The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  Grace couldn’t help staring — the patrons were as exotic as creatures in a zoo. ‘Who is that tiny woman at the bar, the one talking with such animation?’

  ‘Ah, we call her The Little Sparrow. Her name is Édith Piaf — she’s a chanteuse. If we are lucky, she might sing “La vie en rose” tonight.’

  ‘And what about that girl further down, the one with the interesting face?’

  Brigitte peered across the room. ‘She looks familiar, but I cannot place her.’

  ‘Well, well,’ Marie-Hélène broke in, ‘I see that Baron Édouard de Gide is coming our way. He is known to escort only Paris’s most gorgeous women, which means I’m sure he wants to meet Dior’s enchanting new mannequin.’

  ‘In that case, I had better make myself scarce.’ Grace laughed.

  ‘Too late!’ Brigitte whispered as de Gide appeared by her side.

  Grace was introduced to the eager baron, but having no wish to spend time with such a seemingly shallow man — or, for that matter, any man — she informed him that sadly, a girlfriend was waiting for her at the bar. With that, she plunged into the crowd, then wriggled her way onto a seat that luckily had just become free next to the girl she had noticed earlier.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ Grace said. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I just told a man I wanted to escape from that you’re a friend. Do you mind if we chat for a few minutes? My name’s Grace Dubois, by the way.’

  ‘Hi, Jacqueline Bouvier — and I’m happy to help you out. But you’re not French, are you?’

  ‘Is my accent that bad?’ Grace said in English, with a smile.

  ‘It sounds perfect to me. No, it’s just that most French women are way more reserved. Believe me, I know. I’m an American, and sometimes I feel like their etiquette is stifling. Speaking of which, please call me Jackie — all my friends do.’

  The two rapidly engaged in conversation about the challenges young women from the New World faced while living in Paris. As they spoke, Grace decided that although the girl was not a classic beauty — her face was wide and her dark eyes were set just a little too far apart — the combined effect of her features was beguiling.

  ‘I’d really love to talk more,’ Jackie said in the breathy coo of a child, ‘only I promised the grand French lady I’m staying with that we would have dinner together tonight. I know — tomorrow is Saturday. How about coffee at the Café de Flore, around half-past two? Do say you’ll come.’

  ‘That sounds like fun. À demain!’

  The famous café was only a few streets away from Grace’s home. According to Madame Guérin, a host of Left Bank identities — including Sartre, Camus, de Beauvoir, Giacometti and Cocteau — had for years crowded around the café’s tiny tables, smoking Gauloises, drinking cheap wine, laughing and arguing until all hours.

  ‘Those clever people have all moved on now, though,’ she said, stroking Tartuffe, her cat, ‘despite what the foolish tourists think. These days it is les Americaines who flock there in search of la vie française. They remind me of the hungry pigeons hunting for breadcrumbs in front of Notre-Dame.’

  As Grace took a seat in the café, she thought about the wave of Americans pouring into Paris. Madame de Turckheim — or Tutu as the girls called the baroness in charge of the cabine — had informed them that most of the twenty-five thousand people — an astonishing figure in itself — who had attended Dior’s parades during the past twelve months were from the United States. Tutu had added, ‘At least two hundred thousand more are expected to arrive in France during this coming year. Mes filles, I ask myself, where will it end?’

  A distinctive soft voice cut short Grace’s reflections. ‘Bonjour! I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Grace smiled at Jackie. ‘I was just thinking how at home you would feel in Paris these days — so many of your fellow citizens are here.’

  ‘I know just what you mean,’ Jackie said with a sardonic expression. ‘My mother grumbles that with Paris being this popular and the franc so cheap, she and her friends are finding it impossible to book a room at the Ritz!’

  ‘It is rather funny,’ Grace agreed. ‘Do you see, at that table over there, the college boys in black turtlenecks drinking their Picon citron? It’s obvious they’re desperately trying to be more French than the French.’

  ‘And at the next table there’s a group of young Frenchmen who are wearing US-style check shirts and downing Coca-Colas,’ Jackie added. ‘How absurd it all is!’

  The two women looked at these impostors, then at each other, before both broke into peals of shared laughter.

  ‘But what about you?’ asked Grace. ‘Your name is French.’

  ‘Yes, but my family has been in the United States forever. Anyway, you have a French name as well.’

  ‘Dubois?’ Grace smiled. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. It’s assumed. My real name is Grace, um, Woods.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Well, one thing I do know,’ said Jackie, ‘we have something in common. We might have French names and speak the language, but we are both outsiders. That gives one quite a different perspective, don’t you think?’

  Grace laughed. ‘You’re right about that.’

  ‘And as for our families . . .’ Jackie continued, ‘I don’t know what yours is like, but mine’s definitely problematic. My father — everyone calls him Black Jack — is divine, even though he’s a terrible drinker and simply wild for the ladies. My parents divorced when I was a child. Now Mum is married to a very rich but extremely dull banker called Hugh Auchincloss. I hardly ever see Black Jack these days. I do know that he didn’t want me to come here, though.’ Jackie bit her lip, before saying wistfully, ‘Fathers and mothers — why is it all so complicated?’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve often asked myself the same question,’ Grace replied.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  17 March 1949

  Dear Lottie,

  I do wish you were with me so we could experience this wonderful city together. I also long to hear more of your news! Unfortunately, as you’re not here, and I can’t exactly pop over to Oakhill, this letter will have to do.

  I wanted to tell you that thanks to two new friends, I had my first real night out in Paris just a couple of weeks ago. Suddenly, I’m like Sleeping Beauty. There has certainly not been a handsome prince — that’s definitely not on the agenda — but I do feel as if I have woken from years of slumber.

  Having spent most of my life in the bush (unlike lucky you!), being surrounded by so many stimulating people, challenging ideas and a wildly different way of living has taken some getting used to. Post-war Paris is simply abuzz with activity, filled with amazing art, books, fashion, music — and especially people! So, now that I’m more settled, I have decided not to seclude myself in my little attic anymore. That means I’ve been out to restaurants and gallery openings, and visited some jazz clubs and cabarets, including the famous Lido and the Folies Bergère (where the stunning girls wear hardly anything but some very immodest sparkly bits and pieces, false eyelashes and a few feathers).

  It’s all been a bit frantic, but I don’t want to stop. It’s as if each new experience is like one’s first taste of chocolate ice cream — a delectable treat!

  As you can imagine, Dior’s mannequins command the interest of quite a few gentlemen — there are always flowers and love letters arriving at the atelier for them. Of course, all the models are extremely attractive and have amazing style, so it’s understandable. The funny thing is, despite their sophistication, the girls are fascinated by the fact that I come from Australia.

  In fact, practically all the French people I’ve met seem to find this immensely exotic, only they do have some bizarre views about life at home. You would laugh if you heard what they say — it sounds as if they think we’re all quite wild! And I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been asked whether it’s true that there are koalas ambling down the main streets of
Melbourne and kangaroos bounding along the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

  Grace put down her pen. She had kept her tone bright, but the mere act of writing a letter home had induced an intense melancholy. It made her think about Olive. Charlotte knew Grace and her mother had argued, but Grace had given her friend the impression that the reason was her decision to leave Jack and escape to Paris.

  The truth was, despite Olive’s shocking revelation, Grace missed her mother terribly. If only she would reach out, apologise for what was past, then perhaps they could find some way to heal their rift. Yet, in the long months since Grace had arrived in Paris, she hadn’t received so much as a line from her mother.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Dubois,’ a voice interrupted her sombre thoughts.

  Grace looked up. ‘Pierre! Would you like to join me?’

  ‘Well, if I am not disturbing you . . .’

  The tall, gangly Pierre du Plessis, scion of one of France’s wealthiest banking families, was a self-described poet and a new beau of Brigitte’s.

  ‘Not at all. As you can see, I am all alone. And anyway, if one chooses to be at the famous Café de Flore one should expect to be disturbed,’ she said, putting away her half-finished letter. ‘Do take a seat — but only if you call me Grace.’ She smiled.

  ‘What can I say? We French are a formal people.’ After ordering them both a chilled Dubonnet, he grinned good-naturedly.

  Grace laughed. ‘So I have noticed.’

  ‘Yes, I know it is ridiculous; even among the bohemians who inhabit this quarter there are always rules.’ Pierre tasted his drink. ‘They might aim to break these rules — I do myself — yet still we know they exist. But you? I don’t think you are bound by rules at all. You are friendly to everyone, have no sense of formality, and a manner that some — in my parents’ circle, at least — would call shockingly straightforward.’

  ‘And what does all this mean?’ Grace asked.

  ‘It means simply that you are what we must all strive to be.’

  ‘Good heavens, Pierre. What is that?’

  ‘Yourself, ma chère. Yourself.’

  The next day, Grace received a dozen long-stemmed red roses from the Baron de Gide together with his latest invitation, this time to attend the premiere of a new production of La Bohème.

  ‘What do you think — should I agree to go?’ she asked Marie-Hélène.

  To date, Grace had been unwilling to accept Édouard de Gide’s entreaties, notwithstanding the fact that, with his combination of tanned skin, chiselled features and blond hair, he was undeniably good-looking. But there was something about him, a smooth over-confidence, she found off-putting.

  ‘I certainly would,’ urged her friend, ‘were I in your Roger Vivier shoes.’

  ‘Well, the roses are lovely . . . and I do like Puccini. Perhaps I will.’

  As Grace alighted from de Gide’s sleek, chauffeur-driven Hispano-Suiza in front of Paris’s famously lavish Palais Garnier, he regarded her with open admiration.

  ‘How fortunate that I reserved a box,’ he said.

  Startled, Grace said politely, ‘Does that mean the sightlines will be very good?’

  ‘No, not particularly. But think what a wonderful view the audience will have of my exquisite companion.’

  Grace stifled the urge to laugh — really, the man’s flowery compliments, not to mention his vanity, approached what could only be termed ludicrous. Composing herself, she entered the busy foyer, then swept up the grand staircase in a deep-red taffeta gown that provided a striking contrast to her porcelain skin and upswept raven hair. Around her throat she wore a paste Dior choker that sparkled as it caught the light cast by an enormous chandelier.

  ‘This decor is magnificent!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Ah yes, but not as magnificent as you,’ the baron said smoothly.

  As Grace took in the opulent gilding, pillars, domes, arches and elaborate ceilings, she wondered whether, rather like Édouard’s fulsome praise, it might all be more than a little de trop. She decided, however, at least in Édouard’s case, the benefit of the doubt was called for. Honestly, she told herself, how tiresome could an excess of compliments from a handsome French aristocrat really be?

  When the baron suggested supper at La Tour d’Argent after the opera, Grace readily agreed.

  ‘I’m not sure if you know it,’ he said, ‘being rather new to the pleasures of Paris. La Tour is famous, as much for its view of Notre-Dame as for the chef’s way with pressed duck. Everyone who is anyone goes there: Europe’s high society, film stars, French cabinet ministers — even the President of the Republic himself, on occasion.’

  As the evening progressed, the combined effects of a delightful supper of foie gras accompanied by Dom Pérignon, the baron’s flattering conversation and the captivating sight of the great cathedral’s glowing stained-glass windows, produced in Grace a thoroughly delicious sense of indulgence. She wondered what it would be like to be the Baron de Gide. It was impossible to ignore the deference of the waiters, the way they hurried to bring him whatever he desired.

  They were finishing their bowls of the tiny wild strawberries known as fraises des bois when he introduced the subject of his art collection.

  ‘The works are quite well known,’ he said, casually inserting the names of several Renaissance masters. ‘Would you like me to show them to you?’ Édouard’s fervent expression left Grace in no doubt that the inspection of his paintings was not the only pastime he had in mind.

  ‘What a tempting idea,’ she said with as much sincerity as she could muster. ‘But, sadly, I must work tomorrow — there is a very early showing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Well, I . . . I am extremely disappointed,’ Édouard responded, evidently nonplussed.

  It took only the briefest of pauses for the baron to collect himself. With his usual savoir-faire once more intact, he reached across the table and trailed a finger down Grace’s bare arm, an intimacy she found vaguely distasteful.

  ‘I think you know how much I would like to share the experience with you,’ he said.

  The following day, Grace was kept busy modelling for a glamorous redheaded American film star named Rita Hayworth. Much taken with the New Look, Miss Hayworth — who was engaged to the fantastically wealthy Prince Aly Khan — had explained in her distinctive drawl, ‘I’m after a few knockout outfits for my trousseau.’

  When finally Grace had concluded the private showing and changed back into her own clothes, she saw Ferdinand coming towards her from the direction of the studio. He was carrying a small parcel in one hand.

  ‘I believe this is for you, Mademoiselle Dubois,’ he said, handing it to Grace with a stiff bow.

  ‘Why so formal, Ferdinand?’ Grace asked. ‘Anyway, you must be mistaken. Who would be sending me something like that?’

  ‘As I am familiar with the chauffeur who delivered it, I believe I know exactly who it is from,’ he frowned, ‘and, much to my regret, the reason why. Mademoiselle Dubois, I trust you have not entered into an unwise liaison?’

  Grace was mystified, as much by the doorman’s unusual manner as by the parcel’s arrival. ‘Dear Ferdinand, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.’

  She quickly tore off the wrapping paper, revealing a slim red leather case embossed with gold lettering that picked out a single word: Cartier.

  ‘Ah yes, that is to be expected. It is his usual choice,’ Ferdinand observed with a disapproving sniff.

  Grace opened the case, then gasped. Inside was a superb ruby and diamond choker. A note was enclosed, written in a flowing hand on a stiff white card adorned with an ornate crest: For your red dress. When you decide you would like to view my art collection, please do me the favour of wearing this token of my esteem.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Grace said. ‘It’s fabulous, isn’t it?’

  She was met with silence.

  ‘Oh, now I see.’ She chortled. ‘You obviously think I have fa
llen into the baron’s clutches.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’ said Ferdinand. ‘He is a notorious ladies’ man, and it is well known that he gives all his mistresses an expensive bauble from Cartier after each new conquest. But, Mademoiselle Dubois, you barely know him, and to succumb to him so quickly, like . . . like some little chorus girl!’

  ‘Do listen, dear Ferdinand,’ Grace said. ‘I have not begun an affair with Édouard de Gide. We simply went to the opera, had a very pleasant supper, and then I went home.’

  ‘But that is unheard of! Believe me, I know. It is only after a woman has, shall we say, made herself available that he bestows a gift like this upon her.’ Ferdinand looked puzzled. ‘I wonder why he has broken with the habit of a lifetime and given you such a lavish present now?’

  ‘Obviously, he felt I might require additional inducement,’ Grace responded airily. ‘Well, I’m afraid he has no hope of success.’ She picked up the necklace. ‘It is lovely, though. Ah, well. Would you mind wrapping it up and sending it back for me? I am more than happy to accompany Baron Édouard de Gide to the ballet or the opera or dinner, but to go up and see his Old Masters?’ She giggled. ‘It is quite out of the question.’

  Now it was Ferdinand’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh, what a wonderful tale. Never before has the baron been rebuffed in such a way. Le tout-Paris will be talking about this remarkable event!’