by Anne Weale
“You mean you do not want to be a model anymore?”
“Not for a while. I don’t want to attract attention. There will be enough publicity as it is when the London papers find out what has happened.”
Leonie pursed her lips contemplatively. “You English are so strange,” she said. “You are so much afraid to show what you feel. You say you have left Justin because you cannot keep the bargain. But the real reason you keep hidden inside yourself like a guilty secret.”
“What do you mean?”
Leonie leaned across the table and laid her hand on Andrea’s arm. Instead of cold contempt there was a wealth of understanding and compassion in her eyes.
“You love him, ma pauvre petite,” she said softly. “It is in your face and voice when you speak of him. It is the reason you are so thin and pale. That is why you cannot bear to stay with him; because, as you wanted money, now you ache for love. Have you told him this?”
“No, no. How could I? It would only embarrass him. He doesn’t believe in love. He doesn’t need it,” Andrea said wildly. “Don’t you see, that’s why I had to leave. I couldn’t go on living with him in case he might guess.”
“How do you know that he does not feel the same way? Perhaps he loves you and is afraid to say so. Men are great cowards when it comes to declaring what is in their hearts if it may not be acceptable.”
Andrea gave a bitter laugh.
“Justin isn’t afraid of anything,” she said dully. “He’s the most confident person I’ve ever known.”
“Have you thought what he will do now?” Leonie asked.
“I suppose he’ll ... divorce me,” Andrea said, a treacherous quiver in her voice.
“Perhaps. Or he may find you and make you go back with him.”
“How can he? He doesn’t know where I am, and if he did I wouldn’t go.”
“But, as you say, he is very confident, very strong and self-willed. It would not be difficult for him to find you. He can afford to pay a detective to discover where you are.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But he couldn’t force me to go back,” Andrea said uneasily.
“No? I think he could very easily do so if he wished,” Leonie replied dryly.
It was the first time that such a contingency had occurred to Andrea, and the more she thought about it, the more alarmingly possible it seemed. She could recall several instances in which Justin had shown a markedly possessive streak. No, “possessive” was not quite accurate. He did not need to be possessive because people and events always went as he wanted them to. Now that a decision had been taken out of his hands he might be very angry, angry enough to do as Leonie suggested. She had a swift vision of him finding her hiding place and taking her back to London, not because he wanted her, but because legally she belonged to him until he chose to let her go.
“Leonie, if he got in touch with you, promise me you would not tell him I am here,” she said anxiously, and then, as Leonie hesitated, “I don’t expect you to like me now that you know what I am, but do this one thing for me. Promise you won’t help him to find me if he should try to.”
Leonie patted her hand.
“Don’t distress yourself, cherie. I promise that I will not tell him you are here. Now, do you trust me enough to tell me where you are living in case of emergency? I do not like to think of you alone in Paris if something bad should happen, an accident perhaps—or who knows? Whatever has occurred between you and Justin, I am still your friend, you know.”
A little reluctantly Andrea gave her the address of the pension. It was not that she did not believe Leonie’s promise but that she was sure that, if Justin was determined to hunt her down, he would stop at nothing to gain that end.
“Are you sure you have enough money until you find work?” Leonie asked, noting the address in her diary.
“Yes, thank you. I can manage. I don’t deserve your kindness.”
Leonie waved her thanks aside. “Now I must hurry, but I will see you again very soon, and if I hear of a place for you I will let you know,” she said, rising. “Take care of yourself, petite, and do not think that the world is at an end because of this thing that has happened. Love is never a mistake. It is better to suffer in love than not to love at all.”
“Is it?” Andrea said forlornly.
“But certainly. Never to love is not to live if you are a woman.”
After they had said goodbye, Andrea stayed in the restaurant for lunch and then continued her search for work. But she had no luck either that day or the next, and while in London she could easily have found temporary work as a waitress or a theater usherette, in Paris her halting French precluded her from any jobs outside the limited field of the tourist shops.
Then, on the third day, Berthe Bollet came panting upstairs to tell her she was wanted on the telephone. Still nervous over Leonie’s warning about Justin, Andrea asked who was calling, and was relieved to find out that it was only Leonie.
“Andrea? I must talk to you at once. Non, non. Nothing to do with Justin,” the Frenchwoman assured her in reply to her anxious inquiry.
“Then what is it about?”
“I cannot explain it all on the telephone. Only that I am in great difficulty and it is possible that you can help me. Can I come to your hotel immediately?”
“Of course, if you think I can help.”
“I hope so. I will be there very soon. Au ’voir.”
Greatly puzzled by Leonie’s distracted tone, Andrea climbed the four flights of stairs to her room and finished dressing. While waiting for Leonie to arrive she counted her money and calculated that she had enough to last three more weeks at her present rate of expenditure. If she could not get a sales job in that time she might be forced to return to modeling.
Following Leonie’s suggestion that Justin might try to find her, she had bought copies of English newspapers to see if anything about her departure had reached the gossip columns. Apparently nothing had, and no doubt Justin was as anxious to avoid cheap publicity as she was.
When, less than fifteen minutes later, Leonie was shown upstairs by Monsieur Bollet, it took her a moment or two to recover her breath. Then she looked around the cheap room with arched eyebrows and said, “I do not like this place for you, Andrea. It is not at all comfortable and those stairs are terrible. However, we will discuss that another time. Now my first concern is to find if you will help me. First, what are your measurements?”
Completely mystified, Andrea told her.
“Tiens, such good fortune!” Leonie exclaimed delightedly. “Now I explain everything.”
Because she was so excited and flustered the explanation was very involved, and several times she lapsed into rapid French and had to repeat herself in English. But the gist of it was she and a number of other leading Paris hostesses had organized a charity ball with a cabaret in the form of a fashion parade.
Several couturiers were allowing their creations to be shown, but at the last moment one of the models had been taken ill and no suitable substitute could be found at short notice. According to Leonie the dresses that the sick girl was to have worn were the most beautiful of all, but their designer, an extremely temperamental man, refused to allow them to be modeled by anyone whose measurements and coloring did not correspond with those of his own model, on the ground that it would destroy the perfection of his work to the advantage of his rivals.
“What makes you think he would approve of me?” Andrea asked, when it was evident what Leonie had in mind.
“I have explained to him that you are a famous English model and very like his poor Germaine who is so sick. I am sure that when he sees you he will agree it is the only thing to do,” Leonie said confidently. “Do you say you will not help, ma cherie! You cannot imagine the anxiety I have had since that girl was carried to hospital.”
“But, Leonie, there is sure to be a report of the ball in the papers, and supposing they put in something about me? Of course I would like to help you, but I don’t want to r
isk anything that might bring Justin over here.”
“Surely it is a very small risk. I agree that these reporters are quick to sense something of interest, but there will be many distinguished guests and I think we can keep you incognito if you are so afraid.”
Andrea hesitated: torn between her desire to help Leonie out and her fear that it might result in an item headed “Financier’s Runaway Wife In Paris Dress Show” reaching the London gossip columns. For once her identity was discovered, the reason for her being in Paris was sure to be unearthed. At the same time all her professional instincts hankered for the chance to seize this excellent way of resuming her career. At last, after Leonie had exerted all her powers of persuasion, she agreed.
Andrea had expected to meet, if not actual antipathy, at least a certain degree of reserve among the other models taking part in the show. So she was relieved to find them friendly and helpful and very interested in the opportunities and working conditions in the London fashion world.
There were five other models—two from each of the three houses taking part—three of them French, one Italian and one Franco-Chinese girl with an exquisitely white skin and lambent almond eyes. Andrea’s co-model was a very tall French girl called Mignonne who confided that it was her ambition to work in America where she could earn a much higher salary and quickly save enough to retire from the hectic life of the haute couture cabines.
“Then I will no longer have to starve myself in order to keep this shape,” she said, laughing and patting her incredibly small waist.
As the time of their appearance approached, Andrea felt much less excited than she had expected and hoped to be. She had wanted this evening to make her forget, if only for an hour or two, the ache inside her.
But as she made up her face, her thoughts were far away from Paris.
“You are pale, cherie. You are nervous, yes? There is no need to be.” Mignonne patted her shoulders encouragingly, thinking that the English girl’s evident tension was caused by stage fright.
The parade was due to start at midnight, and a few minutes beforehand the couturiers came into the cabine to make sure that every detail of their creations was correct. Andrea’s first ensemble was an afternoon dress of raspberry-red printed mousseline de soie worn with an enormous white straw hat decorated with clusters of tiny artificial fruit.
When they had been inspected, the girls went down a staircase to a small salon leading into the ballroom. They could hear the orchestra playing and the hum of voices, and peeping through the heavy silk curtains screening the entrance, Andrea caught a glimpse of the glittering spectacle beyond.
Presently the music stopped, there was a brief pause to give the dancers time to return to their tables and then a fanfare of trumpets announced the beginning of the parade. The first model to appear gave a final twitch to her skirt, smoothed her gloves, lifted her chin and then, as a red light switched on above the entrance, she swept through the entrance and then it was Andrea’s turn.
As she stepped through the curtain and into the bright pool of the spotlight, she knew an instant of terror. But it was only momentary, and as she made her first pivot confidence flowed back. As coolly as if she were alone in the vast flower-banked room, she whirled across the polished floor, her skirt belling out around her slender legs. The rim of the spotlight glanced over the tables, catching the glint of diamonds and the flash of medals.
Then it was over and she was back in the salon and flying up the stairs to change into a narrow side-slit tunic of caramel crepe de chine with a gold lame turban.
There was a ripple of applause as she made her second entrance, and this time she scanned the tables for Leonie and Jacques but was unable to see them.
Her third and final appearance was in a dress that was calculated to steal the show, an immense crinoline of ice-white satin embroidered with garlands of crystal beads and silver paillettes and confined at the waist by a deep sash of vivid emerald satin falling in two long streamers behind. This time the applause was vigorous and prolonged, a deserved tribute to the splendor of the gown.
But as she reached the orchestra dais and was about to turn, her step faltered, and forgetting the hundreds of eyes on her she stood in frozen stillness, her anguished gaze held by the tall dark man who sat at the nearest table. For perhaps thirty seconds the spotlight fell on them both and the clapping gave place to a murmur of speculation as the audience realized that here was something unrehearsed. Then, with what those nearby could see was a tremendous effort, Andrea finished her turn and walked swiftly, too swiftly, from the floor.
Once behind the curtains, she fled up the stairs to the dressing room, stripping off her gloves and jewels with feverish haste and begging the startled dresser to help her out of the crinoline at once. She did not care what the designer would say or what effect the incident might have upon her future career. All she knew was that Justin was here in this building and that she had to get away before he found her.
She was dimly aware that the other models were silent, staring at her in fascinated astonishment as she dragged her street dress over her head and searched agitatedly for the missing belt. It seemed an eternity before she found all her belongings, and every second she expected a rap at the door.
Then without warning the door opened and her heart lurched wildly, but it was only Mignonne returning from the ballroom. She had made her entrance a few seconds before Andrea saw Justin and so knew what had happened.
“You are going? But what has happened? Who is this man who makes you stand still?” she cried excitedly, seeing Andrea fumbling with the buttons of her coat.
“Oh, please, I can’t explain. I must get out of here,” Andrea said urgently.
“But you cannot go like this. There is to be a party and—”
“I’m sorry, I must. Goodbye.”
Before anyone could stop her, Andrea snatched up her hat and bag and slipped quickly out of the door and along the corridor away from the salon staircase. There was a service stairway at the other end and with luck she might be able to leave by a back entrance.
A few minutes later she was out in the street and hailing an approaching taxi. Temporarily safe from pursuit, she sank back against the worn leather seat and expelled a long breath of relief. At first she was angry with Leonie for betraying her confidence—what else could account for Justin’s presence at the ball? But on thinking it over she realized she had been foolish to admit the truth to the Frenchwoman. No doubt Leonie had thought she could bring about a reconciliation and that the means would be justified by the end.
Presently she tapped on the glass panel and asked the driver to stop. Walking would help her to think out what she could do next. One thing was certain. She could not go back to the pension for some time, as Leonie would almost certainly have given Justin the address and, finding her gone, he would be bound to start looking for her there. Supposing he persuaded the Bollets to hand over her luggage? Most of her remaining money was in her suitcase and the little she had in her purse would barely pay for a night’s lodging. It was already nearly one o’clock, and even in Paris hoteliers might look askance at an unaccompanied Englishwoman arriving at such an hour.
Finally she decided that, even at the risk of walking into Justin, she would have to go back to the pension. There were fewer cabs around in this part of the city, and by the time she found one she was close to tears from tiredness and stress.
The hall light was still on in the little hotel and Monsieur Bollet was asleep at the reception desk. Wondering if he was waiting up for her, Andrea crept past him and felt her way cautiously up the narrow staircase. At the foot of the topmost flight she paused to see if a light was showing beneath the door of her room, but all was silence and darkness. She fumbled for her key, opened the door and drew in a terrified breath as a dark shape rose from the chair by the window.
“Good morning.” Justin switched on the light. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, but I thought that if you knew I was here you might run aw
ay again.”
Andrea swallowed hard. “What do you want?” she said unsteadily.
“To talk to you.”
She moved across to the bed and grasped the brass rail. “There’s nothing to say. Leonie had no right to tell you I was here.”
Behind her Justin closed the door.
“She did as she thought best,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t our intention to upset you during the show.”
Andrea’s hands tightened till her knuckles showed white.
“I’m very tired. Please say what you have to and then go.”
“Do you hate me so much?” he asked softly.
“I never said I hated you.”
“Then why did you run away tonight?”
She made an impatient movement. “Isn’t that obvious? Our ... our marriage is over. There’s no point in having a postmortem.”
“There might be. Are you so sure you know why it failed?”
She swung around to face him, her face white and strained with repressed anger.
“You can hound me all over Europe, but you’ll never make me change my mind,” she said furiously. “I told you in my letter why I was leaving. I said I was sorry. Why don’t you accept the fact that we made a terrible mistake? Or I did. I thought that money was all that mattered in life, so I sold myself to you. It took me quite a time to learn that money can’t buy anything that really matters.”
Her voice broke, and she turned away again to hide the treacherous quiver of her mouth, the pain that must show in her eyes.
“Do you really believe that?” he asked. “That I bought you?”
“Why not? It’s the truth. At least you were honest. You never pretended. I thought I was being honest, too, but I didn’t know myself then.”
“And you do now?”
“I know that if I were starving I could never go back to that ... that empty life,” she said vehemently. “Oh, why couldn’t you have left me alone? It’s over. Finished.”
