The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  DEDICATION

  To Blair

  EPIGRAPH

  On ne naît pas femme: on le devient

  One is not born a woman, but becomes one

  Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Book One: La Débutante: The Beginner

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Book Two: Le Mannequin: The Model

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Book Three: La Femme: The Woman

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Sydney, 1 September 1922

  If anyone had asked her who she was, the woman would have been unable to tell them. Nor could she have determined whether it was night or day. She existed in another realm, one in which identity had been extinguished and time itself was marked solely by the ebb and flow of relentless, inner waves.

  She glimpsed faces stilled by concentration; they meant nothing to her. She was in a jurisdiction of her own. Her mind, her very being, was fixed upon a single resolution. No matter the hour, nor the exquisite agony, she would continue until her child was born — healthy, safe, whole.

  At last, her body surrendered its possession. Only then did she experience a sweet release. Happiness was her narcotic; she felt intoxicated with pleasure and relief.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ a voice said. ‘What a pretty little thing.’

  Then another voice, more urgent. ‘My God, come quickly. I need help!’

  That was when the woman raised her head. She saw that she was in a place of soft, tumbling snow and swansdown, for everything was white. It was the colour of the walls, the nurses’ uniforms, the doctor’s coat, the towels, the linen on the bed. But as she looked about her, this impression changed. Her bleached world had become a pale sky at sunrise, one that was now streaked with red.

  The woman heard her baby cry then. Just once, but it was enough. She closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Let all be well.’ It was her most fervent hope.

  BOOK ONE

  La Débutante

  The Beginner

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paris, December 1948

  Grace Woods danced out of the Paris Metro with a buoyant step and visions of an enticing future whirling through her mind.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. Having been in Paris for just three days, she still found the icy air a shock — Grace had never felt its knife-like penetration in Australia.

  Home signified heat and a pure, brilliant light; lofty cobalt skies; the sharp, sweet smell of eucalypts; the shrill cries of milky cockatoos, vibrant rosellas and rainbow-coloured lorikeets. Here, on wintry avenue Montaigne, everything she gazed upon — the charming townhouses, the bare trees, the boutiques and cafés — was veiled by a pearly luminescence as captivating as it was strange.

  Even less familiar was the version of herself Grace spied in the glass of a shop window. As she moved backwards and forwards, her image blurred, then rippled into focus once again. She was satisfied that her dark curls remained swept into their neat chignon, her crimson lipstick was intact and her emerald eyes were clear, but still she felt a faint eddy of concern. Her navy-blue dress, with its long, pointed collar and cinched waist, was the product of a Sydney dressmaker’s labours. Would it withstand the scrutiny of a connoisseur?

  Drawing closer, Grace considered her appearance once again. Yes, she was certain. The frock bore sufficient resemblance to a Paris original so that with the addition of a new black hat — the azure feather had been added on a whim — it would surely pass as chic. She gave her reflection a happy nod and continued on her way.

  Striding along the pavement, Grace passed a restaurant with a stand outside its door displaying succulent Belon oysters arrayed on frosty beds of ice, a florist with bunches of soft-pink anemones in the window, and a small art gallery exhibiting tender pastels of ballerinas. Then, quite suddenly, there before her eyes was an unobtrusive nameplate on a pale grey stone façade. At last she had arrived at her famous destination.

  Grace yearned to know what marvels she might find inside. She peered up, blinking in the early morning light, but saw only the carved bust of an ancient goddess set above the entrance, rows of tall mullioned windows and a line of balconies encircled by delicate fronds of curling black wrought iron. Number 30 avenue Montaigne was an edifice that emanated discretion; it gave no secrets away.

  Unwilling to wait a moment longer, Grace skipped towards the distinguished, frock-coated gentleman stationed outside the front door. He was a man of perhaps forty-five, with steel-grey hair, an aquiline nose and the dignity of a royal courtier.

  ‘Bonjour!’ she called out cheerfully. ‘Je suis le nouveau mannequin d’Australie.’

  ‘Oui?’ This brusque response was accompanied by a single raised eyebrow.

  Undaunted by the man’s hauteur, Grace snapped open her suede handbag and produced a printed card. ‘I have an appointment with Madame Raymonde Zernacker. Could you take me to her, please?’

  ‘Of course, mademoiselle. Follow me.’

  Grace was led beneath a scalloped awning, through an archway and into a large room. Then she stopped.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ the doorman inquired with a slight frown.

  ‘Not at all. It’s just . . . Oh, monsieur, it’s glorious.’

  Grace stared with wide-eyed admiration at the crystal chandeliers above her, their arrows of glittering light falling on gilded mirrors and doors glazed with bevelled squares of glass. She took in the lush kentia palms that emerged from brass urns, curtains hanging in lustrous silvery folds, and a group of white-lacquer, medallion-backed Louis XVI chairs of such refined proportions Grace concluded they had surely been designed for the exclusive accommodation of that category of woman who could only be described as soignée.

  Perhaps most appealing of all were the spectacular arrangements of flowers: an abundance of white r
oses, hyacinths and lilies of the valley spilled from cut-crystal vases artfully placed on marble-topped tables. The blooms’ intoxicating fragrance accompanied Grace long after she had left the enchanting room behind.

  She stayed close to the concierge’s measured footsteps as he climbed a set of winding stairs then walked down a narrow corridor. When he reached a door painted a delicate grey, he knocked sharply with a white-gloved hand, inclined his head towards Grace and was gone.

  ‘Entrez.’ It was a woman’s voice, firm and, from the sound of it, belonging to someone long accustomed to occupying a position of authority. Grace’s heart skipped a beat. For the first time, her self-belief threatened to dissolve. She felt ridiculous, an impossibly foolish impostor with — what had her unhappy husband said? — a head filled with nonsense.

  Willing her anxiety away, she told herself not to be absurd. There was too much at stake to succumb to doubt now. Grace straightened her shoulders, opened the door and stepped inside.

  The woman who greeted her was impeccable. Dressed in a swirling, calf-length black skirt and fitted burgundy jacket, she walked briskly towards her and extended one manicured hand. ‘You are Mademoiselle Grace Dubois, are you not?’ Without waiting for a response she continued, ‘Everyone in the maison calls me Madame Raymonde. I invite you to do the same.’

  Grace was then instructed to stay where she was as the woman circled her. She felt acutely aware that madame’s enigmatic blue eyes were scrutinising her shape, her hair, the cut of her dress (its modest provenance, Grace now realised, was impossible to hide), her hat with its feather (had it been the right decision after all?), her shoes, her gloves — in fact, every detail of her appearance.

  At last, Madame Raymonde spoke. ‘Yes, you are tall and slim. Your deportment is commendable and your face — it is certainly striking.’ She stood back, regarding Grace from a different angle. ‘Naturally, these attributes are essential, although if you did not possess a unique quality we would never have extended our invitation. No, you display a special vitality that makes you different to our French girls. Just the same, I wonder if you have sufficient . . .’

  ‘Élan?’ asked Grace with a quick laugh. ‘Sophistication? Panache? I can’t blame you for wondering whether an Australian country girl has what it takes to become a Parisian mannequin,’ she said. ‘You’re probably imagining me in a paddock, rounding up some sheep or out riding on a wild horse. But I promise you, madame, you will find that I am just as comfortable — and as effective — when I’m modelling a ball gown.’

  A wave of the older woman’s hand indicated she had heard enough. ‘Mademoiselle, what is under discussion is a challenging and difficult role. You must show off the most desirable clothes in the world to its richest, most glamorous and most demanding inhabitants. There are few young women, as lovely and poised as they might be, who can remain undaunted by such a task.’

  Grace wondered whether her confidence had appeared excessive.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Madame Raymonde smiled for the first time, ‘now that I have had the opportunity to observe you, I am prepared to set aside these reservations.’

  She kissed Grace lightly on both cheeks.

  ‘Welcome to the House of Christian Dior,’ she said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Brookfield, NSW, August 1934

  Sunset was Grace’s favourite time of day. As she cantered on her chestnut pony, Illyria, across the wide paddocks of her parents’ vast Australian property, the sky above looked as if it had been painted gold and red by an angel wielding an enormous brush. What made the experience even better was that her father, with his broad felt hat set firmly on his head and a gleaming rifle slung around his back, rode beside her on his black stallion.

  ‘Tell me about great-grandfather George,’ she called out to him, slowing her pony.

  ‘What, again?’ her father asked, pulling up his powerful horse so it matched Illyria’s pace.

  ‘Please!’

  She listened avidly as Alfred Woods related the familiar tale of his intrepid forebear. Due to being a younger son, he’d been obliged to leave his father’s flourishing Dorset farmland in England, board a sailing ship and cross the seas to seek his fortune in Australia.

  ‘I’m going adventuring far away one day, just like Grandad,’ Grace declared.

  ‘Perhaps you will.’ Alfred smiled. ‘But I think George missed his home — that’s why he named the farm Brookfield. After all, there aren’t any bubbling streams or neat little fields here, are there?’

  ‘No, we’ve got billabongs and a creek and heaps and heaps of wheat!’ Grace giggled. She screwed her eyes up, focusing on the heavy yellow crop that grew all the way to the horizon, where the bright blue sky pressed down in an unforgiving line.

  ‘And don’t forget the sheep,’ Alfred added. Over to the west, where the land was more undulating and the occasional clump of spindly eucalypts dotted the paddocks, grazed thousands of the woolly beasts. ‘Speaking of which, I had better stop at the next waterhole. The foreman said there’s a ewe we need to keep an eye on.’

  ‘I’ll race you,’ Grace said with a grin.

  With a touch of her heels to Illyria’s withers, the pony surged forward. Grace couldn’t think of anything more exciting than galloping over Brookfield’s paddocks with the wind streaming past her cheeks and the sound of hooves thudding in her ears.

  ‘Beat you!’ she cried triumphantly when they reached the edge of the waterhole. Sliding out of her saddle, she tied her pony to a solitary gum tree.

  ‘So you did,’ her father said indulgently. ‘Now, just stay here a minute while I see to that sheep. She’s due to give birth any day now and, by the look of her, it could be twins.’

  Grace lay on her back, listening to the distant sound of birdsong as she inhaled the delicious aroma of fresh grass grown thick and lush after a recent bout of rain. Staring up at the sky, she decided the streaky pink clouds looked like great-grandfather George’s sailing ship, before they changed into a shape more like a fairy castle.

  She was contemplating ever more fanciful possibilities when she heard her father say sharply, ‘Don’t move!’

  Grace felt something smooth and satiny slither slowly across her bare leg.

  ‘Daddy! It’s a —’ The word stuck in her throat.

  ‘Yes, it’s a snake,’ said Alfred, adopting a matter-of-fact tone. ‘And you know what to do. Stay quite still until I say you can move.’

  Grace fought the urge to jump to her feet, to grasp the deadly thing and fling it far away. She wished she’d worn jodhpurs instead of shorts that day. Her skin prickled as the creature gradually traversed her knee and made its way across her thigh. She knew that if it sank its fangs into her flesh she would die.

  From the corner of her eye she glimpsed her father raising his rifle. ‘Now, Dad, now?’ she whimpered.

  ‘No, child,’ Alfred replied steadily. ‘You wait until he is clear of you. Just a moment more . . . Now turn! Quick, Gracie, now!’

  As she twisted away, Alfred swooped. He flicked the snake aside with the barrel of his gun, then killed it with a single shot.

  Springing to her feet, Grace wrapped her arms around her father.

  ‘You’re a brave girl, Gracie.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m proud of you. Seeing as you’re turning twelve next month —’

  ‘We’re all going to the city and I’m having a special tea with Siddy!’

  ‘That’s right,’ Alfred said with a patient smile. ‘It’s been ages since you two have seen each other. But right now I have something else in mind.’

  ‘What do you mean, Dad?’

  ‘It’s time to start teaching you to shoot. You’ve just seen how dangerous living out here can be; you need to know how to look after yourself. This is a serious matter, though, so do exactly as I tell you.’ He handed Grace his rifle. ‘Here, tuck this into your shoulder and support it with your hands like I do.’

  Grace had never touched her father’s gun before. I
t was far heavier than she’d imagined, hard and cold.

  ‘Now, close one eye and look through the sight.’

  Nervously, Grace focused on the deadly snake she saw lying on the ground.

  ‘Press the trigger.’

  Again, the bullet met its mark. But Grace wasn’t expecting the rifle to kick back — it felt as if she was struggling to keep a wild, savage creature in her grasp.

  ‘I’ll take it now, sweetheart. I can tell you’ve had enough for one day.’ Alfred strapped the gun across his shoulder. ‘We had best get back to your mother,’ he said, frowning. ‘She’ll be wondering where on earth we’ve got to.’

  He helped Grace mount Illyria before swinging up onto his own horse. Taking the reins, he said, ‘You know how much Mum worries about you, so maybe it’s best to keep today’s events just between us. All right?’

  Grace nodded her head gravely. ‘I know how to keep a secret, Dad.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  As she ambled into the front room the following Sunday afternoon, Grace caught sight of the half-finished jigsaw she’d left on a table. Flinging herself down onto the nearest sofa, she leant forward and began moving around the scattered pieces of the puzzle.

  While Grace pondered whether one oddly shaped bit of scalloped blue cardboard fitted into either the sea, or perhaps the sky, she became aware that, outside on the jasmine-draped veranda, her parents were talking.

  ‘It’s simply impossible for me to spend as much time with Grace as I’d like, what with my rose garden and my committees.’ That was her pretty, fair-haired mother. ‘Then there’s overseeing the kitchen staff and the maids — it takes a lot to keep such a big homestead running properly.’

  ‘Isn’t that why we have Pearl? She’s always been very good with the child,’ Alfred said mildly.

  ‘Not any longer,’ her mother retorted. ‘She’s become reckless.’

  Grace looked up. This was unexpected.

  ‘Pearl has started trooping all over the countryside with her — and the things they do! Tracking kangaroos out by the creek, chasing after goannas and what have you. It’s not safe.’

  Grace smiled to herself as she imagined what her mother would have to say if she found out about the hair-raising adventure she’d so recently shared with her father.