All I needed was a comeback. They had run me out of France, but I could not be kept away from fashion. Living life in Switzerland with an old German officer was not for me. I was bored out of my mind and fashion needed women to rebel once again.
Men should not dress women. Need I repeat it? Their dresses were uncomfortable, forcing women into distressing corsets that restricted our lungs. There were women in those dresses, not plastic models. I had taken over men’s illogical styles once before, and I would do it again.
The fresh air of France washed me clean. I was in Paris once again to create the new Chanel style. It was 1953: the Germans had lost the war, and the Wertheimers had agreed to finance my new fashion house. I would be the head designer, of course, and rumors were being spread like wildfire all over the city.
“Chanel is returning to couture.”
“Mademoiselle Chanel is going to come back.”
I told reporters, “I still have two or three things to say.”
I had fitters, cutters, pattern makers, and seamstresses right at my disposal. The brilliant Manon Ligeour was directing my new atelier. She was my top choice, and she along with my other workers were bubbling with excitement to work under a designer like me.
I knew the new collection would need time after being away for so long. So for one year, I worked with silk, tweed, and chiffon. I stretched fabric onto models after looking at my flawlessly drawn designs.
As the day the designs would be presented was approaching, exhaustion was building up in my old bones, but I would not relent. I did not take breaks, if only to take a puff of my cigar or to look at the outfit from a different angle. In the mornings, my girls would spray Chanel Nº5 to grace my entrance into the fashion house. Everyone wanted to know what would become of this new collection. If women would lead fashion design once again. If Europe would forgive me for associating with the Germans.
Manon arrived at my door. “Madame?” She did not continue until I approved of her presence with a nod. “Madame, fifteen years away has fueled your designs. You have the appetite to start a fashion revolution.”
I leaned back in my chair. At Rue Cambon, my designs would be revealed for the first time, “Get back to work, Manon. This so-called revolution will wait for no one.”
Models in smocks were awaiting me. I grimaced with scissors in hand, thread draped around my neck, and a pile of pins nearby as I worked. During La Pose, adding all the finishing touches to the clothing, I tugged at the models, eyeing every imperfection.
Every detail mattered, so I did the final touches myself. Running my fingers over the over-stitching of jackets and laying on the floor to make sure hems were in place. My eyes were razor sharp, surveying every detail. The clothes had to fit with ease, look like God’s hand made them, and make every woman in them feel pretty.
Manon watched with me as the model easily slipped into the last outfit. “See, Manon, the more comfortable an outfit was to wear, the more elegant the woman who wore it is.”
The day at Rue Cambon arrived faster than me or my models could have expected, but we were prepared. I sat on a spiral staircase watching my models’ dresses swaying along the floor and eyeing the dead silent audience. My designs were stitched to pure perfection and weeks of my work ran along the walkway. Reporters from all over the world came to watch, and the atmosphere was one of a courtroom. Quiet enough to hear a needle drop, I sat at the edge of the steps asking the only question left; was it enough?
Two weeks had passed since the debut of my new collection. I sipped my tea, turning the page of Vogue magazine exhibiting the new Dior designs. “If you are here to bother me, go away!”
“Madame, it’s the news of the reception of the new collection,” Manon says as she appears in front of the doorway.
“Well?” I look up at her and await a response.
“It’s done well in America,” she says.
I close the magazine shut. “Does it look like I care about America? Tell me what the real people think.”
She eyes me nervously, “They hated the collection,” she spits out.
“Very well then,” I say. “Manon, this is only a roadblock. I will not give up. I refuse to.”
It took less than a year for fashion magazines to recognize the beauty of my work, but I did not let their late recognition stop me. I had been working on an even better collection. Dior had fallen back, designs by men were taking a hit and slowly people recognized that Chanel Couture was perfection, even after fifteen years. I would not be underestimated or spit on, no matter how hard they tried. I could hit big and I was going to show the world that women desired designs created by women, intended to be worn by women.
Maybe France would not forgive, but I refused to apologize. At the debut of my second comeback collection, I watched with vigor. Models walked down the runway and in my bones, I could feel the audience’s awe. My dresses were elegant and fitting. My dresses were breathable and fashionable, and this time I would not allow myself to be cheated. I knew I was going to get what I deserved; I was going to return fiercer than before. I took a puff of my cigar. I was amazing, after all; I was Coco Chanel.
The next morning, I sat tall in my hotel room, waiting until Manon came in with the news. There was a bottle of wine by the newest release of vogue on my table. Manon was out of breath from running up the hotel stairs to reach me. She read my face, waiting for approval, and I only smiled.
“You’ve done it, Madame.”
I took the wine bottle from the table. “Darling, I know.”