‘Well then, why was he so furious?’
‘Because I assured him I wasn’t seeing anyone else, that even though we had separated I had remained faithful. If he thought I’d broken my marriage vows, he wouldn’t have signed.’
‘And then I walked in.’
‘Yes.’
‘I seem to recall you once accused me of being married. Now I discover that you have a husband.’ Philippe began to pace angrily back and forth across the room. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as hypocritical?’
‘I’m desperately sorry!’ Grace cried. ‘I was convinced that if you knew the truth, you would finish our relationship. It was stupid and wrong of me to hide my marriage from you, but I just hoped it would all be sorted out quietly and then go away.’
Philippe grasped her by the shoulders. ‘Do you understand how shocked I am that only now you tell me about your marriage to this Jack Osbourne?’ He paused. ‘You knew full well that by revealing my identity to you I was willing to place my life in your hands. You, by contrast, could not find it within you to trust me. How do you think that makes me feel?’
Grace hung her head. ‘Not very good.’
Tilting her face up in his hands, Philippe looked searchingly into her emerald eyes. ‘You have told me everything now? There is nothing else that has taken place you should share with me?’
‘Nothing.’
It was the second lie Grace had told that night. But how could she reveal to Philippe that she had just had sex with Jack?
‘All right. We must put this behind us — otherwise everything we have together will be ruined by suspicion, and that is the last thing I want. Whatever has happened between you and that man will stay in the past, where it belongs.’ He touched his cheek distractedly, then winced. ‘As for not trusting me — you have agreed to risk your life. There can’t be a much greater demonstration of your trust in me than that.’
Grace sighed. Her shameful deceit had very nearly spoilt everything, yet it seemed she had been given a reprieve. ‘Let me fetch you something for your poor face,’ she said.
‘There is a reason I came here tonight, quite apart from the fact I would gladly see you every night.’ Philippe tried to smile as he held the cold cloth Grace had given him to his swollen cheek. ‘I need to explain exactly what steps must be taken to ensure the success of your mission. But, considering what’s just gone on’ — he winced again — ‘I’m sure that is the last thing you want to do. We’d better leave it.’
Grace realised the evening’s events had been so tumultuous, the subject of Giscard Orly had entirely escaped her mind.
‘No, tell me,’ she said. ‘I’d rather think about how to entrap the minister than dwell on that scene with Jack.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. As long as you feel up to it.’
Philippe pointed to his cheek. ‘You mean this? It’s just a bruise.’ He pulled the armchair over to the table, saying, ‘Sit down, Grace. I need to show you something.’
He withdrew a tiny vial of colourless liquid from his pocket. ‘Inside is a drug that will knock Orly out for hours. It’s fast acting, especially if mixed with alcohol. You should have plenty of time to get the job done.’ He lay the vial on the table. ‘Whatever you do,’ Philippe cautioned, ‘once you have opened the safe you must bring the information straight to the US Ambassador’s residence. I will give you an official, top-level accreditation from the French security service that will guarantee automatic entry to the residence. This will be essential, because unless David Bruce is personally presented with proof of the plot, he won’t countenance cancelling his Bastille Day appearance. The Americans don’t want a show of weakness.’
‘What if I can’t reach the ambassador in time?’
‘Bring the information directly to me. I will leave my motorcycle chained to a railing in a street around the corner from the ministry. What with the crowds and the security in place for the parade, it will be difficult for you to cross Paris. Ride the bike — it’s your best chance.’
‘Where will I find you?’
‘In the Place de la Concorde, just to the left of l’Orangerie. Ambassador Bruce will be an easy target; he’ll be on the official podium between the museum and the Jeu de Paume. It is an excellent place to see the parade, but unfortunately it also affords a man intent on murder many places from where he can fire.’
Philippe tapped the vial. ‘You will be assigned an experienced, female agent, a specialist, who will help you devise a plan to get into Orly’s office. She will also make arrangements so you can practise opening the same make of safe and anything else you need to rehearse.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like your interactions with the minister. It would be best if you don’t discuss this aspect of the operation with me — we can’t allow our emotions to get the better of us and, certainly in my case, that won’t be easy.’
‘I understand,’ Grace said.
‘Good. You will also be provided with a diagram of the room and a map of the route you should take, both to the embassy residence and from there to the Place de la Concorde. By the evening of the thirteenth of July, each detail should be so familiar to you that you would be able to carry it out with your eyes closed.’
Grace attempted to mask her nerves. ‘That’s still seven weeks away,’ she said flippantly, though her mouth was dry. ‘What a long time to put up with Monsieur Orly’s floral tributes.’
Philippe turned to her. ‘Just in case those bouquets have led you to think the minister is harmless — perhaps even ridiculous — make no mistake. Orly is a cold-blooded killer,’ he said sombrely. ‘Have I frightened you now?’
‘Not at all,’ Grace replied. It was her third lie.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tuesday 21 June 1949
The flowers stopped arriving.
‘Looks like your beau has turned his attentions elsewhere,’ Victoire observed. ‘That’s what happens when you play too hard to get.’
‘C’est la vie,’ Grace said, attempting to appear unconcerned.
Privately, she worried that Orly really had given up his pursuit of her. He had weighty matters on his mind: an ambassador to be eliminated, not to mention his own political aspirations. No doubt he was keenly anticipating being appointed president of France’s first communist government. Why would his thoughts be dwelling on a mannequin?
Grace reminded herself that Ferdinand had said Orly would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. She tried to imagine the minister, distracted by his obsession with her, throwing down his fountain pen or kicking at a door in sheer frustration. She had to believe he still desired her.
Monday 4 July
‘Giscard Orly is a power-hungry fantasist,’ Nicole, the angular, middle-aged agent who’d been assigned to Grace, said coolly. Grace had just arrived at the anonymous townhouse tucked away in a quiet part of the Marais where her training had been taking place. Nicole added, ‘Given his character traits, I predict he is already picturing you willing — no, begging — to be violated.’
Despite Nicole’s even tone, Grace felt ill. All her confidence seemed to be draining away.
‘It helps to disassociate yourself,’ the agent advised. ‘You are merely playing a part, like an actor in a play. But you must remember — it doesn’t matter what Orly might say or do, your performance cannot take place any sooner than the eve of Bastille Day.’
‘How can you be so sure this act of mine will take place at all?’ Grace frowned. ‘He’s left me completely alone for nearly two weeks now.’
‘Believe me, that won’t last,’ Nicole said. ‘He’ll have a plan. All you have to do is keep your nerve.’
Easier said than done, Grace thought as she left the townhouse. In fact, it had been exactly thirteen days since she’d heard from Orly. It was no use pretending she was some sort of femme fatale, she thought gloomily. Despite Nicole’s prediction, she feared Orly’s interest in her had been fleeting. At the same time, she couldn’t h
elp but be relieved that she’d gained a reprieve for another day.
Grace felt as if she was trapped on an endless emotional rollercoaster, and yet every morning she still had to turn up at the maison, ready for fittings, to show clothes and entrance clients. As she made her way home each night, she found herself trembling with the sheer strain of it all. Philippe was under pressure, too. He managed to see her several times a week, but it was difficult for either one of them to relax. They made love with a new, feverish intensity, as if every time they lay in each other’s arms might be the last.
Wednesday 6 July
On the fifteenth day, a small package was delivered to the maison. Not daring to open it in the cabine, Grace hurriedly slipped it into her handbag. Only when she was safely in her room in the rue Dauphine did she discover what lay inside — a pair of diamond earrings from Van Cleef & Arpels.
She did not return the gift.
A mere twenty-four hours later, Grace received an intricate gold bracelet made by Boucheron. This, too, was retained. The pìece de résistance arrived on the following afternoon — one of Cartier’s famous diamond-studded brooches in the shape of a panther with a large cabochon emerald clasped in its claws.
The next morning, she despatched a handwritten note to Orly. It said simply: 13 July, 9 pm, Maxim’s. Mademoiselle D.
Monday 11 July
Marguerite Carré stared at Grace, then at her little green book.
‘Is it possible you have been eating more croissants than usual?’ she said, wrinkling her brow,
Grace was puzzled.
‘This toile is cut to your precise measurements,’ Marguerite Carré said, ‘yet it is not fitting as it should. Do you see, here at the waist it is pulling a little, and the line of the bust is not quite correct.’
‘I’m afraid it must be our charming doorman who is to blame.’ Grace grinned. ‘Whenever we meet for coffee Ferdinand insists on tempting me with viennoiseries.’
‘Well, you must learn to resist,’ Madame Carré scolded. ‘Imagine if you put on weight after the toile was approved — when the fabric was cut, it might not fit and the entire length would be ruined.’
‘I’m sorry, madame, it won’t happen again.’
Later that day, Grace fainted. Fortunately, she was in the cabine at the time, having just finished showing a selection of cocktail dresses to the vivacious divorcee Mrs Pamela Churchill. Grace had wriggled free from the final modèle and passed it to a dresser before collapsing onto a conveniently placed, frothy cloud of tulle petticoats.
When Grace opened her eyes, she saw she was lying on the sea-green chaise longue where the occasional exhausted mannequin would recline during stolen moments between parades. How she’d been moved there, she didn’t know, but to her relief, save for Brigitte and Marie-Hélène, she was alone.
‘Grace, oh, thank goodness. We were so concerned about you,’ Brigitte said.
‘I honestly don’t know what came over me.’ Grace sat up and attempted to smile. ‘It must be because I was so light-headed. I haven’t felt at all like eating lately, yet the odd thing is, Madame Carré says I’ve put on weight. Perhaps I should see a doctor?’
‘Perhaps you should,’ said Marie-Hélène. She glanced quickly over her shoulder before lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Is it possible you might be pregnant?’
Pregnant. The moment Marie-Hélène uttered the word, Grace knew it was true. In addition to her mysterious symptoms, she was about six weeks overdue, something she’d put down to the unremitting stress imposed by her nerve-wracking circumstances.
She had not given a moment’s thought to the possibility she might be in an even more calamitous state, for although she’d taken no precautions during her two and a half years of married life, there’d been no sign of a baby. Stupidly, she had developed a false sense of security, and now she was paying the price. Ashen-faced, she looked at her friends with dismay.
‘It’s my fault!’ Brigitte cried. ‘I should never have introduced you to my cousin.’
Marie-Hélène adopted a more practical tone. ‘I can see this is not welcome news, but you must not despair. There are ways of dealing with this kind of situation.’
‘You mean . . . an abortion?’ Grace had heard of such a thing, but the thought terrified her. She had visions of dirty back-alleys and unspeakable procedures.
‘I do. You wouldn’t be the first mannequin to find herself in this condition.’
Grace bit her lip. Her encounter with Giscard Orly was only two days away — she could not let anything stand in her way.
‘Thank you both, I don’t know where I’d be without you. Right now, though, I’m confused. I’ll have to think about it.’
Marie-Hélène frowned. ‘Don’t take too long, will you?’
Although she understood her friend was trying to help, the idea of a termination filled Grace with horror. But what else could she do? She had to work, and the fitters were ruthless. The alarming notion occurred to her that perhaps Madame Carré already half suspected the truth.
Grace’s head was swimming. As she closed her eyes she heard Brigitte say, ‘Let’s leave her now, she needs to rest. Anyway, we are wanted in the studio.’
Alone, Grace’s anguish only increased. As her mind veered from one solution to another, a single fact became clear. Philippe Boyer was the love of her life. And now she had the power to become his wife.
Philippe was an honourable man. If she told him about her condition he would doubtless feel obliged to marry her. Yet Grace shrank from the idea. The last thing she wanted was for the man she adored to feel forced into marriage.
Suddenly, she sat bolt upright and groaned. How slow-witted she had been! The baby she was carrying could well be Jack’s. And if that was the case, what possible solution could there be? No matter what befell her, she would not, could not, go back to him.
Grace hugged her knees to her chest. If only she hadn’t foolishly agreed to Jack’s request to come to her room. If only she’d refused his indecent proposal, been wiser, shrewder, stronger, something, she would never have found herself in this disastrous state.
Grace had believed she’d struck a simple bargain: one last sexual encounter in exchange for her liberty. Now, with a sense of rising panic, she realised how naive she had been — negotiating life’s grey areas did not occur without penalties. Even if she wanted to, could she now say to Philippe with her hand on her heart that the baby was his? She could not. That was one lie she would never tell.
Grace heard a rustle of silk. ‘My dear, I think you dropped off for a moment. Are you all right?’
She opened her eyes to see Madame Raymonde sitting next to her.
‘Tutu told me you weren’t well,’ she explained.
‘You’re very kind. I’m so sorry to cause all this fuss.’
‘Not at all.’
Grace thought quickly. She could not allow herself to dwell upon her plight. What she needed was time away from the maison. She was conscious that as each hour passed, her dangerous rendezvous with Giscard Orly drew ever closer. She had to gather her strength.
‘It must be a virus,’ she said weakly. ‘I’m afraid I will need some time off. Perhaps just until after Bastille Day?’
Madame Raymonde studied Grace with her deceptively mild blue eyes.
‘Take good care of yourself,’ she replied.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Tuesday 12 July
A rumbling mew emanated from the landing outside Grace’s room. It could only be the little concierge’s cat, which meant Madame Guérin herself must be close behind. Rising from her bed, Grace opened the door, watching as Tartuffe bounded in, leapt up and triumphantly settled himself on her armchair.
As she expected, a couple of minutes later the concierge appeared, puffing from the effort.
‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,’ she said between gasps. ‘I know you are not well, but I have a note for you. The message was sent on here when it was discovered you were not at the maiso
n. I thought it might be important.’
‘Won’t you sit down, madame?’ Grace said. ‘Perhaps you would like a tisane?’
‘Thank you, no. My assistant and I must return to our work.’ She scooped up the cat in her arms. ‘Tartuffe, off we go. We will leave Mademoiselle Dubois in peace.’
Peace — if only such a thing were possible. To the contrary, she felt wretched. Although her spirits rose briefly when she saw that the note was from Philippe, its contents were far from welcome.
His father had come unexpectedly to Paris for a few days. Apparently he’d had a sudden yen to spend time in the company of his old Resistance brothers-in-arms and watch the Bastille Day parade. Philippe wrote:
I explained to Gaston that, regrettably, you and I had important commitments tomorrow as well as on 14 July, which means the only time we can see him is this evening. It would mean a great deal to me if you could join us. I know the timing is less than ideal, but hopefully it will provide some distraction.
Grace frowned; the mere thought of going anywhere in her current condition was overwhelming. Yet how could she refuse? Philippe had been more understanding about her hidden marriage than she had any right to expect. He wasn’t asking much of her.
In any case, how else was she going to spend the night? There was not a thing she could do about her pregnancy, at least not until after tomorrow’s assignation. She would only lie in bed, stare at the ceiling and become increasingly agitated.
Philippe was right. If ever she needed a distraction, it was now. She might be feeling under the weather, but there was still enough time for her to have a short rest. Then she would bathe, put on a dress, meet Philippe and Gaston and drink a glass of champagne. Indeed, the more Grace contemplated the evening, the more she welcomed the respite she felt sure it would provide.
Grace took Philippe’s hand as they walked towards the Boulevard Saint-Germain. ‘You are unusually debonair tonight,’ she remarked, looking him up and down.
She had never seen Philippe in a suit before, let alone one that was tailor-made and accompanied by a deep-blue and white striped silk tie by Charvet. She wondered how he had come by such expensive attire. Without his black leather jacket and motorcycle boots, Philippe seemed very polished, and, just possibly, even more attractive.
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