The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  Grace marvelled at her aplomb.

  ‘I’m going to stand with David,’ she added, quickly righting her hat. ‘He won’t change his plans, but at least I’ll be by his side should the worst happen.’

  ‘It won’t — not if I can help it!’ Grace cried. She’d caught sight of Philippe and was already sprinting towards him. ‘Quick!’ she called out. ‘The assassin is on top of the Jeu de Paume.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘See the scaffolding? It was put there this morning. Four men were detailed to carry out the construction. Only three came back down. The fourth is our man. When the band starts playing the French national anthem, he will shoot the ambassador.’

  ‘Right. I’m going up.’

  ‘Not without me you’re not.’

  ‘Stay on the ground. It’s far too dangerous!’ Philippe hooked his foot into the first metal bar and began pulling himself up.

  Grace had no intention of leaving Philippe to face the killer alone.

  By the time she reached the second storey, Grace was wet with perspiration. She chanced a look down. It was a mistake. Her legs gave way and she was suspended in midair, hanging on to the scaffolding by her slippery, sweat-soaked hands alone. With the plastic over-shoes still on her feet, it was impossible to regain a foothold.

  Time stopped. The noise from the square below disappeared. I am alone and with child, Grace thought. It would be so easy to let go.

  Then she felt her right foot hit a crossbar, gain traction. Her left foot was next. Swallowing back the bile in her mouth, Grace hauled herself up the remaining few metres and staggered onto the Jeu de Paume’s roof.

  She almost fell over a huge, bald man lying collapsed on his side. Blood trickled from one nostril and there were angry marks around his neck. Philippe stood over him, breathing hard, a garrotte dangling from one hand.

  ‘Thank God,’ Grace said. ‘You’re safe, and so is Ambassador Bruce.’

  There was a sound, the scrape of a boot against metal. Grace spun around. Another man, his faced masked by a black balaclava, leapt onto the roof. He shoved her out of the way before picking up the first man’s rifle and launching himself at Philippe.

  Grace was stunned. There’d been nothing in the instructions about a second assassin. Worst of all, now he was armed. The only reason he hadn’t used the rifle on Philippe straightaway, she thought feverishly, must be because the parade hadn’t reached the square yet. He needed the sound of drums and trumpets to muffle the gunfire.

  She watched in shock as both men traded brutal blows. Every muscle in her body was rigid. She couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. It was as if she were inhabiting the worst kind of dream. Philippe tore an arm free and swung at the man; the rifle gleamed in the sunlight as it spiralled out of his hand. Grace heard it fall with a clatter, but the killer didn’t stop. He knocked Philippe to the ground. His hands went around Philippe’s throat. He was choking him to death.

  A surge of adrenaline snapped Grace into action. She leapt for the gun, grabbing it just as the Republican Guard rode into the Place de la Concorde. In the distance, there was a blur of black and gold uniforms, of red plumes flying from gleaming centurions’ helmets. A military band struck up ‘La Marseillaise’; the rousing anthem boomed from a score of loudspeakers.

  Grace saw not a man, but a deadly snake poised to strike. She pressed the trigger.

  Racing over to the fallen would-be assassin, Grace tore the balaclava from his head.

  ‘You!’ she screamed.

  A pair of glittering black orbs half opened. ‘Next time you try to outwit a man like me, make sure you don’t leave a stray diamond behind.’

  Of course. A stone must have come loose when her earring was dislodged. Orly would have seen it, sparkling beacon-like on the floor right in front of the safe, and become suspicious.

  ‘You’re a dead woman,’ he hissed, as his eyes shut.

  Grace felt a familiar touch on her cheek. ‘Darling,’ Philippe said tensely, ‘thank God you’re all right.’

  She was numb, couldn’t look away from the dark stain spreading across Orly’s chest.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ Philippe was saying, slowly and clearly, though she could barely take his words in. ‘Your job is done. Right now, we have to get down as fast as we can.’ He scanned the rooftop with his one good eye — the other was swollen almost shut. ‘It’s not safe here. There could be other gunmen nearby. You go first, I’ll follow.’

  Once they reached the ground, Philippe held a trembling Grace tightly in his arms. ‘It’s over, all over, my darling,’ he murmured. ‘You have been exceptional. And, by the way, thank you.’ He gave her the special smile she adored. ‘It is not every day that a beautiful, clever woman — let alone a Paris model — saves one’s life.’

  A group of gendarmes ran towards them. Grace watched as Philippe shouted a few words and pointed at the Jeu de Paume’s roof. Then he turned back to her.

  ‘Philippe, I’m sorry about the other night —’ Grace began.

  ‘What, with Gaston? It’s me who should be apologising. You must have been terrified, thinking about what you would have to do the next day. My God, I can’t believe what I put you through.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Let me take off that awful headscarf so I can kiss you.’

  Despite all she’d been through, the feeling of his mouth on hers made Grace flicker with desire. Grace realised then with a dreadful certainty that, although their love was forbidden, she would never be free of her yearning for him. Despite the action she knew she must take, his would always be the only caress that she craved.

  Philippe broke away. There were at least a dozen dark-suited men approaching. ‘CIA,’ he said. ‘I must speak to these agents urgently and you have to go somewhere safe.’ He grasped her by the arm. ‘Do not under any circumstances return to the rue Dauphine or, for that matter, go near any of the Saint-Germain cafés. You heard what Orly said. Already his men must be out on the streets hunting for you.’

  He nodded in the direction of a couple of policemen. ‘I’ll arrange for one of those officers to take you to Brigitte’s place on the Île Saint-Louis. Stay there for the rest of the day. Later on, he can bring you to the bistro we went to in Belleville. Remember the one?’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘No one will think to look for you there. Meet me at five o’clock. I should have something worked out by then.’

  There was no chance to say more. Ambassador Bruce was coming towards them.

  He shook Philippe by the hand. ‘Thank you, young man. That was a mighty courageous thing you and this young lady did,’ he said. ‘And I hear Mrs Bruce had some involvement? Well, you have probably realised by now that my wife is a law unto herself.’ The ambassador’s light-hearted remark could not mask the worry etched on his patrician face.

  ‘I’m returning to the embassy immediately,’ he said. ‘A full security alert has been issued, and now that communications have been at least partially restored, we’re putting together a team to deal with the situation. Captain Boyer, I’m afraid that means you will have to say goodbye to your friend. You’re needed for an urgent debriefing.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Philippe turned back to Grace. ‘It seems I have to leave you,’ he said. Then he whispered, ‘Je t’aime,’ before adding, ‘à tout à l’heure.’

  ‘Until later,’ Grace said, echoing his words. With tears streaming from her eyes, she watched him walk away.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The fatigue enveloping Grace was so profound that merely lifting one leaden foot after another required the greatest determination.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Brigitte cried when she answered the faint knock on her door and saw Grace, pale-faced and swaying. ‘Come, lean on me. Marie-Hélène is here too; we will both take care of you.’

  Kicking off her plastic shoe covers, Grace limped across the room and collapsed onto a sofa.

  ‘Thank you. I . . . I’m exhuausted,’ she murmured.

  ‘My dear, whatever have you
been up to? And where did those bizarre clothes came from?’ Marie-Hélène wrinkled her retroussé nose as she eyed Grace’s overalls. ‘Never mind. When you’re feeling better, I’m sure Brigitte will lend you something to put on.’

  ‘Why, of course, and in the meantime I will bring you tea,’ Brigitte said. ‘I know that is what the English drink at times like this, so I imagine it is the same for Australians. I hope you like Darjeeling.’ She busied herself in the kitchen, then reappeared carrying a tray bearing a worn silver teapot, three pretty cups and a plate of golden madeleines.

  ‘I just received a garbled message from Philippe.’ Brigitte frowned as she set the tray down. ‘I gather there’s been some kind of political incident and — oh, Grace, he said your life was in danger! He didn’t mention your condition, so I assume you haven’t told him. Otherwise, I’m sure he would never have involved you in this dreadful business.’

  Marie-Hélène tapped one high-heeled shoe on the parquetry floor. ‘Before we get onto whatever has been going on, I’d like to know precisely why you haven’t informed Philippe that you are pregnant with his child.’

  Grace blinked away the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Now that her part in the perilous events of the past twenty-four hours was over, every anguished thought she had previously suppressed threatened to engulf her. Yet somehow she would have to remain strong.

  ‘Because the baby might not be his,’ she said.

  Seeing Brigitte’s and Marie-Hélène’s shocked expressions, Grace realised she could no longer avoid divulging at least one of her secrets — her loyal friends were due some sort of explanation. Summoning what little energy she had, she began slowly, determined not to become emotional as she revealed that a large part of the reason she had travelled to Paris was to escape her marriage.

  Ignoring both Marie-Hélène’s raised eyebrows and Brigitte’s rapid intake of breath, she went on to relate the torrid events that had taken place on the night of Jack’s visit.

  ‘And then he . . . he called me a trollop and stormed out,’ she said, unable to prevent a quaver from entering her voice.

  ‘The man must be a monster!’ Brigitte cried.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Grace steadied herself. ‘It’s true, there wasn’t much of a choice, but all the same, I did agree. And it was hardly the first time we’d had sex when I didn’t want to — I always thought it was what wives were expected to do.’ She picked up her teacup. ‘Foolishly, I believed that making love one last time would solve a big problem. Now I can see that all I did was make everything a hundred times worse.’

  ‘Oh là là!’ Marie-Hélène said. ‘I had a feeling you had left somebody behind, but I must admit I wasn’t expecting this. Never did I imagine, when I first set eyes on our new Australian model with her black curls and lovely face, that her life would turn out to be so, shall I say, complex.’

  Grace silently reflected that her friends had no idea just how complicated her life really was. And that was the way it must stay. She felt dismayed as she imagined their horrified reaction should she ever reveal that, to her shame, Philippe had turned out to be her own brother.

  ‘Darling, you have to be sensible about this,’ Marie-Hélène insisted. ‘Simply tell Philippe you are having his baby. This is not the time to worry about a single episode of love-making or whatever it was. I advise you to forget it ever happened.’

  ‘Even if I could,’ Grace said, ‘it would make no difference.’

  Gripping her cup, she tried to steel herself. Grace was aware that the words she would say next were necessary, even though they were certain to destroy any chance of a future life with the man she loved so passionately.

  ‘Philippe is an attractive man,’ she remarked, striving to appear blasé. ‘I suppose that’s the reason I allowed myself to become swept away. But after what he’s put me through during the past few days, I have decided he comes with far too many risks attached.

  ‘What has Philippe mixed you up in?’ Brigitte asked. ‘All I know is it sounded serious.’

  ‘That’s an understatement. I’m not sure if you’re aware of what his job really is, but let’s just say he involved me in a terrifying life and death situation.’

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ Marie-Hélène exclaimed.

  ‘There’s more. As a result, Minister Giscard Orly — a man who’s turned out to be as savage as he is corrupt — ordered a gang of murderous thugs to scour Paris for me. So, yes, my life is in danger — and all because of Philippe.’

  Grace forced down a mouthful of tea. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I would appreciate it if you would inform Philippe Boyer that I never want to see him again. And, for that matter, I don’t wish to hear a word about him — ever.’

  There. She’d made herself plain. Now there was no hope.

  For a few minutes, nobody spoke. The apartment sat high above the Quai d’Anjou, a narrow, cobblestoned street situated so close to the Seine that the three friends could hear the sound the water made as it slapped against the prows of the passing bateaux mouches.

  Brigitte broke the silence. ‘There is only one thing for it. You must leave Paris,’ she said.

  ‘I know you mean well,’ Grace replied dejectedly, ‘but that’s easier said than done. Where would I go? How would I live?’

  ‘It may not be as difficult as you think. My late father can help you.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’ Grace propped herself up on a faded pink cushion.

  ‘I seem to recall you once saying that we all have our secrets.’ Brigitte took a breath. ‘Well, here is mine. My papa was the Count d’Andoise.’

  Marie-Hélène whistled.

  Grace looked blankly at her friend.

  ‘Tomorrow you must go to Charincourt; it was his château. You will be safe there. Orly’s men will never find you.’

  Fear clutched at Grace’s throat. She hoped Brigitte was right.

  ‘It’s near an abbey and I know the abbess well.’ Brigitte paused. ‘How would you feel,’ she said gently, ‘if after the baby is born, she were to find a family who would take in the child?’

  Marie-Hélène did not wait for Grace to respond. ‘If you won’t terminate your pregnancy or tell Philippe he is the father, well then, that is exactly what you must do,’ she said. ‘Brigitte has come up with the perfect solution for each of your problems. And I will deal with Madame Raymonde. I’ll say there has been a crisis in Australia, that your mother has fallen ill and you must depart immediately. Don’t worry, I will tell your nice little concierge the same thing. Later, you can write to Madame Raymonde and let her know the crisis has passed. As she is well aware that the clients positively fight among themselves to purchase whatever they see on your elegant back, an invitation to return to the maison is certain to follow.’

  With a blithe expression, Marie-Hélène added, ‘In less than a year, all will be just as it was. This political situation will be sorted out, you will have recovered your usual joie de vivre and nobody will suspect a thing.’

  Grace’s shoulders drooped. Alfred was dead. Philippe was lost to her forever; so, it seemed, were Reuben and Olive, and soon her poor tainted child would be as well. Despite Marie-Hélène’s optimistic prediction, she doubted she would ever be happy again.

  The three young women were finishing a simple supper of oeuf mayonnaise when Marie-Hélène announced she was departing for Grace’s attic.

  ‘Don’t be concerned, it won’t take more than five minutes to collect everything that’s needed,’ she assured her apprehensive companions. ‘And anyway,’ she tossed her luxuriant titian hair, ‘nobody is looking for a redhead — at least, no one from Orly’s gang.’

  With that she picked up her Louis Vuitton handbag and whirled out of the door.

  Grace turned to Brigitte. ‘You’ve both been so kind. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Just come back from Charincourt cheerful and well, with all your troubles behind you.’

  ‘But surely there must
be something else?’

  ‘You could always help me clean up.’

  Grace was drying a dish when she noticed it bore the faint imprint of an elaborate family crest. ‘Now I understand why you were so reticent about your father’s identity,’ she said. ‘It’s because you didn’t want to, well, at home we’d say “show off”.’

  To Grace’s surprise, Brigitte’s refined face was contorted by a sudden scowl. She spun around, her hands still soapy and wet.

  ‘It’s not modesty that prevents me from claiming his name,’ she declared. ‘It’s shame! My father was one of France’s most notorious Nazi collaborators.’

  ‘Brigitte, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

  ‘Well, unfortunately for me, his reputation in this country is all too well known.’ She reached for a cloth and began to dry her hands. ‘The racial prejudice of the noble line of Andoise males is a long and horrible family tradition. I’m sorry, I promise that after tonight I’ll never mention Philippe again, but right now it’s the only way I can explain. Remember I told you that he and I were related?’

  ‘Vaguely.’ Grace felt her pulse quicken.

  ‘Philippe’s grandfather, Emmanuel, was my grandfather’s younger brother. When Emmanuel married a woman of the Jewish faith, Grandpapa accused him of defiling the precious Andoise blood line. He refused to allow him or any of his descendants to come near the château again. That is why I didn’t see Philippe, and I still know almost nothing about his parents. I heard that his mother was killed during the war, but that’s about all.’

  Brigitte walked out of the kitchen. ‘Let’s sit down. There is something else I’d like to share with you.’

  With her muscles aching, Grace sank gratefully onto the soft, cotton-covered sofa. ‘Tell me about it,’ she said.

  As Brigitte spoke she twisted a strand of fair hair in her long fingers. ‘My own mother died in a hunting accident when I was very young,’ she began. ‘Even after that, Papa made it quite clear that I wasn’t worth bothering about. You see, he always felt I should have been a boy, someone to inherit his title. As you can imagine, I never felt close to him, and anyway, I hated his ideas. As soon as I could, I left Charincourt and went to live in Paris. Grandpapa was already dead; I swore I would never set foot in the château until my father was in his grave too.’