The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  ‘You’re the best mother ever!’ Grace beamed.

  She was about to jump to her feet when she heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘What have you seen, Mum? It sounds like you’ve had an inspiration.’

  ‘That is exactly what I’ve had,’ Olive said with an unexpected grin.

  Puzzled, Grace drew her dark brows together. Instead of a dress, her mother was staring at a page of indecipherable French.

  Paris, December 1948

  The formalities completed, Madame Raymonde announced with a sweeping gesture of her hand, ‘In a short while, you will meet the man who made all this possible. But first, please be seated.’ She indicated a cream sofa. ‘I have a small matter to which I must attend; it shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, would you like coffee?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Grace was still becoming accustomed to the bitter black brew.

  ‘In that case, à bientôt.’

  As she waited in Madame Raymonde’s tranquil office, Grace reflected on her recent giddy arrival in Paris three days before. Muffled up in her warmest winter coat, a pair of new knitted gloves and a red woollen scarf, she had stepped from the train she’d caught in Calais onto the crowded platform of the cavernous Gare du Nord. The past few months had been turbulent. Then, just when it had appeared that all was dark and hopeless, everything she’d wished for had miraculously fallen into place. As if to remind herself of her good fortune, she’d felt in her handbag and touched the letter — the wonderful letter! — that had arrived from the House of Christian Dior just ten weeks earlier.

  Grace didn’t know a soul in Paris, yet she’d not felt perturbed. Instead, as she’d gazed about the bustling station, the thought of her anonymity had filled her with glee. After a lifetime when so much of what she did had been prescribed by what it seemed would be her inevitable destiny, Grace’s newfound liberty had made her tingle with exhilaration. She could assume whatever identity she wished, make choices she would never have dared at home in Australia. Tempted to burst into song or at least to execute a sudden pirouette, she’d settled instead on giving the delighted elderly porter who had carried her suitcase up the Gare du Nord’s stairs an enthusiastic handshake and a large tip.

  As her taxi had sped away from the terminal, Grace had prepared herself for the sight of a war-ravaged city. To her surprise, what she saw through the car window was undiminished beauty. She marvelled at the wide boulevards lined by elegant stone buildings, the formal parks displaying clipped hedges and groomed trees, the slim spire of Notre-Dame cathedral, a gilded bridge and, beneath it, the swirling water of the River Seine. This was not the Paris she had seen in photographs. What she saw was so much better, greater, grander.

  Not until she alighted at 25 rue Dauphine did Grace become aware of the dilapidation that war had left behind. Yet, despite the flakes of peeling paint and the slats missing from the wooden shutters that stood, guardian-like, on either side of the long, narrow windows, she could see that it remained a fine old building. There was something determined about its solid masonry that suggested it would endure no matter what havoc existed in the world.

  Having pushed open the heavy timber front door, Grace found she was standing in a small inner courtyard. Barring her way forward was a tiny woman.

  ‘What do you want, mademoiselle?’ she demanded in a high, querulous voice. ‘If it’s a room, you might as well go now because there isn’t one to be had. I can’t send you somewhere else, either, so don’t ask.’ The concierge shook her head vigorously. ‘Paris is completely full. If it’s not the poor souls returning from God knows where, it’s hordes of foreigners pouring in.’

  With that she turned her back on Grace, shuffled over to what appeared to be a small ground-floor apartment, slipped inside and firmly shut the door behind her.

  Despite the woman’s discouraging words, Grace knocked. What else can I do? she thought. It had grown even colder and the day’s translucent light had begun to fade.

  ‘Go away! I told you no,’ was shouted at her from behind the door.

  ‘But madame,’ Grace cried. ‘I have come all the way from Australia. I was told there would be a room here waiting for me. It’s all been arranged.’

  Silence. Then the sound of mewing. The door opened and a sleek black cat sauntered out, followed much more slowly by the tiny woman who, hands placed firmly on hips, stared at Grace with disbelief.

  ‘You come from the land of the kangaroos?’ Her tone had become wistful. ‘Ah, I remember your soldiers and the way they helped us in the first war — my people are from the Somme,’ she said. ‘Even so, I’m sorry, I can do nothing for you.’ The woman bent over and stroked her pet cat, whose purr was more like a rumble. ‘There is one room left, and the young lady I am waiting for is French. Just a minute, I’ll get the piece of paper.’

  She made her way back into her apartment. Grace heard a drawer bang, an exclamation and then the woman once more shuffled out.

  ‘You see, I am right. The only girl due to arrive today is a Mademoiselle Dubois.’

  ‘But that is me!’ said Grace.

  The woman looked puzzled, then gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘In that case, follow me.’

  It was only when she had climbed six vertiginous flights of age-worn stairs that the wheezing concierge stopped, peered up at Grace and said, ‘Dubois — what sort of name is that for an Australian?’

  Brookfield, January 1935

  ‘You must acquire a new identity,’ Mademoiselle Elise insisted at the commencement of Grace’s first French lesson.

  ‘I — What did you say?’ Grace was still recovering from her astonishing discovery that mademoiselle bore no resemblance to the image she’d had of a governess — old, ugly and mean. The woman who sat opposite was not at all old and, while not traditionally pretty like her mother, was undeniably attractive in a way Grace found difficult to explain.

  At first, Grace had been bitterly disappointed by her mother’s decision. ‘But why can’t I go away to school, Mummy?’ she had wailed as she sat in one of the wicker chairs on the wide veranda. ‘I’ve been dying to board at Ravenscroft. Charlotte is starting next term. How come she can go and I can’t? It isn’t fair,’ she said petulantly.

  For the first time in Grace’s life, Brookfield’s isolation felt bleak and oppressive. ‘Now there’ll be no exciting life in the city, no new friends, no time with Siddy. There won’t be a single thing to look forward to.’

  Olive had insisted that she was only thinking of Grace’s best interests. ‘Having a governess means you will be able to speak perfect French, improve your piano and your drawing and learn, well, lots of other things,’ she’d said. ‘Just because we’re closer to Parkes than Paris shouldn’t stop you from being able to make soufflés, you know. You’ll be far better off than all those other girls who have gone away to school in the city — and just think what an asset you will be to your future husband.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t care a fig about that sort of thing!’ Grace cried.

  Olive ignored this remark. ‘Why on earth would you want to live in Sydney when everything you could possibly want will be right here on our own beautiful property, including your father and me? There’s not a soul in the world who can keep you from harm the way that we can. Young girls can get mixed up in all sorts of trouble in the city,’ she warned.

  Grace rolled her eyes. Her mother was being ridiculously over-protective: they were talking about her attending school, not being let loose in nightclubs.

  ‘And there are plenty of very nice young people staying on in the district,’ her mother continued. ‘The Osbournes’ son, Jack, for instance. He’s enrolled at Parkes High so he can learn to run that huge property of his father’s while he goes to school. I hear he’s a lovely boy.’

  No matter what her mother said, Grace had felt thoroughly wretched, yet now she found herself intrigued by Brookfield’s exotic new arrival. Mademoiselle Elise had dark blonde hair that she wore swept up in a sophisticated French roll, and lively
brown eyes. Even though her clothes were simple, she had the knack of making them appear effortlessly smart — in fact, Grace thought, Mademoiselle Elise would not have looked out of place in the pages of one of her mother’s Vogue magazines.

  ‘Listen closely,’ Elise instructed as she turned back the cuffs of her white piqué shirt. ‘While studying the world’s most beautiful language, you will no longer be a Miss Woods of Australia — non, non, non.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Ma petite, in order to speak French, you need to adopt a quite different identity. The first word I shall teach you is bois, which means “woods”. Voilà! When you are with me, Mademoiselle Dubois you will be.’

  Six weeks later, Grace sat behind her desk taking careful note, as she did every day, of the way mademoiselle was attired. Today, Elise had selected a dove-grey pencil skirt and a pink pleated blouse, the latter a perfect match for one of Olive’s prize-winning roses that stood on the bureau in a narrow crystal vase. The former spare bedroom now contained a blackboard, two shelves of books, and a row of coloured maps depicting Paris, then France, followed by the patchwork that was Europe and, finally, the great island continent of Australia. There were also posters of the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘You are ready?’ The governess opened a book. ‘Bon. We will continue our exploration of the incomparable French culture.’

  As she spoke enthusiastically about the fabled art treasures in the famous Louvre museum, the beauty of the magnificent tree-lined boulevard known as the Champs-Élysées and the splendours of Notre-Dame, Grace yearned to see these sights for herself.

  ‘The French capital is known as the City of Light, or la Ville Lumière,’ said Elise. ‘Vraiment, I cannot think of a more appropriate way to describe it. In my opinion, Paris is the only place where a person can acquire true enlightenment.’

  Pointing to the map of France, she said, ‘However, the country also has many special regions, each with its own characteristics and cuisine. In fact, if you will wait un moment, you will be able to enjoy a délicieuse first-hand experience.’

  Mademoiselle Elise disappeared, returning promptly with a steaming dish that did indeed look delicious. Grace inhaled its faintly spicy, delectably sweet aroma as Elise placed a slice of what appeared to be an upside-down tart onto a small plate.

  ‘Bon appétit!’ mademoiselle said gaily.

  ‘Merci beaucoup,’ Grace replied.

  Never before had she tasted anything like the sticky, caramelised apples and buttery pastry. Savouring the syrupy, slightly burnt flavour, Grace imagined she was no longer on a sheep and wheat station in Australia’s hot and dusty interior, but was instead in a pretty French farmhouse surrounded by fruit-laden orchards.

  ‘The tart was first made by the Tatin sisters,’ mademoiselle advised. ‘They lived in the Loire Valley, a rich agricultural region that is also known for the many elaborate, fairy-tale castles we call châteaux. Ah, I do hope you will see them one day.’

  Grace listened intently.

  ‘Mademoiselles Stéphanie and Caroline were making a pie for the patrons of their little hotel, but they accidentally burnt the apples they were cooking in a mixture of butter and sugar. Quel désastre! What were they to do?’ Elise paused theatrically.

  ‘The sisters had no idea. All they knew was that they must act quickly, so they placed a fine layer of pastry on top of the apples and put it all in the oven to bake. When it was ready, the pie was turned over and — voilà! — out of disaster the sisters produced something splendid.’

  The governess nodded meaningfully at her charge. ‘It is a valuable lesson for us all.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Parkes, August 1939

  Grace stood in the moonlight outside the corrugated-iron shed where a spirited version of Twelfth Night, performed by the Parkes District Amateur Players Society, had just concluded. As she waited for her boyfriend, Jack Osbourne, to return with their drinks, she considered a line from the play: How does he love me?

  With fertile tears . . . and sighs of fire had been the reply. Although she’d never expect Jack to spout that sort of poetic language, as Grace watched him walk towards her through the crowd while juggling a couple of ginger ales, she had to admit he still had the same ardent look in his deep-set brown eyes as on the day they’d first met, years before, on Charlotte Fairweather’s tennis court.

  Ever since then, their lives had continued to intersect. They’d bumped into each other in Parkes, at the agricultural show, out riding. Aided by their approving parents, they’d started visiting each other. With her friend Lottie away at school, Jack helped fill the gap in her life. At first they were simply good mates and then, almost without realising it, their companionship turned into something more serious.

  Now, whenever Grace was invited to a local dance, a bush picnic or a tennis party, it was presumed that Jack Osbourne, the good-looking son of the wealthiest grazier in the district, would be there too. The names of the striking pair were inextricably linked; everyone she knew in the area seemed to assume that a shared future was inevitable.

  Only the previous week, when Grace had passed by the open door of the homestead kitchen, she’d overheard her mother’s friend Marjorie remark, ‘Heavens, that Osbourne boy is a good catch. It seems you did the right thing keeping Gracie at home after all.’

  ‘They do say mothers know best,’ Olive had responded with a tone of self-congratulation, before adding, ‘That’s why I’ve made quite certain that my daughter won’t risk her future with him by letting herself get, you know, carried away.’

  Grace could just picture Marjorie’s raised eyebrows.

  ‘Hey, come back to earth.’ Jack grinned. ‘You look as if you’re miles off in space.’ He passed her a glass of ginger ale. ‘What did you think of the play?’

  ‘Beautiful words, of course. And hilarious in places, although maybe not always in the bits Shakespeare had in mind.’ Grace took a sip of her drink. ‘Charlotte made a lovely Viola; I’m so glad she’s home for the holidays. And Kev the postman — or should I say Sir Toby Belch — certainly revealed a few hidden talents.’

  ‘I thought it was terrific,’ Jack said. ‘Except, with all that confusion about the lovers’ identities, even I began to lose track of exactly who was who.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Gee, time’s getting on. It’s a long drive back to Brookfield in the truck — we should get moving.’

  Grace felt her stomach tighten. Jack was a great pal and wonderful fun, but she hoped he wasn’t expecting too much. So far they’d done nothing more intimate than exchange innocent kisses and hold hands, although it was obvious he wanted to go further. All night he’d taken every opportunity he could to stroke her hair or slip his arm around her waist.

  After an hour of bumping along the dark, dusty road, Jack made a right turn onto a narrow bush track.

  ‘Wait a minute. Where are you going?’ Grace asked, biting her lip. Overhanging branches slapped against the windscreen as the truck plunged forward, its headlights casting ghostly shadows onto the smooth trunks of silvery eucalypts and patches of scrub.

  ‘I know a spot on a rise up ahead that’s the perfect place to see the full moon,’ Jack said.

  There was a crunch of gravel as he brought the truck to a stop. ‘What a gorgeous sight,’ he said. But Jack wasn’t observing the cool white disk shining in the night sky. He was staring at Grace with hungry eyes.

  Pulling her towards him, Jack eagerly pressed open her lips with his tongue. As they kissed in this new, more passionate way, Grace became vaguely aware he was unfastening her zip. Her dress fell from her shoulders, its flimsy fabric pooling around her waist.

  Grace felt as if she were being carried along by a fast-flowing current. It wasn’t that she desired Jack exactly, but at the same time she seemed unable to summon the will to stop him. Only when his fingers began probing the swelling softness inside the cups of her bra did she freeze. Each of her mother’s repeated warnings tumbled, unbidden, through her mind.

>   Nice young ladies are not interested in sex.

  If a girl sleeps with a man before marriage, she’s nothing but used goods.

  A baby born out of wedlock means just one thing — utter disgrace.

  Grace pushed Jack away.

  ‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong?’ he panted. ‘You know how I feel about you.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Grace said, struggling back into her frock. ‘There’s too much risk, and —’

  ‘I get it,’ he sighed. ‘You’re saving yourself, isn’t that what you girls call it?’

  ‘Oh Jack, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re not to blame,’ he said with a rueful smile, ‘unless being way too pretty for your own good counts as a fault.’ Jack reached for Grace’s hand. ‘Trust me,’ he said, with an earnest expression she found so endearing it vanquished any lingering concerns she might have had about his intentions. ‘I swear I won’t ever make you do something you don’t want to. Cross my heart, Gracie.’

  December 1939

  A fly was buzzing about in the simmering air. First it circled Grace’s head, then landed on her arm, before settling briefly on some drawing paper. Annoyed, she flicked the insect away.

  Grace was attempting to sketch Jack’s portrait while he lounged against a paperbark tree on the grassy banks of the Lachlan River. As the dappled light played on his dark brown hair, olive skin and strongly delineated angular features, she thought she’d never seen him look more handsome.

  ‘It’s strange,’ she said.

  ‘What? Your picture of me?’

  ‘Probably!’ Grace laughed. ‘No, I was just thinking about how we’ve both finished school, but what people call “real life” hasn’t actually begun. It’s as if we’re neither kids nor adults, but instead we’re just floating about, in a kind of no man’s land in between.’

  ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.’ Jack looked unusually serious. ‘You know that war has broken out . . .’