The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  Thank God for Christian Dior’s fortuitous invitation. Alfred had left her a small legacy; she would use some of it to travel to Paris. Then she could establish a new life for herself and, most important of all, try to locate Reuben.

  She had never given up hope of finding him. True, tracking Siddy down would not be easy, but she had to at least try. It was the sole chance she had of discovering the reason he had walked away from his only child and why, with the war over, he had never returned — unless the unthinkable really had happened, and he had perished on a foreign field of battle. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Alive or dead, she had to know.

  Grace pulled up in front of the homestead and hurried inside. If she was quick, she could be out of Merindah and on her way to Parkes railway station before Jack came home.

  Throwing a large suitcase onto the bed, she started hauling a jumble of clothes out of her wardrobe. What did she need to start a new life? Not very much else, she decided. Just a few keepsakes — among them some childhood books and the music box, that long-ago Christmas present from the man she called Siddy.

  Somewhere, a dog barked, a door banged. The sounds should have alerted her, yet Grace was shocked when Jack appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going now?’ He glowered. ‘I thought all that fashion parade carry-on that’s been filling your head with nonsense was over and done with.’

  ‘I’m leaving you, Jack,’ Grace said evenly.

  ‘Like hell you are!’ Fists clenched, he came towards her.

  She stood her ground. ‘Can’t you see that being married doesn’t work for us? We were friends once, good friends. That’s the way we should have stayed.’ Her voice remained steady. ‘For the longest time I’ve been following a path that was not of my making. Now I want to live my own life. I need to find out who I am.’

  Jack grabbed her by the shoulders, his dark eyes flashing. ‘You’re my wife, remember? Grace Osbourne. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

  ‘Let go of me, Jack,’ Grace said quietly. ‘I am walking out of this house and I am never coming back.’

  Perhaps it was her icy tone that made him drop his hands, although he clearly wasn’t finished. ‘Oh, you’ll be back all right,’ he sneered. ‘You’ve never had to stand on your own two feet in your life — just how far do you think you’ll get by yourself?’

  ‘A long way from here, that’s for sure,’ Grace replied as she picked up her suitcase and pushed past him. ‘I’m going to Paris.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The golden landscape rushed by. After passing the familiar fields of wheat and the paddocks dotted with sheep, the train rattled over a bridge spanning a slow-moving river before continuing to make its way across the wide western plains. Grace watched from her seat, an impassive spectator.

  Hours later, the appearance of brick bungalows with red-tiled roofs and neat little gardens revealed that the train had reached the outer suburbs of Sydney. Only then did Grace turn her attention to the dark wooden box sitting next to her.

  She had planned to open it earlier, had even gone so far as turning the key in its lock, but her apprehension about what she might discover within had stopped her. Like Pandora, she too might release malevolent spirits. Now, pulling herself up a little straighter in her seat, she reminded herself Hope also lay inside that mythical box. Perhaps the contents would yield something — a diary, a personal note or even a message — that would provide her with hope too.

  She would wait no longer. Grace raised the lid.

  The box contained only three items. The first was a photograph. It was of her parents with Siddy and a woman Grace assumed had been his wife, Rae. It looked to have been taken at the races; in the background she could see the track and people leaning over the rails. The two couples were dressed in a style that was popular well over twenty years ago. Her mother wore a straight, loose dress and a close-fitting hat, as did Reuben’s wife. Rae’s ensemble was not quite as stylish as Olive’s, although she was carrying a gay parasol. It was nearly impossible to make out Reuben; he was standing in a deep shadow cast by a nearby stand.

  Grace turned the photograph over to see if there was anything written on the back, but there was no message and no date, just their names: Alfred, Olive, Reuben, Rae.

  The next item — a carefully folded rose-pink shawl — was even more difficult to fathom. Grace picked it up and touched the delicate fabric to her cheek. Although the shawl’s velvety softness was strangely comforting, she could not imagine what its significance might be.

  Grace then turned her attention to the last article remaining in the box: an envelope addressed to Olive. Judging by the dirty marks and creases, it had been through many hands and travelled a great distance. Inside was a brief letter. At last, here was something that might help her to arrive at the truth.

  26 May 1940

  Dear Mrs Woods,

  Please excuse the hurried nature of this letter. I am in danger, so will write only to say that Reuben Wood was my friend and comrade.

  While in the Ardennes, we came under heavy fire. Reuben fought courageously — he saved my life. I am currently on the coast of France with a vast crowd of troops from where I hope to be evacuated to England. No matter what my fate might be, I will do my best to see that this letter reaches you.

  All I know about Reuben’s whereabouts is that he headed south; perhaps he thought he might have a better chance of escaping via a Mediterranean port. As you might be aware, Reuben speaks some French. Fortunately, he is also enterprising and knows how to live off the land. I believe these attributes will stand him in good stead in the difficult journey that lies ahead.

  I found your name and address in the pocket of a coat he gave to me. He said he wouldn’t need it as he was going somewhere warm and sunny.

  I assume Reuben is a friend of the family, or that perhaps you are related. I am not sure, as your names are not spelt quite the same way. Whatever the case may be, it is my sincere hope that there will come a time in the future when you will once again be united.

  My best wishes,

  Frederick Carruthers, Second Lieutenant, 51st (Highland) Infantry Division, British Expeditionary Force

  Grace stared at the letter’s date. Even if it had taken twelve months to reach Australia, that still meant it must have lain hidden in the box for at least seven years. Seven years!

  No matter what anyone said to the contrary, ever since the notification from the war office had arrived, Grace had clung to the belief that somewhere, somehow, Siddy was still alive. At first, she had worried terribly that he’d been captured; later, that he was lost or ill or hurt somewhere in France. Yet Olive, who could easily have alleviated her daughter’s distress, had chosen not to.

  Now Grace knew why. It was so much more convenient for her mother if Grace believed Reuben was dead. In fact, she thought with horror, it was possible that Olive might well have welcomed his demise. Then the secrets of their shared past would be buried with him forever beneath the soil of a far-off, foreign land.

  A sudden jolt made Grace look up. The train had come to a halt at Sydney’s main railway terminal, Central Station. After gathering her possessions she stepped from the carriage, only to find herself swept up in a surge of rushing commuters, porters hauling bags, straggling families and harassed office workers. Looping her handbag over her left wrist and carrying her suitcase in the same hand, Grace was propelled towards the turnstile by the heaving stream of people.

  She made certain the wooden box remained safe, however, by holding it in the crook of her strong right arm as if it were an infant.

  Grace gave a sigh of relief as she entered the sanctuary of her room at the Queen’s Club. She set down her suitcase, threw her handbag, coat and fedora onto a chair, placed the box on the dressing table and, grateful to be unencumbered at last, walked over to the window. As she gazed out across the green tops of Hyde Park’s weeping fig trees, she caught sight of an errant spray of water arcing ab
ove the Archibald Fountain, and the square, unfinished spires of St Mary’s Cathedral. She had seen this view many times before, yet today it appeared strange to her. Nothing is as it was, she thought sadly. Would it ever be the same again?

  Turning away, Grace pulled off her high-heeled shoes and let them clatter to the floor. Finally, she stretched out on the bed, engulfed by confusion. The letter contained at least some information, but the other items in the box had not helped her at all. ‘What on earth do they mean?’ she said to the unresponsive picture of Queen Mary that hung on the opposite wall.

  A soft knock interrupted her anguished introspection. Grace opened the door to one of the maids, carrying a tray. ‘Mrs Osbourne, Cook said you’d had a long journey,’ the girl murmured shyly. ‘She thought you might like some tea and toast.’

  ‘Please thank Cook. That’s very good of her — and you,’ Grace said, taking the tray with unsteady hands. This simple act of kindness almost reduced her to tears.

  Reminding herself that she had a plan and was determined to follow it, she poured a cup of tea and returned to her earlier post at the window. Yet regarding the familiar scene did nothing to soothe her unruly emotions. Despite her show of bravado during her confrontation with Jack, the prospect of leaving Australia was utterly daunting. As for finding Siddy — she’d been deluding herself. After being protected all her life, having never been out of the country let alone worked for a living, how could a girl from the bush possibly expect to make her way in Europe’s most glamorous, cultivated city?

  Grace put her cup down. Of course she could. Ironically, thanks to her mother’s intervention and the subsequent ministrations of Mademoiselle Elise, she had both excellent French and the ability to pinpoint the precise location of practically every landmark in Paris.

  It might have been simple good luck, sheer coincidence or, as she preferred to think of it, fate, but the truth was that without ever knowing it, she had spent years preparing to discover her past — and forge a new future — in the City of Light.

  BOOK TWO

  Le Mannequin

  The Model

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Paris, December 1948

  ‘Ah, Mademoiselle Dubois,’ Christian Dior said, turning away from the length of midnight-blue velvet he had been examining. ‘The young lady who has come to us all the way from Australia. What a pleasure it is to meet you at last.’

  Despite Grace’s awe at meeting such a famous and talented man, so courtly was his manner she felt completely disarmed. She put Dior’s age at mid-forties; he was dressed in a conservative dark suit over which he wore a white smock, although neither garment successfully disguised his rounded silhouette.

  ‘The pleasure is mine, monsieur,’ Grace said, before adding, ‘I can’t tell you how exciting it is to meet the man responsible for creating the most beautiful clothes in the world. You might not believe it, but the first time I read your name, I was on a sheep station in the middle of nowhere.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Goodness, I hope that doesn’t make me sound unsuitable.’

  ‘Au contraire.’ Dior smiled. ‘You will be a refreshing addition to the maison. When you showed the New Look in Australia our people were very taken with your lively manner — it is a quality I have noticed in others who inhabit the New World.’ He shrugged. ‘Europe is tired, its inhabitants dwell so much in the past. But you Australians have a cleaner, brighter outlook.’

  A thoughtful expression appeared on his face. ‘Each of my jeunes filles provides me with a different source of inspiration,’ he said. ‘And you, Mademoiselle Dubois, what will you bring?’ He paused. ‘Something quite original, I think. Alors, we will see, we will see.’

  Grace had barely time to murmur her thanks before Dior, lost in thought, took up a sketch pad and began to draw.

  February 1949

  Grace hurried into the crowded dressing room known by the mannequins as the cabine, delighted that she was about to take part in what was by now a well-established ritual.

  As she hastily dispensed with her black felt hat and matching alpaca coat, she was greeted by several other fresh-faced girls with cries of, ‘Bonjour, chérie, bonjour!’ Grace removed her new red dress with its calf-length flared skirt then, wearing only a nude brassiere, briefs, corselet and stockings, she donned a plain white cotton wrapper and slid behind one of the dressing tables that were set out in rows. Then it began — the assiduous process that would transform her unadorned, everyday self into a supremely svelte, high fashion goddess.

  Each of the models had her favourite position: Victoire, a fiery brunette from Bordeaux, liked to face the door; Thérèse, with her platinum-blonde waves and heart-shaped face, preferred to be near the window; Grace’s was somewhere in between the two. The dressing tables held not only make-up, brushes, combs and all the other accoutrements necessary for the serious business of a professional beauty, but also a few more personal items — perhaps a small teddy bear or a posy of flowers tied with satin ribbon. Grace had chosen Siddy’s gift of the little wooden music box with its pink-clad dancer.

  She inspected herself in the mirror. So much had happened to her so quickly and there’d been so many challenges, she was surprised she couldn’t detect any evidence of strain. Apart from her work in the maison where the demanding days could easily stretch to eight o’clock at night — and during the recent frantic preparations for the new collection, until two in the morning — there’d been so much to get used to in her daily life.

  She’d had to learn everything, from where to buy a ticket for the Metro to how to surmount the infamous French bureaucracy. As a supposedly single woman, merely opening a bank account had taken hours of negotiation with an uncooperative manager. Fortunately, the Dior mannequins had proved to be an invaluable source of advice.

  ‘If you want to impress the bank manager, next time you go to see him simply wear pearls and as much beige cashmere as you can,’ Victoire had recommended. ‘As they are the mark of every good bourgeois woman, he will assume you are a person of indisputable respectability.’ Another mannequin had explained the way to adjust her hemlines fractionally higher or lower each season (if combined with the single addition of a new, witty trim on a hat, this might be all that was needed to render an ensemble au courant rather than unthinkably démodée); and a third had explained how to judge the precise worth of shoes and handbags, it being a grave offence to invest in such items should they fail to be of the first order of quality. When it came to her new profession, however, the most important — indeed, vital — knowledge that she’d acquired was the proper application of what the girls referred to with the utmost seriousness as le maquillage.

  Grace took up a stick of pancake foundation and smoothed it expertly over her skin. Next, she liberally applied loose powder with a swansdown powder puff, ensuring the flawless matt finish would last throughout the morning. Grace then shifted her concentration to the creation of a luscious vermilion pout, before considering her eyebrows. Although they were already dark and well defined, she nonetheless extended each one with a soft pencil in order to provide an additional degree of drama.

  Her eyes were further emphasised by outlining them with a small brush dipped in black liquid; Grace made sure to create just the right upward flick at their outer corners so their kittenish quality would be accentuated. The application of several layers of sooty mascara provided the finishing touch. All that was required now was to twist her lustrous curls up into a chic chignon and pin them securely in place. Grace studied herself in the mirror once more. The woman she saw was worldly, sophisticated and possessed of an unassailable sang-froid.

  Grace waited for her dresser to finish adjusting the first ensemble she would wear in that morning’s show, with both patience and a sense of relief. At least she was now far less likely to make the sort of blunder that had occurred during her first fitting for the smart black and white houndstooth suit, one of Dior’s signature looks.

  ‘But Madame Carré, this cream fabric is s
o cheap and plain!’ she’d had the temerity to remark, only to be met by a gale of laughter. Grace blushed when madame pointed out that the garment was merely a toile.

  ‘The initial attempt at interpreting one of le patron’s sketches is always made of unbleached muslin or calico,’ she had explained. ‘Our materials are precious. No one would dream of putting a pair of scissors near the cloth until there was absolute certainty about exactly what is required.’

  Grace had realised that, as far as the creation of haute couture was concerned, she still had a great deal to learn.

  ‘All is ready, mademoiselle,’ the dresser announced.

  But am I? she wondered as she took her place with the other mannequins. Yes, she was beginning to master the complex world of the maison. But as for her plans to find Reuben, she’d been in Paris for more than six weeks, and she hadn’t even managed to take the first step.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Voilà, c’est la petite Australienne!’

  Ferdinand Derel waved energetically from his table in the corner of the bustling Café Bertrand.

  Grace raised her hand in return; the ebullience of the greeting from the House of Dior’s imperious concierge still surprised her.

  ‘I knew you were not an established client of the House,’ Ferdinand had explained after seeking her out in the cabine on the day of her first parade. ‘Yet there you were, with your dark curls and big green eyes and that open way you have — are all Australians like this? You know, greeting a person they have never met before with the same degree of familiarity as if he were an old friend?’ Ferdinand had chuckled. ‘I was shocked.’