Authors: Barbara Taylor Bradford
Christina also discovered that she had a good head for business, something she had not hitherto realized she possessed, and this too played a large role in her rise to stardom in the world of
haute couture
.
Even so, perhaps her greatest strength was her gift for translating art into fashion, in the form of the exquisite, elaborately painted evening gowns and coats and jackets which were to become her lasting trademark, and which would forever be in demand throughout her career.
Jane said to her one afternoon, ‘Fortuny became renowned for his pleated silk Delphos gowns, Chanel for her cardigan suits, Dior for his New Look, and Balenciaga for his perfect cutting.
You
are going to be known for your translation of art into couture, for your incredible paintings on silk. Those gowns will soon become classics, just like Poiret’s beaded evening gowns. People are going
to keep your dresses for years and years to come, Christie my pet.’
Christina accepted this compliment from her friend and partner, knowing that she was speaking from the heart. Then she suddenly broke into laughter and exclaimed, ‘I shall also be remembered for my ability to work eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, for weeks and weeks and weeks on end.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Jane admitted, grinning at her. ‘You
have
worked like a galley slave these last few months, but let’s face it, the effort was worth it. We’re inundated with orders—’ Jane gave Christina an amused look, then went on, ‘When I told Mummy you were toiling in the salt mines these days, she said that surely I must mean the gold mines! And listen, talking of the orders piling up, shouldn’t we do something about finding another seamstress?’
Christina nodded. ‘Yes, and the word is already out. Elise and Germaine are asking around amongst their friends in the French community, and I’m sure they’ll dig somebody up pretty quickly.’
‘I hope they do, otherwise
we’ll
be the ones sitting at the sewing machines making the underslips for the dresses, not to mention the hand sewing. Which would be all we need after painting the damn things!’
Christina said, ‘Listen, I’m very grateful to you for helping with those mandarin sleeves on the two chiffons for Mrs Bolton. Thanks, Janey.’ She eyed her friend with amusement. ‘You’ve got pink paint all over your nose… still, you really do do the best butterflies in town.’
Jane giggled, felt her nose. ‘I’ll wash the paint off in a minute; anyway, I’m glad to be of assistance, Christie. I just wish I could do more in the business for you. I’m merely puttering around, helping with bits and pieces,
not making much of a contribution. I feel sort of useless to you most of the time…’ Her voice trailed off and she stared at Christina helplessly.
‘Don’t be so silly, you’re invaluable, Jane! You work on the accounts, do a bit of everything really, and furthermore, without you there would be no business. Don’t let’s forget your five thousand pounds.’
‘It’s a good investment, Crowther. Aren’t I the shrewd one, backing
you
.’ Jane rolled her eyes, then reached for the coffee pot. ‘Do you want another cup or shall I dump this?’
‘Ugh, no more for me, I’m swimming in it, thanks.’
Jane went to empty the coffee pot in the small kitchen adjoining the office, whistling under her breath.
Christina leapt to her feet, stretched and walked over to the window, stood looking out into the back yard behind ‘the factory’, as she called their premises. She had found these in August, not long after graduating from the Painting School of the Royal College of Art. Previously a greengrocer’s shop and living quarters, the building was located at the far end of the King’s Road, and, apart from its reasonable rent, she considered it to be perfect for her needs for several reasons.
There was a great deal of natural light coming in through the windows, which was essential for the painting of the fabrics and the sewing of the garments; then again, the space was more than adequate, even allowed for growth, since the living quarters attached offered plenty of room for additional staff if and when they were required.
The shop part, where vegetables had been sold until very recently, had been transformed into a small reception area. Here clients could wait to be measured and fitted. Christina and Jane had painted all of the interiors white,
except for the reception area; they had used soft pearl-grey paint on the walls here and had hung a café curtain of grey watered silk across the window fronting onto the street. It prevented pedestrians from looking inside, offered a degree of privacy to the waiting clients. Dulcie had given them an oriental rug, several chairs, a table and a lamp, all cast-offs from Hadley Court, and with the addition of a couple of potted plants and some of their own drawings on the walls, the girls had created a cheerful decorative effect.
The living room behind the shop had been turned into a general office; upstairs, one bedroom had become the sewing room, a second smaller bedroom was the fitting room, while the third and largest bedroom was the studio where Christina worked. It was here that she painted the fabrics for the evening clothes, and where Jane and a couple of their former classmates helped her out at times by painting sleeves. Since the major art work on the gowns and coats was signed by Christina she would permit no one else to do this.
Now, as she stood staring out of the window on this grey March afternoon in 1955, the hand-painted fabrics were very much on her mind. She swung to face Jane and said, ‘Listen, I know we’re making a great deal of money with the evening clothes, but I do think I have to start designing other garments and expand the line.’
‘I’ve been expecting you to say that… the painting is very time-consuming, Christie. I think you
must
always make the hand-painted clothes, they are your trademark after all, but perhaps you can cut down on them a little.’
‘Yes, and I’ll start designing the tailored suits and dresses your mother admires so much… she’s a good judge of what will sell, Janey.’
‘That’s true, and talking of my mama, I had better love
you and leave you,’ Jane murmured, rising to her feet. ‘She’ll be cross if I’m late for my appointment with her and Gregory Joynson, and I do have to dash home and change first. So, Crowther, aren’t you going to wish me luck?’
‘Of course I am, and I know he’ll like your preliminary costume designs… they are out of this world.’
Jane gave her a sly wink as she picked up her handbag and coat. ‘It’s a good job the star likes them, isn’t it? Thank God for my mother, the actress, who is such an advocate of nepotism.’ Pausing at the door, Jane added, ‘And don’t stay here burning the midnight oil, Crowther, you’re starting to look tired.’
‘No, I won’t. See you back at Walton Street later.’
Once she was alone, Christina went upstairs and turned on all of the powerful overhead lights which she had had installed in the big studio so that she could work at night. She looked at the fabric she had finished painting that morning and nodded her head in satisfaction.
The painting was of white calla lilies on black chiffon, and she had worked on the large piece of fabric before she had started to design the actual dress. This she planned to do tomorrow, and she would design and cut the dress to fit the painted motif. She often adopted this method; other times, she would create the style of the dress or gown or coat, make the
toile
, cut the front and back panels, and then paint her flowers within the framework of the garment. She never limited herself, always left herself open to her art, and in a sense she let the art dictate the style of the piece of clothing. For this reason none of her hand-painted clothes were ever alike.
Christina checked several other fabrics, then returned to her office downstairs, where she seated herself at her desk. Pulling a piece of writing paper towards her, she
started a letter to her parents. She always wrote to them once a week, and phoned every Sunday without fail, and her weekly letter was due today.
She sighed to herself as she filled the pages with lies… lies about the paintings she was selling… lies about her social activities… lies about her life in general. She had to invent because she had no personal life at all at the moment, and no boyfriend either, since she had quarrelled violently with Rob Petrie. He had been put out with her for ages, because she spent most of her days and nights working, and their relationship had been terminated by him just after Christmas. Oh well, Christina thought, I don’t really have time for men at this juncture in my life. I’m far too busy carving out a career for myself.
Putting her elbows on the desk, resting her head on her hand, Christina racked her brains for something exciting to make up, to recount to her mother. Audra so loved hearing about her dazzling social life with Jane and the Sedgewicks and the other celebrated people she met at their parties.
Leaning back in the chair, she put down the pen, thinking suddenly of Dulcie Manville. What a good friend she had been to her, and how sweet she had been to her parents when they had come to London for her graduation. Jane had moved out of the Walton Street flat, had gone back to her parents’ Mayfair home for a few days, so that Vincent and Audra could stay with her. They had enjoyed being with her, and their trip had been an enormous success all around.
The Sedgewicks had given a party for Jane and her, to celebrate their graduation. Dulcie had seemed taken aback when she had met her father, and now Christina smiled to herself as she remembered Dulcie’s reaction.
She had taken her to one side, and remarked, ‘You might have told me your father looked like Robert Taylor, Christie. My goodness, if he were an actor his face would be his fortune, my dear.’ Later that evening when she had repeated the comment to her parents, her father had looked tickled to death but her mother had seemed put out, even irritated; she had known then that her mother was terribly jealous of Vincent.
Those two, Christina muttered under her breath, reaching for the pen again. I’m always on a roller coaster ride with them; they’re either at each other’s throats or in each other’s arms. She thought of her parents with a sudden rush of warmth and affection. She loved them both very much, and she had always tried to walk a line between them, doing a balancing act in a sense, endeavouring not to take sides, not wishing to hurt either one. And I think I’ve succeeded, she added to herself, as she attempted to finish her letter of lies. But they’re only white lies, she thought.
It was nine o’clock when Christina finally left ‘the factory’ and headed up the King’s Road towards Sloane Square. Her thoughts still lingered on her mother as she walked along at a brisk pace. She had managed to convince Audra not to send any more money, by vehemently insisting her work was now selling well. But what troubled Christina was that Audra was still working at Leeds Infirmary. ‘She won’t listen to me, lass,’ her father had said when she had tackled him about it during the Christmas holidays. ‘Your mother’s always had a mind of her own, and I’d be the last one to make her change it.’ Audra had not listened to her either, and she had eventually let the matter drop, hoping that her mother would decide to retire from nursing soon.
Well, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing she is
keeping the money she earns for herself, Christina thought, dropping the letter in the box at the Post Office in Sloane Square. It’s a huge relief to know she’s no longer working simply to support me.
Ever since she had given up her art, Christina had not thought too much about this move. As far as she was concerned, her decision was irrevocable, and she religiously refused to dwell on her disappointment, nor did she harbour any regrets. Carving a niche for herself in the world of high fashion, and in a big, big way, had now become the most powerful motivating force in her life. Christina believed that only by making money, vast amounts of it, could she repay her immense debt to her mother by surrounding her with comfort and every luxury imaginable. And she hoped soon to be able to do this; she could not wait for the day.
Now, as she hurried along Sloane Street, tightening her headscarf against the March wind, Christina thought of the large order for clothes she had received from the actress Miranda Fowler. The star was leaving in three months for New York, where she was to appear in a Broadway play, and had asked Christina to make as many evening clothes as she could for her.
However will I get them finished in time, Christina wondered, as she let herself into the flat in Walton Street. And over a sandwich and a glass of milk she started to make notes that night, focusing on the designs with her usual concentration.
***
In the next few days it seemed to Christina that inspiration dwelt in her fingertips.
Her sketch pad was soon overflowing with the first early sketches for the Miranda Fowler wardrobe and ideas flowed out of her without cease as she visualized the
clothes in her fertile imagination. Forms, shapes, styles, colours, flower formations, fabrics, embroideries… all jostled for prominence in her head. Within ten days she had edited her initial ideas and sketches, selected her favourites, completed the drawings and started to pick the materials she would use.
For several days chiffons, silks, satins, brocades, crêpes and georgettes swirled around her in a dizzying array of colours. Slowly these, too, were edited down until she had settled on silk, chiffon and georgette for the evening dresses, heavy satin for evening pyjamas and a long evening coat, brocade for two jackets to wear with silk pants.
When the actress came to have her measurements taken she was delighted with the drawings and fabrics; Christina explained that if she was to create a full wardrobe of evening clothes for her not all of them could be hand-painted. The new client said this was acceptable.
Christina worked around the clock, whilst the two French seamstresses sewed like demons to finish the wardrobe for the celebrated musical comedy star. Several weeks after she had started work on the clothes, Christina hired another Frenchwoman, a friend of Germaine’s, called Lucie James. Lucie came highly recommended; apart from being an excellent needlewoman she had a fine reputation as a cutter, and had worked at the Balenciaga salon before the war and her marriage to an Englishman in 1938. Lucie had previously been working for Mr Michael, the couturier with a salon in Carlos Place. It did not take Christina long to realize that she had a real find in Lucie. She knew Lucie would take some of the burdens of cutting the garments off her back, which meant she could devote herself to the painting.