The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  ‘As we’ve had no luck gaining power in France via the ballot box, I believe that purer, more revolutionary measures are called for.’

  Grace started as their waiter thumped down mugs of coffee on the table. ‘That sounds frightening.’

  ‘Grace, open your eyes! Look around you at the inequality. How many people buy their dresses at Christian Dior?’

  Her temper flared. ‘Just because only a few ladies can afford couture doesn’t mean that most wouldn’t love to. I may not be French, but even I can see that people are sick of years of doing without.’ She leant forward. ‘You said yourself they want pleasure. Well, for plenty of women that means something as simple as the dream of owning a wonderful new dress. Who are you to deny them?’

  Unexpectedly, Philippe grinned. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said. ‘Although I fear that if you have been seeking a little of that pleasure this evening, then I have done a very poor job at providing it.’

  It was only when Grace had returned to the rue Dauphine, wished Madame Guérin and Tartuffe a quick bonsoir, trekked up the six flights of stairs, undressed and dropped into her bed that she was at last able to think about Philippe Boyer.

  The man both attracted and puzzled her. Yes, he was a political radical, yet his behaviour revealed a curious duality. Perhaps there was more to him than the outspoken firebrand he seemed so anxious to be taken for. She wondered what he might be hiding.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Quick! Did you see that woman, the one who just stopped in front of the window?’ Brigitte said excitedly.

  ‘Of course — she was dressed head to toe in Chanel,’ Grace replied. ‘The tweed suit with the camellia pinned just so, the little boater, and all the faux-pearl necklaces. I’m not such a hayseed that I can’t recognise her designs when I see them.’

  ‘Yes, but what you have failed to recognise is her!’

  ‘What? Don’t tell me that was actually the famous —’

  ‘Coco Chanel herself. Well, this is a surprise.’

  Grace and Brigitte were strolling down the charming rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, a narrow street lined with fashionable boutiques. Brigitte had been insisting for days that if Grace had any aspiration at all to be a truly chic Parisienne, an investment in one of Hermès’s distinctive, hand-finished silk scarves was essential.

  ‘I used to love looking at pictures in Vogue of Chanel’s clothes with my mother,’ Grace said wistfully. She felt a sudden yearning for the closeness she’d shared with Olive during those uncomplicated, happy moments. ‘Nobody mentions Chanel anymore. What’s she been up to, I wonder?’

  ‘I can’t really talk about it inside the boutique,’ Brigitte said. ‘It’s a shocking story.’

  ‘That sounds intriguing,’ Grace replied. ‘Let’s stop at that sweet little place up ahead with the flowers in the window; you can tell me about it over a glass of wine. Anyway, I probably need fortification — otherwise, I might faint when I see Hermès’s prices.’

  The two women sat down at a banquette in the quiet bistro.

  ‘So tell me,’ Grace said, sipping chablis. ‘Was it an affair? I thought the French were broad-minded about such things.’

  ‘That is true,’ Brigitte said, ‘and Chanel has certainly taken many lovers to her bed.’

  ‘Well then, what happened?’

  ‘This was different. As soon as the Occupation began, she shut down her business and sacked hundreds of workers. But, far worse, she continued to live at the Ritz —’

  ‘What was wrong with staying at a hotel?’

  ‘Grace, she lived there with her lover, Baron Hans Günther von Dincklage, a German intelligence officer.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Ah, I can see you don’t know anything about what we French call la collaboration horizontale. Chanel was far from the only one, but in her case she was quite blatant.’ Brigitte grimaced. ‘Whether Chanel was a spy, I don’t know. But she was lucky not to suffer l’épuration sauvage.’

  Grace thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think I know that expression either.’

  ‘It’s the term given to the punishment meted out to anyone — but most particularly to women — who was believed to have collaborated with the Nazis.’

  ‘You mean such a thing was common?’

  ‘It was more complicated than you think. Let us say there were many grey areas.’

  ‘How were they punished?’ Grace asked.

  ‘In the worst ways you could imagine. Women, some hardly more than girls, were publicly stripped of their clothes and paraded through the streets before being beaten by mobs. Thousands were seized all over the country and had their hair shaved off. They became known as les tondues.’

  Grace shuddered. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Ma chère, you seem a little faint,’ Brigitte said, frowning. ‘Why don’t we have something to eat?’ It took only a slight incline of her lovely blonde head for her to attract the attention of a waiter in a long white apron. After omelettes and a green salad were ordered, the man scurried away.

  Grace swallowed hard. ‘But you said nothing happened to Chanel?’

  ‘Oh, she was arrested, but quickly released. Apparently, she had friends in high places. Chanel has always been a great survivor.’ Brigitte laughed bitterly. ‘She put a notice in her rue Cambon window announcing she would give a bottle of Chanel No. 5 free to any GI who asked for it. After that, no one was willing to touch so much as a hair on her head.’

  ‘What happened next?’ Grace asked, her eyes wide.

  ‘Our great survivor managed to slip out of France just before liberation. Now she is living freely in Switzerland, still with her kept German lover and, it is rumoured, both a Swiss bank account and a steady supply of morphine. Anyway,’ Brigitte pursed her crimson lips with disapproval, ‘she loathes current fashions — particularly the New Look. Le patron’s designs make women look like women, whereas Coco would rather they dress like boys.’

  Brigitte paused as the eager waiter returned bearing their meal.

  ‘Where was I?’ she said. ‘Ah, yes. I have noticed of late that people’s memories can be surprisingly short. In fact, I would not be at all surprised if Coco returns permanently to Paris at some point in the future. When she does, no doubt the beau monde will once again beat a path to her shiny black door.’ Brigitte looked at Grace. ‘I can see you’re not eating.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about something you mentioned earlier,’ Grace said.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘About the women who collaborated. You said there were many grey areas . . .’

  ‘Grace, how can I explain what it was like here during the war?’ Brigitte said. ‘People froze to death in winter, there was so little fuel. And often it was impossible to find food.’ She frowned. ‘Not every woman who faced l’épuration sauvage was a collaborator. Some were unjustly accused, although, yes, many slept with German soldiers. In return, these women’s lives sometimes became a little easier. Just think,’ Brigitte said quietly. ‘If your children were starving, what choice would you make?’

  Grace shook her head; she had no reply. Unlike so many French women, she had never had to make a life and death decision. She wondered if she would have the courage to do what was right, when knowing what was right was itself so uncertain. Brigitte had opened her eyes to a sobering melange of moral complexities.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Grace said, as she reached for her friend’s hand, ‘but somehow I don’t feel like shopping anymore. Would you mind very much if we left it for another time?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Having assumed an expression of magnificent disdain, Grace positioned herself at the entrance to the salon.

  ‘Numéro cent vingt-trois: Philadelphia,’ announced Jeanne. She then repeated it in English: ‘Number one hundred and twenty-three.’

  Grace held her pose for just a moment longer, so that her audience would have time to admire the low-cut, daffodil-yellow evening gown and elaborate gold an
d crystal necklace before she began to glide across the room. Ladies in neat suits and pearls leant forward on their tiny gilt chairs murmuring, ‘Simply darling’ and ‘Just divine’.

  Grace paused again, one black-gloved hand positioned on her hip, before turning with just sufficient momentum to ensure the two black velvet panels attached at the waist of her full-length, pencil-slim skirt flew out, creating a striking effect.

  Several members of the audience gasped. Grace was silently thankful for the long, albeit cunningly disguised slit — the famous ‘Dior Pleat’ — at the rear of her skirt. Then she continued her sinuous progress until she arrived back at her starting place. Once there, she posed again, gave a quick, dazzling smile and slipped behind a screen.

  The private showing of Christian Dior’s spring 1949 collection, held especially for the wives and friends of the diplomats from the United States Embassy, was almost over. Now, only the bridal gown, the grand finale, remained.

  ‘On y va, chérie,’ Grace whispered to Claire, a blonde mannequin who, despite being passionately in love with her new husband, had nonetheless retained her uniquely virginal radiance and thus continued to be, as she had for several seasons, Dior’s preferred bride. Grace watched from behind the screen as Claire entered the salon, sublime in white guipure lace, her silk-chiffon veil billowing cloud-like behind her.

  Grace had been delighted when she’d discovered that the seamstresses placed a sprig of lily of the valley, le patron’s favourite flower, into the hems of each new garment, but she’d been especially touched to learn that the unmarried girls in the workroom sewed locks of their hair into the wedding dresses. ‘It’s to make sure we’ll find our own husbands soon,’ one of the apprentices confided.

  ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Grace had said, though when the girl had asked her what she meant, she had chosen to remain silent.

  The mannequins had all returned to the cabine, and their hardworking dressers were standing ready to relieve them of their precious gowns, when Tutu clapped her hands three times and made an announcement.

  ‘Mes filles,’ she said, ‘as the applause no doubt indicated to you, our American guests were very taken with Monsieur Dior’s collection. Bravo to everyone for showing it to such advantage. I know it is not usual, but Madame Luling has informed me that the esteemed visitors would like to meet some of you.’

  A scattering of disaffected murmurs followed.

  ‘Yes, I know, it has been a long week. But you are under no obligation. Those who do not wish to participate may wait in the cabine for the usual hour, in case one of our guests wishes to review a particular gown.’ Tutu paused, continuing in a more confidential tone. ‘The fact is, already several other couturiers are fighting for the Americans’ patronage, particularly that of the ambassadress, who is well known for her style. And by the way, although she speaks fluent French, many of the other ladies do not, so please volunteer only if you are able to converse well in English.’

  A few of the girls who met this requirement — Victoire, Thérèse, Brigitte, Marie-Hélène and Grace — indicated they would oblige.

  ‘Good. Remain in your dresses — but do not eat a scrap of food,’ Tutu warned, before adding to general relief, ‘although you will be permitted a little champagne.’

  Collapsing into a chair, Grace kicked off her shoes and began massaging her feet. As the shows were two hours long, and she had been taking part in them twice a day for weeks now, the thought of standing about conversing for any length of time had little appeal.

  On the other hand, the House of Christian Dior had been good to her. Her eyes welled with tears when she reflected upon the way that Ferdinand, Marguerite and the others had showed her so much kindness — and she had to admit, patience too. The least she could do was to help when it was needed. She slipped her shoes back on, powdered her nose and adjusted the black net veiling on her tiny feathered headpiece before joining the American ladies in the salon.

  Grace was just in time to hear a very slender, elegant woman with striking hooded eyes begin to speak.

  ‘My name is Evangeline Bruce,’ she said, ‘and I am the wife of the new United States Ambassador to France, David Bruce. On behalf of everyone present, I would like to thank you for this beautiful show.’

  Grace was surprised by the ambassadress’s youth — although thoroughly assured, she looked only a few years older than Grace herself.

  ‘Having the chance to observe these marvellous creations reminds us all that France has not only survived, she has triumphed over the very worst adversity. I know I can speak confidently on behalf of us all when I say we are delighted to have this opportunity to congratulate you on your achievements.’

  During the applause a waiter began to thread his way through the crush of women, distributing crystal glasses of Pol Roger. It was then Madame Luling’s turn to glide around the room, where she gave a superb demonstration of her effective brand of charm.

  ‘It will not be difficult at all to have this dress made in your size,’ Grace heard her say encouragingly to a stout matron, and to a thin, pallid woman, ‘Yes, I am quite sure that a different colour would not present the maison with a problem.’

  Next, Madame Luling introduced Grace to Evangeline Bruce. ‘I worked in England during the war,’ the ambassadress said, taking Grace’s hand. ‘There were people in our office from all over the British Empire, so I became quite good at recognising accents. You’re Australian, aren’t you?’

  Grace smiled. ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘I thought so! But how on earth did you end up here? You’re an awfully long way from home.’

  Grace was saved from responding by the appearance of Madame Beguin at Mrs Bruce’s elbow.

  ‘Madame,’ she said, ‘do let me assist you. Which of Monsieur Dior’s designs would you like me to reserve? I would hate to think you might miss out on something you admired.’

  ‘I fear I have already,’ the ambassadress replied. ‘I saw the Duchess of Windsor at dinner only last week in that exquisite blue silk-velvet gown with the pearl embroidery — I think its name was Lahore. I would certainly have been interested in that.’

  The vendeuse did not miss a beat. ‘I am so sorry, Madame Bruce,’ she said. ‘This collection — Monsieur Dior calls it his trompe l’oeil — has been our most popular yet. But that dress, no, I would not have recommended it for you. Please come this way — I have something no less chic, but softer and more feminine that would be perfect, I think.’

  The ambassadress’s place was almost immediately taken by an extremely tall woman with a cheerful demeanour who, pointing at the morsel in her hand, remarked in a booming voice, ‘Aren’t these absolutely delicious? I’ve had plenty of cocktail food on the diplomatic circuit, I can tell you, but these little chicken canapés are in a class of their own. It must be that special way the French have with mayonnaise. By the way, my name is Julia Child,’ she announced.

  ‘I’m Grace Dubois, and yes, they look delicious,’ Grace said, wishing Tutu hadn’t warned her against eating anything.

  ‘My husband, Paul, works in the embassy, but I’m spending practically all of my time learning how to make this wonderful food!’ Mrs Child took another canapé from a passing tray. ‘Of course, it has its challenges,’ she continued. ‘Apart from the fact that I’m only beginning to learn French, I’ve found that olive oil is almost impossible to get, and I have taken to raiding the embassy supplies for sugar and coffee. Oh, and there are no refrigerators here — I have to keep my milk on a window ledge!’

  Grace confessed that she did the same.

  Mrs Child chuckled. ‘But it’s all worth it, isn’t it? I’ll never forget my first sole meunière — it just captured my spirit. And don’t even get me started on boeuf bourgignon . . . Now, my dear, don’t let me monopolise you. Paul says I have a habit of cornering people.’ She peered over the crowd. ‘You must meet a young woman — she’s here somewhere. Anyway, she’s a college girl from Vassar, or possibly Smith, who’s been
staying with the Countess Germaine de Renty while she attends classes at the Sorbonne. Germaine takes her everywhere; I think she’s making it her mission to baste that girl in French culture — like a duck! Ah, good, they are coming our way.’

  ‘It’s you!’ Jackie Bouvier embraced Grace.

  ‘I see you two have already met,’ Mrs Child said. ‘I like eating French food far too much to fit into any of your Monsieur Dior’s dresses, but I’m keen to have a closer look all the same. Countess, would you like to join me? We’ll leave these young things alone.’

  Jackie turned to Grace and said in a voice as soft and breathy as Mrs Child’s had been raucous, ‘I’m so glad you stayed behind for this soirée. I thought you were wonderful, but you know what I liked about you best?’

  Grace shook her head.

  ‘It was that smile! Right at the end, before you disappeared. Everyone else was so aloof throughout the show. You were the only one who dared to appear approachable.’

  ‘I’m not sure the maison would share your opinion,’ Grace responded. ‘Monsieur Dior says our duty is to “conquer and convince” — we’re really supposed to maintain our hauteur at all times. As you have seen, this does not come naturally to me.’ She chortled. ‘Appearing remote is something I had to learn. It’s a useful trick, though, a little like putting on armour. If ever you are contemplating a life in the public eye, it’s something I would recommend.’

  Jackie laughed and said that should such an unlikely event occur, she would be sure to remember. ‘In the meantime, I will practise!’ she added, although the American girl appeared to have little need for lessons in the cultivation of a mysterious remove. There was something in her face, Grace thought, a quick mobility that could change in an instant from an engaging, full-throttle grin to an inward repose. It was near impossible to discern what emotional currents might be hidden beneath that enigmatic façade.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  April 1949

  ‘I’m not late, am I?’ Brigitte called out to Madame de Turckheim, her scarf flying and her umbrella clattering to the floor.