The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  ‘If only I had known.’

  ‘Would you have done anything differently?’

  Grace had laughed. ‘Probably not.’

  From then on, she’d become one of Ferdinand’s favourites, meeting him at the Café Bertrand most mornings for coffee laced with a liberal helping of gossip. Over time she had discovered that, due to his unique position, he was able to acquire all manner of information.

  For Dior’s clients, Ferdinand was but an immaculate, white-gloved being who would help them into their taxis or private cars, assist with the management of small packages, or perhaps keep a watchful eye over one of their pet poodles. Yet, ironically, by maintaining this discreet presence he had acquired a cloak of near invisibility, so that a veritable torrent of incautious conversation took place in front of him.

  Ferdinand knew when a mistress was about to reject her current lover almost before the woman in question had made up her mind to do so. He was aware of which client had dismissed her maid, whose chauffeur was considered to be the most handsome, and whose personal wealth had plummeted after an unfortunate run of losses at Monte Carlo’s casino.

  ‘Ça va? All goes well?’ Ferdinand inquired when Grace sat down at the table.

  ‘I suppose,’ she responded.

  ‘Hmm. I’m not so sure,’ the doorman replied. ‘Your usual high spirits appear to be absent. I hope one of your suitors is not causing trouble. If that is the case, he will have Ferdinand to contend with!’

  Grace stirred her steaming café au lait. ‘Romance is the very last thing I’m seeking,’ she glumly insisted.

  ‘Well, I can see that something is on your mind.’

  The avuncular Ferdinand appeared so concerned that Grace felt sorely tempted to unburden herself. However, she wasn’t about to alienate his affection by revealing either her married state, or the real reason she was in Paris. On the other hand, she knew she had to tell someone at least part of the truth or she would never make any progress. And who better than Ferdinand — the man who knew everyone — to go to for help?

  ‘Actually, I’m looking for someone,’ she said.

  ‘And who is this someone?’

  ‘He’s . . .’ Grace searched for a way to describe Siddy. ‘He’s an old family friend named Reuben Wood.’

  ‘Tell me about Monsieur Wood,’ Ferdinand prompted.

  ‘Reuben volunteered to fight in the war on behalf of the Allies,’ Grace explained. ‘But during the Fall of France, he went missing. I have a feeling that he’s still alive, although for some reason he has chosen to remain here and not make contact with anyone in Australia.’

  ‘Such things do happen.’ Ferdinand nodded as he bit into a croissant. ‘What with all the turmoil and chaos, war can provide many opportunities for a man to disappear and begin a new life. Would you like my assistance?’

  ‘That would be wonderful. When I was still at home I knew that finding him would be a challenge, but now I’m in Paris I’ve realised I have no idea where to start.’

  ‘Tracking down old soldiers is not exactly my area of expertise,’ he said, smiling. ‘Nevertheless, I will do what I can.’ Leaning forward, he spoke in a serious tone. ‘But I must warn you, ma petite, disturbing secrets is a risky affair. It is a little like turning over a rock that has been lying in a shady place for a long time — you do not know what you will find.’

  Grace perched anxiously on the edge of a hard-backed chair.

  ‘Yes,’ the officious bureaucrat said crisply from behind his desk. ‘The name, Reuben Wood — there it is.’ He pointed with a bony finger at a long list. ‘He is certainly the same person you are looking for. However, since he was reported to be missing, presumed dead’ — the man peered at her over his wire spectacles — ‘there has been no further trace of him.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Rien.’

  ‘You mean to say, in all these dusty filing cabinets,’ Grace cast her eyes despairingly around the vast, overcrowded repository, ‘there is not one other word about this man?’

  ‘That is correct.’ The official’s manner became a little milder. ‘I owe your colleague Monsieur Derel a favour and, in any case, I do not enjoy seeing the distress of those friends and relatives who are attempting to locate their loved ones. If there was something more I could do, I would oblige. Unfortunately,’ he said, turning the palms of his hands up as if surrendering to the weight of impossible circumstances, ‘in this instance, I can be of no further assistance. Goodbye, mademoiselle.’

  As Grace left the depressing government offices with their millions of files, not one of any use to her, she felt utterly dejected. On Ferdinand’s advice, she had first contacted the British War Office, but to her great disappointment she had learnt that Lieutenant Carruthers, the author of the letter that contained the only clues to Reuben’s whereabouts, had tragically not survived the evacuation of Dunkirk.

  Next, she had knocked on the doors of numerous French officials, including that of Ferdinand’s nephew at the Police Missing Persons Department; his landlady’s sister in the bureau responsible for those displaced by war; and an elegant, silver-haired Dior client who was a senior Red Cross volunteer. The National Archives had been Grace’s last hope. Perhaps it would be wiser to simply give up?

  Sighing, she buttoned her overcoat, crossed the road and entered a small park. Although the weather was still cold, a dusting of early narcissus had thrust its way through the hard earth. The fresh green stalks and white petals seemed to herald renewal, to point to a future that still promised hope; surely, she thought, they were a sign that she should continue her quest.

  What did it matter if her efforts to use official channels had failed? There must be other ways to tackle the problem. She might not have found him yet, but this didn’t rule out the distinct, tantalising possibility that somewhere in France, Reuben Wood was still alive.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  March 1949

  Grace flinched. She took a quick, involuntary breath, then forced herself to be still. Just another pin. She should be used to the sharp pricks and scratches by now. It was best to simply detach one’s mind, to ignore the murmur of voices: ‘Où, patron? Là, ou là? Ah, oui!’ They would start, and stop, then start again as, under the direction of the serious, pink-cheeked designer, drifts of creamy fabric were swathed about her and pins inserted, only to be removed and tried in a different position.

  The toile she was draped in would form the pattern for an extravagant ice-white ball gown with a tightly fitted satin bodice, a tiny waist and a skirt composed of an unheard-of quantity of silk organza and tulle. Mother of pearl petals, rhinestone beads, and sequins, each one painstakingly sewn on by hand, would add to the spectacular effect.

  Grace had already decided how she would show the gown when the time came to model it for one of the maison’s most famous clients, the way she would spin so that shards of light from the salon’s chandeliers would play across its shimmering folds.

  She tried to suppress a shiver as the cold hands of an assistant reached around her waist, smoothing and flattening the toile.

  ‘Yes, that is much better,’ le patron said approvingly. ‘And now we regard the correct width of the skirt, my dear Marguerite.’

  Marguerite Carré scanned Monsieur Dior’s face for an indication as to what his verdict might be. ‘Does le patron believe I have achieved his vision?’ she asked nervously, pulling at the tape measure that hung about her neck with the ubiquity of a doctor’s stethoscope.

  ‘No, you have not, Madame Carré. I require far more volume.’ The directrice looked stricken as Dior grasped his gold-topped cane and pointed, saying tersely, ‘Please be so kind as to place the fabric so that it extends from the waist, not the hips.’

  So it continued. The business of pinning and draping, cutting and folding went on and on until Grace jumped. She’d felt the sharp jab of yet another of Madame Carré’s pins.

  ‘Mademoiselle Dubois!’ Marguerite tut-tutted.

  ‘Sorry
,’ Grace said. After all, what was a scratch or two, the sore feet or aching back that were the inevitable outcome of standing still in high-heeled shoes for hours at a time, when the world’s most acclaimed fashion designer was creating one of his fabulous masterpieces?

  It was a modest inconvenience. And she was in Paris, after all. The place where she had always longed to be.

  At one o’clock, Grace joined Brigitte and Marie-Hélène — of the twelve house mannequins at Christian Dior, they were her closest friends — for a hurried meal of smoked salmon and baguette.

  ‘All week, the one subject the girls in the cabine have been talking about is which client will be the fortunate owner of that incredible ball dress,’ Marie-Hélène said as she nibbled a crust.

  ‘Argentina’s first lady, Eva Perón — I’m certain of it,’ Brigitte broke in. ‘You know the way she likes to put on a show. Anything that will sparkle for the cameras, that’s what’s important to her. You’ll see, she’ll want it the minute she sees it on you. I heard her confess to our dear première vendeuse, Madame Beguin, “My biggest fear in life is to be forgotten.” Imagine! Well, she won’t be if she’s photographed wearing that dress. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns up on the front page of Le Monde.’

  What marked Brigitte out from the other mannequins, apart from her honey-blonde hair and creamy complexion, was her reticence about disclosing any personal details. Two of the girls — Victoire and Corinne — said that they had heard she was the daughter of a count who lived in a grand château somewhere in the Loire Valley, but when they braved Brigitte’s reserve to inquire if the story were true she merely responded with a laugh, ‘How delightful that sounds. I wonder what I am doing here, working all hours, don’t you?’

  There was no mystery about Marie-Hélène’s origins: everyone knew she was a Parisienne through and through. Her mother, a much sought-after actress in her youth, had passed on both her auburn-haired beauty and a flair for the dramatic.

  ‘No, Brigitte! You are quite wrong.’ Marie-Hélène tossed her abundant, reddish-gold locks, temporarily released from their usual plaited coil. ‘That gown is going to Wallis, the Duchess of Windsor. She has something of your colouring, Grace, but unlike you, she is no beauty.’

  With an arch expression, she added, ‘Actually, I think she looks rather like a frog, although, I must admit, one who has been kissed by a king, and has a king’s ransom of jewels.’

  Grace assumed a sphinx-like smile. She knew exactly who the dress had been designed for: the young Princess Margaret of Great Britain. Apparently, the first sketches had already been revealed to the blue-eyed princess during a visit by Her Royal Highness to the French Embassy in London.

  ‘Naturally, I was present to provide guidance,’ Madame Beguin had confided in Grace. However, as the vendeuse had elicited a promise of absolute secrecy, Grace continued to maintain she had no idea who the gown was being made for.

  ‘Ah, that’s what you say,’ Marie-Hélène remarked. ‘But all the same, I have a feeling that you know.’ She regarded Grace with narrowed eyes. ‘You are clearly practised in the art of keeping secrets,’ she said. ‘In fact, I believe there is something else you haven’t told us about — a hidden lover, perhaps, or is there a handsome man you have left behind?’

  Grace struggled to maintain her composure. ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘Because despite everything Paris has to offer, for the past three months you have stayed alone in your little room every night.’

  Marie-Hélène couldn’t possibly have guessed the truth, although Grace was unnerved by the accuracy of the vivacious redhead’s suspicions.

  ‘Never mind, Brigitte and I intend to change all that,’ Marie-Hélène said.

  ‘I can’t believe that Le Chat Noir nightclub is so close to you and yet you have never even seen it.’ Brigitte shook her blonde head. ‘You are such fun, Grace — I simply do not understand.’

  ‘And neither do I,’ Marie-Hélène added. ‘You certainly don’t seem the shy type to me, nor do you have the tormented appearance of someone recovering from a broken heart.’ She looked at Grace sceptically. ‘Well, whatever it is that has been keeping you inside, that must end. You have until Friday to acquire a pretty dress, because that’s when you are coming out to Le Chat Noir with us. And we’re not listening to any excuses!’

  That night, Grace looked around her airy attic room with its white-washed beams and smiled. She liked the way the walls were covered with rose-strewn paper of ancient provenance, just as she liked the capacious green velvet armchair, despite it being so worn in places that the plush pile had disappeared. There were few other features. A small, round wooden table and a chair had been provided, together with two shelves on which she had placed a couple of her favourite childhood books, including a volume of Alfred’s beloved Australian bush poetry and the copy of Charles Perrault’s French fairy tales that had been one of the first texts she’d studied with Mademoiselle Elise. On an impulse, she had also propped up the photograph from the mysterious box.

  In one wall was a diminutive fireplace and, in the corner, a lone gas ring, sink and cold water tap served for a kitchen. At the other end of the room, a faded pink damask curtain shielded an alcove that accommodated a large bed with a twisting iron bedhead painted white, an old chest of drawers, a long mirror and a wardrobe.

  Although her new home had all Grace needed, she would still have regarded it as pleasant, rather than exceptional, were it not for the view from the single, unusually large dormer window. From there she could see a vista she never tired of — the slanting, slate-covered rooftops of Paris and its slender church spires. If Grace held her head at just the right angle, she could even catch a glimpse of the soaring Eiffel Tower.

  Each week, Grace paid the rent to the tiny concierge with great pleasure. As she handed over her crumpled bundle of francs to Madame Guérin, she inwardly congratulated herself on at last becoming independent. After the tumultuous events of her recent life and the hectic days at the maison, the long, silent evenings she spent alone reading, sketching or simply dreaming brought her peace and contentment. Grace had savoured her solitude, yet now she found herself contemplating her new friends’ insistent invitation.

  Suddenly weary, she threw herself on the bed. So far, all her efforts to locate Reuben had come to nothing — shouldn’t she be spending her spare time trying to find him? Even though she now realised that, contrary to her first hasty reaction, when it came to the affair he was just as guilty as her mother, Grace still found it painfully hard to accept that the man she’d known all her life was the same man who’d been willing to betray Alfred, his good friend. Had he ever suffered guilt, shame or remorse? She’d never seen any sign of it.

  Curiously, she still cared for him deeply. No matter what he’d done in the past, it was impossible to forget either his kindness or their years of shared affection.

  Chastising herself for having allowed another twenty-four hours to go by without any progress, Grace rose to her feet, walked over to the window and pushed open the shutters. As she looked out into the star-filled Paris night she called out softly, ‘Siddy, where are you?’

  The next morning, Grace was woken early by the bright spring sunshine pouring into her room. Of course, I never closed the shutters, she thought, as she pushed her blankets aside. She felt revitalised, as if the sun’s energy itself was coursing through her veins. Jumping out of bed, Grace held her arms out wide, embracing the light. Her need to find Reuben was not the only reason she had come to Paris — she’d also wanted to discover a new way of life. At least that’s something I can throw myself into, she told herself. Then she began to ponder how she might persuade Madame Raymonde to lend her a dress before Friday night.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Brigitte and Marie-Hélène met Grace outside her building. The two women inspected her with critical gazes, before pronouncing her appearance to be ‘ravissante’.

  ‘Victoire wore that design in the last spring
collection,’ observed Marie-Hélène. ‘But with your green eyes, it suits you much better.’

  The exquisite jade net dress Grace had successfully borrowed (Madame Raymonde had insisted that it be for one night only and that it had to be returned promptly the next morning) hugged her breasts and waist, then pooled into a frothy skirt.

  Brigitte nodded her approval. ‘You will be a sensation.’

  ‘That’s quite enough,’ Grace said, waving her compliment away. ‘In any case, isn’t it time we went to this club you’re so keen for me to see?’

  The girls walked for just a few minutes before leading her to the end of a tiny cul-de-sac.

  ‘I have wandered down this little street at least twice while I’ve been out exploring,’ she said with surprise, ‘but I didn’t imagine there was anything much behind that black door.’

  Now that night had fallen, a strategically placed light illuminated a sign attached to what had at first appeared to be nothing but a shadowy recess. On the coal-coloured board the name of the club, together with the outline of a cat, was picked out in white paint.

  ‘No wonder I missed it,’ Grace said, her eyes dancing with anticipation.

  She walked through the door, descended a set of black-carpeted stairs, and found herself in a striking subterranean cavern. The dramatic decor was entirely monochromatic. Against the back of the dimly lit room, a long, black-lacquered bar was crowded with patrons. The walls were also black, while the wooden floorboards were painted in alternating bands of black and white that reminded her of piano keys. The tables and chairs were white, as was the stage on which sat an upright piano, a set of black drums and a gleaming double bass.

  ‘This looks amazing,’ Grace exclaimed, ‘and so do the people. Who on earth are they?’

  ‘Ah, I suppose you have noticed that Le Chat Noir’s clientele is considerably more colourful than its style of decoration,’ Marie-Hélène remarked drily. ‘This is where you will find the grander type of bohemian. There are famous artists’ models, fashion mannequins from all the best maisons, photographers, actors, painters, philosophers and writers, with the addition of a sprinkling of the more outré members of the old French aristocracy and the well-off bourgeoisie — at least, the ones that fancy themselves as intellectuals. Can you see Pablo Picasso over there in the corner holding court?’ She tilted her head in the direction of a stocky, balding man who was gesticulating energetically. ‘And look — there is the existential philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, the one with the pipe and the thick glasses. He is usually to be found drinking martinis at the Pont Royal with Albert Camus, but his lover Simone de Beauvoir likes it here so she must have talked him round.’