Finding Monsieur Right Page 11

  ‘Which of your great-aunt’s books do you like best, Tom?’ Selina asked their host.

  He ran his hand through his hair, which, after many such questions from the visitors, was beginning to look rather untidy.

  ‘Ah, the books, yes. You’re going to think me the most dreadful philistine, but I’m ashamed to say I have never read any of them.’

  A polite but scandalised silence greeted this confession.

  ‘It’s a feeble excuse, I know, but my parents never encouraged me to take an interest in Meredith’s novels. I suppose I’ve always taken them for granted. I think the original manuscripts are all here somewhere,’ he concluded vaguely.

  Isabelle’s heart did a small somersault.

  ‘Oh, how jolly!’ Lucy barked. ‘D’you think we could have a peek?’

  ‘I should imagine,’ Maud interjected, ‘that you keep them locked away in a safe.’

  Tom Quince frowned and shook his head. ‘N-no, I don’t think we have a safe. They’re just –’ he gestured around the room ‘– in the house. I’m really not sure where.’

  ‘What do they look like?’ Peter asked, stroking his beard excitedly. ‘Did she type or write in longhand?’

  ‘Ah, let me see, um, type, I think. I was shown them once when I was younger.’

  Isabelle could barely contain herself. Meredith’s relative might not have the faintest idea of his great-aunt’s literary genius but he lived here, in this house. And somewhere in this house might also be the manuscript of The Splodge. She waited until Lucy, Peter and Maud had moved away to examine the bookshelves, then sidled up to him.

  ‘Excuse me … Mr Quince?’

  ‘Please call me Tom, Isabelle. That is your name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the Peppy-on bit?’

  ‘In fact it’s Papillon.’

  ‘Papillon? That actually means something, doesn’t it? Something to do with fairy tales, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er, no.’ He wore an open-necked shirt and as Isabelle looked up at him her eye was drawn to a light tuft of interesting golden fur in the hollow of his throat. She blinked, then smiled at him. ‘Maybe you’re confusing it with Cendrillon – the French name of Cinderella.’

  ‘Of course, yes. How silly of me. Hang on – I think I remember now. Is Papillon something like a whirl?’

  ‘A whirl?’

  ‘Something that carries you off irresistibly,’ Tom Quince said.

  Isabelle frowned, then her mind cleared. ‘Oh, I think you mean tourbillon. In fact, papillon means “butterfly”.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. A very nice name.’

  ‘There is something I’d like to ask you about.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s about your great-aunt.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Isabelle looked around. The members of the Society were all chatting happily out of earshot. She had just had an idea.

  ‘Perhaps … the people I share a house with are having a little party for Halloween. Would you like to come? Then we could talk properly.’

  He smiled vaguely. ‘Halloween? Yes. Why not? Should I bring my own pumpkin?’

  12 Daisy

  ‘Paris is pulsating to the beat of Fashion Week. Who’s in? Who’s out? What are the season’s most important new trends? And what to wear to be à la mode at the shows?’ Daisy typed slowly on her laptop, using just two fingers.

  So far, her Sparkle blogs had flowed out in a frenzy of excitement. This one was much harder going. She stared listlessly out of the window of Isabelle’s study and wrapped her fluffy pink dressing gown more closely around her. For the first time since moving to Paris she felt very chilly. Perhaps the notes she’d made at the shows would provide some inspiration. She turned the pages of her pad and typed in whatever seemed vaguely relevant:

  Patent everything – shiny shiny shiny.

  Nude tights in/bare legs out.

  Soft pale grey is new black?

  The new black, really? Whatever. It was hard to care at the moment. Daisy paused and looked out of the window. Outside the sky was just that newly fashionable shade of grey. It looked like it was going to rain in a minute. She turned another page and typed in:

  Vintage returns with contemporary, slouchy edge.

  Airport chic – French pleats and turquoise mascara.

  Seven-inch heels on pain of social death – five at a push.

  Key look of the season: think Sophia Loren meets Hello Kitty.

  Dullsville, all of it. What else? Oh yes:

  Best party: launch of Ça pue, non? Revolutionary new perfume that smells like petrol. Brilliant party food – experimental canapés, some delicious, others disgusting, laid on giant Perpex table like snakes and ladders board.

  div

  She stared at the paragraph, then highlighted the word ‘snakes’. Then she typed:

  Snake, snake, Octave is a snake.

  A rat.

  A complete and utter bastard.

  Who’d have thunk it?

  Daisy closed her eyes and replayed, for the millionth time, the devastating film of her last encounter with Octave, under the trees of the Luxembourg Gardens. ‘Heartbroken’ wasn’t just a turn of phrase – her heart was literally broken. She reached for the box of tissues. After a while her computer went to sleep. It began to rain.

  ‘What heart? Oh, the plastic brooch you always wear?’ said Agathe, after taking a small sip of her Perrier. She had been summoned to an emergency meeting by Daisy and they now sat face to face in a noisy café on Place Saint-Sulpice. Agathe looked particularly immaculate and radiant today, in a blue silk shirt that fitted her perfectly, her sleek hair held back with a velvet Alice band. ‘Well, that is OK!’ she said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Actually, you are lucky, Daisy. Now you can get yourself something pretty instead. I can help you choose.

  ‘They have this rule that it has to be a thing the girl will miss. Like a trophy they can show each other as proof of their conquest. They all do it, but Octave is the most successful, I believe. Can you imagine how many of these trinkets he must have? Hundreds of them, probably, no? He is really awful!’

  She started to laugh but, seeing Daisy’s expression, stopped herself just in time. She went on: ‘In actual fact Marie-Laure told me what happened to her at the time – but in confidence, you know. So I didn’t feel that I could tell you about it. It’s so important to respect other people’s privacy. You understand, don’t you? Anyway, judging by your behaviour at the Paris-Plage, you knew what you wanted. That is what everyone thought anyway when we all talked about it afterwards.

  ‘Yes, that little notebook is where they keep score. I think that when they saw you at Claire’s party, it was just a question of who was going to get you first. Like betting on a horse. The same thing happened last year when Aurélie’s little Swiss-German penpal came to stay. But with her it was just a question of a few kisses at a party. So it was not as humiliating as what has happened to you. And she went home after a few days. But you have to stay and deal with this for the rest of the year. How do you think you will cope?

  ‘Do not take it too personally. There have been so many others. The thing about French men is that they are very proud of being misogynists. They are always talking about la misogynie this, la misogynie that. They find it hilarious.’ Agathe tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and smiled slightly. ‘And if I were you I would stop plaiting the fringes of your pashmina like that. You are going to damage it.’

  ‘In the Luxembourg Gardens?’ Marie-Laure asked incredulously. ‘No! Oh, he is completely incorrigible. You know that is also where he told me that it was over.’

  In desperation Daisy had got Marie-Laure’s number from Isabelle’s Rolodex. Thank goodness Isabelle was so organised. Daisy now sat on a sofa in Marie-Laure’s house, an untouched little fruit tart on the table in front of her. Her tea was turning cold in its cup.

  ‘The funny thing is that it wasn’t that long ago, but I can’t really remember
what he said to me,’ Marie-Laure continued, crossing her long legs.‘Probably something from the classics: it was all a terrible mistake; it should never have happened. We were walking. We were holding hands. It was a beautiful day and I was looking around at the other people, and it took me completely by surprise. It was very quick, over in two minutes. You too? Yes, Octave likes to work quickly. He is an expert. And then he put me in a taxi and vanished. Et hop! And then he had the nerve to crash my party with his acolytes.

  ‘Of course I should have known that something was wrong. The day after ... well, that night he spent with me, I couldn’t find my favourite earrings, the ones with the coral. They really are swines. De vrais salauds. And the worst thing is that I had heard rumours before about Octave and his friends and their little games but I ...’ She inhaled sharply and tossed her head. ‘You see, I thought ... I didn’t think it could happen to me!’

  She bit her lip and took Daisy’s limp hand in hers. ‘But you know, Daisy, I ran into Octave the other day with Stanislas and I thought he looked really ... embêté. Preoccupied, upset. And that’s really not his style. Perhaps you have taught him a lesson.

  ‘Actually, you know, it is complicated. It counts a lot for Octave, what his friends think of him. He has a fragile ego, like most men.’

  ‘Daze, you’re mad,’ Jules said tonelessly on the telephone. ‘It’s not complicated at all. He just needs a good punch up the bracket.’

  13 Isabelle

  When Isabelle came downstairs, the preparations for Halloween were in full swing. Belladonna was mixing gallons of Bloody Mary in an enormous punch bowl. Chrissie and Legend were festooning the kitchen walls with garlands of dead leaves they had collected from the garden and sprayed a brilliant black. Flame-haired Ivy stood at the sink, filling surgical rubber gloves with water and fastening them with a knot. Isabelle was mystified but did not feel quite up to quizzing the taciturn drummer. Jules and Karloff sat side by side at the table, without speaking or looking at each other, studiously carving pumpkins into jack-o’-lanterns. Chrissie looked around as Isabelle walked in and gave her a conspiratorial smile. Isabelle smiled back. After dinner, their Brilliant Plan would kick into action – with a little help from the spirits.

  Isabelle went back upstairs to make a last-ditch attempt with her boyfriend, who had picked this particular week to come and see her. Clothaire had not taken to Isabelle’s eccentric housemates and spent most of his time holed up in her room, reading and sulking. He was attending tonight’s party under duress but had refused categorically to wear fancy dress because it was childish, stupid and pointless. Jules and the others, on the other hand, took Halloween very seriously. Jules was going as Cleopatra and Legend as the Mummy. Karloff, taking the easy option, was going as a Victorian lunatic in a straitjacket, Ivy as Joan of Arc in chain-mail, and voluptuous Belladonna as a sexy vampire. Chrissie, who loved dressing up, had considered Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz (with Raven the cat cross-dressing as Toto the dog) but had changed his mind after trying on a traumatically unflattering ginger wig with braids. He was now going as cheeky Huckleberry Finn, in cut-off trousers and a straw hat, and Raven, under her own steam, as Catwoman (in a minimalist outfit consisting of a small black satin cape).

  Isabelle had not been very keen on dressing up at first, but Chrissie, who could be very perceptive when he put his mind to it, had rescued her by pronouncing that she should come as Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, more of a concept than an actual costume. Isabelle would wear her own little black dress with a long string of pearls, and borrow Chrissie’s cigarette holder.

  As she sat at Daisy’s dressing table (returned to its original use for tonight) putting her hair up in a restrained version of Holly Golightly’s beehive, she tried to sway Clothaire one last time. ‘I just think it might be more polite to make a little effort,’ she said pleadingly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You might enjoy it, you know.’

  ‘No.’

  It was entirely useless, as she knew from past experience. Clothaire had refused point-blank to visit a fancy-dress shop, so Chrissie had offered him dozens of colourful possibilities drawn from his own wardrobe – since many of his clothes readily doubled as fancy dress. Clothaire had stared coldly and said no. It would be all right, Isabelle told herself, carefully applying lipstick. There would be at least one other guest Clothaire could talk to at dinner: Tom Quince. They would probably get on really well.

  Isabelle made her way downstairs, promising to call Clothaire when it was time to eat. By now everyone else was dressed and they stood around in the kitchen, admiring one another’s costumes. Standing on a chair, Jules was lighting the candles on the wrought-iron chandelier hanging over the table.

  ‘Do be careful, Ju,’ Chrissie drawled from beneath his straw hat, ‘you’re a walking fire hazard in all that lamé.’ He looked across at Isabelle and grinned. ‘Well, I do declare! If it isn’t Miss Holly Golightly!’

  The mummified Legend, whose ponytail rose untamed through the bandages at the top of her head like a small geyser of crude oil, shuffled towards Isabelle and gave her the thumbs-up. ‘Bloody hell, you look great. You should wear black more often.’

  ‘Everybody should always wear black,’ Ivy said gravely, leaning on her sword in front of the dresser, which now bore a whole cortège of grinning jack-o’-lanterns.

  The doorbell rang and Isabelle went to answer it. It was Tom Quince in a dinner jacket, carrying a basket under his arm.

  ‘Oh hello, Mr Qu—. I mean Tom.’

  ‘Hi, Isabelle. Now –’ he gestured apologetically towards his outfit ‘– I was absolutely determined to come as something more exciting but it’s been a busy week and I ran out of time. And this was hanging in my wardrobe and it was clean. I hope it’s OK.’

  Isabelle smiled. ‘It’s fine. You look like ... James Bond. But with a basket.’

  ‘Well, yes, naturally. He never leaves the house without one.’ He handed the basket to her, saying vaguely, ‘I thought you might like these.’

  Isabelle peered at the contents – several yellow objects she couldn’t identify.

  ‘Oh. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You don’t know what they are, do you?’

  ‘Well, no. Sorry.’ They looked quite exotic. ‘Mangoes?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, quinces.’

  As she still looked a little blank, he went on: ‘Like my name, you see. Or rather my great-aunt’s. It was meant to be a subtle literary joke.’

  ‘Oh! Quince, quinces! Of course. I’m sorry. I had never thought about what her name meant particularly.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, tucking the basket under her arm. ‘The others are in the kitchen downstairs. I’ll call Clothaire, my boyfriend. He is very much looking forward to meeting you.’ That wasn’t exactly true. Clothaire had shown no enthusiasm whatever.

  Tom Quince’s expression did not change at all. He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Ah, yes. Excellent,’ he said after a barely noticeable pause.

  Just as Isabelle finished introducing everyone in the candlelit kitchen, Clothaire came in, looking displeased. ‘I have been waiting upstairs for an eternity, Isabelle,’ he said in French, ignoring everyone else, ‘I thought we agreed you would call me when it was time for dinner.’

  ‘I was just about to call you. Dinner is almost ready. This is my boyfriend, Clothaire. Tom Quince, Meredith’s great-nephew.’

  ‘Oh, ’ello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  They shook hands and Isabelle, pleased with her match, left them to it. She was certain that they would hit it off. Chrissie began to dip a ladle into the large bowl of Bloody Mary, filling glasses to the brim with characteristic insouciance. Several ice hands floated eerily on the surface of the drink – the result of Ivy’s earlier activities. Isabelle was impressed. Clothaire, however, took one look at the gothic cocktail, shook his head disdainfully and deman
ded a Scotch. Meanwhile Belladonna’s powerful mix loosened tongues and by the time they began to sit down to eat in the candlelight, everyone was talking at once.

  Isabelle had planned to sit next to Meredith’s relative at dinner and engage him in conversation about the significance of the ink splodge in the portrait. But Chrissie called her to the stove to help him serve the pumpkin soup and by the time they had finished filling bowls with sweet-smelling orange brew, the seating plan had shifted. Tom Quince had ended up next to Belladonna while Jules, whose goal was presumably to sit as far away from Karloff as possible, had promptly taken the seat on Tom’s other side. Only two places remained, one for Isabelle between Clothaire and Karloff and one for Chrissie between Legend and Ivy. Isabelle would have to wait until after dinner to broach the topic of The Splodge. They all began to eat.

  ‘This is pretty good, actually,’ Legend said from between her bandages, after a few carefully negotiated mouthfuls.

  ‘It’s much better than that idea of yours, anyway,’ said Belladonna. ‘That was just rank.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I still think a boiled calf’s head would have made a great centrepiece.’

  ‘So rank.’

  ‘Maybe. Really gothic, though.’ Having made her point, Legend tossed her jet-black ponytail.

  ‘I would like to know,’ Isabelle piped up, ‘how you decide that something is gothic or that it isn’t.’

  ‘Anything that has sort of ... a dark presence is gothic,’ said Ivy, her freckled white face framed by her silver chainmail balaclava.