The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  Once she had turned the key and walked inside, however, she felt foolish. Telling herself that — no matter how spectacular the clothes undoubtedly were — the very idea of modelling in a fashion parade was absurd, Grace tried to read her new Hercule Poirot mystery. She found she wasn’t in the right mood. Looking around for something else to divert her attention, she reached for an ageing copy of The Home that had been left on the bedside table.

  Grace turned a few pages. Suddenly, she threw the magazine down, picked up her handbag and upended its contents onto the bed. There, among an assortment of hair pins, lipsticks and half a dozen other sundry items, was the slip of paper. She immediately placed it by the telephone, lifted the receiver and said, ‘Operator? This is Mrs Osbourne. I wonder if you could connect me with David Jones.’

  Sydney, 1 August

  ‘Oh, wasn’t it fabulous?’ Grace said to Olive, her green eyes sparkling.

  She felt as if only one half of her was eating breakfast with her mother in their sunny hotel room. The other half was still whirling through the previous night’s Christian Dior fashion parade in the packed David Jones ballroom. Beneath the glass lanterns suspended from its soaring ceiling, she had swept past the glamorous audience, glimpsing the rapt expressions on their faces as she felt the thrill of taking part in a show that had, for one magical night, brought the enchantment of Paris couture to the distant harbour city.

  She thought back to how nervous she’d been on her way to her audition at the store, concerned that she might appear idiotic. But as soon as she had slipped into the satin ball dress Mrs Shiell had handed to her, walked across the fashion department’s polished floorboards and executed an experimental turn, she’d felt completely confident. Mrs Shiell had said, ‘Again, please,’ giving her a look of approval. Then, after a brief word with an assistant, she’d declared, ‘Grace Osbourne, the job is yours.’

  On the way home, Grace’s anticipation of Jack’s angry response to her news had dampened her excitement, yet when she’d told him about the show he’d simply shaken his head before growling, ‘If you want to make a spectacle of yourself, go right ahead. I really couldn’t care less.’

  Fortunately, her mother had been delighted. ‘As the gala parade is in aid of the Food for Britain Appeal, I think I can safely say that your participation is more than justified,’ she’d said. Grace suspected that, altruism aside, Olive simply couldn’t wait to see her own daughter wearing the fabulous French fashions. And, just as Grace had anticipated, last night she’d evidently had the time of her life.

  As if on cue, her mother looked at her and smiled. ‘I was so proud of you, darling,’ she said. ‘You took to the catwalk as if you were born for it. I only wish your father could have been there to see his beautiful daughter.’ She tapped the side of her boiled egg. ‘Marjorie agreed with me — you received far more applause than any of the other girls.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Grace laughed, ‘but I do know that I feel as if I’m floating on air. I’ve never seen, let alone worn such glorious clothes. Dior’s colours, the fabrics, those huge wonderful skirts, the yards of velvet and satin and tulle . . .’

  She stretched like a languorous cat. ‘Do you remember that amazing flat hat and the red wool coat with the sable cuffs?’ Grace could still see the opulent ensemble dancing in front of her eyes. ‘And what about at the end, when we all came out and I wore that chartreuse silk gown with the diamanté necklace,’ she said dreamily. ‘It was just like being a fairy princess for the night, only I’m going to be doing it all over again — during the day, at least. I can’t wait for the rest of the shows.’

  ‘You’re lucky you have such an understanding husband,’ Olive observed.

  ‘I think he was probably pleased to have me off his hands for a while,’ Grace replied without thinking. She had forgotten she’d chosen not to reveal Jack’s surly reaction.

  ‘I certainly hope that you’re joking,’ her mother said tartly. ‘You know perfectly well where your first duty lies. It’s lovely that you’ve been able to have so much fun, and of course the event raised a great deal of money for the poor British people. But it wouldn’t do for you to get carried away and forget that you are, first and foremost, Mrs Jack Osbourne of Merindah sheep station.’

  Grace’s ebullient mood suddenly evaporated.

  ‘In any case, it’s high time you started a family,’ Olive added. ‘I don’t know what’s taking you so long.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Merindah, September 1948

  Grace walked listlessly along the gravel road that stretched from the homestead to the property’s white-painted gates, where the mailbox stood. Since returning to Merindah, her days had seemed less fulfilling than ever. Life might have been different if she’d been involved in managing the farm, but Jack still wouldn’t hear of it. They had returned to a state of simmering tension, punctuated by the eruption of flaming arguments. Something has to change, she thought. But what? And how?

  Preoccupied by her reflections, she stopped at the mailbox, flipped up the steel lid and reached inside. She was stuffing the usual collection of bills and letters into the hessian bag she’d brought with her when a thick, cream envelope caught her eye.

  As soon as she saw the French stamps it bore, and her name, written with a flourish above the address, Grace felt a thrill of anticipation. It must be from Dior, she thought. No doubt it was just a polite note of thanks, but perhaps they wanted to tell her about their plans for another Australian show — that would be wonderful. Grace hurriedly tore open the envelope and removed a single sheet of heavy paper.

  Mentally translating the French into English, she read the brief letter with rapidly mounting excitement until she arrived at two astonishing lines: Therefore, as a consequence of your unique presence, we are delighted to extend an invitation to you to join Christian Dior in Paris as one of our elite house mannequins.

  ‘Paris! I can’t believe it!’ she shouted, before sashaying forward on the gravel road and performing several exuberant, catwalk-worthy twirls. Startled, a pair of bright-eyed wallabies that had been grazing nearby raised their heads with a jerk and shot off across the paddocks.

  By that afternoon, Grace’s carefree jubilation had begun to wane. She moved restlessly from one room to another, at first straightening a stack of books, then adjusting a silver picture frame, before picking up and winding the brass carriage clock that stood on the mantelpiece and putting it down again. This is hopeless, she decided. The only thing for it was to telephone Charlotte.

  She hurriedly told Lottie about Dior’s invitation before pleading, ‘What do you think? Is it all too good to be true?’

  ‘What on earth are you saying — you can’t possibly be thinking of accepting! Imagine what your mother would say, let alone Jack,’ Lottie cautioned. ‘Gracie, darling, running off to the other side of the world is hardly the solution to any problems you imagine exist in your marriage. It was one thing to model in those shows in Sydney and Melbourne. I know how much fun you had, but surely you can see that to take up this offer is completely out of the question. You must say no.’

  Grace sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. The whole venture sounds precarious and so, well, unlikely. In any case, it would mean leaving behind everyone I know.’

  ‘Most particularly, your husband,’ Charlotte said pointedly.

  As she sped towards the Parkes post office in her blue Vauxhall, Grace reflected that if it had not been for the extraordinary determination of Mrs Mary Alice Shiell, Christian Dior would never have agreed to stage his first international parade in — of all places — Sydney, Australia. At the same time, had Miss Louise not strongly recommended her to be selected as a mannequin for the show, and had she herself not subsequently met with such widespread acclaim, she would never have been invited to model in Paris. Furthermore, if her marriage had been at all successful she would not be giving a moment’s consideration to Dior’s astounding offer. It was these random acts and de
cisions alone, she knew, that had opened a door to a new and glorious life. But would she walk through? She still wasn’t certain.

  Grace frowned. She couldn’t even be sure whether she would be permitted to travel abroad. She’d been shocked to discover that a husband’s permission was required before the Australian Government would issue a passport to a married woman. The regulation was positively archaic, but there was no way around it. Jack would hit the roof if she asked for his consent, which was especially infuriating, as the more she thought about it, the more tempted she was to accept Dior’s invitation.

  For years now she’d tried to live the sort of life that others expected of her, until she’d begun to feel as if she was turning into one of the Ugly Sisters — only instead of trying to cram her foot into a shoe that didn’t fit, she’d been forcing herself to become someone she was never meant to be. The letter from Dior had rekindled all her dreams of travel and adventure. Now she yearned to inhabit an enchanting world, one that would fit her as perfectly as Cinderella’s glass slipper.

  There was something else, too, that drew Grace towards France. It was the last place dear Siddy had been seen alive. At last, she might be able to find out what had happened to him during that terrible battle.

  After a long, restless night spent wondering how she would ever be able to leave Australia, just as dawn broke, a simple, if potentially hazardous, solution occurred to her. How would anyone in the Department of External Affairs know she was married? All she had to do was to apply using the name Woods rather than Osbourne, tick the box on the application marked ‘single’ and post it together with her birth certificate.

  The problem was, the plan entailed lying to the government. Grace felt her throat constrict. What if her ruse was exposed? At the very least, the Department would decline to issue a passport. Even worse, they might alert Jack, who would undoubtedly be fusious and refuse to cooperate. Most alarming of all, she could well be prosecuted — wasn’t fraud a criminal act?

  There was no alternative. She would simply have to take the risk.

  Two weeks later, Grace held the official response from the Department of External Affairs in her clammy hands. Had her plan worked? Was the passport on its way, or had all her efforts failed? She took a moment to steady herself, breathed deeply, then began reading the letter.

  ‘Thank goodness.’ She heaved a sigh of relief. There was not a single mention of her marital status. However, matters didn’t seem to be nearly as straightforward as she’d hoped. To her surprise, a completely different issue had been raised.

  2 October 1948

  Dear Madam,

  We note that you have made an application to the Government of the Commonwealth of Australia for a passport.

  Having closely examined your Birth Certificate, we further note that it would appear the letter ‘s’ may have been added to your surname by a person or persons unknown.

  This is a routine inquiry and should not unduly impede the issuing of a passport. However, the department does require clarification as to the spelling of your name for the purpose of correct documentation. Accordingly, we request your advice as to whether you are a Miss Grace Woods, or Wood.

  Yours faithfully,

  Miss E. Grieves, Junior Clerk, on behalf of Mr C. Redmond, Section Manager

  It was as if an unseen hand had slapped her hard across the face. Familiar objects around her — a chair, a small table, a bright blue velvet footstool — became unmoored. The room spun like a fairground carousel.

  Grace closed her eyes. Though her thoughts were racing, she willed herself to be still. What did the letter mean? It was there, pricking at the edge of her consciousness, yet, in her disoriented state, its significance remained elusive. She did not know for how long she sat, her mind wrestling with unthinkable possibilities. As she reflected on her life, on the questions left unexplained, she felt as if hours passed by.

  Grace glanced at her wristwatch. It had been ten minutes at most since she’d read the letter, yet in that brief space of time her world had tilted on its axis. Just one small, serpentine mark had caused her life’s easy certainties to be overturned.

  Vague, half-recalled comments, odd similarities — and differences — assumed a new meaning. There could be only one devastating explanation. She was not the person she had always believed herself to be.

  Grace grabbed her car keys, determined to drive to Brookfield at once and confront her mother. Furious, she gripped the Vauxhall’s steering wheel and slammed her foot on the pedals, sending clouds of ochre dust flying.

  When she arrived she raced across Brookfield’s wide veranda and burst through the front door, calling her mother’s name. She found Olive alone in the dining room, studying a scattering of seed catalogues spread before her on the table.

  ‘Grace, is that you? Sorry it’s all such a mess. I’m just thinking about planting some new perennials and . . .’ Olive looked up. ‘Why, whatever is the matter, what’s happened? You don’t look at all like yourself.’

  ‘Really, Mother? Exactly who do you think I look like?’ Grace spat the words out. ‘Not your late husband, that’s certain.’

  ‘Grace!’ Olive gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’

  ‘Simply this. All my life you have been lying to me. But that’s all over now. You see, I know the truth.’

  ‘Know, know what?’ Olive asked in a trembling voice.

  ‘My real name is not Woods,’ Grace said angrily to her mother. ‘I only worked it out this morning after I received a letter from the passport office. I was born Grace Wood. Wood! The government queried my birth certificate.’ She threw the document onto the table. ‘I’ve never really looked at it before, but now I can see exactly what they mean. Someone added the “s” to my last name — it’s obvious that the ink is not the same, and neither is the handwriting.’

  Grace’s expression was anguished. ‘Reuben Wood is my father, isn’t he?’

  Olive paled.

  ‘All this time you drummed your version of morality into my head, twisting my ideas,’ Grace said. ‘You told me nice girls weren’t interested in sex, that I should keep myself pure for my husband. What a hypocrite you are.’

  ‘Gracie, you’re wrong!’ Olive jumped up.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Grace said sadly. ‘All things considered, I should have realised a long time ago. I never resembled Alfred. My eyes are green and my hair is black, just like Reuben’s. I can even play the piano by ear like he does.’

  ‘Darling, you can’t hope to comprehend.’

  ‘But that’s just it — at long last, I do.’ Grace folded her arms. ‘I overheard you arguing with Reuben in the Hotel Australia when I was a child, but I couldn’t understand what it was about. Now, I know he wanted me back but you wouldn’t hear of it. And Pearl wasn’t sent away because she was too reckless or I was too old. Her only crime was that she’d worked out who Siddy really was — you must have let something slip.’

  Grace paused. ‘Which brings us to Mademoiselle Elise, who was engaged because of your so-called concern for my welfare — but that wasn’t true either, was it?’ She glared at Olive. ‘Reuben Wood was the reason you wouldn’t let me go away to school — you hated the way we were so close. I suppose you were terrified that he’d eventually tell me who I really was. I called Reuben “Siddy” because the only time I was allowed to see him was in the city. It turns out, he’s been exactly what Pearl called him — my “Sydney Daddy” — all along.’

  ‘Wait, please, just for a moment,’ Olive begged as Grace ran out of the room. ‘I’ve been keeping something for you.’

  She returned with a dark wooden box. ‘I should have given this to you much earlier, Grace, I realise that now. There are things that took place years ago that you know nothing about —’

  ‘So it seems.’

  Olive winced. ‘If I’d told you, it would only have made you upset, confused.’

  She placed the box o
n the table, but Grace was not finished yet. ‘How could you, Mother, how could you and Reuben have a child together and all this time pretend it was poor Daddy’s — I mean, Alfred’s? You betrayed us both.’

  ‘All right, yes it’s true! Reuben Wood was your father, but —’

  ‘So, you finally admit it.’ Suddenly, Grace felt completely deflated. ‘For all the big house and the grand estate, not to mention my fancy French governess, I finally realise what I really am,’ she said. ‘Nothing but a little bastard.’

  ‘Don’t use that word.’

  ‘I can’t see why not,’ Grace said. ‘We both know what people call someone like me. Just as we are well aware of the reception we’ll get when, sooner or later, the real story is revealed. Imagine, all those doors that will slam shut in our faces.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No? You think you’ll continue to get away with it? Avoid the sniggers, the snide remarks, the exclusion, the condemnation? Well, I can see there’s no point continuing this conversation.’ Grace was nearly at the door before she stopped and turned round. ‘Goodbye, Mother,’ she said with a leaden finality.

  ‘Grace, let me explain!’ Olive pleaded.

  ‘There’s no point. It’s too late.’

  It was only when she reached her car that Grace realised she was holding the box in her hands.

  She drove back to Merindah, possessed by a new clarity. The decision she had wrestled with for so long now seemed very easy to make.

  Her marriage was over, that was a fact. Yet, even as Grace had confronted her mother, a part of her had still clung to the thought that perhaps she had misunderstood the situation. That was until Olive herself had confessed that Reuben was her real father. She might have said that Grace didn’t know the whole story, but it sounded straightforward enough to her. If Olive intended to plead that she had succumbed to a moment of madness, that her affair with Reuben had just been a fling or, worse, didn’t ‘mean anything’, then Grace couldn’t bear to hear it.