The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  Tutu raised her eyebrows but said nothing. A few minutes’ tardiness was permissible; any more and an intervention by Madame Raymonde might be required.

  Brigitte undressed quickly, donned a white coverall and took her seat next to Grace. ‘Darling,’ she said, fishing in the pocket of her wrapper, ‘this is for you.’

  While Brigitte hastily began applying her make-up, Grace looked at the note. ‘I can see it’s not from the baron,’ she observed drily.

  Rather than one of Édouard de Gide’s stiff crested cards, which had continued to arrive at regular intervals, Grace unfolded a piece of paper that seemed to have been torn from a school exercise book. Brigitte, now busy with her eye-shadow, regarded her friend in the mirror.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Grace said, bemused. She proceeded to read the letter aloud.

  Dear Grace,

  Now that I have shown you the other side of Paris, the time has come to venture further.

  I will collect you at 11.00 on Sunday morning.

  There is no need to reply. If you are not in front of your building at that time, I will continue on my way.

  My best wishes,

  Philippe

  PS It would be advisable to wear more suitable clothing.

  ‘Good manners are not exactly his strong suit, are they?’ Grace crumpled the piece of paper in her hand. ‘He probably wants to give me another lecture on the indulgent life of an haute couture mannequin. If I’m really lucky he might move on to the decadence of the Americans.’

  ‘Will you go?’ Brigitte asked.

  ‘Certainly not! For one thing, I have no idea where Philippe is planning on taking me. And for another, apart from his frankly radical political beliefs, I barely know a thing about him.’ And, for my own good, it would be best for it to stay that way, she thought.

  Grace turned to her friend. ‘Come to that, how is it you’re acquainted with Monsieur Boyer?’

  ‘Actually, we’re related.’

  ‘Oh God, I haven’t been saying awful things about your brother, have I?’

  ‘No.’ Brigitte laughed. ‘He’s a second cousin. There was a sort of scandal attached to his side of the family, so growing up I never saw him. In fact, I only came to know Philippe recently. He’s not been part of my life.’

  ‘A life about which you have always been very mysterious.’

  ‘Only because there is nothing interesting to discover.’

  ‘It’s all right — we’re all entitled to our secrets.’ Grace smiled. ‘But at least you can tell me, is Philippe always like this? You know, sounding off about politics.’

  ‘Ah, Grace, the war changed so many things, especially people. I am not absolutely sure what Philippe did; he doesn’t talk about it. But his experience with the Nazis, what he saw, or rather had to do . . . he told me he wasn’t the same afterwards.’

  Grace immediately thought of Jack. The war had changed him too.

  ‘I think Philippe lost so many people that he cared about, the Communist Party became like a family.’

  ‘Well, I’m still not going out with him,’ Grace said as she beckoned to a dresser. ‘Much as I adore you, Brigitte, my feelings most certainly do not extend to your cousin. In fact, I doubt I will give him another thought.’

  But she did. One moment she would be strolling past the tall poplars that lined the banks of the Seine, admiring their mist of new green leaves, while the next she’d find herself contemplating his smile. During a show, as she was modelling a particularly grand taffeta opera coat, she struggled to maintain her equilibrium when, for no reason at all, she suddenly recalled the way her hair had whipped her cheeks as she held on to Philippe’s waist on the motorbike. On Friday morning, when travelling in the crowded Metro, she was sure she’d seen his face, but when she looked again it was a different man whose eyes, unlike Philippe’s, were an unremarkable shade.

  Grace tried to take herself in hand. Each time this singular man’s image insinuated itself into her mind, she pushed it away. At least this madness was temporary — it would all be over by Sunday. She would not be waiting for Philippe in front of her building at eleven o’clock. He would leave. She would never hear from him again.

  Sunday arrived. Grace made coffee and gnawed at a corner of yesterday’s now-stale croissant. She returned to bed. At nine o’clock she tried to read, but when she discovered she’d read the same paragraph three times she flung the book down instead. At ten o’clock she washed her face and dabbed a little cream on her cheeks before pulling on an old jersey and the pair of Levi’s jeans Jackie had given her. Next, she scraped her hair back into a ponytail. There was no point making an effort. She wasn’t planning on seeing anyone.

  The minutes ticked by. She laced up a pair of plimsolls, then stared once more at the clock beside her bed. Eleven. Eleven-ten. Eleven-twenty. Slowly, she exhaled. She was free.

  Grace jumped when she heard the knock at the door. What could Madame Guérin want? It occurred to Grace that due to her recent distracted state, she was likely to be behind in the rent.

  ‘Coming!’ she shouted, rummaging in her handbag for her purse. She didn’t want to make trouble for madame with the building’s owner; the gruff little concierge had done her many kindnesses.

  Finally, purse in hand, she flung open the door, saying, ‘Please, forgive me . . .’

  ‘Forgive you, Mademoiselle Dubois? I’m not sure that I should.’

  Philippe Boyer stood in front of Grace, his hands resting nonchalantly on his hips.

  ‘You!’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘But you said that if I wasn’t in front of the building you would leave,’ Grace said with what she hoped was a withering look.

  ‘That is true. But I thought as I had come all this way, going a little further would be of no consequence. Bof.’ Philippe shrugged. ‘Of course, I didn’t know then that I would have to climb quite so many stairs.’

  ‘Well, you can climb back down them. I’m not going anywhere with you.’ Grace’s heart was beating as quickly as it did the first time she had seen Philippe. She knew she should be cross, yet curiously, she felt nothing but an intensely pleasurable sense of expectation.

  ‘Mademoiselle Dubois, that would be such a shame. I have packed food for the two of us. In this time of shortages, how can I let it go to waste?’

  Grace made herself frown.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ignoring her forbidding expression, ‘you look very nice like this. Without make-up, wearing simple clothes — I like it.’

  She found her resistance crumbling.

  ‘Perhaps we can make what our new American so-called friends call a deal,’ Philippe suggested. ‘I will take you on a picnic — it is such a beautiful spring day, the birds are singing and even the lilac trees have begun to flower. While we are together I will try very hard not to be rude or offensive and, most particularly, not to speak about politics. If you still think I am horrible then, I promise, you won’t ever see me again.’

  Grace couldn’t help herself. She began to laugh. Philippe was being ridiculous, but perhaps she was too. What was there to be alarmed about?

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll go. But no lectures, and especially no comments on what you imagine is the way I lead my life. Otherwise it won’t be just a matter of not seeing you again. I’ll take your motorbike and ride back to Paris — alone!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Philippe handed Grace a leather jacket. ‘Put this on,’ he said. ‘You won’t feel it now, but it becomes cold when you’re riding. We have a way to go.’

  They followed the River Seine until they left behind both the glories of central Paris and the oppressive shabbiness of the banlieues, its impoverished outer suburbs. Only a few kilometres later they entered a very different landscape, fresh and verdant, burgeoning with new life. Grace marvelled at the pastures of lush grass, fields thick with the still-green heads of sunflowers and, next to the stone farmhouses with their pitched roofs and pale blue sh
utters, vegetable plots sewn with aubergines, courgettes and haricots verts.

  ‘The beauty of the French countryside,’ Philippe yelled over his shoulder as he stopped to let a farmer lead a small herd of black and white cows safely across the road. ‘There is nothing else like it.’

  With the cold air on her face, the sun warming her back and her arms once more around Philippe, Grace allowed herself to enjoy the journey. Don’t think, she told herself. And, despite an overwhelming desire to kiss the back of his neck that shocked her, don’t imagine that a simple day in the country with this unusually attractive man will lead to anything.

  An hour and a half after they’d left Paris, Philippe slowed down before turning into a small dirt lane. He proceeded carefully, dodging potholes and stones, as the path wound its way beside the tranquil waters of one of the Seine’s smaller tributaries.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ he announced as he brought the motorcycle to a stop.

  They had drawn up next to a row of weeping willows, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze.

  ‘You’re being very secretive,’ said Grace. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Come with me and you will see.’ Philippe led her over a grassy mound. ‘There! Do you like it?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Grace stared with surprise at the tangled remains of what must once have been a glorious garden. In front of a charming if dilapidated pink house with rickety front steps and bright green shutters grew a vast riot of rose bushes and twisted strands of clematis, delicate pansies, golden daffodils and deep-red tulips, all jostling for space amid a snarl of weeds.

  ‘What is this extraordinary place?’

  ‘The artist Claude Monet used to live here,’ Philippe explained. ‘It’s known as Giverny. The garden was his life’s work, more important to him I think than even his paintings.’

  ‘But now it’s such a ruin.’

  ‘Monet died more than twenty years ago. Some of his largest works went to a museum in Paris called l’Orangerie and other smaller pieces to the Jeu de Paume, but as for his garden — it’s been completely neglected. Do you see that building just to the side of the house?’ He pointed to a tall, lopsided structure. ‘That was his studio.’

  ‘You mean the place with the tree growing through the roof?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. What is worse, those parts that nature has not engulfed, the war has ravaged. Have you seen the big holes in the ground? Look, there’s one over there, with brambles covering its sides — they’re craters made by German bombs.’

  Grace followed Philippe as he led her beneath rows of flowering apple and almond trees, their branches thick with pink and white blossom. ‘To think this wonderful place has been left like this — it’s a tragedy,’ she sighed.

  ‘A bit like France, don’t you think? Despite everything, she is still magnificent, but with no discipline, no proper stewardship, the country could well be facing the same fate.’

  ‘What I think is that you are drawing dangerously close to the subject of politics,’ Grace warned, wagging her finger.

  ‘I won’t say another word,’ Philippe said with a grin. ‘Anyway, there is more to see.’

  They retraced their steps, then Philippe guided Grace between the low-hanging boughs of one of the larger willows until they came to a clearing.

  ‘Voilà!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life,’ Grace murmured.

  A large pool of shimmering water, on which floated drifts of lily pads, drew her forward. Carefully, she picked her way around the irises that grew in purple and white thickets on the mossy bank until she reached a vivid green, Japanese-style wooden bridge that, from the look of it, had long since collapsed. Vines of wisteria now coiled around its remains, their mauve petals floating gently to the ground, while, overhead, dragonflies with iridescent wings buzzed and hovered.

  ‘I hope this is where you planned to have our picnic,’ Grace called out as she turned around, ‘because I can’t imagine anywhere more perfect.’

  ‘You must have read my mind.’ Philippe took a checked rug out of the bike’s panniers, spread it in the shade and then produced two mugs, linen napkins and a knife from the other. Next came a baguette, some luscious-looking tomatoes, a piece of cheese wrapped in muslin, a small container of raspberries and a bottle of wine.

  ‘Mademoiselle, your feast awaits you,’ he said with a mock flourish.

  Grace smiled. Everything pleased her: the sunlight that fell in stippled patches from between the willows, the fragrance of the flowers, the simple rustic food and, most particularly, Philippe’s company. She couldn’t help but make a comparison with her night out with the baron. That had been undeniably glamorous, and Édouard himself, with his compliments, roses and champagne, more than attentive. Yet it had all been tainted by artifice. With Baron Édouard de Gide, Grace knew she was on show, whereas with Philippe, maddening as he could be, she felt . . . what? What did she feel? To her surprise, Grace realised she felt at home.

  They ate and talked, drank wine, and then drank more. By the time she had eaten the last delectable raspberry, Grace had begun to believe Giverny had cast a spell.

  ‘It’s so good to be in the country again,’ she said, ‘even if it’s completely different to what I’m used to. I haven’t felt this relaxed for, oh, I don’t know — ages.’

  ‘What’s it like, this faraway place of yours?’ Philippe asked.

  ‘Australia — the part I grew up in, anyway — isn’t gentle like France.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Grace lay down on her back and thought for a moment. ‘For a start, the light is different,’ she said, gazing around. ‘In Australia it’s incredibly bright — almost luminous. The land itself is magnificent, but it can be rugged, even harsh. Then there’s the sky. Look at that soft blue up above us; I feel as if I could almost touch it.’ Grace stretched out an arm before dropping it back by her side. ‘Australia’s sky is miles higher. It’s like a sort of vast, brilliant canopy of the bluest blue you can imagine. All the same, there’s something about the peace out here, or perhaps it’s the purity of the air, that reminds me of home.’

  Her serene state of mind was disturbed when Philippe lay down next to her. When his hand brushed her own, she felt as if she’d come into contact with an electrical current. She wondered nervously what might happen next. Would he embrace her?

  But Philippe did not move. ‘It is very sad that Monet has fallen out of favour,’ he said instead. ‘Picasso and I get on well and, it goes without saying, he has been immensely generous to the party. Pablo’s gifts are unique — he is not alone in considering himself a genius. For me, though, Monet’s paintings are more precious. This is not an avant garde view, I know. I suppose I am simply susceptible to beauty.’

  Well, he certainly doesn’t seem susceptible to me, Grace thought. Philippe might be unsuitable in more ways than she could count, yet she found herself craving his attention. When, finally, he turned to her, it was only to observe that the shadows were lengthening.

  ‘I suppose I should take you home,’ he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Philippe brought his motorcycle to a stop in front of 25 rue Dauphine. After padlocking it to a railing, he said politely, ‘I’ll see you to your door.’

  ‘Bonsoir, Madame Guérin,’ Grace called when she passed the little concierge who was busily sweeping the courtyard in the fading light. Grace turned to Philippe. ‘I’d like to thank you. I have to admit, it’s been a wonderful day.’ She smiled. ‘Actually, I’ve got hold of some quite good coffee — the maison’s doorman gave it to me. It seems that one of the US Embassy ladies sent around an enormous tin. Despite your suspicions about the Americans’ dastardly ulterior motives, would you like a cup?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. That would mean not only compromising my principles, I’d be forced to climb those horrible stairs all over again.’

  Grace laughed. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  �
��All right. Count me in.’

  What was she doing, Grace asked herself as she started the ascent to her attic. This was folly. How would she feel if he made advances? How would she feel if he didn’t?

  Then there was the discomforting fact that she was still married — never before had she so much as contemplated being unfaithful. No, Grace told herself firmly, that wasn’t an issue. She might not be divorced, but her relationship with Jack was well and truly finished. The far bigger problem was that should she succumb to her strange yearning to be wrapped in Philippe’s arms, she was certain her incapacity to feel, let alone do, whatever it was that she should would ruin everything.

  After they reached the apartment, Grace attempted to distract herself by concentrating on boiling water, setting two cups out on the table, straining the coffee grains and finally pouring. Philippe simply stood, staring silently out of the dormer window. She walked over to him, intending to make a casual remark about the view, but when she arrived at his side she discovered she was lost for words.

  Philippe touched her cheek. ‘Brigitte told me you don’t want to become involved with anyone, especially me,’ he said softly. ‘Do you think I might be able to change your mind?’

  Then Grace realised she did have something to say to this unusual blue-eyed man, after all.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Philippe took her in his arms and kissed her, slowly exploring her ready mouth in a way that was at once so delightful and yet so unexpectedy arousing, she felt she might swoon.

  ‘I really don’t know how I’ve managed to show such restraint,’ he said with one of his irresistible wry smiles. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you in that ridiculous club.’ Then he led her by the hand over to the bed.

  The setting could not have been more romantic. The attic was dark, lit by a single lamp that, due to the pink damask curtain, cast rose-tinted shadows. She was alone with a handsome man. In Paris.