‘Well, I am very happy for le tout-Paris to be made aware that I have no interest in that kind of liaison.’
‘Looking as alluring as you do? They will never believe it. Everyone will simply assume you are . . . what is that excellent English expression? Yes — playing hard to get.’
Ferdinand gave Grace another of his formal bows, although this time he was chuckling. She watched as he made his way back down the corridor, his grey-clad figure shadowy against the pearly walls, the only flash of colour coming from the red leather case he held in his hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wearing a new, full-skirted black dress that sported wide pockets, a tightly belted waist and a deep V-neckline that revealed a hint of décolletage, Grace was sitting on one of the high stools at Le Chat Noir’s bar with her best friends, regaling them with the story of the hapless baron and his ruby and diamond Cartier necklace. Both were in agreement that she had done exactly the right thing.
‘Though I would not blame you if you were tempted to keep it,’ Marie-Hélène observed. ‘In fact, I think few girls could resist.’
Brigitte spoke in a more serious tone. ‘Grace, I am glad you are having a good time, really I am. But aren’t you interested in love?’
‘Absolutely not! Let’s just say that I know what a relationship with a man can lead to. I don’t want to become entangled — and I won’t.’
Grace’s stomach lurched as she reminded herself that, to date, she had done nothing about seeking a divorce. Somehow, the entire subject was overwhelming; every time she thought about writing to Jack she found a reason to put it off.
‘Well then, you must meet Philippe Boyer,’ said Brigitte. ‘He can be a little mysterious and he’s not always diplomatic, but I like him, as does Picasso, so you will probably think he is quite nice.’
‘Brigitte, you haven’t listened to a word I’ve been saying. I’m not interested,’ Grace admonished her friend.
‘I don’t expect you to be. In fact, I can’t see Philippe as your type. That’s why he would make such a perfect casual acquaintance — there would be absolutely no risk at all of you getting involved.’
‘What’s he like?’
Brigitte put her head to one side. ‘He is extremely good-looking in an intense sort of way, and he’s clever, if a bit too political for my liking. It might be interesting for you to spend a little time with him.’
‘I very much doubt it.’
Ignoring Grace’s marked lack of enthusiasm, Brigitte stood and scanned the crowded room, then waved at the man she was seeking.
‘Really, Brigitte, did you have to do that?’ Grace laughed. ‘You’re incorrigible!’
A moment later, a tall, lean man with vivid blue eyes was by her side.
Brigitte immediately took charge. ‘Philippe Boyer, I want you to meet a new friend of mine from Dior. You probably haven’t come across an Australian before, so this will be a new experience.’ She smiled. ‘May I present my colleague, the very beautiful Grace Dubois.’
She gave Grace a barely perceptible wink, took Marie-Hélène’s hand, and promptly melted away.
Philippe Boyer was good-looking. In contrast to Édouard de Gide’s smooth blond elegance, he possessed a moody, tensile quality that Grace found, to her surprise, immensely appealing. Philippe’s dark brown hair was a little long, brushing the frayed collar of his white shirt, which he wore with a black leather jacket, slim black trousers and black boots.
Grace felt confused. Here was a man who just a minute ago she’d not even wanted to meet, yet after setting eyes on him for the first time her heart had begun to beat unnervingly quickly.
‘Well, Mademoiselle Dubois from Australia, what is your view of Le Chat Noir?’ Philippe asked with a wry smile that only made him appear more attractive.
‘I like it very much.’
‘I thought you would — all the mannequins do. And the rest of the so-called smart bohemian set. By the way, would you like a drink?’
‘I’m still on this martini,’ Grace said, lifting her glass to her lips before adding, ‘It doesn’t sound as if you approve of the bohemian set.’
‘Oh, they act as if they are so very free, so modern, so French,’ Philippe said sarcastically. ‘Yet for many it is all just a game of make-believe.’
‘Monsieur Boyer, if you don’t care for the club or its patrons, what are you doing here?’ Grace inquired. ‘I wouldn’t think you’d want to darken its doors.’
‘I’m here for work, not pleasure,’ he responded, leaning against the bar as he ordered a Calvados. Seeing Grace’s puzzled expression, he added, ‘Brigitte did not tell you? I am a journalist. As it happens, I’m writing a profile on Sartre and his circle.’
‘I see. And for whom do you write?’
‘L’Humanité. But as it represents the views of the Communist Party of France, I doubt it is a newspaper you would have read.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Philippe Boyer might possess an undeniable magnetism, Grace reflected, but he could certainly be abrupt.
‘A woman like you?’ he asked with a return of that irresistible wry smile. ‘In my experience, high fashion mannequins are not interested in politics.’
‘Obviously that’s because you have never met one who comes from Australia before,’ Grace said breezily.
‘Touché.’ Philippe bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘All the same,’ he continued, ‘aren’t Dior’s models besieged by wealthy suitors? With all that lavish attention, I cannot imagine the Communist Party would enthral you.’
Grace found it difficult to know if he was serious or simply intent on teasing her; the man was as infuriating as he was intriguing.
‘Is there anything else about me that you can or cannot imagine, Monsieur Boyer?’ Now she was flirting. What better invitation could there be for a man to murmur any number of comments, ripe with flattery and innuendo? Grace wondered what had come over her.
‘There is, as a matter of fact,’ Philippe said. ‘As you are from such a very safe, faraway land and as your manner is so delightfully carefree, I cannot imagine you have ever been burdened by significant worries.’
That was not the response Grace had expected.
‘For that matter,’ he added, ‘I cannot imagine you would be accustomed to what the party’s members would deem hard manual labour. Shall I continue?’
‘Honestly!’ Attractive or not, Boyer had an excess of cheek.
‘Call me Philippe.’ Grace could swear he was trying to stifle a grin. ‘I prefer to discuss politics on a first-name basis.’
‘Philippe, then — and you weren’t talking about politics, you were talking about me. Are you always in the habit of leaping to conclusions?’
‘Tell me if I am wrong.’ His blue eyes twinkled in a way that would make her forgive him for almost anything.
‘Absolutely, one hundred per cent wrong,’ she said. ‘Just for that, you will have to guess what I did in a previous life.’
‘A previous life?’ Philippe raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s see — I really will have to use my imagination this time. Isn’t there an English nursery rhyme that starts off with, “Butcher, baker, candlestick-maker . . .” Am I getting close?’
Grace couldn’t help laughing. ‘I was a farmer. Sheep and wheat.’
To her great satisfaction, Philippe was astounded. ‘Surely not!’
‘Actually, I had to work really hard, for years, especially after my . . .’ She felt a sudden ache in her heart. ‘After my father died.’
Philippe’s insouciance disappeared. ‘I am so sorry. Brigitte is always telling me I am too blunt, that I take everything too far.’ He shrugged. ‘She is right, although in my defence, I don’t think many men could easily imagine an haute couture mannequin like you spending her days working in the fields.’ He placed his hand briefly on her bare arm, where, in contrast to the baron’s unwelcome touch, it left a trace of tantalising heat. ‘Allow me to make it up to you. Why don’t we leave this place?’
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‘Leave — with you? Why on earth would I do that?’
‘Let me show you another side of Paris, one you haven’t seen before. Perhaps then you will understand what has made me so insufferable.’ He finished his Calvados and placed it on the counter. ‘So, shall we go?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Grace had no intention of going anywhere with this impudent Frenchman to whom she was curiously drawn — in itself an excellent reason to decline his invitation. Despite Brigitte’s assurances, Grace had the strongest feeling that Philippe Boyer was not a man with whom she was destined to have a casual acquaintance. It would be far better — and safer — if their encounter ended straightaway. But . . .
‘What do you have to lose by saying yes?’ he asked with a winning look Grace found difficult to resist.
She had spent most of her life attempting to be a good daughter, a good wife, to do the right thing, and where had it got her? Suddenly, she felt rebellious, excited at the prospect of a night that offered new discoveries in the company of this arresting man.
Outside the club was a powerful motorcycle attached by a chain to a steel railing. ‘I don’t suppose you have been on one of these before?’ Philippe said.
‘Goodness, you make a great many assumptions,’ Grace responded with mock indignation.
‘Well, if you have,’ he said as he took his keys from his pocket, ‘and quite frankly, Mademoiselle Dubois, I have reached the point where very little about you would surprise me, you will know that if you don’t want to be flung off at the first corner, I am afraid you will be forced to wrap your arms around me.’
Grace knew Philippe was teasing her again but, to her surprise, she realised she didn’t care. Her sole concern was that the dress she was wearing would still be in pristine condition when she returned it to Madame Raymonde on Monday morning.
All the same, Grace had no intention of allowing Philippe to think she was intimidated. Gathering up her skirts as well as she was able, she promptly straddled the bike, tucking herself in behind him. She gingerly held on to his waist, only to find any lingering reluctance she’d had about being in his company melting away. He was certainly completely different to Édouard de Gide, and nothing at all like Jack. Philippe seemed entirely unimpressed by her looks, or by her status as an elite Dior model. She found that she was unusually curious about him.
As the motorcycle sped through the night, Grace silently chided herself. No matter what her initial interest in a man might be, a point would inevitably arrive when she felt cold and distant. Every date she’d been on during the war had ended the same way. Her thoughts travelled back to the time she’d stepped outside with the good-looking officer during the party at the Parkes Air Base. Despite his appeal, she had frozen. She hadn’t even been able to respond to her own husband.
Fortunately, her shortcomings were unlikely to become an issue tonight, as so far it appeared that Philippe was more interested in verbal jousting than anything else.
She became pensive as she thought over his remarks about the smart world of Paris. It was true that, apart from working at the maison, her recent weeks had been spent in a whirl of hedonistic pursuits. Dancing, dining, drinking cocktails, visiting the opera — it had all been fun, she supposed, but what did such a life add up to?
Perhaps this frenzy of activity had just been a way of putting off her search. Might it really be that, deep down, she feared that discovering Reuben’s whereabouts would prove too distressing for her to bear? She was, after all, nothing but the illegitimate offspring of a man who clearly had no desire to claim her as his daughter. Wasn’t her wish to avoid the painful confirmation of these facts the real reason she had done so little to find him since arriving in Paris?
As the chill air whipped her hair against her face, she told herself she would have to develop a little more backbone. She was reasonably well established in Paris now, her three-month trial at Christian Dior was over and Madame Raymonde had given her a permanent position at the maison. The time had come to renew her quest.
Perhaps this handsome man who’d had such an unexpected effect upon her knew something or someone that could help her. He was a journalist, after all. He must have contacts, ways of locating information, even missing people. On the other hand, she wasn’t at all sure she wished to place herself in the debt of Monsieur Boyer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Grace was so preoccupied by her thoughts she hadn’t noticed the neighbourhood they had been passing through. Now, as Philippe brought the motorcycle to a stop, she saw that they were surrounded by decrepit buildings, some under-provisioned shops and a few run-down cafés.
‘Up ahead it’s just cobblestoned alleyways,’ Philippe said, ‘and as the drains in this part of town are virtually antique, there’s likely to be a fair bit of water on the ground. We’d better walk from here.’ He looked at her, although without a suggestion of admiration. ‘That dress you’re wearing is not exactly suited to a bumpy landing, is it?’
Grace had never before felt self-conscious in Paris in her chic clothes. Now she felt unpleasantly conspicuous. Thin, shabbily dressed people brushed past, casting disparaging glances in her direction. The new post-war prosperity on show in the heady world of smart nightclubs had clearly eluded them.
‘We’re in eastern Paris now,’ Philippe said. ‘Those who live here are mostly poor artisans — cobblers, garment workers or watchmakers. Some are masons who earn their miserable incomes carving the gravestones for Père Lachaise cemetery.’
Grace followed Philippe into the disorienting maze of alleys, so unlike the discipline and elegance of the quartiers she knew. The buildings here were low, cramped and dirty. She was relieved when they stopped in front of a café.
They entered a room which, although poorly lit, still revealed stains on the red-checked tablecloths and patches of dust on the furniture. A few burly types wearing cloth caps and blue overalls who were drinking pastis at the bar turned around and stared at her, but, after seeing Philippe, they nodded at him and turned back to their muttered conversation.
‘Friends of yours?’ Grace asked.
‘Let’s just say they’re comrades,’ Philippe replied. ‘Welcome to the working man’s quarter. We’re in Belleville. A little different to the avenue Montaigne, isn’t it?’
Philippe’s light, bantering tone had been abandoned.
After they took their seats at a small corner table, he gestured towards the menu. ‘There’s always the same thing on each night — pot au feu, a green salad and then cheese. If you’re lucky, there might be some chocolate or even coffee, though they’ll both be from the black market.’
‘At least that makes ordering straightforward.’
Philippe hailed the sole waiter. ‘Pour deux,’ he said.
Grace was surprised to find that the stew, with its rich, robust flavours, was delicious. ‘Mmm . . . This is really good.’
‘You can thank our generous American buddies and their Marshall Plan for that,’ Philippe said with a frown. ‘They continue to fly in planeloads of food every day.’
‘Well then, why do you look so disapproving?’
‘Because they are intent on turning us into a colony! You know what the comrades and I think of the Marshall Plan?’
‘I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.’
‘It’s a subversive way for the United States to exert influence and bring France under the Yankee yoke. The plan is a Trojan Horse and we are all to be subjugated.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’
‘Is it?’ Philippe shrugged. ‘You know, we French welcomed the Americans. But even that journalist Malcolm Muggeridge — who, by the way, I’m sure is an agent of the British secret service — says that everybody ends up hating their liberators. He’s right. That is exactly how we feel.’
‘I still don’t see why,’ Grace said.
‘Because France has become nothing but a poor relation.’ Philippe drained his glass of red wine. ‘Suddenly, everyone wants ch
ewing gum and Coca-Cola, to distract themselves with stupid, inane pleasures. We are turning into a little United States of America. You have seen some of the fashionable bars, I suppose, the ones with names like New York, or worse, The Sunny Side of the Street.’
Grace smiled. ‘Actually, that one’s rather good. They serve delicious Tom Collinses and Manhattans.’
‘But that’s the point!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the Americans have brought with them — like those cocktails — it has proven irresistible. Films, clothes, jazz musicians like Duke Ellington and Charlie Parker . . .’
‘I’m afraid to say, I like them too,’ Grace admitted.
‘As do I . . .’ Seeing her confusion, Philippe explained, ‘I am not immune to these pleasures. But that does not mean we should embrace American capitalism, American values. That is not the right path.’
It struck Grace that there was something mechanical about Philippe’s response, as if he were repeating words and phrases he had learnt by rote. ‘Well, what is the correct path, as you call it?’
‘The Communist Party, of course. Thousands of others think so too, but we are facing problems.’
‘Which are?’
He raked his hair with his fingers in a manner that Grace found unexpectedly distracting. ‘When rumours about the Red Army’s disgraceful behaviour began to circulate, our members left the party in droves. Now we have to compete with the bounty showered on us by the blessed Marshall Plan, courtesy of Saint Harry Truman.’
Grace was intrigued. Philippe Boyer might veer between the recitation of party dogma and outbursts of spontaneous passion, but he didn’t flatter her. It was a novelty to be treated as an intelligent individual, but still . . .
Philippe broke into her thoughts. ‘My apologies. I thought you were interested, but you look so distracted, I must have been mistaken.’
She smiled encouragingly. ‘I was actually wondering what your next step might be.’
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