The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  ‘You wanted to tell me something before,’ Philippe said. ‘I’d like to hear what it was.’

  She couldn’t launch into her own revelations now, not with everything she was trying to grapple with. ‘Another time,’ she replied, shaking her head.

  Philippe sat on the grass in the shade of a sycamore tree and pulled Grace down beside him. As he kissed her she felt her anxiety begin to dissolve. Surely the two of them would be able to carry on just as they had before? But when the kiss ended, Philippe looked at her with a sombre expression on his handsome face.

  ‘You must promise me you will not tell anyone what I have said today,’ he said gravely. ‘I mean it — not a soul. If the members of the communist cell discovered that I was an agent of the French state . . . well, you could imagine what they would do to me.’

  Then he kissed her again. ‘Mon amour,’ he murmured, ‘I have placed my life in your hands.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Jeu de Paume museum was filled with exquisite treasures. Grace wanted to linger, to spend hours in front of the glowing paintings by Manet, Renoir, Degas and — especially since her visit to Giverny — Monet. Due to foolishly signing up for a guided tour, however, it seemed this would not be possible. Grace couldn’t help feeling annoyed. The bespectacled guide instructed, ‘Keep up, keep together!’ as she rushed her straggling group past one fabulous canvas after another.

  Philippe had made a startling revelation. Now she needed time by herself to consider his hidden life and what it might mean for them. First, however, she had to decide whether to share her own secrets. Only, she had ruined any possibility of solitary reflection by impetuously joining this maddening tour.

  ‘Mesdames et messieurs, arrêtez maintenant, s’il vous plaît.’ The guide, waving vigorously, brought the group to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Some history is called for,’ she announced. ‘The museum is located in the Jardin des Tuileries, the formal park that lies between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde. Le Jardin was created by Catherine de’ Medici in the sixteenth century, although it did not become a public park until after the French Revolution.’

  Grace’s mind kept drifting back to Philippe. How much should she tell him, and when? Answers continued to prove elusive. The dogged recitation made it impossible to think.

  ‘The museum measures eighty metres long by thirteen metres wide and approximately ten metres high. You have no doubt noticed it is an unusually elongated rectangular building. This is because it was not originally an art gallery, but a place where Napoleon III could play indoor tennis, sometimes called real, or in England, royal tennis. Jeu de paume is the French name for the game.’

  Muttered remarks were made by several of the more restless members of the group. After glaring at the culprits, the guide commanded, ‘Quiet, please! During the Occupation the museum was used by the Nazis to store, sort and ship stolen art. More than twenty-two thousand items passed through this building, among them some of the world’s greatest artistic treasures. Today it houses France’s most spectacular collection of French Impressionist and Post-Impressionist masterpieces. Among them are renowned works such as . . .’

  But Grace had stopped listening. I don’t want to hear any more about the building and its history or even its art, she thought, or at least, not yet. Not until I have been able to spend some time alone with the paintings — and my thoughts.

  When the guide indicated that the group should move to the next point of interest, Grace dawdled behind, then turned quickly into the first promising room.

  As soon as she saw it, she stood still. Although surrounded by an array of superb works, Grace was drawn to just one image. She walked closer, admiring the delicacy of the brushstrokes and the soft harmony of its pastel palette. The painting depicted a dark-haired young woman, her chin resting on her hand, gazing intently at an infant who rested in a filmy, gauze-draped crib. Berthe Morisot, Le Berceau, 1872, read the small plaque beside the painting. ‘The Cradle,’ Grace whispered.

  The name of the artist meant nothing to her, though she noted with interest that, unusually, it belonged to a woman. Grace wasn’t certain she had ever seen a painting by a female artist hung in a museum.

  At first glance, the picture appeared to be a straightforward depiction of maternal devotion, but as Grace examined it more closely, she became aware of more subtle nuances. There was a marked ambiguity in the woman’s expression; this was no Madonna, but a multi-faceted human being. What was she feeling? There was love, yes, but there was also loneliness, anxiety — even a measure of irritation. Perhaps, Grace reflected, like life itself, there was room for more than one interpretation.

  The translucent white netting Morisot had painted served to protect the sleeping infant from the viewer’s gaze but, at the same time, it separated the mother from the child. Was this a metaphor, she wondered, perhaps the artist’s way of conveying that the truth of their relationship was veiled?

  While Grace was contemplating this question a vivid image flew into her mind. It was of another mother, this one fair-haired with delphinium-blue eyes. How well Grace remembered that same gaze, the devotion, but also the anxiety it contained. A sob escaped from her lips; she turned her head away.

  ‘Are you well, mademoiselle?’ a greying attendant inquired gently. ‘You seem a little unsteady on your feet. Quite a few of our visitors find themselves overcome — these masterpieces can have a powerful effect. Perhaps you would like to sit down?’

  Feeling shaky and weak, Grace sank gratefully onto one of the strategically placed padded-leather benches. She realised with a profound conviction that whatever Olive had done, whatever sins she had committed, she had always loved her daughter. Grace recalled the fun they’d had looking at fashion magazines and trying on clothes. Most of all, she recollected her mother’s unwavering concern.

  Then those final, dreadful moments in the dining room at Brookfield came back to her; the accusations she’d flung at her mother, the pain on her face. Grace hadn’t understood how things could be between a man and a woman, what it was like to be overcome by passion.

  On the other hand, Olive had betrayed Alfred. She’d lied to Grace all her life and kept her separated from Reuben.

  Grace’s mind went back and forth, veering between compassion and condemnation. Might it be that the truth lay somewhere in between? She realised how much the experience of living in Paris had changed her. Her relationship with Philippe had also played a part. She only had to look about her, to ‘open her eyes’, as Philippe had insisted, to realise how complex life could be.

  She recalled her conversation with Brigitte, the outrage she’d felt when she discovered that many French women had formed liaisons with enemy soldiers. She was wiser now, more familiar with what Brigitte had termed life’s ‘grey areas’. Perhaps it was the only way such women could survive. Who knew, maybe some fell in love. Who was she to judge?

  In the absence of even a single letter from her mother, Grace wanted desperately to write to her. She also knew she could not. First, I must find Reuben, she told herself. Olive and I can never mend what has been broken until I know what took place between them.

  ‘Ah, good, you are feeling better now, mademoiselle,’ the attendant remarked as Grace rose to her feet. When she thanked the man and assured him she was now quite recovered, he responded, ‘You must return. You know, I have looked at these pictures for many years, and yet each time I see them they disclose more of their secrets to me.’

  As Grace left The Cradle behind and began to walk slowly through the other galleries, she considered the guard’s observation. A painting might take years to give up its secrets, but life was not a static piece of art. It was dynamic, constantly changing. Life demanded action.

  She would not tell Philippe about her marriage.

  She’d seen his offended expression when she’d asked if he was married. Grace cringed when she tried to imagine what Philippe would say, how he would feel, if he discovered she was gui
lty of the same sin of which she had wrongly accused him.

  Finding she had arrived at the exit, she made her way through the turnstile and strolled into the Jardin des Tuileries. The fine day had brought out throngs of people, some admiring the gay rose gardens, others reading newspapers while they sat on small wrought-iron chairs, still more enjoying the simple pleasure of sauntering along the white gravel pathways in the sunshine. Grace resolved to continue to the rue Dauphine on foot — the walk would help her to collect her thoughts.

  She decided she would tell Philippe only about her mother’s relationship with Reuben, and the letter, although she was well aware that even divulging this much would be a risk. It was entirely possible that Philippe’s view of her would change once he knew she was illegitimate. The French might appear free and easy, but she was not one of them. She was just a foreign mannequin, another Mademoiselle Nobody from Nowhere, without the protection of that realm of French society that might view the product of an illicit union with an accommodating sophistication.

  Grace only knew that just as Philippe had trusted her, she had to trust him in return. Despite Ferdinand’s help, she’d failed to find Reuben Wood. Now she must seek help again, but this time she would reveal that the man she was seeking was her father.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  May 1949

  ‘Grace, I think you should sit down.’

  Leaning forward in the threadbare armchair she asked excitedly. ‘What is it? Have you found him?’

  It hadn’t been easy to admit to Philippe that her birth was the result of an affair, that she was what his countrymen — should they discover her shame — would disparagingly call une bâtarde. Yet, after agonising for so long over his possible reaction, when at last she’d confessed he had merely shrugged. Although this muted response had left her uncertain about the way he felt, at least he hadn’t displayed any obvious distaste. Even more heartening, when she’d asked him if he could try to find Reuben, he’d promised to do what he could. Ever since then, Grace had been impatient for news.

  He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his own. ‘I know this must be very difficult to hear,’ he said gently, ‘but, in my opinion, Reuben Wood is dead.’

  ‘No, Philippe, that’s not true!’ This couldn’t be right; she was certain Reuben was alive. ‘What you mean is you couldn’t find him.’

  ‘That is another way of putting it, perhaps a kinder way, but it won’t bring him back.’

  Grace didn’t answer. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t believe him.

  Philippe rose to his feet and leant against one of the attic’s patterned walls. ‘Do you honestly think I haven’t explored every possible avenue available to me?’

  ‘But have you? Really?’

  He held up one hand. ‘Grace, if I could, I would move heaven and earth for you. I can only assure you I’ve done the next best thing. There is not a lead I haven’t followed. Now, very sadly, I can do no more.’

  ‘You must!’

  Philippe shook his head. ‘Let us start at the beginning. You gave me the photograph of your father, but it was useless — it could have been a picture of any big man standing in a shadow. Yes, I had Reuben’s rank, the name of his unit and Lieutenant Carruthers’ letter, but the only clue to his whereabouts was that he “headed south”. Believe me, there is no sign of him in the south or anywhere else in France. Reuben Wood has disappeared from the face of the earth.’

  ‘So you’re just going to give up?’

  Crossing the room, Philippe pulled the wooden chair away from the table so that it was facing her. ‘I don’t know what I can do or say that will satisfy you,’ he said, sitting down. ‘These are the steps I have taken. First, I revisited official channels. As you had already discovered, there was nothing more to be learnt. So I cast my net wider. I reached out to my old Resistance network — and drew another blank. Finally, I approached the demimonde: professional informers, black marketeers, even the blatantly criminal. If there had been a trace of the man,’ Philippe said with an edge of frustration, ‘I would have found it.’

  ‘I haven’t made myself clear.’ Grace couldn’t let go of her dream. It would mean losing Siddy forever, together with any chance of solving her own mysteries. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you’ve tried to find Reuben,’ she said with rising desperation. ‘I was hoping you would keep on searching.’ She went to the sink, poured a glass of water and gulped it down. ‘He must be out there somewhere.’

  ‘After all this time?’ Philippe asked. ‘Grace, I hate to be brutal, but eventually you must face the facts. It would be unkind to let you keep living under this illusion.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Just this: it is eight years since you received any proof that your father was alive. And you have not received a word from him during all that time.’ Philippe shook his head. ‘There is only one other possibility, which I for one do not believe. Anyway, it seems cruel even to bring it up.’

  ‘What do you mean, cruel?’ Grace couldn’t imagine feeling worse than she did already.

  ‘Well, if Reuben is alive, and you haven’t heard from him for nearly a decade, I’m sorry, but don’t you think he sounds very much like a man who doesn’t wish to be found?’

  Grace’s hand went to her mouth. Ferdinand had been right all along. The tumult of war had provided Siddy with the perfect opportunity to disappear. He’d never had any intention of returning to Australia, or to her. She had been clinging on to nothing but a fantasy. She slumped back into the armchair.

  ‘Darling, if only there was something I could do,’ Philippe said.

  Grace’s shoulders sagged. ‘I can see now that for ever so long, I’ve been deceiving myself. It is perfectly clear that if Reuben isn’t dead — and, after all, his body was never found — then he came to the conclusion he was better off without me.’

  She felt as if an essential part of herself had been extinguished. ‘All this time I’ve believed in a fairy tale,’ she said slowly. ‘Only, there are no fairy tales, are there? It’s silly, really. When I was a little girl I thought Reuben was like a storybook giant with the power to make everything turn out right.’

  ‘You were young.’

  ‘Well, I’m not anymore. But the thing is, I’ve been acting as if I was still a child. It’s high time I grew up.’

  They both fell silent. Finally Grace said, ‘Thank you for all you have done, Philippe. But are you sure you really don’t care about my being illegitimate?’

  ‘Grace, stand up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I am hoping I can reassure you in the only way I know how.’ Philippe wrapped his arms tightly around her, kissed her lips and stroked her hair. ‘Is that better?’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘Even if I thought your parents not being married to each other was important — which I can assure you I do not — it is through no fault of your own.’ He kissed her again.

  Grace sighed as she looked into Philippe’s eyes.

  ‘Do you want me to stay?’ he asked. ‘Tell me now, because otherwise I don’t think I’ll be able to tear myself away.’

  ‘Would you mind awfully if you didn’t?’ Grace said sadly. ‘I just need a little time to myself to come to terms with everything.’

  Philippe paused at the door. ‘I came here this evening to tell you that, regrettably, my search for your father had been unsuccessful. But I also wanted to ask you something of great significance. That was stupid of me — the timing was all wrong.’ He looked back at Grace. ‘Let’s meet tomorrow outside the Jardin du Luxembourg. We can talk about it then,’ he said. ‘Is six o’clock all right?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, sweet dreams, chérie.’

  ‘You are remarkably subdued today,’ Ferdinand Derel said as he and Grace met over their customary morning coffee at Café Bertrand. ‘I trust our friend Baron de Gide is not making a nuisance of himself?’

  ‘He hasn’t given up, if that’s
what you mean,’ Grace smiled wanly, ‘even though I’ve told him repeatedly that I am otherwise engaged. In a way, it’s rather sweet, although I suspect dear Édouard has far too high an opinion of himself to actually believe it is possible for a woman to prefer someone else.’

  ‘And what about this “someone else”? Does all go well with that young man you have been seeing?’

  Ignoring the pain au chocolat Ferdinand had placed by her cup of café crème, Grace confided, ‘He’s a . . . well, he’s a complicated man.’

  ‘Is he indeed? Well, perhaps I can distract you. Do you remember modelling some clothes for Rita Hayworth, the ones she took on her honeymoon with Prince Aly Khan?’ he asked brightly.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘The wedding reception took place at the Prince’s Riviera mansion, the Château de l’Horizon, only last weekend. Between you and me, I was told by an impeccable source that forty lobsters and six hundred bottles of champagne were consumed.’

  Grace nodded vaguely.

  ‘My dear,’ he continued, ‘it appears you are not impressed. But perhaps you will be when I tell you that ten gallons of eau de cologne were emptied into the château’s swimming pool! Even for those two, this was a little extreme.’ Ferdinand chuckled. ‘In fact, my trusted informant overheard the prince’s father, the Aga Khan — no stranger to the high life himself — muttering to his new daughter-in-law, “Too much caviar, Rita, too much caviar”. Apparently, even he felt that fifty pounds of the finest Beluga was a trifle excessive.’

  Grace was only half listening to Ferdinand’s account, for it had done nothing but remind her of her own married state. Although she feared Jack would be furious and likely to refuse, she couldn’t put off asking him for a divorce much longer. Each day she delayed only provided more opportunity for the man she adored to discover the truth.

  Grace felt like a small nocturnal bush animal, frozen to the spot in the glare of the headlights of a car that was speeding inexorably towards her. It wasn’t just that she’d failed to approach Jack — she still hadn’t told Philippe she was married. She simply couldn’t decide whether she should carry out these actions — or not. Either way, the consequences could prove devastating.