She held it up.
"Christian."
"Yes?"
"Who designed this?"
"I have no idea."
"Then somebody should be arrested."
He collapsed into laughter.
"You're being unreasonable."
"Unreasonable? I have spent the entire evening defending craftsmanship, and here we have a scarf that appears to have been designed by a drunken kaleidoscope!"
Dior wiped tears from his eyes.
"Perhaps somebody will buy it."
"That is what frightens me."
She looked around.
Then smiled.
A dangerous smile.
Dior recognised it immediately.
"Coco."
"Yes?"
"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing."
"Coco."
"Merely a small improvement."
"Coco!"
But she had already begun.
The scarves rearranged themselves.
The handbags shifted.
The mannequins turned.
The window display transformed.
Within minutes, the museum gift shop had become a miniature fashion salon.
Elegant.
Imaginative.
Beautifully arranged.
Utterly unlike anything the museum's merchandising department had planned.
Dior surveyed the result.
"Magnificent."
Coco smiled.
"Naturally."
Then she found a piece of card.
A pen.
Then wrote a message.
She placed it prominently in the window.
STYLE IS ETERNAL. BAD TASTE, UNFORTUNATELY, IS IMMORTAL.
Beneath it she added:
With affection,
COCO & CHRISTIAN
Dior examined the sign.
"Affection?"
"Don't be difficult."
He smiled.
"Very well."
Chapter Fourteen: The Final Fitting
Dawn approached.
Outside, the fog was beginning to lift.
The first buses rumbled through South Kensington.
London was waking.
The two designers stood near the museum entrance.
Coco adjusted her hat.
Dior straightened his scarf.
"Well," he said, "that was an interesting evening."
"Educational."
"Entertaining."
"Occasionally horrifying."
"Frequently."
They looked back towards the galleries.
"Do you think fashion will survive?" Dior asked.
Coco smiled.
"Of course."
"Despite everything?"
"Despite everything."
"Why?"
"Because human beings will always want to express themselves."
"Through clothing?"
"Through everything."
She continued.
"Some will dress to impress."
"Some to seduce."
"Some to rebel."
"Some to belong."
"Some to stand apart."
"Some to conceal."
"Some to reveal."
"Some to celebrate."
"Some simply because it is cold."
Dior laughed.
"Quite."
Coco looked towards
the city.
"Fashion will survive because imagination will survive."
"Beauty ?"
"Beauty too."
"Craftsmanship?"
"If people are wise enough to preserve it."
"Individuality ?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Whether people remember that being fashionable and having style are not necessarily the same thing."
Dior nodded.
They began walking towards the doors.
Then he stopped.
"Coco."
"Yes?"
"One final question."
"Go on."
"If you could return to the world of fashion today, what would you change?"
She considered this.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then:
"I would remind women that they are not obliged to become advertisements."
Dior smiled.
"Very good."
"You””?”
He thought.
"I would remind designers that their responsibility is not simply to create desire."
"What then?"
"To create something worthy of being desired."
Coco looked at him.
For once, there was no sarcastic reply.
Only a small smile.
"Christian."
"Yes?"
"That is rather beautiful."
He bowed.
"Merci, Mademoiselle."
They stepped through the museum doors.
Outside, the London fog swirled around them.
Their Rolls-Royce waited at the kerb.
The chauffeur opened the door.
Coco climbed in.
Dior followed.
"Where to?" asked the chauffeur.
Coco considered.
"Paris."
Dior smiled.
"Excellent."
"Via heaven."
"Naturally."
"And Christian?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think they have improved the uniforms of the angels?"
He laughed.
"I rather doubt it."
"Then we have work to do."
The Rolls-Royce disappeared into the fog.
Epilogue: The Morning After
At 7:15 a.m., the museum's head of security received an urgent telephone call.
"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"We have a problem."
"What sort of problem?"
"The gift shop."
"What about it?"
"Somebody has completely redesigned it."
A pause.
"Stolen anything?"
"No, sir."
"Broken anything?"
"No, sir."
"Then what's the problem?"
"Well, sir, the displays are magnificent."
"Magnificent?"
"Absolutely beautiful."
"Then why are you calling me?"
"Because the security cameras show two people entering the shop at approximately four-thirty this morning."
"And?"
"Well, sir..."
"Spit it out!"
"They appear to be Coco Chanel and Christian Dior."
A very long silence.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"That's what I thought, sir."
"Both dead."
"Yes, sir."
"For decades."
"Indeed, sir."
"Then clearly the cameras are faulty."
"Possibly, sir."
"Anything else?"
"Just one thing."
"What?"
"There's a handwritten sign in the window."
"What does it say?"
The security officer read it aloud.
STYLE IS ETERNAL. BAD TASTE, UNFORTUNATELY, IS IMMORTAL.
Another silence.
Then the head of security sighed.
"Well, at least somebody around here has a sense of humour."
He hung up.
Meanwhile, several floors above, Elsie was finishing her shift.
Her notebook lay open beside her.
She had drawn twenty-three new designs.
Each one more exciting than the last.
She smiled.
For the first time in years, she believed that her dream might actually come true.
Somewhere , far beyond the clouds, two French fashion legends were already arguing about the colour of the angels' wings.
"White, Christian? Always white?"
"It is traditional."
"It is boring."
"It is heavenly."
"It is unimaginative."
"What would you suggest?"
"Black."
"BLACK?"
"With pearls."
"COCO!"
"Perhaps a little gold."
"Mon Dieu!"
"But absolutely no polyester."
THE END
Or, as Coco might have said:
"Darling, fashion may fade, but stupidity never goes out of style."
💋🥂🇫🇷
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