At the start of the war, Grace had found the overly bright tone of Jack’s letters confusing. His words were too cheerful; they didn’t ring true. While each day she steeled herself before reading the newspaper’s growing lists of the dead and the wounded, Jack never referred to the heavy loss of life his squadron was suffering during its raids over Europe. Only when he stopped mentioning the name of a particular mate did she have an inkling that another of Jack’s friends had met his fate.
Over time, this breezy tone altered, becoming increasingly grim until in his latest letter, he’d written:
Had a really bad day. We were out doing reconnaissance when one of the boys’ planes copped heavy fire. The cockpit went up in flames and the poor bugger got trapped inside. I saw him struggling to get out, but there wasn’t a bloody thing I could do about it.
If I didn’t have you, Gracie, waiting back home, I don’t know what would become of me. When I’m so damned sick and tired of it all that I just want to crawl into a deep black hole and never come out again, I tell myself that it’s our future happiness I’m fighting for. That’s what keeps me going.
Grace tried to imagine how desperate Jack’s life had been. No doubt he’d had his share of horrifying narrow escapes, yet she’d only received that one letter where he referred to a crash landing, and even then he’d never disclosed exactly what had happened.
She told herself there was one thing she did know. After the years of hell Jack had endured, she couldn’t let him down.
‘Imagine what he has achieved, what he’s done,’ she said to Charlotte, ignoring the irritated ‘Shhh’ that came from the middle-aged couple sitting in the row behind. ‘Jack Osbourne is not a boy anymore. He is a hero.’
Brookfield, December
It was nearly Christmas. The last three months had been bone dry. Formerly lush paddocks were the colour of parchment and the wheat crop was struggling to survive.
A sigh escaped Grace’s lips as she dribbled a jug of water over her mother’s wilting roses. She had been expecting Jack for days now. The war had been over for months, but it had taken him an age to be officially discharged. Even then, she’d had no idea when he would be able to board a ship for Australia.
Jack had been away for more than five years, she thought disconsolately, and during that time he’d covered himself in glory. But what had she achieved? It felt like very little. Yes, she’d laboured hard on the farm, even harder since her father’s death the year before. She dropped into bed at night, her fingers blistered and her back aching. But mustering sheep or harvesting wheat was not dangerous; it wasn’t as if she had risked her life.
Lending a hand at the charitable functions held in aid of the war effort had been an even less onerous undertaking. There had been dances in the district and more sophisticated balls and receptions she’d whirled off to during trips to Sydney. Grace smiled. She had to admit, these glamorous events had provided a pleasant distraction from the long, hard days spent working on the property.
The city had been filled with military men — at first only Australians, but then the Americans had arrived. Fresh-faced admirers had doffed their hats and called her ‘ma’am’. Whenever she’d accepted one of their invitations — perhaps for dinner at the elegant Princes restaurant or to go dancing at the Trocadero — a box of chocolates or a dewy orchid corsage would be sure to turn up before their arrival. Grace had even received a couple of sudden marriage proposals, although she’d never offered the ardent young men who pursued her anything more than a mildly flirtatious relationship.
Once she’d met a dashing officer at a party at the Parkes Air Base. They’d had fun, dancing energetic foxtrots and even some American swing, until she’d made the mistake of inviting him to enjoy the cool air outside. He’d wanted to make love to her, but when she’d turned him down, the fellow had accused her of being a tease. Had she led him on? He was very good-looking, and Grace had to admit, for a moment she’d wondered if, just this once, she might let herself go. Then an unnerving chill had come over her, and the temptation had passed. The fact was, no matter how appealing a man seemed, she had never felt the thrilling attraction other girls described. Grace had told herself that only went to prove how much she loved her childhood sweetheart. She’d be sure to find Jack irresistible when he finally came back.
As Grace upended the jug, sprinkling the last drops of water over the parched flower bed, she heard the faint sound of hooves in the distance. Looking up, she saw the blurred outline of a horse and rider through a cloud of reddish dust. Probably one of the station hands returning after checking the boundary fences, she thought. But something about the angle of the rider, the way he sat tall in the saddle, sent a quiver down her spine. Blinking, she tried to dispel the heat haze. A moment later, she was almost certain. A couple of minutes more and she was sure.
Grace Woods ran out of the homestead’s open gate just as Squadron Leader Jack Osbourne leapt from his horse and into her waiting arms.
Sydney, May 1946
Wearing a cream, square-shouldered day dress made by Miss Louise, a small Lamotte cocktail hat with a veil and her mother’s gift of a cultured pearl necklace and earrings, Grace entered the mellow, stone-hewn church of Saint James on the day of her wedding. She had been moved when Mr Fairweather had offered to walk her down the aisle, yet as she stood poised with her arm in his, she could not help but yearn for her own father’s touch. Tears misted her eyes when she thought of Alfred, and Siddy too. Though she steadfastly nurtured a small flicker of hope, as the years went by she’d been forced to admit that the survival of the special man who had always meant so much to her seemed less and less likely.
The wedding was a modest affair, with perhaps fifty guests, for neither she nor Jack had wanted a fuss. In any case, butter, sugar and even fabric were still strictly rationed by the government — it was easier for everyone this way. Lottie, charmingly dressed in blush pink with a circlet of rosebuds in her fair hair, was her sole attendant; John Finch, a pilot mate of Jack’s from Sydney whose eye-patch and walking stick indicated a narrowly averted disaster, was his best man.
Grace was neither nervous nor was she elated, not even when, to the rousing strains of the traditional Bridal Chorus, she arrived at the side of her delighted future husband. Instead, she had the impression that, ever since she’d first met Jack at the age of twelve, she had been travelling on a slow-moving conveyor belt. Now it had simply arrived at a predetermined destination.
As Grace handed Lottie her bouquet of red roses, she glimpsed her mother’s pretty face, filled with a joy she had rarely seen since Alfred had passed away. If ever Grace had a doubt about marrying Jack, one look at Olive’s transcendent expression was enough to reassure her that she had made the right decision.
The fragments of jewel-coloured light that spilled through the church’s stained-glass windows seemed to dim momentarily. The final throaty notes of the pipe organ faded away. Then Grace heard Father Edwin clear his throat, and the wedding service began.
There was a bible reading, hymns were sung and an earnest homily on the sanctity of the matrimonial state was delivered. She and Jack repeated their responses, then exchanged solemn vows to honour, love and cherish each other for ever and ever. The best man limped forward and handed over the platinum ring. Jack smiled broadly as he placed the tight little band onto the third finger of Grace’s left hand.
When the minister announced, ‘You may now kiss the bride,’ the groom obliged so enthusiastically he almost swept Grace off her feet. She felt herself blush as several of the younger male congregants cheered.
Once the register was signed, the two of them made their way outside the church. Grace stood arm in arm with her husband beneath a grey sky, receiving congratulations amid shouts of ‘Good luck!’ and flying clouds of confetti. Only then did it strike her that from this day on she would be Mrs Jack Osbourne. Somewhere inside the church, Grace Woods had slipped away.
‘Crikey!’ Jack exclaimed when Grace met him tha
t night in the foyer of the Hotel Australia. ‘You look like a movie star, sweetheart.’
The wedding reception had been held in the hotel’s famous Emerald Room. Grace knew she should have felt on top of the world, but the cloying effect of the airless room’s heavy Italian chandeliers, white marble statues and bubbling fountains combined with the noise of their guests talking, eating, laughing and drinking had made her head spin. Afterwards, feeling overcome with exhaustion, Grace had pleaded with Jack for an hour or two to herself. Thank heavens he’d agreed, going off to spend the time in the bar with John.
Once she had removed her formal hat and dress, Grace had sunk gratefully into a luxurious bath scented with rose oil. As the fragrant water had rippled around her, she’d hoped her wedding-night nerves would not be too obvious. Perhaps the daring, low-cut, red satin cocktail frock and the teetering platform shoes she planned to change into would bestow a veneer of worldliness she didn’t feel.
‘Would you be upset if we changed our plans and didn’t dine at Romano’s?’ Jack asked, eyeing Grace appreciatively. ‘I’ve been sharing my gorgeous bride with other people all day and I’m dying to have you all to myself. How about I organise to have dinner sent up to our suite instead?’
The naked desire in Jack’s eyes made Grace’s stomach flutter. ‘I think that dining alone with my new husband might be a very good idea, indeed.’ She smiled.
A few minutes after they returned to the luxurious bridal suite, a bow-tied waiter arrived bearing an ice bucket containing two bottles of champagne — ‘So we don’t run out,’ Jack confided with a grin. Then another waiter glided in with a trolley on which were arrayed a dozen rock oysters and, under a silver dome, grilled fillets of flounder. There were also strawberries and cream and mint chocolate slices.
‘I hope you like it,’ Jack said. ‘I know we cut back on the reception, but you only have one wedding night, don’t you? I figured we should go all out.’
As soon as they were alone, he poured two glasses of the fizzing champagne.
‘To you, my beautiful girl,’ he said thickly, before taking a gulp.
They sat opposite each other at a small table, eating their oysters, laughing over the best man’s unexpectedly funny speech and the three punch bowls that had featured among their wedding presents.
‘I hate to tell you,’ Grace giggled, ‘but we’ve also been given three toasters.’
‘Well, I think what we need right now is more champagne,’ Jack announced. Grace tried not to worry about the number of times he had already refilled his glass.
‘The thing is,’ he said with a rasp in his voice. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite. Sweetheart, why don’t we lie on the bed? It looks awfully comfortable.’
Grace kicked off her shoes and, still fully dressed, turned back the counterpane before reclining on top of the crisp cotton sheet. To her relief, she felt few of her usual inhibitions. Instead, a lick of heat curled through her body. Tonight, she would give herself for the first time to a man; it was the precious gift she had been saving for her husband. As he lay down next to her, she anticipated a romantic, slow induction into the art of lovemaking.
Jack seemed to have other ideas. He gave her only a perfunctory kiss before she felt his fingers fumble with the small covered buttons that ran down the front of her red dress.
‘Dammit, Gracie, give me a hand,’ he grumbled.
Grace hurried to unfasten her frock; she couldn’t bear to annoy Jack now. Then, somehow, the dress was on the floor, her brassiere was off and his fingers were bruising her nipples.
She’d hardly had time to grow used to this new sensation before he tore off her briefs and plunged his hand between her legs. Everything was happening too quickly.
‘Jack, stop!’ she said, thrusting his hand away.
‘What the hell is the matter?’ he groaned.
‘You’re . . . you’re taking things too fast.’
‘God, I’m sorry, Gracie, but I’ve waited so long,’ he panted. ‘You looked so damned sexy in that dress and, well . . .’ His hands were roving over her thighs and pawing her breasts. ‘Just try to relax, okay? Trust me, everything will be great.’
But it wasn’t. What Jack was doing only made her feel tense — and it all seemed horribly rushed. Perhaps this was the way such things always transpired between a husband and wife, Grace thought uncertainly. If that was so, then she had to at least seem enthusiastic. Pasting a smile onto her face, she wrapped her arms around him.
‘You see?’ Jack said. ‘I knew you’d like it.’
She waited while his body bore down upon her own, tried not to scream as she felt his crushing weight, a penetrating insistence and then a final, searing pain.
Breathing heavily, Jack grunted, ‘Christ, that was good.’ He rolled onto his back and was asleep within seconds.
Grace couldn’t understand it. Olive had always claimed that sex was for men to enjoy, yet several of her married friends had hinted at nights of shared bliss. Why hadn’t she, too, been swept away by passion?
Stiff, sore and disappointed, she wondered if there was something wrong with her. Perhaps she was — what had those girls called it? — frigid. Grace had heard them talk knowingly about women like that. They said it was the reason why men strayed.
As she listened to Jack snoring, Grace told herself that when it came to such things, she was, after all, a novice. She would just have to learn to perform and — who knows? — even enjoy those physical intimacies that husbands expected from wives. Surely their lovemaking would improve. It was only a matter of time.
CHAPTER TEN
Paris, December 1948
Grace stayed close behind Madame Raymonde’s narrow, burgundy-clad back as she led her through a labyrinth of rooms and passageways. Then, just as she rounded a corner, the stylish woman stopped abruptly.
‘Jeanne,’ she said, gesturing impatiently to a passing assistant dressed in an understated charcoal suit. ‘Why are these gardenias in the corridor? I am quite sure that le patron wanted them in the salon. The Viscountess de Noailles is due for her fitting today and they are her favourite flowers. Please take them there at once.’
Intrigued, Grace was about to inquire whether the floral preferences of the house’s other clients were indulged in this way, but Madame Raymonde had not finished.
‘And what is this doing here? So careless!’ she said, picking a strand of white cotton from the plush grey carpet. She turned to Grace. ‘I see you are looking at me with a curious expression. You are asking yourself, “What exactly is Madame Raymonde’s role?”’ She chuckled quietly. ‘Monsieur Dior has been known to refer to me as his “other self”. In fact, what I do is eliminate problems.’ She paused, seeming to contemplate her position’s endless responsibilities.
‘I organise le patron’s very busy schedule, employ staff, oversee production, order fabrics and ensure that every department knows exactly what is expected of it,’ Madame Raymonde said, ticking off each duty on one of her long fingers. ‘Yes, I do many things. Some of them — such as worrying about a client’s favourite flower or a stray thread — may appear to you to be of little consequence. But, Mademoiselle Dubois, you will soon discover that in this particular couture house everyone, no matter what their job may be, seeks perfection. If you are incapable of delivering it, you will not be with us for very long.’
This sobering remark prompted Grace to declare, ‘I promise to do my absolute best; that is the very least a genius like Christian Dior can expect.’
‘Monsieur Dior is not just a genius,’ Madame Raymonde corrected her. ‘And for that matter, he is not simply the couturier who invented the New Look. He is the man who saved Paris fashion.’
Both fell silent.
‘Now, where was I?’ Madame Raymonde said with a small frown. ‘That’s right.’ She nodded. ‘I was about to explain that while we are en route to your rendezvous with le patron, I will have the opportunity to bring several remarkable women to your attention. Each, in her dif
ferent way, strives to ensure that the maison continues to run with the smoothness of — how shall I put this?’ She nodded again. ‘Yes, with the smoothness of the finest silk mousseline.
‘First of all, over there in the red suit with that little man from Vogue is Madame Luling, our public relations director,’ Madame Raymonde advised, as she began conducting Grace briskly around the atelier. ‘Whether it is the press or our clients, Suzanne has an uncanny ability to meet even the most unreasonable requests.
‘And in that room on the right is Madame Beguin, the maison’s première vendeuse,’ she continued, while lingering at the entrance to the salon. ‘We had to woo her away from Mainbocher, you know.’
Grace glimpsed Dior’s chief saleswoman in close conversation with a rail-thin, smartly dressed lady.
In a hushed voice, her elegant guide said, ‘We knew that if she came to us, then the Duchess of Windsor would follow. As you may have noticed’ — she inclined her head — ‘that is exactly what happened.’
Next, they were acknowledged by a striking creature who nodded to them as she stalked down the corridor. The woman looked the way Grace imagined Cleopatra might have done, had the Queen of the Nile been partial to attiring herself in an exceptionally chic, close-fitting black dress, ropes of gleaming pearls and a leopard-print turban.
‘Heavens, who was that?’
‘Madame Bricard. She provides her eye.’
‘Her eye?’
‘Why yes, it is unerring. La Bricard is one of the very few women who have perfect taste. I would go so far as to say that for le patron, she is indispensable.’
Finally, Madame Raymonde led Grace up a set of stairs. ‘We will now visit the workroom, where you will meet our directrice de technique. We refer to her as la première, for you see, as far as this maison is concerned, she is incomparable.’
Grace entered a large, light-filled room containing bolts of fabric, tailor’s dummies, cotton reels, scissors and ribbons. There were wide cutting tables and small desks at which sat numerous women, all clad uniformly in white smocks, sewing by hand with intense concentration. Among their ranks Grace saw an apple-cheeked, buxom lady who might have stepped out of a Renoir painting.
The Paris Model Page 6
