The Paris Model
Page 20
‘I thought they might not let me through the door in my usual clothes.’ Philippe grinned as he hailed a taxi. After opening the door for Grace he slid in beside her, then said to the driver, ‘La Voiture Folle, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Paris’s most exclusive nightclub, the one famous for its piano bar? That’s unexpected.’ Grace’s forehead creased. ‘I thought Gaston spent his time hidden away in the countryside. Are you quite sure he’ll be comfortable in a place as smart as The Crazy Car?’
‘You’re right — you wouldn’t usually catch Gaston somewhere like that. But apparently he and the owner go back a long way.’
A row of blazing lights ignited as Grace stepped out of the taxi. This was not unexpected; photographers were often stationed at the entrances of fashionable night-spots. In glamorous post-war Paris, there was an eager market for images of the stylish, well-connected men and women who were able to indulge once more in the city’s many pleasures.
Knowing full well that Madame Raymonde was far more likely to lend a mannequin something pretty to wear if she thought a picture of her might appear in a smart publication, Grace offered up a dazzling smile.
Amid the blizzard of flashing bulbs, she realised Philippe had disappeared. She assumed he wouldn’t want his communist comrades to see a picture of him entering La Voiture Folle — it was a very long way from the grubby alleys of Belleville.
Brushing past the huddle of photographers, Grace entered the club in her fitted, white faille dress, the angled panels of its skirt flying behind her. She found Philippe inside the door, waiting.
‘I’ve just been thinking how fortunate it was that I didn’t bring the motorbike. You would have had to ride side-saddle in that.’ He inclined his head towards her.
‘Do you think, just this once, you could put my poor little frock’s unsuitability aside?’ Grace demanded with mock irritation.
‘What can I say? You are the most beautiful girl in Paris — whether you have clothes on or not,’ Philippe murmured, kissing her lightly just below her ear, before adding, ‘Mmm, how is it that you always smell so delicious?’
The two continued their flirtatious banter as they walked through La Voiture Folle’s dark, velvet-lined vestibule. When they arrived at the entrance to the main room, a number of guests turned around to look at the glamorous couple. Grace caught the eye of Julia Child sitting with a man of modest stature she thought must be Paul, her diplomat husband; Lady Diana Cooper flashed her famous smile while her companion, one of the Mitford sisters, raised a champagne cocktail. Pablo Picasso simply saluted; he was sharing his table with his young mistress, Françoise Gilot.
‘Darling,’ Philippe said, ‘you will have to ignore your admirers, especially Pablo. If I let you near him, he’ll only go on again about wanting to paint your portrait — and, as you know, that undertaking inevitably leads to a scandalous outcome. It would be far safer all round if we found our table.’
Grace didn’t move.
Someone had begun to play the piano. Blinded by the white glare of a spotlight, she found it impossible to see the stage. It didn’t matter. Grace only needed to listen in order to know whose hands were touching the keys.
‘Ah, that’s Gaston!’ Philippe exclaimed. ‘Madame Marly has clearly had her way. She does love it when he plays Chopin. Of course, he is just as likely to launch into something by Dizzy Gillespie. Wait a minute — I’ll go over and let him know we’re here.’
Grace continued to stare. As her eyes adjusted, she was able to discern the outline of the large, thick-set man seated at the piano, a hat pushed to the back of his head. His distinctive appearance only confirmed what she already knew. It was Reuben.
Grace felt faint. Her chest was tight; she could barely breathe. Nothing made sense.
How could Gaston and Reuben be one and the same? Unless, unless . . . she made a rapid calculation. Reuben could well have fathered a child while he’d been in France during the last year of the Great War. Philippe had just turned thirty — the dates aligned.
But why did he call Reuben by the name of Gaston? A piece of the puzzle was missing.
If it were true, though, if Gaston was Philippe’s father, then — no, she couldn’t bear it. What she and Philippe had done together was not just an act of adultery, it was a perversion. Worse, she could well be carrying the blighted fruit of their union.
Choking, Grace whirled around. She rushed through the shadowy vestibule towards the door. Suddenly, an exotic-looking woman appeared. ‘My dear, I am Madame Marly, the proprietor of La Voiture Folle. Can I be of assistance?’
There was a fox fur hanging around the woman’s neck. The animal’s tail was clenched in its jaws, held there by two rows of sharp, pointed teeth. Grace had seen that same fur somewhere before. Now, like the fox, she too was caught in an impossible snare.
The door opened. New arrivals descended from a limousine. The photographers’ flashes exploded; a brilliant, staccato light flooded in.
‘Please tell Monsieur Boyer that Mademoiselle Dubois is not well,’ Grace cried, her heart pounding.
Then she ran out of the club, turned away from the cameras and fled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Wednesday 13 July
‘I am perplexed,’ Ferdinand confessed. ‘It seems so unlike her.’
In the absence of his usual early morning companion, the doorman was sharing a coffee at Café Bertrand with Madame de Turckheim.
‘Mademoiselle Dubois is a charming, vivacious beauty,’ he said. ‘It is only natural she would attract many admirers. But I know for a fact that she declined the attention of the Baron de Gide. She even insisted I return his ruby and diamond necklace.’
‘Did she, indeed?’ Tutu said. ‘That takes a strong will.’
‘I agree. Of late, she has been seeing a young man — some sort of journalist, I believe. He might not be wealthy or terribly well connected, but he is handsome and she certainly appeared to be in love with him.’
‘Ah, yes, we have all seen that distracted look in her eyes,’ Tutu agreed.
‘Well then, I am sure you will be interested to hear that Minister Giscard Orly, having first besieged Grace with flowers, has now sent her several pieces of expensive jewellery — I recognised the makers’ packaging immediately.’
‘Which she has also returned?’
‘Au contraire! I asked her if she wished me to do so, but she declined. I must confess to being rather shocked. It is completely out of character. Now she seems to have fallen ill and, I can assure you, that one is never ill; yet this is the third day she’s been absent.’ Ferdinand shook his head. ‘Something is not right, Tutu. I have heard things, disturbing things about Orly and his inclinations.’
‘Ferdinand, you appear quite concerned.’
‘You are correct. I cannot explain why, but I am very much afraid that our little Australian is about to find herself in a dangerous situation.’
Grace waited for nightfall with the keenest anticipation and a crystal-clear mind. It was as if the devastating events of the past three days had never happened. She did not dwell on the future of her pregnancy, the identity of the child’s father or the nature of the relationship between Philippe and Reuben — she could not. Instead, she concentrated only on what needed to be accomplished.
Nicole had spent hours with Grace, reviewing every detail of the operation. She had coached her not only on administering the drug and the mechanics of the safe, but on exactly what she should say and do at every step along the way. Yet Grace knew far more would be required of her than this training could ever provide. Everything she had ever learnt in her twenty-six years would count. Success would not depend on her physical beauty; not really. It would be a test of her wits and her will.
All the same, Grace was aware that her appearance was vital. She had a picture in her mind of the impression she wanted to create — that of a woman who, although sophisticated, was undeniably, irresistibly seductive.
When the clock at last
displayed the appropriate hour, she began dressing in a methodical fashion. She clipped on a strapless black brassiere, slipped into a pair of matching silk briefs and then laced up her guêpière, the narrow corset all the mannequins wore to cinch in their waists. Next, Grace eased fine nylon stockings over each leg until they sat smoothly against her thighs. Having fastened the stockings to her suspenders, she removed a full-skirted, black lace cocktail dress from its hanger. As she stepped into the dress she bent forward so the scalloped edges of its low cut bodice hugged the swell of her pillowy breasts. Her shoes were black suede with a pointed toe and a high, fine heel. ‘Follow me home shoes’, the girls in the workroom called them.
Grace had already perfected her make-up, which included a Helena Rubinstein lipstick in a shade of red that might have seemed outré if applied by a less expert hand. Now she attended to her coiffure, arranging her dark curls on top of her head in such a way that the removal of a single jewelled pin would be all that was required for them to come loose and tumble down. Finally, Grace added the Van Cleef & Arpels diamond earrings, placed the Boucheron bracelet on her wrist and pinned the spectacular Cartier panther brooch at the precise point where the top of her dress met her revealing décolletage.
Despite the hazardous nature of the evening that lay ahead, Grace felt only a sense of professional detachment as she stood in front of her long mirror and studied the result of her careful preparations. She scrutinised herself from the front, and then, turning to peer into a small mirror she held in her hand, from the back.
The finishing touch was a very liberal spray of perfume behind her ears, between her breasts, in the crook of her arms and on the nape of her neck. She had not selected the demure Miss Dior, but Elsa Schiaparelli’s signature perfume, Shocking. It would suit the occasion, she thought.
After picking up her satin evening bag she walked briskly towards the door. Then she hesitated. She went back to the mirror and looked at herself once more.
‘Bonne chance,’ she said to her reflection.
In Maxim’s gilded Art Nouveau dining room, an empty bottle of Pol Roger stood on Orly’s table beside a barely touched dish of quail and Iranian caviar. He leant forward, his eyes roaming from Grace’s full crimson lips to the line of her throat and then the curve of her breasts. ‘I confess, I am a man of some experience,’ he said silkily. ‘Yet I have never met a woman like you before.’
‘But, surely, each woman is unique.’
‘Not really. When Shakespeare referred to Cleopatra’s “infinite variety”, I think he had someone very much like you in mind.’
‘Is that so?’
‘It is, and I shall tell you why. First, I admit, I can’t stop looking at you.’
‘Thank you, Giscard — I had detected your interest,’ Grace teased.
‘You are an immensely desirable woman. I might have seen you just twice before, but on each occasion your appeal has only increased. Tonight, wearing jewels befitting your beauty, you are even more alluring.’
He’s reminding me that he has met my price, she thought.
‘Second, although it is clear you do not shy away from attention, there is an air of mystery about you. I feel I have spent all evening talking, while you have said barely a word about yourself.’ He regarded her with a speculative expression in his ebony eyes.
‘Never mind, there is a perfect way for me to get to know you much better,’ he said. ‘We will have cognac in my townhouse.’ It was not a question but a statement of intent.
Good, his defences will be down if he believes he has the whip hand, Grace reflected.
‘There is nothing I would like more than to share an intimate after-dinner drink with you.’ She gave Orly an enticing smile. ‘But, I regret,’ she said as her smile faded, ‘that your townhouse, magnificent as it may be, is of no interest to me.’
‘Let me assure you, I can arrange a private suite at the Crillon or, if you prefer, the George V Hotel, at a moment’s notice,’ Orly said quickly.
‘I do not wish to go somewhere you have been with other women.’
‘Where, then?’
Grace lowered her voice. ‘I propose we go to your office.’
‘What, you mean at the ministry?’ Orly raised an eyebrow.
‘Exactly. I’ll be frank. There are many men who would like to spend time with me — rich, handsome men with great charm. They don’t interest me. Now I will tell you why you do.’
Orly preened. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Giscard, it goes without saying that you are also handsome, rich and charming. But you have something extra. It is the aura of power. Partly it is your position, although I feel it is something more, something innate. Yes, you are a minister now, but I predict that one day you may well become the President of France. I find myself immensely attracted to that power.’ Grace flicked her tongue over her lips. ‘I felt it as soon as we met.’
Before Orly was able to respond, Maxim’s head waiter appeared at his side.
‘I trust everything has been to your satisfaction, Minister,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘Perhaps you and mademoiselle would enjoy a brandy after your coffee? We have some very fine vintages.’
‘Not tonight, Georges. Just the bill, please,’ he said briskly as he waved the man away.
‘Now, where were we? I believe you were saying you wished to come to my office,’ Orly prompted.
Grace whispered, ‘I want to give myself to you in the place where you exercise power, so that each time you enter the room, take a telephone call or receive a colleague, you will be stirred by the memory of what I have begged you to do.’
Not a bad start, not bad at all, Grace decided. Seated next to Orly on the back seat of his chauffeur-driven limousine, she was contemplating her satisfactory progress when Orly began to stroke the inside of her thigh. Although warned that this was to be expected, she still had to fight the urge to scream and squirm away. It was as if she were a child once more, the same child whose skin had crawled when she’d felt the smooth body of a snake slide against her. The difference was, she thought grimly, there was no one to save her now.
After the uniformed driver manoeuvred the limousine through the ministry’s towering black and gold gates, he pulled up on the far side of a cobblestoned courtyard. The chauffeur, his expression impassive, opened the door for Orly and then Grace. After the minister helped her out, the chauffeur resumed his place behind the steering wheel and drove away.
Orly unlocked the front door of the grand eighteenth-century hôtel particulier with a large brass key, before escorting Grace into a lofty hall, empty save for the solemn portraits of former government ministers. Taking her arm, he led her down an echoing corridor until he reached a set of doors. Orly opened them with a second, slightly smaller brass key, then stood aside.
‘After you, mademoiselle,’ he said.
Grace found herself in a vast, high-ceilinged room decorated in the imperial style favoured — no matter the political persuasion of the government — for France’s most prestigious public buildings. There were heavy red velvet curtains trimmed with gold fringes hanging in front of floor-to-ceiling windows; a wide blue and maroon patterned Aubusson rug on the parquetry floor; and an abundance of gold and white panelling.
Grace was relieved to see that the minister’s desk, chairs, coffee table and drinks cabinet, which stood on one side of a black and gold Coromandel screen, were all exactly where the diagram Nicole had supplied indicated they would be. Most important of all, a misty landscape by Corot was hanging on the back wall.
‘You spoke of the place where I exercise power. Is this what you had in mind?’ Orly asked with an expansive gesture.
‘It’s perfect,’ Grace replied. ‘All I require is for you to sit down, Giscard, behind your desk, if you please. I would like to fetch our drinks.’
‘Shouldn’t I be attending to that?’ Orly said, frowning.
‘Oh, do allow me,’ she pouted coquettishly, ‘I want to give you a little surprise.’
Wearing only her stiletto shoes, her stockings and provocative black lingerie, and carrying a brandy balloon in each hand, Grace posed much as she would when entering the salon at the beginning of a show. Let him see what he thinks he’s bought, she thought.
‘Mademoiselle Dubois, you continue to both arouse and astonish me,’ Orly said with approval.
Grace felt the intensity of his gaze as, with a tantalising undulation of her hips, she crossed the room. Handing him one of the brandy balloons, she said, ‘To a memorable evening.’
‘Indeed.’ Orly drained his glass.
With that, his charm slipped away, much as a snake might shed its skin. His expression became cold; his manner acquired a brutal edge. This change in demeanour would have been of no consequence, if only Orly had been displaying the effects of the drug she’d put in his drink. Grace felt her first sting of fear.
‘It is time, Mademoiselle Dubois,’ Orly said impatiently. ‘We will begin.’
‘As you wish, minister.’ She was determined to hide her mounting anxiety.
‘Sit on my desk, facing me,’ he commanded.
Grace did so, arranging her legs in a way that indicated just how wanton she was prepared to be. No matter what happened, she reminded herself, she had to maintain her nerve and continue to play the role of a practised courtesan.