‘May I introduce you to Madame Carré,’ Madame Raymonde said. ‘Marguerite not only oversees the workroom, she also bears the great responsibility of bringing Monsieur Dior’s sketches to life. It is her magic that transforms a few black lines on a page into a debutante’s dinner dress, a suit for the wife of an ambassador, or an evening gown fit for a queen.’
The première looked up from her worktable. ‘And the outcome must always be the same — flawless!’
Madame Raymonde smiled. ‘Mademoiselle Dubois, I shall leave you in Marguerite’s very capable hands. By the time she has finished with you, le patron should be available.’
Once Dior’s manager had swished out of the room, Grace said, ‘I have been wondering how long it actually takes to make a dress.’
‘For something simple, perhaps eighty hours,’ the première replied airily.
‘Eighty!’
‘Why yes, mademoiselle. Although when I say “simple” I mean, of course, that it only appears to be simple.’ She picked up a plain black silk bodice and turned it inside out. ‘Do you see the padding that creates the shape? And all the tiny stitches securing the taffeta lining? Rather like life itself,’ she added philosophically, ‘it takes a very great deal of time and effort to disguise the complexity that lies beneath a perfect exterior.’
Madame Carré gestured for Grace to step closer. ‘Most important of all,’ she insisted, brandishing a small green volume, ‘is this little book. It contains each mannequin’s vital statistics. Everything we produce in the atelier is based on these numbers, so it is essential that they are accurate. Now, it is your turn to be measured, s’il vous plaît.’
Madame Carré bustled about, noting down the size of Grace’s hips, waist and bust; the distance between each shoulder; the width of her back; the length of her arms; the circumference of her wrists, and the precise dimensions of a dozen other places.
As the tape measure flew about, Grace reflected on how fortunate she was that an immense stroke of luck had brought her to the one city in the world where she most wished to live. With the previous certainties of her life banished forever, Grace prayed that the answers she sought might be revealed in this legendary city.
‘Tournez, Mademoiselle Dubois!’
Preoccupied by her thoughts, Grace had not been paying sufficient attention. She would clearly have to do a better job of keeping her wits about her if she had any hope of securing a permanent position as a house mannequin for the unusually gifted man who, it was universally acknowledged, was the most important couturier alive today.
Christian Dior: She cast her mind back to the moment, not quite two years before and half a world away, when she had first seen his name. It was near the end of an oppressive summer’s day and, hoping for a breeze, she had left the homestead’s front door open at Merindah, the sheep station Jack’s parents had bestowed on him as a wedding present. She remembered that when she’d picked up the newspaper from the hall table her ears had rung with the screeching of the pink and grey galahs that were roosting in the old eucalyptus tree over by the gate.
Closing the door behind her, she’d walked through the shuttered house to the kitchen and spread the newspaper out on the scrubbed pine table. To her surprise there was a fashion story, not, as was usual, buried in the modest women’s section towards the back, but enjoying pride of place, right on the front page. With a bold headline proclaiming ‘New Look Stuns Paris’, the article described the first collection created by a daring French couturier, of whom, it seemed, no one had ever heard. Once the Germans had marched into Paris there hadn’t been a word printed about French fashion, and even after the war ended it appeared there’d been little to report on. But now the paper claimed that Monsieur Christian Dior’s clothes were ‘revolutionary’, and that even the world’s most sophisticated women had cried out and swooned over his lavish dresses and gowns.
As Grace read on about the ecstatic American fashion editors who’d attended the show perched on tiny gilt chairs and the marvellous mannequins who’d sent ashtrays flying with a flick of their fabulous flared skirts, she longed to have been there.
‘Grace!’ Jack stormed into the room, his face streaked with dust and sweat. ‘What on earth are you dreaming about now? I’ve been out in the bloody shearing sheds all day. The least you could do is put down the paper and say hello to your husband.’
But so fascinated was Grace by the description of the unknown Frenchman and his radically different, glorious creations that she barely heard him. According to the article, Christian Dior’s clothes were nothing like the uninspiring, meagre garments that Grace and everyone else she knew had been forced to wear ever since rationing had been imposed five years earlier. Annoyingly, since then there’d been no change, even though the war had been over for ages. But Dior’s daring confections broke all the government’s rules: sweeping from tiny, cinched waists were voluminous skirts made of thirty or forty, even fifty sinful yards of sumptuous fabric — fine wools, silk taffeta, velvets and satins.
Grace could see herself in the station’s kitchen — the image still vivid — tugging at her skimpy checked frock. It had seemed somehow mean. And she remembered the words she’d repeated for days afterwards whenever she wondered what a woman dressed by Christian Dior would be like. ‘Simply extraordinary,’ she had murmured.
The memory now made Grace smile. For here she was, improbable as it seemed, at the epicentre of the world of high fashion, with the trusted première of Dior herself making careful preparations to ensure that, at least during her hours of work, Mademoiselle Dubois would wear nothing but the great couturier’s fabled creations.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Merindah, May 1948
Silence reigned. It was broken only by the trickling sound of tea being poured from a pot, the jarring of cups as they were set down on the table and the jagged crunch of toast being cut with a knife.
Here it was, their second wedding anniversary, and there had been another terrible row the night before. Once again, Jack had drunk too much; Grace had rebuffed his whisky-scented, amorous advances. He’d been furious when she’d blurted out that since he had come back from the war, he wasn’t the same man.
Jack had grabbed her and, well, he was her husband, so she couldn’t say he’d forced himself on her. But when Grace had made it plain that she didn’t want him, he’d gone ahead just the same. It had been degrading.
The sweet boy who’d once sworn he would never make her do anything against her will was long gone. Now they weren’t talking to each other, and Grace was damned if she would be the first to speak.
Finally, Jack growled, ‘Why do you always have to do that?’
‘Do what?’ Grace answered coldly.
‘Humiliate me.’
‘It’s hard to get in the mood for making love when you’re stinking of drink.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Jack exploded. ‘What’s wrong with you? Whether I’m drunk or sober, you’re always the same. It’s like being married to a frigging block of ice.’
Jack’s barb hit home. Grace was only too aware that when it came to sex, she was an utter failure.
‘And another thing. You think you’re little Miss Perfect, that you know better than me!’ He was shouting now. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something for nothing. There isn’t a bloke worth his salt that would tolerate a woman interfering with his business.’
‘Jack, all I’ve ever done is try to be useful. What I said yesterday — I just think that seeing we’re verging on drought again, it might make sense if you sold off some of the sheep.’ At least managing a farm was something she was good at.
‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’ Jack slammed his fist onto the table, sending the cups flying. ‘I won’t have you poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Stick to women’s work. I thought I made that clear.’
‘I was trying to help, to be a good wife,’ Grace said.
‘If you were a good wife you’d show that in the bedroom for a change, instea
d of meddling in something that’s none of your concern.’ His eyes flashed angrily. ‘Are you trying to make me feel less of a man — is that what you want? Because if it is, sweetheart, you’re going the right way about it.’
‘But I’ve lived and worked on a farm all my life!’ she protested. ‘After Dad died I ran Brookfield practically single-handed.’
‘It’s high time you forgot all that.’ Jack glared at her. ‘It wasn’t a bloody business partner I was fighting for in the war! I dreamt about coming home to a real wife, one who showed me a bit of love and affection — only you’re not even capable of it.’
‘Well, if you didn’t treat me as if I was a fool —’
‘That’s it!’ Jack said. ‘I’ve had enough.’ He flung his napkin down, jumped to his feet and stamped out of the house.
Quite alone, with only the wreckage of the half-eaten breakfast before her, Grace said in a small voice, ‘Me too.’
Anxious to leave Merindah behind her, Grace leapt on one of the farm’s new motorbikes, determined to ride over to the Fairweather property, Oakhill, and see Charlotte. Now the war was over, her friend had taken on a part-time job working for a doctor in Parkes. Fortunately, this was her day off.
Dear Lottie, I’m so lucky to have her, Grace thought as she started the engine. Gripping the handlebars, she revved the accelerator as she bumped her way along the uneven clay road. She reminded herself to be careful of the rocks and potholes; at least the long dry spell meant she wouldn’t sink into a treacherous bog.
‘What’s up?’ Charlotte asked after Grace removed her dusk-caked helmet and goggles. The two of them were standing in the shade cast by the spreading branches of an angophora. ‘When you rang you said it was something important.’
‘I really need to talk. Everything is just so complicated, and . . .’ Grace took a moment to gaze at the arid paddocks before turning back to her friend. ‘I can’t help wondering, who the hell am I?’
‘Hang on, where did that come from? What’s all this about?’ Charlotte frowned.
‘Nothing seems right anymore, Lottie.’ Grace bent to brush the clinging ochre dust from her jodhpurs, then straightened up. ‘Look at me: I’m twenty-five, I’ve never had a real job, never earned my own money. Plus my marriage has been a huge mistake.’
‘Gracie, it can’t be as bad as all that,’ said Charlotte. ‘Come inside and we’ll talk. I’ll get us a cool drink.’
While Charlotte went to fetch some chilled barley water, Grace paced restlessly around the Fairweathers’ sitting room. Is it me, she wondered. Have I brought all this on myself?
‘Gracie, let’s sit on the settee.’ Charlotte handed her a long glass. ‘All right, out with it. What’s going on?’
‘It’s just that I was so terribly young when I told Jack I’d wait,’ Grace confessed in a rush. ‘Then the war dragged on and on. Afterwards, everyone was so — what’s that expression the Americans use? So gung ho about us getting married, and I’d somehow built up all these ridiculous romantic notions about him. Jack had such an amazing life when he was flying, full of purpose, even though he had a terrible crash. I’ve seen his scars, but he still won’t discuss it — and he doesn’t say a word about how awful it was to lose so many mates.’
She set her glass down on a table. ‘He’s changed, Lottie. When Jack came back from the war he seemed so much older and bitter somehow. He started drinking quite a bit and now, when he isn’t stomping around, roaring like an angry bull, he’s just at a loss. One thing’s for sure — I can’t make him happy.’
‘But Jack’s lovely whenever I see him.’
‘Oh, he can be charming if he wants to,’ Grace said, ‘but you don’t know him the way I do. Look, maybe we’re just not a good match. I’m not like my mother. Even without Dad, she still loves playing the country hostess, throwing herself into all the local activities. I’ve always wanted to travel, see the world, be something . . . not more, I don’t mean that — but different.’
Grace swallowed the last of her drink. ‘The worst thing is — it’s embarrassing just to talk about it — I loathe having sex. Even if it starts off all right, it always ends badly. Now I simply make excuses — headaches, anything I can think of. It doesn’t matter anyway. These days, Jack rarely bothers me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got someone else.’
‘Grace, surely not! You know Jack’s always been crazy about you.’
‘Well, whatever’s been going on, we can’t continue like this. We’re both miserable.’
‘I’m sure that lots of people have problems with their marriages,’ Charlotte said soothingly, ‘but then, after a bit, it all gets sorted out. You can’t honestly be thinking of leaving him.’
Grace realised that Charlotte did not understand the depth of her unhappiness. But then, she thought, I barely understand it myself. She knew she had an abundance of all the things from which a woman was meant to derive fulfilment: a husband who, despite everything, she was fairly certain still loved her; more than sufficient income for a bulging wardrobe of clothes; her own car; and a beautiful home.
She did not have a baby, it was true, though considering their increasing physical estrangement, that wasn’t surprising. It’s just as well, Grace reflected, because if I did have a child with Jack then I really would be trapped. I’d be tied to him forever.
‘Actually, I think we would both be better off apart,’ she said.
‘What? Where would you go — back to Brookfield?’
‘No, I couldn’t bear to live with Mum’s disappointment. She and her friends always thought Jack was the catch of the century. Anyway, I want to move to Sydney.’
‘And do what?’ Charlotte asked cautiously.
‘Good question. The fact is, I’m not trained for anything. Can I nurse or teach, let alone type or do shorthand like you can? No. It’s hopeless, Lottie. I appear to be completely unemployable.’ Grace clasped her hands together and placed them primly in her lap.
Charlotte laughed. ‘Now you’re just being silly.’
‘Really? Well, let’s see what I do well. I can sow crops and harvest them, drive a truck or a tractor practically blindfolded, ride just about any horse, muster as many sheep as you like and, at the end of the day, manage the farm’s paperwork — only, there’s not a lot of bosses in the city looking for that particular set of skills. On the other side of the ledger, I know a good dress when I see one, I can speak French, play the piano and sing a bit, plus I’m not bad at painting and drawing.’
She shook her head. ‘It looks like the only occupations I’m suited for are either an eighteenth-century lady of leisure, which is not exactly a going profession, or running a property — and there is certainly no one I know who wants me to do that, least of all Jack.’
‘Gracie, darling, I think you just have a bad case of the blues.’ Charlotte smiled at her friend sympathetically. ‘But don’t worry, I have the solution.’
‘Really? I’d love to know what it is.’
‘Well, what always works when a girl is feeling gloomy. For goodness sake, pop down on the train to Sydney for a few days and buy a dress — or two! You’ll see: you will feel better, things with Jack will settle down and life will go back to normal.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sydney, May 1948
Angling her slender body in front of Miss Louise’s long, black-edged mirror, Grace considered the fit of the dressmaker’s creation. ‘Darling Lou Lou, you’re so clever!’ she said.
The navy blue dress with its unusual collar and full skirt did look good on her, flattering her narrow shoulders and slim waist. Of course, it wasn’t quite as stylish as the latest Paris fashions but, on balance, it was a close enough approximation.
‘You have a model’s figure, you know,’ said Louise. She removed her large horn-rimmed spectacles and took a couple of steps back.
Grace laughed. ‘Lou Lou, now you are just flattering me.’
‘I’m not!’ she protested. ‘Everything I make looks better on
you than on any of my other ladies, and that’s the truth. It’s a wonder you’re not a mannequin. As a matter of fact, I’ve heard something from my sister — you know, the one who’s a salesgirl in the Exclusive Dresses department at David Jones?’
‘I think so.’
Louise assumed a confidential air. ‘Apparently, the higher-ups at the store are searching for beautiful young women — as long as they’re able to wear clothes really well. It’s so they can model in a special parade. Would you consider it?’
Grace laughed again. ‘I don’t know what my husband would say. Anyway, why would I be interested?’
Louise’s face bore the unmistakeable expression of someone with a trump card to play. ‘Strictly between us’ — she lowered her voice — ‘my sister told me that their head buyer, Mrs Shiell, has had something of a victory. She travelled all the way to Paris and, well, to cut a long story short, you know how you’re mad about the New Look?’
‘Along with every other woman in the world,’ Grace said. ‘But what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Just this: Mrs Shiell has convinced none other than Christian Dior himself to send his collection here, to Sydney. Imagine — the very first time the New Look will be seen outside Paris, and it’s not going to London or New York, but Sydney!’ Miss Louise beamed triumphantly. ‘That’s the reason why David Jones wants Australia’s loveliest women to be the mannequins, and that’s why I thought of you.’
Despite Grace’s remonstrations, Louise wrote down Mrs Shiell’s telephone number. ‘You never know, you might change your mind,’ she said, slipping the piece of paper into her client’s black patent-leather handbag.
Grace had arranged to catch up with friends at the venerable women-only Queen’s Club for afternoon tea, but found herself incapable of concentrating on the gossip they were exchanging amid the plump, chintz-covered sofas and the portraits of the British royal family. Instead, she sat fidgeting on one of the floral armchairs, fighting what, to her surprise, had become a near-irresistible urge to examine the piece of paper Miss Louise had insisted she take with her. Finally, when the last cup of tea had been drunk and promises to meet again soon exchanged, Grace said her goodbyes and swiftly climbed the carpeted stairs to her room.
The Paris Model Page 7
