The Paris Secret : A Novel (2020)

by Lester, Natasha

  ‘You look stunning,’ he said.

  ‘Anyone would look passable in this dress,’ she said, deflecting the compliment and hoping her cheeks hadn’t flushed to match her dress. ‘But stunning might be extending your authorial licence too far.’

  ‘It’s not just the dress,’ he countered. ‘And I write non-fiction, which means I always tell the truth.’

  The truth. It was the only thing she wanted from people now that she knew how much lies could hurt. She decided to try simply accepting the compliment. ‘Thank you then.’

  He held the door open for her, one hand lightly on her back, as she stepped outside. The twilight was delightfully warm, the lights of the city sparkled as they began to turn on, and the evening lay before her like a red carpet ushering her onwards to adventure. How nice it was to be unshackled, to be with a person who didn’t know her as mother, wife, conservator or any other label.

  ‘Do you want to walk there?’ he asked. ‘It’s not far and the night is—’

  ‘Perfect for walking,’ she finished. ‘Let’s.’

  They strolled along Pall Mall, attracting the glances of passersby, which Kat attributed to Elliott’s semi-celebrity.

  ‘See, I’m not the only one who thinks you look stunning,’ he said.

  Kat blushed yet again. ‘Two compliments in the space of five minutes is a little too heady for someone who’s more used to a very biased five-year-old telling her she’s pretty.’

  ‘Two compliments in five minutes is less than you deserve, but if it makes you uncomfortable I promise to wait half an hour before delivering another one.’ His voice was deadpan but he grinned at the end and Kat burst out laughing.

  ‘I’ll be sure to time you,’ she said, tapping her watch before turning the conversation away from herself. ‘Tell me about being a writer. How often do you publish a book? I imagine it must take a bit of time to research and write the kinds of things you do.’

  He nodded. ‘I try to write one every couple of years. The publishers would like one a year but I’d rather take the time and know that I’m happy with the book – that it’s my best work.’

  ‘I’m lucky in that respect,’ Kat said. ‘People seem to accept that museum artefacts deserve time and patience.’

  ‘Whereas anything contemporary needs to happen quicker than you can click your fingers. Fortunately the last couple of books have sold well enough that I don’t have to put out a book a year to keep my daughter in the manner to which she would like to become accustomed, or to pay the mortgage. Time really is the most precious and least treasured thing in the world, I sometimes think.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Kat said somewhat wistfully. This past year, as she hurtled towards forty, all she’d felt were the pressures of time. That she would suddenly be eighty and alone because there wasn’t time in her life to meet and fall in love with a man. That her girls would grow up and have families of their own and Kat would become like her grandmother, living alone in a remote house, telling the world it was what she wanted but feeling always a lack.

  A car horn sounded on the street, returning Kat from the melancholic future and back to the present with Elliott. ‘How did you go from pop stars’ biographies to history?’ she asked.

  He winced. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t know about that.’

  She laughed. ‘I confess to googling you last night after you left. I know you said that I should, back when we first spoke on the phone, but I hadn’t got around to it. The fact that people actually stopped you in the lobby to get your autograph made me a little bit curious.’

  ‘Oh, brilliant,’ Elliott said wryly. ‘I was hoping you hadn’t seen that either. I suppose now you know about my grubby past, you’ve decided not to tell me anything about your grandmother?’ He ran a hand through his hair, the aura of self-assurance suddenly falling away. ‘You’re right to ask though. I’m asking you a lot of questions, so you should do the same. And if I wasn’t standing beside possibly the smartest woman I’ve ever met – I don’t know anyone who has both a degree in medicine and science, and who’s also studied at the Sorbonne – I mightn’t mind so much. But okay, here goes. I studied history and languages at college. Do you know how many jobs there are for twenty-something history and languages graduates?’

  ‘I suspect not that many,’ she said.

  ‘Fewer than that. I took a writing job with Smash Hits magazine – I don’t know if you had that in Australia?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Kat said nostalgically. ‘I used to pull out the posters of A-ha and hang them on my walls. See, now I’ve confessed that, you shouldn’t feel bad about telling me anything.’

  He laughed, and they crossed the road, heading towards Mayfair. ‘I wrote for them for a year or so, and then a mate of mine who was in a band had a top ten hit. Women around the country were throwing their knickers at him at concerts and he asked me if I’d write something about him. It was the nineties and every pop star who’d ever had a hit was putting out coffee-table books heavy on photos and light on text. So I travelled around Europe with him and the band for three months, sending pieces back to Smash Hits and writing a kind of tour diary. I was lucky: he went through the stratosphere, so a publisher asked if I’d turn my articles into a book. It sold a lot of copies and suddenly every pop star in the country who didn’t already have a book wanted me to write one for them. I did two more and then I had to stop because I was becoming the world’s biggest pop star cliché – drinking too much, marrying women in intoxicated escapades – and I wasn’t even a pop star.’

  Kat couldn’t help smiling. He was a natural raconteur. ‘I did notice you’d practised the art of marriage a few times.’

  ‘You saw that too? Excellent. Google is fantastic for research but an utter bastard when you’re trying to forget you ever had a past.’

  ‘Hey, I’m divorced too. I’m not criticising you.’

  ‘Really?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But probably only once? Not three times.’

  ‘Only once. And never again.’

  ‘It’s not fun, is it?’ he said quietly as they reached Piccadilly. Alongside them, Green Park glowed emerald beneath the last evening sunlight. ‘Especially when there are kids involved. I’m guessing from your comment about five-year-olds that you have kids?’

  ‘I do,’ she said. ‘A three-year-old as well. They’re the loves of my life and probably the catalyst for the end of my marriage.’

  ‘I wish I could give such a reasonable explanation, but two of my marriages were in those awful years when I did anything that seemed like a lark and was usually anything but. The first time was literally a dare that I went through with to prove – I don’t even know what.’ He grimaced. ‘That I was an idiot, I guess. The second was because my then girlfriend was pregnant, but as I’m sure you can well understand, a child is the last thing to bring together two people who aren’t really suited. I thought I’d better grow up and make a reasonable and considered choice about four years ago, but …’ He shrugged. ‘I tipped the scales too far on the side of reasonableness and forgot about spark. It ended last year.’

  He stopped outside a brown brick building with a pillared portico, above which hung a flag. Windows bordered in white paraded regimentally across the facade.

  ‘This is us,’ he said, indicating the building. ‘But now that I’ve filled you in on my sordid past, you might prefer to go back to the hotel. I can always email you the rest of my questions.’

  Kat offered him a smile. He’d made mistakes, but he genuinely sounded as if he regretted them. He’d obviously made himself a new life; he was the kind of father who’d leave a bar to help his daughter with her homework. And he’d been honest about his past failings.

  So she said, ‘It must be hard, having to be on show like that, knowing anyone can look you up online and form an opinion about you based on what they read there.’

  He shrugged. ‘I knew when I first met you at the Savoy that you had no idea who I was and it was great b
ecause it meant that I could tell you that you’re smart and beautiful. If you’d heard anything about me before we’d met, you’d have thought my compliments meant I was fitting my own stereotype. The thing is, it would have been fake if I hadn’t said it. And that’s what it’s like: so many people have a fixed idea of who I am, and I try so hard not to be that, which means I end up not being me either.’

  ‘You should be you all the time,’ she said, then decided to try her own compliment. ‘I quite enjoy spending time with the real Elliott Beaufort.’

  Elliott touched her arm. ‘Thank you.’

  Somehow, even though they were standing in a street and people were stepping around them, all Kat could see in that moment was Elliott, looking at her with admiration in his eyes, and something more. Trust, she thought. It wasn’t something she’d seen in a man’s eyes for so long and she rather liked it, even though she knew it was a momentary dusting of magic prompted by her dress and the intimacy of the conversation they’d shared.

  A man clapped Elliott on the back as he passed by, saying hello, and the moment ended.

  Kat gestured to the stately mansion before them. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘is the Arts Club.’

  ‘Wow,’ Kat said as they followed a line of beautifully dressed people inside. ‘Is it one of those very British private clubs?’

  He laughed. ‘It is a private club. You’ll have to tell me how very British it is at the end of the night.’

  She laughed too. ‘I will. I’m hoping there’ll be no hunting souvenirs hanging on the walls.’

  ‘We’re down in the basement, at the supper club, where you’ll find enough plush curved sofas and low lighting and intimate booths to make you feel like you’ve just stepped into an episode of Mad Men.’

  ‘This is going to be fun, isn’t it?’

  He smiled at her. ‘You were doubting that before?’

  They passed through a fabulous hallway of rose-gold and smoky mirrors, and into a room that made Kat want to turn around, mouth open like one of her daughters, and drink it all in.

  ‘Elliott!’ a woman’s voice called, and then Elliott was engulfed in the woman’s arms and his cheeks were kissed. The man with her shook Elliott’s hand. Kat judged from the palpable feeling of goodwill that these were Elliott’s friends.

  ‘Sorry,’ the woman said, beaming at Kat. ‘That was so rude of me – throwing myself on Elliott and not saying anything to you. I can throw myself on you too if you like, but Josh is always telling me I should save the kisses and hugs for people I actually know.’ She grinned at the man beside her.

  Elliott laughed. ‘Kat, this is D’Arcy Hallworth and Josh Vaughn.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Kat.’ Josh, who had dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, held out his hand and Kat shook it.

  D’Arcy linked her arm through Kat’s and led her over to a curved banquette with the most incredible orb-shaped oriental paper lampshade above it, handprinted with a riot of flowers. Kat felt like she really had stepped onto the set of a terribly à la mode television program.

  ‘I had the waiter reserve this for us,’ D’Arcy said. ‘We’ll be out of the way and Elliott can actually enjoy himself. Although this crowd is too suave to show that they care about celebrities.’

  ‘D’Arcy, I’m a long way from being a celebrity,’ Elliott protested.

  ‘Too modest,’ D’Arcy mock-whispered.

  ‘Is that an Ossie Clark?’ Kat asked, indicating D’Arcy’s dress, which was also red but with bell sleeves and a low-cut neckline that looked sensational without being too much. In fact, D’Arcy was the one who should be called stunning: she had long blonde hair in wild curls, and eyes that expressed everything she felt. It was impossible not to warm to her immediately.

  ‘It is,’ D’Arcy said. ‘How could you tell? Although we both clearly have excellent taste. Your accent tells me you’re Australian too, we’ve both chosen red and your dress is, I know, a Dior that I’ve salivated over ever since it hit the runway.’

  Kat laughed. ‘I’m a fashion conservator at the Powerhouse Museum so I recognised the style of yours. It’s beautiful.’

  D’Arcy turned to Elliott. ‘A fashion conservator wearing my favourite Dior gown. It’s lucky I’m married to Josh otherwise I might have to marry her instead.’

  ‘Well, you seem to have more luck with marriage than I do,’ Elliott quipped and everyone laughed.

  Josh slipped his arm around his wife, who leaned back into him with a honeymooner’s smile, as if she truly believed that she couldn’t possibly be happier. Kat stopped laughing, wanted to tell them to leave now, to go far away to a magical place where love survived.

  She realised she was staring as if she’d never seen a couple before, so she asked, ‘How do you all know each other?’

  ‘We met Elliott a few years ago,’ Josh said. ‘D’Arcy’s grandmother was Jessica May, the photographer?’

  Kat nodded. During an adulthood spent working at various museums, she’d certainly heard of Jessica May.

  ‘Elliott wanted to look at her war photography for a book he was working on, so he came to France for a couple of days to look through the archives,’ Josh continued.

  ‘We had to throw him out after a fortnight,’ D’Arcy finished with a smile.

  ‘Josh forgot to mention that the archives are kept in what used to be Jessica May’s chateau,’ Elliott added. ‘And that he and D’Arcy live there. We had too much fun drinking calvados every night and eating amazing dinners in the gardens. It’s an extraordinary place. I forgot to go home.’

  ‘You’ll have to come with Elliott next time,’ D’Arcy said, snuggling in even closer to her husband’s side.

  ‘Oh no,’ Kat said, suddenly flustered. ‘Elliott and I aren’t … I’m just helping him with some research.’

  ‘Come anyway,’ D’Arcy said mischievously. ‘Everyone who crosses the drawbridge at the chateau falls in love, don’t they?’ she asked Josh.

  He smiled and took her hand. ‘We’re going to get drinks for everyone before D’Arcy completely embarrasses you, Kat. I’ll make sure she relocates her social graces while we’re gone. What would you like?’

  ‘Negroni?’ Elliott asked Kat, which was just as well because she seemed to have lost the power of speech. Falling in love with Elliott was so far in the realms of fantasy that it belonged in the movies. She nodded.

  Josh and D’Arcy walked to the bar with their arms wrapped around one another, and their love and happiness was so obvious that Kat could almost see a cartoon heart draw itself above them.

  She heard herself exhale audibly.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Elliott said. ‘Overwhelming.’

  ‘They are. If they weren’t so nice, you’d hate them. How long have they been married?’

  ‘Six years. And they have four-year-old twin boys.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Wow.’ Kat shook her head. ‘They’re amazing. This place is amazing. And in return for all the amazingness, I hope I can answer the rest of your questions. Did you …?’

  She didn’t have to finish her question. Elliott reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Does this look like her?’

  He produced a black-and-white square photograph. The quality was excellent. Pictured there was a beautiful woman, a model, a little on the thin side – her waist in particular was tiny – standing in a salon beneath a chandelier. She wore an extraordinary bridal gown that Kat suspected was a very early Dior – the salon certainly looked like Dior’s. The bodice of the dress was like the one Kat was wearing now in the way it elongated the waist, emphasising the body’s curve down to the top of the hips. The model smiling for the camera could easily be, with just a little imagination, a much younger and very glamorous version of Kat’s grandmother.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Kat asked slowly.

  ‘From Josh. He’s an agent. He represents Jessica May’s estate. I was in France a fortnight ag
o and I spoke to him about what I was researching. When I mentioned Margaux Jourdan’s name he said he might be able to help me; he has an encyclopaedic mind for his clients’ work. Anyway, I was supposed to be meeting him tomorrow to see what he’d found, but I got your text and went straight over to his hotel. Jessica May took this shot of Margaux Jourdan at Christian Dior’s first showing in 1947. It was published in Vogue Paris. Luckily May had kept the program notes for the showing too and in them it says that Margaux worked bravely for the WAAF in England during the war and returned to her homeland of France in 1945. That makes this woman my Margaux.’

  Kat stared at the photo. Because it also made the woman her grandmother, her Margaux. It was not possible to imagine that there might, somewhere in the world, be two different women named Margaux Jordan who had worked for the WAAF during the war and who had a connection to Christian Dior.

  Her grandmother was the woman Elliott had been searching for. Her grandmother had, therefore, been a spy.

  Nineteen

  Kat couldn’t look away from the photograph. Because, while it seemed to answer some questions, it created still more. ‘But,’ Kat tried to protest. ‘How did a spy become a model for Christian Dior? She’s wearing the wedding gown.’

  Elliott frowned, obviously not understanding her point.

  ‘The wedding gown is always the showstopper,’ Kat explained. ‘It would only be worn by the very best mannequin. And this was Christian Dior’s first ever showing. So he would have chosen a mannequin who was even better than the best – he would have wanted the show to finish in a way that made everyone gasp.’

  And, of course, being a model for Christian Dior in no way accounted for the dresses in the cottage: sixty-five of the premier pieces. The Met museum had a Venus dress, for God’s sake. The V&A held a Soirée de Décembre gown in its permanent collection. Both of those pieces were also in her grandmother’s wardrobes. A model would never have been able to afford them. And couturiers, especially long-dead ones like Christian Dior, did not pay their models in gowns.