The Paris Orphan
Page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Natasha Lester
Reading group guide copyright © 2019 by Natasha Lester
Excerpt from The Paris Seamstress copyright © 2018 by Natasha Lester
Cover design by FaceOut. Cover illustration by Elizabeth Turner Stokes. Cover photographs by Lee Avison. Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Originally published as The French Photographer in March 2019 by Hachette Australia
First U.S. edition: September 2019
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The quotation on page 1 by David E. Scherman: from the book Lee Miller’s War: Beyond D-Day by permission Palazzo Editions Limited and The Lee Miller Archive.
The quotation on page 49 by Martha Gellhorn: excerpts from The Face of War copyright © 1937, 1937, 1938, 1940, 1941, 1942, 1943, 1944, 1945, 1959, 1966, 1967, 1983, 1985, 1986, 1987, 1988 by Martha Gellhorn. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited.
The quotation on page 123 by Lee Miller: © Lee Miller Archives, England 2018. All rights reserved.
The quotation on page 245 by Susan Sontag: reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux: excerpt from On Photography by Susan Sontag. Copyright © 1977 by Susan Sontag.
The quotation on page 311 by Susan Sontag: reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux: excerpt from Regarding the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag. Copyright © 2003 by Susan Sontag.
The quotation on page 319 by Martha Gellhorn: excerpts from The Face of War copyright © 1937, 1937, 1938, 1940, 1941, 1942, 1943, 1944, 1945, 1959, 1966, 1967, 1983, 1985, 1986, 1987, 1988 by Martha Gellhorn. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited.
The quotation on page 347 by Susan Sontag: reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux: excerpt from Regarding the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag. Copyright © 2003 by Susan Sontag.
The quotation on page 347 by Audrey Withers: Audrey Withers / Vogue © The Condé Nast Publications Ltd.
The quotation on page 437 by Lee Miller: from the book Lee Miller’s War: Beyond D-Day by permission Palazzo Editions Limited and The Lee Miller Archive.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934399
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-6489-3 (trade paperback), 978-1-5387-6490-9 (ebook)
E3-20190731-DANF-ORI
E3-20190718-DANF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PART ONE: Jess One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
PART TWO: D’Arcy Seven
Eight
Nine
PART THREE: Jess Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
PART FOUR: D’Arcy Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
PART FIVE: Jess Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
PART SIX: D’Arcy Twenty-three
Twenty-four
PART SEVEN: Jess Twenty-five
Twenty-six
PART EIGHT: D’Arcy Twenty-seven
PART NINE: Jess Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
PART TEN: D’Arcy Thirty
PART ELEVEN: Dan Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
PART TWELVE: Victorine Thirty-four
Thirty-five
PART THIRTEEN: D’Arcy Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Author’s Note
Reading Group Guide Discussion Questions
Lee Miller: The Inspiration behind Jessica May
From Chateaux to Battlefields: Walking the Paths My Characters Tread
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover More
Praise
Other Books by Natasha Lester
To Rebecca Saunders, publisher extraordinaire, whose belief in me is the greatest gift any writer could have. Thank you.
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PART ONE
Jess
It is almost impossible today, almost fifty years later, to conceive how difficult it was for a woman correspondent to get beyond a rear-echelon military position, in other words to the front, where the action was.
—David E. Scherman,
Life magazine correspondent
One
NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 1942
Jessica May turned on her famous smile and raised her arm aloft, her movements as repetitive as those of the riveters and welders and all the other jobs women were doing these days. Except that she wasn’t in a factory and she wasn’t wearing overalls.
Instead, she stood on a white platform, backdropped by a brilliant autumnal sky, wearing a white silk dress, bridal in length. It was designed to cling to the front of her body—helped along by the fans blowing over her—and then billow behind her in the artificial breeze, goddess-like. A white cape tied at her neck rippled too, adding to the celestial effect. Two large American flags fluttered proudly beside her, and her outstretched arm made it appear as if she might declaim something important at any moment. But that was also part of the make-believe; since when did a model have anything momentous to say about patriotism and war?
Once upon a time she’d marched passionately in the streets of Paris protesting against fascism, first as its vile ideology swept through Spain, then as it turned Italy and Germany into grotesqueries. Now Jessica May was simply the figurehead of a ship. Or Toni Frissell, the photographer, would make her into one after the photograph had been cropped and manipulated in just the right way for the cover of Vogue, a cover that would be as galvanizing as everyone needed it to be in late 1942. Nobody would ever know that there was no ship, no water, no sea breeze, no goddess; just a few props in a field in upstate New York, beside a herd of cows with quizzical eyes chewing over the interruption to their ordinarily pastoral outlook.
Toni asked her to rearrange her face. To look solemn. To respect the flag and the men and her country and the fighting. Jess did as she was asked.
“Perfect,” Toni said soon after. “I don’t need any more.”
So Jess stepped off the platform, batting away the wardrobe assistant who wanted to help her down. She unhooked the cape and moved behind a screen where the assistant helped her change into the next outfit, a Claire McCardell bathing su
it made of black wool jersey with a very low-cut v-neckline and a row of brass hook-and-eye closures down the front.
This time, when Jess climbed onto the platform, she sat between the flags, pretending to dip her toes into the imaginary water that readers of Vogue would think lay just out of shot. She smiled and tipped her face up to the sun, leaning back on her elbows. A cow bellowed its approval and she laughed. Toni caught the shot at just the right moment.
Then a car drew up in a hurry on the dirt road alongside the field. Belinda Bower, Vogue editor and Jess’s friend, stepped out and picked her way across the field in a pencil skirt and heels, wobbling, but clearly determined not to appear as out of place as a tuxedo at the seaside. Toni lowered the camera and Jess straightened. Bel never interfered with photo shoots. Something was up.
Which Belinda confirmed moments later when she reached Jess and showed her a full-page Kotex advertisement in McCall’s. The words, It has women’s enthusiastic approval! were emblazoned across the top of the page. Underneath, Jessica May posed idly in an evening gown as if she hadn’t a care in the world, and especially not about the taboo subject of menstruation.
“Goddammit!” Jess said.
“Goddammit,” Bel agreed. “Shoot’s off,” she called to the makeup artists, the hairstylists, Toni’s assistant, and Toni.
Toni packed her camera away without asking any questions. But the eyes of everyone else remained fixed on Jess and Bel. There was no good reason to call off a shoot that everyone could see had been going exceptionally well. Unless Jessica May was in some kind of trouble. And that was both likely and a toothsome piece of gossip nobody wanted to miss.
“It had to be Emile,” Jess muttered as they walked across to the privacy of the cows. “He took that picture of me last year. He must have sold it to Kotex.”
“I thought so,” Bel replied. “I tried to get Condé to change his mind; hell, he wanted me to change his mind—you know he adores you—but we also know the advertisers would abandon us quicker than Joan Blondell can remove her clothes.”
Despite everything, Jess grinned at the quip. Then she sighed. Bel was right. None of Vogue’s advertisers would want their products appearing in the magazine that had the Kotex girl on the cover. Because the Kotex girl was what she’d be known as from now on. Even living with Emile out of wedlock wasn’t as great a sin as menstruation. “How long will I be on the blacklist?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Belinda said honestly. “It depends how long Kotex run the ad for. Condé hopes we can have you back modeling for us next year, but…”
“Until then, I should murder Emile and find some other way to pay the rent,” Jess finished.
“Condé still wants you at his party tonight. He won’t drop you for everything.”
Just my livelihood, Jess thought grimly. At the age of twenty-two and after almost three years, hundreds of outfits, countless lipstick re-applications, innumerable images of Jessica May in the pages of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar and Glamour and much fussing over her blonde hair, it was over. She would no longer perpetuate a fantasy that, despite the war, a world still existed in which a woman might buy a low-cut bathing suit and, on a trip to the seaside, meet a prince and fall in love.
“Besides,” Bel continued, pushing the nose of a cow away from her Mainbocher jacket with the same force she used when disposing of hapless interns, “now you’ll have time to take more pictures for me. And to write for me.”
“Will Condé agree to that?”
Bel eyed Jess, who was still wearing the bathing suit in which her cleavage was displayed so winningly. “Your by-line won’t be anywhere near as intimidating to advertisers as a full-page of Jessica May in the flesh and not much else.”
A peal of laughter rang from Jess’s mouth, so loudly that the team from the shoot all turned to look their way.
“Think about it,” Bel urged. “You know how much I loved the few pieces you’ve done for me.”
“I will,” Jess said. “But right now I need to change, go back to the city, and deal with Emile.”
“What will you say to him?” Bel asked as they walked over to the makeshift dressing room.
Jess unhooked the bathing suit, unconcerned that Belinda was with her, so used to undressing in front of people that it now seemed strange when she was alone in the apartment taking her clothes off without an audience. “Something I would have said to him six months ago had he not returned from the training camp missing two fingers,” she said bleakly.
* * *
Hours later, Jess swept through the Stork Club, past the ostentatiously large flower displays and voluptuous velvet drapes, her eye fixed on a booth she regularly occupied. She was brought up short by two men who wouldn’t move aside to let her through and she dealt with them the same way she always dealt with men who thought the face and body of Jessica-May-the-model was theirs for the groping. “You’ve left them there,” she said, indicating a spot on the floor.
As both men looked down, she shouldered her way past and called back to them, “Your eyeballs, I mean.”
Emile smiled at her when she reached the booth, a smile she’d once thought suave and sensual. As usual, he wore his hair slicked back, his suit just the right side of louche to allow him entry into the Stork Club. He pushed a Manhattan across to her as she slid into the seat opposite. She took the drink and, in return, pushed Bel’s copy of McCall’s over to him.
“I thought you’d be pleased.” His smile widened, as if he thought one of his signature grins was all it took to have her thank him for ruining her career.
“You knew I wouldn’t be. Otherwise you’d have told me.”
His smile stayed on. “You’re always saying I should start working again. I took your advice.”
They both looked at his right hand; at the remaining two fingers and thumb. Once upon a time, the handsome Frenchman, Emile Robard, had been one of the darlings of fashion photography, peer to Man Ray and Cecil Beaton, first in France and then in New York City, where he’d decamped in 1939 when war was declared. To where he and Jess had both decamped, to be precise—Jess might have been an American but she’d lived more than half her life in France with her parents, which is where she’d met Emile.
After arriving in New York, it took only a year for Emile Robard and Jessica May to become the darlings of both the scandal sheets and the social pages, the royalty of Greenwich Village artistes. A sought-after model and a French photographer, both, according to the press, blessed with enough beauty to lift any gathering to greatness.
That she’d shockingly dared to live with Emile, to be his mistress, was both titillating and thrilling to most Manhattanites whose values were far more conservative than their cosmopolitan facades implied. What she hated most about it was the word—mistress—implying she lived off Emile’s largesse. But her modeling career meant she had more than enough money of her own. In fact, over the last few months, he’d been the one burning through her money like packs of Lucky Strikes. He’d taught her photography, the press said—another lie, although he had bettered her skills. He’d ensured she was the face most loved by the fashion magazines—another untruth; she was perfectly capable of finding her own work and hadn’t had to attend a go-see for two years.
And then earlier in the year, having witnessed the glory surrounding photographers like Robert Capa and Edward Steichen who were taking pictures of war, Emile had decided he wanted some of that luster for himself. He’d cast off models and magazines and got himself assigned to an army training camp in Texas. Jess had been glad to have some time apart from him; the six months prior had seen Emile throwing himself at parties with the same passion he used to save for photography, and consuming whiskey as if it were air. It wasn’t a lifestyle that Jess desired, given that late nights were incompatible with a magazine-worthy face, and nor did she want to be the vapid party-girl whose only concern was locating a suitable sofa to pass out on at three in the morning. She’d hoped that Emile’s sudden urge to shoot trai
ning maneuvers would result in him finding inspiration in something other than late nights and drunkenness, but he got into an argument with a private at the camp and ended up being shot himself, losing two fingers in the process.
When he returned with a bandaged hand, Emile told Jess he’d been defending her honor, that the private had made lewd comments about a photograph of her naked back in a magazine. It was her fault he’d lost his fingers and could no longer hold a camera properly. So she’d stayed with Emile even though she wasn’t sure that she still loved him.
But now they were done. Jess could no longer go to work in the morning, leaving him in her apartment to drink whiskey all day, could no longer dance with him in the evenings with a model’s empty smile pasted on her face, could no longer help him home and to bed because he was too drunk to walk. Could not ignore the fact that he’d lined his pockets with Kotex money at her expense.
Jess sent the martini glass the same way as the magazine. “I meant that you should go out and take photographs. Not sell old pictures of me to Kotex to use for an ad you know will make me persona non grata in the modeling world. The only reason you can’t hold a camera steady is because you drink too much. Your hand would be fine with just a little practice.”
Emile finished his drink, then picked up hers and took a long swallow. “I did nothing wrong.”
Jess sighed. She had to say it. It’s over. She had to forget looking up at a jazz club in Paris and seeing this man smile rakishly at her, had to forget dancing with him into the early hours of the morning, had to forget doing that most romantic of all things: walking hand in hand through the streets of Paris as the sun came up, stopping to buy espresso, stopping to kiss. Had to forget that what she’d had with him was a kind of love; hedonistic, exciting, suited to that time in her life when she’d thought she might go mad because both her parents had just died and she had nobody. Except Emile.