“Two, a son and a daughter.” She looked proud as she said it, and he smiled. “And you, Mr. Hirsch?” She was merely being polite as they waited for lunch, but Axelle looked very satisfied at the conversation. She liked him, and it was obvious that he was very taken with Zoya. “Do you have children too?”
“No,” he smiled and shook his head regretfully, “Never married, and no children. I haven't had time. I've been building a business for the past twenty years. Most of my relatives work for me. My father just retired last year, I think my mother has finally given up. I think she figures that if I haven't married at forty, there's not much hope left. She used to drive me crazy. I'm her only son, only child, and she wanted ten grandchildren or something like that.” Zoya smiled wistfully, remembering her earlier conversations with Mashka, talking about how many children they wanted. She had wanted six, and Mashka four or five, but neither of their lives had happened as they had expected.
“You'll probably marry in a few years and surprise her with quintuplets.”
Simon Hirsch pretended to choke on his wine, and then looked amused. “I'll have to tell her that, or maybe it'll just get her started again.” And then their meal arrived, delicate quenelles for Axelle, and quail for Zoya. He had ordered a steak, and apologized for his American palate. “‘Am I allowed to ask you ladies about your buying trip, or is that all very hush-hush?”’ Zoya smiled and glanced at Axelle who seemed very relaxed, and answered for her.
“I don't think we need have too many secrets from you, Mr. Hirsch, except perhaps about our coats.” They all laughed, and Zoya told him about some of what they'd bought, particularly the sweaters from Schiaparelli.
“That new pullover she's doing is sensational,” Zoya said, looking pleased. “And the shoes we ordered today at Dior are just lovely.”
“I'll have to come and see it all when it arrives. Did you buy any of Elsa's new Shocking Pink?” He had liked the color a lot and was planning to duplicate it in his line, and he wondered what Zoya thought of it.
“I'm not sure what I think of that yet. It's a little strong for some of our clients.”
“I think it's a great look.”
Zoya smiled, it was so odd to think of this rugged man, who looked more like a football player, discussing Elsa Schiaparelli's Shocking Pink, but there was no doubt that his coats were the best made in the States, and it was obvious he had an eye for fashion and color and he knew what he was doing. “My father was a tailor,” he explained, “and his father before him. And he started Hirsch and Co., with his two brothers on the Lower East Side. They made clothes and coats for the people they knew, and then someone on Seventh Avenue heard about them, and started ordering goods from them, and my father figured to hell with that,” he glanced apologetically at Zoya, who was too intrigued by the tale to care about his language, “he moved to Seventh Avenue, and opened a workroom there himself, and when I came into it I turned everything upside down, with something called fashion. We had some terrific fights over it, and when my uncles retired, I really got my hand into it, with English wools, and some colors that almost made my father cry. We got into ladies’ coats then, and well, for the last ten years we've done pretty much what I thought we should from the first. It's a good look, particularly now that Pop has retired and I'm bringing in new designs from Paris.”
“It's an interesting history, Mr. Hirsch,” Axelle said. It was the kind of story that had built the success of their adopted country. “Your coats are beautiful. We've done very well with them.”
“I'm happy to hear it.” He smiled, he was a man at ease in his own skin. He was enormously successful, and he had done it all almost single-handedly. “My father swore I'd ruin the business. It was a real vote of confidence when he retired last year, and now he pretends he's not interested anymore. But whenever I go out, my tailors and cutters tell me that he sneaks in and patrols the workrooms.” Zoya laughed at the image he created, and he turned to her again. “And you, Countess … sorry, Zoya … how did you get to Axelle's?”
