The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Grace remarked, ‘that exquisite Marie Antoinette in the pink crinoline is coming our way, and I think that the woman behind the silver mask is Jacqueline Bouvier, my American friend.’

  ‘It is you, isn’t it?’ Jackie asked when she reached Grace’s side. ‘Thank heavens I’ve found you! I’ve been fending off the advances of that Emperor of Letters, Monsieur Voltaire, only it turns out that he is a she and her name is Vita Sackville-West!’

  ‘In that case, it sounds like it’s a good time for a stroll under the stars,’ Philippe said, before escorting them through a pair of doors to the garden.

  ‘How enchanting!’ Jackie exclaimed.

  Out of the darkness emerged trees festooned with sparkling lights, clusters of flickering candles on small alabaster-topped tables, and flaming tapers held aloft by towering candelabras. Among the lush foliage were beds of fragrant, all-white flowers — full-blown roses, gardenias, and a profusion of star-shaped oriental lilies.

  ‘I think this must be what heaven looks like,’ Grace said with a sigh.

  ‘Parties like these are genuine works of art,’ observed a rotund gentleman whose costume featured a golden mane. Upon closer inspection, Grace realised that it was none other than Christian Dior himself.

  ‘Monsieur,’ she said, dropping into a graceful curtsy, ‘I believe I have the pleasure of addressing the King of the Jungle.’

  Dior laughed. They spoke for a few minutes, until Philippe murmured to Grace, ‘Let us leave Jackie in the capable hands of her favourite couturier. It is high time we commenced our little charade.’

  As Grace and Philippe entered the ballroom, the orchestra began playing romantic Strauss music. ‘And so it begins,’ Philippe said, taking her in his arms.

  All eyes soon turned towards the alluring spectacle of the scantily clad Queen of Sheba, her white ostrich plumes gently waving as she began to waltz around the ballroom with her tall, turquoise-turbaned king.

  Many guests gossiped about the nature of the petit scandale that occurred next. One of the Napoleons said he felt sure the man masquerading as King Solomon had made a comment of an unforgivably salacious nature. An elderly Helen of Troy was quick to agree, reporting she had seen the fellow whispering in the Queen of Sheba’s ear.

  ‘And then,’ she recounted, ‘the woman stopped dancing, drew herself up with great dignity and slapped him on his cheek. I would have done just the same!’

  Some were amused, others appalled, but worse was to come. Turning to leave, King Solomon inelegantly shouldered Sheba out of the way. The glorious creature staggered, indeed, might have fallen, if not for the deft intervention of a striking man in front of whom, as if by chance, the entire incident had taken place.

  ‘My dear, are you all right?’ the gentleman inquired. His black hair was swept back from his forehead and he wore an immaculate white uniform adorned with gold braid, a blue sash and a variety of imperial orders. ‘What a terrible thing! Let me escort you outside.’

  Ordering one of the liveried servants to bring some champagne, he led Grace towards two gilt chairs conveniently shielded from inquisitive eyes by a cloud of profuse white azaleas.

  ‘I wish I knew who your dancing partner was,’ Grace’s self-appointed protector said. ‘I would have been delighted to call the scoundrel out.’

  ‘That’s terribly sweet of you,’ she purred. ‘However, although you do bear a striking resemblance to the last Tsar of Russia, I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced. I can hardly expect a man whose name I don’t know to be dashing off defending my honour, can I?’

  ‘Giscard Orly, Minister of the French Republic, at your service. And, do you know, despite the mask you are wearing on your lovely face, I believe I have seen you before — if I’m not mistaken, at the Tour d’Argent. You are . . .?’

  ‘Why, the Queen of Sheba, of course.’ Grace smiled.

  ‘So you prefer to maintain your mystery?’

  ‘I do. Why don’t you tell me all about yourself instead?’

  Grace spent the rest of the evening in Orly’s company. She laughed at his stories. She admired his achievements. She allowed Orly to partner her in a foxtrot, a quickstep, several uneventful waltzes, and even a rumba. But she refused to tell him her name.

  ‘It is of no concern,’ Orly said. ‘The only problem is that I have the greatest desire to see you again. How shall I find you?’

  Grace gave him her most seductive smile. ‘For a man as intelligent and powerful as you, that should not present too great a challenge. Think of it as a little test,’ she said playfully. ‘First you must discover who I am, then if I consider it worth my while, I might consider offering you my . . . friendship.’

  ‘So, I gather you would not do me the honour of allowing me to escort you home?’ Orly asked, his black eyes glittering.

  ‘Certainly not.’ Grace laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I have a car and a driver waiting. Au revoir, Ministre Orly. Au revoir.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Monday 23 May 1949

  ‘Who are all those extraordinary white roses for? There must be dozens of them!’ exclaimed Brigitte.

  ‘I’m more interested in who they’re from,’ said Victoire.

  ‘Whoever he is, he’s obviously been overcome by a coup de foudre,’ Claire chipped in.

  ‘He’s lovestruck, all right.’ Corinne grinned.

  The mannequins clustered around Ferdinand as he staggered into the cabine on Monday morning, weighed down by an enormous box of dewy blooms.

  ‘The card is addressed to Mademoiselle Dubois,’ he announced. ‘As to who they’re from . . . she will have to tell you.’

  Grace jumped up from her dressing table, relieved Ferdinand of the huge box and dumped it on a chair. Having glanced at the accompanying card, she crumpled it in her hand before saying nonchalantly, ‘Oh, it’s just from some man I met at last Saturday night’s masked ball — I barely remember him.’

  ‘Well, you clearly made an impression,’ Marie-Hélène said, arching her brows.

  Grace gathered up some of the flowers. ‘Would you like these?’

  ‘Darling, of course. They’re beautiful.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ she asked. ‘Do help yourselves. I couldn’t possibly lug them up to my attic.’

  On Tuesday morning, an almost identical scene took place. Ferdinand’s face was nearly obscured by the vast bouquet of white tulips he clutched to his chest. Once more, the mannequins were fascinated. Once more, the flowers had been sent to Grace from the same man although, this time, he included a flattering note that contained an entreaty to join him for an evening tête-à-tête.

  Again, she distributed the lavish flowers among the other girls, brushing off their questions about her mysterious suitor with a lighthearted remark. ‘Ah, men,’ she said. ‘If only some of them knew how absurd they appeared, they’d never do such ridiculous things.’

  By Wednesday, when Ferdinand appeared for the third morning in a row, this time burdened by numerous oversized sprays of white orchids, the novelty had begun to wear off.

  ‘Not again!’ Brigitte cried. ‘Chérie, if this admirer of yours doesn’t stop soon, Paris will be denuded of flowers.’ Everyone but Ferdinand began laughing.

  ‘Ma petite, I know this is none of my business,’ he said to Grace quietly.

  She smiled. ‘Goodness, that’s never stopped you before.’

  ‘Well, it’s different this time,’ he said, frowning. ‘You see, I know perfectly well who is sending you all these flowers. Giscard Orly might be an important government minister, but are you aware of his reputation? The baron — bof, he’s simply a spoilt boy . . . Orly, despite the charming veneer he adopts, is a hard, cold man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.’

  ‘It’s sweet of you to be concerned, Ferdinand, but honestly, there’s no need to worry.’ Grace patted his arm. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  On the same day the minister’s orchids were delivered to the cabine, Grace
received a telegram. After first bestowing the flowers upon Madame Carré’s appreciative seamstresses — the girls in the cabine having informed her their own vases were already overflowing — she had left the maison earlier than usual.

  She was in the courtyard of 25 rue Dauphine, happily anticipating a quiet evening at home, when Madame Guérin called out to Grace as she passed her window.

  ‘I’m not keen on telegrams,’ she muttered as she handed Grace an envelope with as much suspicion as if it had been a live grenade.

  Grace, too, was unnerved. Her thoughts moved quickly to Olive. Please don’t let anything have happened to her, she prayed, especially now, when our relationship is so badly frayed. Filled with a sense of dread, as soon as Grace reached her room she opened the envelope. ‘Thank heavens,’ she murmured. Her mother was not the telegram’s subject. Nevertheless, its contents were alarming.

  JACK IN PARIS STOP WANTS MEET YOU 25 MAY LE CARROUSEL 7PM STOP LOVE LOTTIE

  But that was today, and in two hours, Grace realised. Telling herself not to panic, she tried to ignore her pounding heart and the sick feeling she had in her stomach.

  Should she agree to see him? It took Grace no more than a minute to decide that she must. She had left Australia in such a hurry there had been no time to sort out anything. At least now, with Jack here in Paris, there was an opportunity for resolution.

  Grace wondered what he wanted. Surely he wouldn’t ask her to return to him? On the other hand, she thought hopefully, perhaps he was seeking a divorce. It could only be one of the two. What else would tear Jack away from his beloved Merindah and bring him halfway across the world?

  ‘So, it’s divorce then,’ Grace said with relief.

  ‘It’s not what I want, Gracie,’ Jack said wearily. ‘You’ve always been the love of my life, you know that. But I have to face facts. You’re not coming back to me, are you? We both need to move on.’

  They were sitting at Le Carrousel’s zinc-topped bar. Jack was drinking his third whisky while Grace nursed a single Manhattan. Despite his steady consumption of liquor, she was surprised at her husband’s composure. He’s really behaving very decently, Grace thought, especially considering I took off to Paris without so much as a proper goodbye.

  Jack was still speaking. ‘The grounds are desertion — that’s right, isn’t it? I mean, there’s not been anyone else? Because I don’t think I could stand the humiliation.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Grace protested, experiencing a quick stab of guilt. It was the first of the lies she would tell that evening.

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it, Gracie,’ Jack said. ‘If I thought you’d been with another man, well, I’d feel very differently about the split between us. I know that probably sounds irrational to you, but I can’t help it. That’s just the way I am.’

  Grace produced a smile she hoped gave the appearance of innocence rather than guile.

  ‘Actually, I have the papers here in my bag,’ Jack continued. ‘I’d like to go through them with you. There’s a financial settlement too.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Grace said quickly. ‘I’m able to support myself.’

  ‘I still think we should talk about it.’ Jack downed the last of his drink. ‘Charlotte wouldn’t give me your address. She just said you’d mentioned this bar in one of your letters — she had the impression it was in the same neighbourhood. Would it be all right, do you think, if we went to your place, so we can go over the documents somewhere a bit more private?’

  They were laughing and joking as they climbed the many stairs that led to Grace’s attic. It’s almost like old times, she reflected, when we were still at school and each other’s best friend.

  ‘No wonder you’re in such good shape, Gracie,’ Jack said when they finally reached her room. Eyeing her appreciatively, he declared, ‘You’re still the best-looking girl I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Thanks. But shouldn’t we be getting on with things?’

  ‘What’s the rush? I’ve come all this way; we should catch up. I know, how about a drink?’ Jack suggested. ‘I bought a bottle of brandy at Calais; it’s in this valise along with the legal papers.’

  ‘I’m not sure a drink’s such a good idea . . .’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Jack said with a trace of irritation. ‘Surely an occasion like this deserves to be marked.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Grace said warily.

  After she brought over tumblers and set them down on the table, Jack poured two large measures. ‘Happy days, Gracie,’ he said, then swallowed his brandy. She remained standing while he sat in the armchair, eyeing her up and down.

  ‘Like I was saying,’ he went on, a slight slur softening his voice, ‘by Christ, you’re a beautiful woman. I bet you get a lot of attention from those oversexed Frenchmen.’ With that, he walked over and put a hand on her back.

  ‘Come on, Jack. I really think we should sort out these papers.’

  ‘We have all the time in the world.’ He began stroking her shoulder.

  ‘This isn’t helping.’ Grace tried to push his hand away.

  ‘Well, here’s an idea that might move things along. Go to bed with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why not? You’re my wife.’

  Grace laughed contemptuously. ‘Out of the question!’

  Jack’s caress had become a firm grip. ‘So, when it comes to the bedroom, you’re still just the same — bloody frigid. But I still have my rights. Anyway, you invited me up here, remember?’

  Grace was appalled. How had she allowed herself to get into this hideous position?

  ‘I’m not changing my mind, sweetheart,’ Jack said. ‘If you don’t give me what’s mine, then I won’t sign, simple as that.’

  Grace looked at her husband. She’d seen this stubborn belligerence before. When he was in this kind of mood he wouldn’t be moved. She knew that agreeing to Jack’s outrageous proposition meant betraying Philippe. But if she didn’t, she’d never be free. This impossible situation was just one more example of life’s grey areas. It seemed there was no black or white anymore, just a series of moral compromises, all of which demanded dishonourable decisions.

  ‘All right,’ she said coldly.

  In a voice thick with drink and desire, Jack replied, ‘Good girl.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Lying still, tension and hurt radiating through every part of her, Grace tried not to focus on Jack’s cruel violation, but instead on her impending liberation. She told herself that what she was enduring was nothing more than a transaction, a price she had to pay. During the war, plenty of French women had no choice but to do the same thing. And, after all, this was hardly the first time her husband had forced himself on her. Yet she knew it wasn’t the same as before.

  Now that Grace had experienced the bliss of being made love to by a wonderfully skilled, adoring man intent on her pleasure, Jack’s selfish attentions were even harder to bear than she remembered. At least, she reflected as she clenched her teeth, this would soon be over. Then, somehow, she would make herself forget it ever happened.

  Afterwards, the two of them washed and put on their clothes in strained silence. Grace straightened her rumpled bed; Jack sat at the table and spread out the papers. He signed several times, stood up and said awkwardly, ‘It’s your turn.’

  Grace signed. Each time she wrote ‘Grace Osbourne’ she felt a little less burdened. After tonight, at least that name would cease to exist.

  ‘Hang on,’ Jack said. ‘You haven’t done these.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want your money.’

  ‘I should have known. You’ve always been strong on doing the right thing. Much better at it than me, I’m afraid,’ Jack said, colouring. ‘I’m really sorry, Grace. I’m sorry about so many things, but tonight most of all. I don’t know what came over me.’

  Grace said nothing.

  ‘No, really, I’m ashamed.’ Jack took up the bottle of brandy. ‘I shouldn’t have drunk so
much. It’s a poor sort of an excuse, but bloody hell, I’ve never been able to resist you, whatever state I’ve been in. Here’s a copy of the papers,’ he said, returning his own set to his bag. ‘When I’m back in Sydney, I’ll finalise everything. I don’t foresee any problems.’

  ‘Goodbye, Jack.’

  ‘Let’s not leave each other on this note.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘We should at least shake ha—’ There was the sound of two quick knocks on the door, followed by a key turning in the lock. ‘What the blazes . . .?’

  To Grace’s horror, Philippe walked into the room.

  ‘Who’s this, some fancy French boyfriend?’ Jack sneered.

  Angry and bewildered, Philippe stepped forward. ‘Monsieur, I —’

  ‘Don’t monsieur me!’ Jack glared at Grace. ‘I can’t believe it was me doing the apologising, when all the time you’ve been acting like a little trollop.’

  He swung a drunken punch that went wide and glanced off Philippe’s cheek. A split second later, Philippe’s fist thudded into his jaw.

  Teetering back, Jack shouted at Grace, ‘Looks like I’m well rid of you, after all.’ He grabbed his bag and lurched out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’ Philippe rushed to Grace’s side. ‘Tell me, what can I do?’

  ‘Don’t do anything,’ she pleaded.

  ‘What are you talking about? I’m going after that man. Do you know who he is?’

  ‘His name is Jack Osbourne,’ Grace said slowly. ‘He’s my husband.’

  Philippe’s eyes had become very dark. ‘I think you had better tell me what’s going on,’ he said curtly as he folded his arms.

  Grace told him. She explained that she and Jack had been childhood sweethearts, that they had wed after the war but that the marriage had been a terrible mistake. She spoke of the telegram she’d received only that day announcing his arrival in Paris.

  ‘Jack was here to sign the divorce papers,’ she insisted. ‘It’s the sole reason he came.’