‘No!’ Her childhood companion, her former husband, and perhaps Serena’s father — dead. Grace’s stomach lurched. She thought she might be sick. ‘What happened?’
‘Heading back to Merindah after . . . well, I gather it was after he’d had quite a few drinks in Parkes.’ She frowned. ‘The police said he swerved suddenly — perhaps there was a kangaroo on the road. It was getting dark, so it would have been hard to see what was ahead. He smashed into a tree. It’s such a waste of a young life, and so desperately unfair. When I think of what that boy went through, being shot at in those planes he flew over the Channel . . . and now he goes like this.’
Grace tried to speak but found that she couldn’t.
‘I think you should have more tea,’ her mother said.
Still feeling stunned, Grace watched as Olive poured from a china pot. ‘Jack’s accident,’ she said. ‘When was it?’
‘While you were still on the ship. The funeral took place only three days ago. It was dreadful.’ Olive dabbed at her eyes. ‘You can imagine the terrible state the Osbournes were in.’
All Grace could think of was Charlotte — her anguish and grief, how alone she must feel. ‘Mum, we’ll need to check out early tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘I have to see Lottie.’
Brookfield
Late the next afternoon, after the long train journey to Parkes and then the dusty run in the car out to Brookfield, Grace was finally able to make a start for Merindah. She went to the stables in search of Bill Gleason.
‘So you’re back,’ he said with a laconic half smile that did nothing to disguise how pleased he was to see Grace again.
‘I thought it was about time,’ she replied. ‘Riding is out for me at the moment — I was wondering if there was a spare set of wheels I could borrow?’
‘Still remember how to drive a truck?’ Gleason asked, a quizzical look on his leathery face.
Grace grinned. ‘More or less.’
‘Well, we’ve just got a new sort from Holden — it’s called a ute.’ He threw Grace a set of keys. ‘Good to see you again, Grace.’
‘You too, Bill.’
Grace jolted her way towards Merindah, past the familiar wheat fields and paddocks inhabited by scattered sheep. She’d grown unused to driving, especially on gravel-strewn, unsealed country roads, yet as she wrestled with the rugged terrain, Grace couldn’t help thinking about Jack’s death and what it might mean.
That it was both a tragedy and an unspeakable loss for Charlotte was self-evident. But Grace was also painfully aware that now Serena would never have the opportunity to set her eyes on — let alone grow to know — the man who might have been her father.
When she arrived at Merindah it was to the familiar shrill sound of the pink and grey galahs as they began roosting in the big eucalypt for the night. After slamming shut the door of the utility, she stood for a moment and looked at the homestead. More than two years of her life had been spent living here, yet she’d never considered it her home. When Grace had left she’d told Jack she was never coming back, but here she was. She hadn’t imagined it would be under these circumstances. Grace shook her head. It would have been better for everyone if Jack had married Charlotte in the first place.
There she was now, dearest Lottie, running out of the front door. Still pretty, still blonde, but looking pale and strained. The two women embraced.
‘I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re here.’ Charlotte choked back tears. ‘It’s been a nightmare.’
The friends walked into the gloomy sitting room. ‘I’ll put on a light,’ Charlotte said, ‘and make us some gin and tonics.’
She brought their drinks over and sat next to Grace on the sofa. ‘Since Jack . . .’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Since the accident, I seem to have done nothing but sit in the dark, thinking. Well, I do get through a few of these,’ Charlotte pointed to her glass, ‘and I weep.’
‘Where is your baby?’
‘I can’t cope with Michael at the moment.’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘Mum’s taking care of him, back at Oakhill.’
‘To lose Jack like that,’ Grace said gently. ‘I can’t imagine how awful it’s been for you. But perhaps it would be better if your mother looked after Michael here at Merindah?’
Charlotte didn’t reply.
‘I’m sorry, Lottie, I mean when the time is right,’ Grace said. ‘I just thought it might give you some comfort to have your son near, especially as he’s — you know, a part of Jack.’
Charlotte walked across to the drinks tray and topped up her gin and tonic. ‘There is something I left out of the letter I sent,’ she said. ‘It’s about Michael.’
Grace looked anxiously at her friend. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s not Jack’s.’
‘You’re not telling me there’s been —’
‘Someone else? No, nothing like that. Jack couldn’t have children.’ Charlotte shrugged. ‘I thought you knew.’
Grace put her untouched glass down so abruptly that its contents splashed the front of her dress, leaving a damp, haphazard pattern. ‘He never uttered a word,’ she said.
‘Remember the crash he had in the war?’ Charlotte asked.
‘I do.’ Grace recalled the jocular letter Jack had sent her afterwards. ‘He always passed it off as a great lark.’
‘It was serious.’
‘He had those scars . . .’ Grace frowned.
‘Yes, he did.’ Charlotte took a gulp of her drink before adding, ‘It seems that as soon as the doctors in England saw his injuries, they informed him that although everything would still be in what they quaintly termed “working order”, he’d never be able to father a child.’ She looked at Grace. ‘Even though Jack did a test that confirmed the doctors’ opinion, he still maintained it was rubbish. Deep down, though, I think all along he knew they were right.’
Grace was overcome. Finally, she had an answer; after all the anguish, the long nights spent wondering, now she knew without doubt that Philippe was Serena’s father. If only poor, troubled Jack had been able to share his terrible burden, it would have saved so much torment. If only he’d never kept the truth a secret.
‘For a man like Jack, it must have been devastating,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that’s why he had so much anger inside him.’
‘Very likely.’ Charlotte sighed. ‘I only found out because of a chance remark he made, and even then I had to drag it out of him. He said it was humiliating, that he wasn’t much better than a gelded animal.’
Grace studied Charlotte’s face. ‘So you adopted Michael,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘And . . . will you tell him that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Charlotte said slowly. ‘Probably not.’
Grace squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘I imagine it’s not an easy decision to make.’
May 1951
The two women sat next to each other on Brookfield’s wide veranda in the same wicker chairs that had been there for years. Serena lay in Grace’s lap; she was conscious of the gentle rise and fall of her daughter’s small body as she slept.
‘Here, give the poppet to me,’ Olive said. ‘You can’t be comfortable in your condition with her sprawled all over you like that.’
The little dark-haired girl barely stirred as Grace settled her in Olive’s arms. ‘Serena has thrived here in the bush, Mum.’
‘Of course she has,’ Olive said. ‘Remember how she laughed when she first heard the kookaburras? And the way she chased after that goanna!’
Already, as if by alchemy, these small incidents were being transformed into burnished memories. Dear Mum. She was still careful with her appearance. Even now, with her granddaughter lying on top of her, Olive was wearing her new blue and white printed frock from Miss Louise, donned in honour of their last night together.
Grace noticed that Olive had fallen silent. She was gazing past the tendrils of jasmine at some imperceptible point far away in the distance. Grace suspected she was thinki
ng about Alfred. Or perhaps Serena reminded her of the absence of another precious child.
As pink and gold clouds began to stream across the darkening sky, Grace reflected on the knowledge she’d gained since she’d travelled across the world to the City of Light. She was now well versed in the sublime realm of haute couture. As for international politics — she had to admit, she’d had a crash course. She’d been to the opera and fabulous balls, eaten in some of Paris’s finest restaurants, met and mingled with the rich, the famous and the infamous.
She had learnt harder lessons: about the complexities of identity; the truths that hid behind secrets and lies; the challenges of making heartbreaking decisions in a world of elusive certainties and infinite grey shades.
Grace had made other discoveries too. That courage could be displayed in many different ways. What it was like to truly love a man. And, most important of all, that one’s destiny need not depend on a name, whether it be Wood or Woods, Dubois, Osbourne, Boyer or even — she smiled — the Countess d’Andoise.
Grace looked at her slumbering child. She’d thought that knowing the identity of Serena’s father was vital. However, almost as soon as she’d acquired this information, she had begun reconsidering its significance.
Philippe had proved wiser than she. But then he was already aware that being a parent was much more than biology. Now she knew it meant an elegant grazier riding fast with his child across dusty paddocks; a horse trader teaching that same child to play the piano; a countrywoman introducing her to the thrilling world of high fashion and, yes, even demonstrating the proper way to apply royal icing.
Grace recalled the day at Charincourt in the sunny vegetable garden when old Claude had tilted his head and remarked, ‘You only have one mother, you know.’ Yet that hadn’t been true. She’d been luckier than most people.
I have been blessed, she thought, blessed to be a part of the lives of four rare individuals. One day, she vowed, when both Serena and her unborn child could understand, she would tell them the story of her life, how it was that she came to have two sets of parents and what their love for her led them to do.
Grace inhaled the sweet sharpness of the gum trees, heard the buzz of insects fade away. As the red ball of the sun began to slip below the horizon, there was just enough light to make out the brilliant colours of the rosellas, wheeling against the vast Australian sky.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A coincidence is a small miracle
Attributed to Albert Einstein
The Paris Model was inspired by real people and events.
I was sipping tea in the fragrant garden of ‘S’, a dear friend, when she revealed the heartbreak that shaped the life of her beautiful and spirited mother, Grace Woods. ‘S’ told me that after simultaneous tragedies, the newborn Grace was given to a wealthy grazier and his wife by their unlikely friend, a rough-and-ready, piano-playing horseman. She explained that just one factor eased the passage of this very private arrangement. Due to an extraordinary coincidence, all that was required was the addition of a single letter to the child’s last name.
Immediately captivated, I began to imagine the many ways that these remarkable circumstances might have impacted upon the infant who grew up to be an acclaimed, green-eyed mannequin.
I soon decided that, as Grace, Reuben, Alfred and Olive were real people, I had to use their actual names. However, The Paris Model remains a work of fiction. For example, although Grace married a local boy who became a World War II flying ace, he was not Jack Osbourne.
A host of other characters portrayed in the book existed. Likewise, many of the incidents recounted — including even Reuben’s desperate attempt to feed his starving baby with an eyedropper — actually took place. These instances are too numerous to list, although readers may be interested to know the following details.
Christian Dior’s headline-making New Look was initially shown at David Jones in Sydney on the night of 31 July 1948. Astonishingly, this was the first time the collection had been modelled outside Paris. As quoted, Dior complimented Australians on their ‘cleaner, brighter outlook’ compared to that of the ‘tired’ people of Europe. The women I’ve portrayed in leading roles in his atelier are all real historical characters: Mesdames Raymonde, Carré, Luling, Beguin, Bricard and Tutu (Baronne de Turckheim). The maison also employed a distinguished doorman named Ferdinand.
The sheer number of individuals, either already famous or destined to be so, who made their way to Paris during the early post-war period might be thought unbelievable, were it not for the fact that, after being closed to the world during the long years of Nazi Occupation, the city — and its uniquely seductive pleasures — was suddenly available to all.
Unlike London and so many other great European centres, Paris did not suffer from sustained German bombing. During the late 1940s, its undamaged beauty, the devalued franc and — once the Marshall Plan’s bounty began flowing — renowned restaurants, bars and cafés created a veritable magnet for returning French citizens and hordes of eager foreign visitors. Artists, writers and philosophers; film stars, playboys and heiresses; British aristocrats and American diplomats — all flocked to Paris. The City of Light was irresistible, and nothing symbolised its extravagant glamour better than a dress from Christian Dior.
Princess Margaret first visited the atelier in 1948, but the strapless ball gown she selected was thought by her parents to be far too daring for their eighteen-year-old daughter. The spectacular white, off-the-shoulder confection Christian Dior later designed for the princess was not worn until her twenty-first birthday. Years afterwards, she described it as ‘my favourite dress of all’.
In addition to Princess Margaret, the Duchess of Windsor, the Countess de Ribes, the Viscountess de Noailles, Eva Perón, Pamela Churchill (former daughter-in-law of Britain’s famous wartime prime minister) and Rita Hayworth, a multitude of other celebrated women — from prima ballerina Dame Margot Fonteyn to the German-born actress Marlene Dietrich — were enthusiastic Dior clients.
Eva Perón did say, ‘My biggest fear in life is to be forgotten.’
The details related by Ferdinand of Rita Hayworth’s lavish wedding reception, held after she married Prince Aly Kahn in 1949, reflect contemporary accounts.
In the same year, Jacqueline Bouvier, the future Jackie Kennedy Onassis, stayed with the Countess Germaine de Renty while she studied at the Sorbonne.
Both the Countess de Renty and Christian Dior’s sister, Catherine (after whom the fragrance Miss Dior was named), were interned in the notorious Ravensbrück concentration camp as a result of their Resistance activities.
Evangeline Bruce was the young and supremely elegant wife of David Bruce, US Ambassador to France from 1949 to 1952. She was tasked with fabricating personal histories for secret agents during her time in London with the OSS (Office of Strategic Services), which, as mentioned, was the forerunner of the CIA.
Julia Child, another wartime employee of the OSS, although far better known for her ground-breaking books on French cuisine, lived in Paris with her husband, Paul, a US diplomat, in 1949. This was also the year she began a course at the famous Cordon Bleu cooking school.
Count Étienne de Beaumont was renowned for his fancy-dress balls, some of which have been mentioned. He hosted the first great post-war fête, the Ball of the Kings and Queens, in 1949. The identities of a number of guests and descriptions of their costumes have been included.
Coco Chanel attracted considerable opprobrium for consorting with the enemy. Nevertheless, she eventually returned to Paris and, in 1954, aged over seventy, launched a new collection in her rue Cambon premises. Just as Brigitte predicts in the pages of this book, she went on to attract widespread acclaim, her misdemeanours apparently forgotten.
Pablo Picasso was a major financial donor to the French Communist Party. L’Humanité reported that he donated one million francs in 1949 alone.
General Charles de Gaulle, fearing that post-war France would become a Soviet republic,
stated, ‘If France falls, every country in Western Europe will fall too, and all the Continent will be Communist.’
Journalist Malcolm Muggeridge, then a British spy, passed on information regarding Soviet infiltration of the French government as early as 1944. Unfortunately, these concerns were referred to his superior, Kim Philby, who was himself a double agent.
Joseph Stalin personally ordered the elimination of a number of high-profile foreign leaders and anti-communists. The notorious 13th Department of the KGB, named the Directorate of Special Tasks, was charged with carrying out these assassinations.
The scene in which Grace receives ever-more lavish floral tributes from Giscard Orly was inspired by published rumours claiming that while the fiercely pro-Stalinist politician Maurice Thorez was conducting an affair with Marie Bell of the Comédie-Française, he regularly sent her vast bouquets of flowers at fabulous expense.
The passages concerning the Abbaye de Sainte Jeanne’s missing portrait of Joan of Arc were inspired by the fact that a striking Rembrandt painting of an angel was stolen by the Nazis from a French château during World War II. Unlike the abbey’s painting, however, this work of art has never been recovered.
It is estimated that immediately after World War II at least 20,000 French women (les tondues) suffered the terror and ignominy of having their heads shaved. In addition, they were often stripped naked, beaten, tarred, branded with swastikas and publicly humiliated. Historian Antony Beevor called it ‘the equivalent of rape by the victor’.
Passports were not issued to married Australian women by the Federal Government without their husband’s written permission until 1983.
Almost all the locations in The Paris Model existed. Maxim’s, Le Tour d’Argent, Café de Flore, the Lido and the Folies Bergère continue to this day, as does 25 rue Dauphine, although the view from its windows may well be different. Le Chat Noir and La Voiture Folle are based on similar nightclubs popular in late 1940s Paris; Charincourt is an amalgam of a number of châteaux in the Loire Valley; the great sheep and wheat farms of Brookfield, Merindah and Oakhill are also amalgams of similar properties.
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