Finding Monsieur Right Read online

  Muriel Zagha

  FINDING

  MONSIEUR

  RIGHT

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  About The Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  One Year Earlier

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Ebury Press Fiction Footnotes

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  Published in 2010 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing A Random House Group Company

  Copyright © 2010 by Muriel Zagha

  Muriel Zagha has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

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  Muriel Zagha grew up in Paris where she studied English literature at the Ecole Normale Supérieure. She came to Britain at the age of 21, as a French lectrice at Cambridge University, and loved living here so much that she forgot to go home. After completing a PhD on Henry James, she escaped from academia into London’s fashion world. She now works as a freelance journalist and broadcaster.

  She lives in London with her English husband and their son.

  To Robert and Hector, and to Emma and Suzanne, my own ‘coven’.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my agent, Teresa Chris, for her enthusiasm and caustic wit, and to my editor, Gillian Green, and the team at Ebury Publishing for all their hard work and shrewd advice.

  Prologue

  Paris, April Fools’ Day

  Now there was absolutely no reason to panic. Everything was fine. Just so long as Daisy kept her eyes shut a little while longer. Chances were it was just a dream. But perhaps she should open them a tiny bit, just to be sure. Nice and slow, here we go … Yup, just as she thought. She was actually standing on the roof of the Paris Opera House in a ball gown, looking down at a swimming sea of lights. Daisy looked up at the cold April stars. It was like being on the moon. And this roof was so damned slippery. She could barely keep her balance. It was probably a blessing that she had lost her shoes in the earlier bun fight with that French, er, witch. Heels wouldn’t have been much help up here.

  So, to recap: this was not a dream. Just a bit of a situation, that was all. Daisy willed herself to take a deep breath and leaned hard against the door. But it was no good, the door was shut. The French witch had actually locked her out. Daisy felt tears of rage welling up. And as for that lying toad, she thought, wait till I get my hands on him – I’ll strangle him! On reflection, it was probably best not to kick and punch the air or she might lose her footing. She crouched down – not the easiest thing to do in a deconstructed crinoline and boned bustier – leaned against the door and took another deep breath.

  Looking down at the glittering boulevards radiating from the Place de l’Opéra, Daisy allowed herself a minute of wistful admiration. How beautiful Paris was! She had always known that the City of Lights was just the place for her. Daisy Keen, fashion queen, in Paris: it was written in the stars! And look where she had ended up, having somehow managed to get everything wrong about this place and the people who lived in it. She was a prize April Fool, Daisy thought sadly. And now Isabelle’s life would be ruined too. It was a disaster.

  And to think that the swap had seemed like such a brilliant idea to begin with, a year ago …

  Faster, faster, or they’d never get there in time, Isabelle thought, as the scooter swerved and swayed through the streets behind the Place des Victoires. She held on more tightly and looked round to see if the others were following. At first she thought they’d got lost, but then, sure enough, she was able to count one, two, three, yes, all eight black-clad figures zigzagging behind her on matching black scooters through the lines of late-night taxis and buses. Now they were all motoring up the Avenue de l’Opéra, the illuminated opera house in their sights like a giant cake, with its ornate façade, green domed roof and glinting statues. Out of the corner of her eye Isabelle could see some of the others were catching up with them. Nervous as she was, Isabelle managed a little smile. She was proud of her friends.

  One last swerve around the square and they all ground to a halt before the steps of the opera house. They leaped off and dashed towards the central door. Isabelle could see they were expected. The door flew open and they ran up the great staircase in their black catsuits like a squad of avengers, Isabelle in their midst in her red silk ball gown. There wasn’t a minute to lose.

  One Year Earlier

  1 Isabelle

  The closest Isabelle and Daisy had come to meeting was in the initial correspondence they’d exchanged to agree the terms of their house swap.

  FLAT EXCHANGE. Serious, reliable French girl looking to exchange flat in Paris Left Bank against similar accommodation (preferably quiet) in London for one year, starting early July. Contact [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Salut Isabelle!

  Je suis une fille anglaise avec un grand maison à Londres. Et je voudrais telle
ment échanger avec toi! Celaserait fantastique! Je partage avec mes deux ‘housemates’(ils louent une partie du maison), Chrissie et Jules, ils sont très sympa. Il y a un grand jardin. Là où j’habite, c’est comme une petite village dans Londres, très mignonne. Moi, j’adore Paris, c’est mon rêve depuis toujours de vivre là. Certainement tu vas avoir beaucoup d’applications mais s’il te plaît, il faut me choisir! Tu ne regretteras pas!!

  Lots of love,

  Daisy xxxxxxxx

  After Isabelle had replied in slightly more formal English – ‘Dear Miss Keen,’ ‘Yours faithfully’ – and explained that she was an academic and would be doing some research in London, further emailing revealed that Daisy worked in fashion. That would explain the loud pink background and curlicued font of her emails, both highly incorrect in Isabelle’s opinion. She preferred the neat legibility of Palatino font and plain black and white in what was, after all, business correspondence. Enfin, Daisy wasn’t French and Isabelle should make allowances for that.

  While she was still making her mind up, as they lay in bed in his flat one Sunday morning, Isabelle’s boyfriend Clothaire suggested that she might prefer to swap with an academic like herself.

  ‘If this girl works in fashion, chances are she’s a weirdo or a bimbo,’ he said, stroking her hair while looking through Le Monde Diplomatique. ‘She won’t be anything like you. Doesn’t that worry you?’

  In truth Clothaire had never been particularly keen on Isabelle’s scheme and had done his best to discourage her. London was fine for a weekend but why stay longer? Her boyfriend, Isabelle reflected affectionately, was a creature of habit. Away from the Saint-Germain-des-Prés bookshops where he liked to browse, his favourite walks in the Luxembourg Gardens, the cinemas of Montparnasse and the café where he had his lunch (salade landaise and a glass of Brouilly) every day between lectures, he would probably start gasping like a fish out of water.

  ‘But I won’t have to live with her,’ Isabelle objected in her precise, flutelike tone. ‘In fact I have no reason ever to meet her. It’s a business arrangement.’

  Looking slightly cross, Clothaire put down his paper and picked up his bowl of café au lait from their breakfast tray.

  ‘So, you’re really going to do it?’

  ‘It’s important for my research, you know that. I need to consult the English-language sources properly. And I think I should go now, before we get married and have children. I probably won’t get the chance again after that.’

  This was not actually Isabelle’s own thinking on the question, but a version of what Agathe had said. Agathe was her best friend and she always advised Isabelle on important decisions. Agathe liked Clothaire – she had, in fact, introduced him to Isabelle four years ago. Isabelle was pretty lucky to have netted such a catch, Agathe often said, to tease her. On the other hand she had consistently encouraged Isabelle to go to London. It would be good for Clothaire to miss her a little, Agathe said. And he could so easily pop over for the weekend on the Eurostar whenever he felt like it.

  Now Clothaire was sulking behind his newspaper.

  ‘It’s only one year,’ Isabelle said soothingly. ‘And it’s not very far away.’

  ‘Just don’t turn English, that’s all,’ Clothaire said huffily. Isabelle smiled at him and threw her arms around his neck. What a ridiculous idea! She was a twenty-two-year-old Parisian, not a naive little provincial. She was used to big cities. How could London possibly change her?

  * * *

  Three months later, in June, Isabelle looked again despairingly at her brand-new A to Z, then her gaze travelled up and down the rows of red-brick, gabled Edwardian houses. The deserted street looked eerie in the morning sunshine, like the setting of one of the anxiety dreams she’d always had before an exam or an important lecture. Zut, zut et zut, she thought irritably. This must be the right street, but the numbers stopped at 45. There was no 80 Cavendish Gardens. How could this be? Isabelle reached into her satchel, got out the clear plastic file where she kept all her travel documents and looked again at the printout of Daisy’s most recent email. ‘Keep going until you see a house with a yellow door. Et voilà!’ it concluded triumphantly. Isabelle had walked up and down the street twice now, trailing her small suitcase on wheels behind her, and seen doors in almost every other colour except yellow. Although she was dressed appropriately for the time of year (dark indigo jeans, smart belt in navy leather, crisp pale-blue shirt and grey sweater loosely tied around her shoulders), she was beginning to feel hot and sweaty with irritation.

  She frowned and pursed her lips. What to do? She had followed Daisy’s directions with scrupulous attention. Yet things were not turning out as planned – always a source of intense frustration. London seemed to be conspiring against her. Since her arrival that morning she had travelled endlessly on the crowded and unfamiliar Underground, twice getting on the wrong branch because Daisy’s instructions were not specific enough. Then there had been a very long walk from the station, right turn after left turn after right down identical streets that went on stretching and criss-crossing like a maze. And still no yellow door. To cap it all her mobile did not work in this strange country, so she couldn’t call Daisy’s housemates and ask for directions. The boy called Jules was supposed to be in this morning, waiting for Isabelle in order to give her a key.

  Isabelle looked down, about to reach for her suitcase, and gave a little start. There was a white cat at her feet, sniffing the grosgrain bow of her navy court shoe. Seeing the cat suddenly turn tail and strut around the corner, Isabelle instinctively took a few steps to follow her. Now what was this street called? There was no sign, nor could she make anything out in the A to Z about the spot where she appeared to be standing at the moment. It was a tangle of overlapping names in tiny letters. Perhaps it had been a mistake to buy a map in such a small size, but Isabelle liked to have everything compact and neat. She walked on for a bit, vaguely following the cat’s stops and starts. Having started at 121, the numbers were now decreasing. The cat eventually stopped in front of a house and when Isabelle caught up with her, she saw the number 80 painted above a yellow door. It was ajar.

  Could this be the right house? Isabelle rang the bell gingerly. Nothing happened. The cat had positioned herself near the opening. As Isabelle was making up her mind to ring the bell again, the door was flung wide open. A girl her own age, wearing large dark-rimmed spectacles, stood on the threshold. She was dressed in short black trousers, a black T-shirt inscribed with the word ‘Rampage!’ in lurid red letters above a skull and bones and clumpy motorcycle boots. Her black hair was cut in a vaguely medieval bob, with a long fringe, and her face was very white. She seemed enormously tall.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Isabelle, blushing a little. ‘I, heu, enfin …’ No, not a single word of English seemed to come. L’horreur totale! Her mind was a complete blank. She knew she should have gone on a refresher course before travelling.

  ‘I see you found Raven. Well done,’ said the girl without smiling. She picked up the white cat and stood cradling her, and looking at Isabelle, who had recovered some of her composure.

  ‘Can you tell me if this is the house of Daisy Keen?’

  ‘Well, that depends. Are you the frog?’

  ‘I’m sorry, the fr–?’

  ‘Frog, the frog. You know, ’allo-’allo!’

  Isabelle stared at her. The English were a curious people. She produced Daisy’s email, pointing at the address on it. The girl pushed her glasses down her nose and peered at it, then turned her expressionless dark eyes on Isabelle.

  ‘Well, what do you know. There’s nothing for it, I’m afraid. You’re going to have to come in.’

  As Isabelle followed her inside with some hesitation, the girl said, ‘The street numbers are quirky and the road kinks when you don’t expect it. But you managed to find us. Clever you. I’m Jules, by the way. You must be la belle Isabelle.’

  ‘Oh, you speak French?’ Strictly speaking, Isabelle had hoped to improve her
English while in London but this would make things so much easier, especially on the first day.

  The girl called Jules looked at her sternly through her fringe. ‘I most certainly do not. What an idea!’

  She looked down at Isabelle’s suitcase. ‘Where’s the rest of your stuff?’

  ‘This is all my luggage.’

  ‘Really? Blimey. You could teach Daze a thing or two.’ She picked up Isabelle’s suitcase and led the way, clumping up the stairs in her boots.

  Slowly digesting the fact that Jules was not a boy but a girl, Isabelle began to follow her up the stairs. ‘Chrissie is on the ground floor,’ said Jules. ‘I’m on the first floor and you’re at the top in Daze’s quarters.’ As they reached the second floor, Jules pushed open a door on the right.

  ‘This is it. The bathroom is across the landing. All right, then.’ And she clumped her way down the stairs. Raven the cat had also disappeared.

  Isabelle took her first look at Daisy’s bedroom and reeled backwards. There appeared to be no floor space at all inside the room. Instead there was an ankle-deep carpet of tangled clothes. And shoes: a sea of shoes in every colour of the rainbow. Over the facing wall, which was painted shocking pink, hung a great many hats and handbags. Isabelle wondered where Daisy kept her books. All she could see were hundreds of fashion magazines, piled perilously high and looking like they might tumble down at any moment. Isabelle blinked. She thought briefly of her own plain white bedroom in Paris, with its one Matisse poster, as spare as a monk’s cell.

  At least this room also contained a bed, she saw with some relief. She waded across to it and sat down, making a space between piles of clothes. A pair of red high-heeled shoes lay on a pillow like the keys to the town being presented to a foreign dignitary. Oh, this was too much! How was she supposed to move into this unacceptable room?