Finding Monsieur Right Page 4

  ‘Alors, voilà, je vous présente Daisy,’ Agathe would say, stepping to one side, then adding, ‘qui vient de Londres.’ The boys would kiss Daisy (she was trying to get the hang of that, observing Agathe’s graceful way of remaining disengaged), then gaze at her with half-smiling, warm, silent interest. The girls also kissed her, with a cooler ‘Bonsoir. Sophie,’ or ‘Bonsoir. Elise,’ gave her the once-over, then looked away. That might have been because they all appeared to wear slightly unadventurous outfits – a lot of black and a lot of short skirts with demure shirts or little cardigans – although Daisy had to concede that they all looked rather good. Chrissie and the readers of her blog would be interested to hear that big hair was not much in evidence among them. Or fake tan, for that matter. Ditto metallic cowboy boots. Daisy was musing on this when someone – Octave, was it? – materialised in front of her.

  ‘You want to dance?’

  Daisy smiled and nodded. The track was some kind of trancy hip-hop song with an incomprehensible rap in French. Despite that, Daisy noticed with alarm that everyone was dancing in pairs, the boys twirling the girls around. It must be that ceroc thing which the French were born knowing how to do. She stopped and turned to Octave. ‘I can’t dance like that.’

  ‘But yes, you can. Laisse-toi faire,’ he said, putting an arm around her waist. After two glasses of champagne, it was rather nice to be embraced and gently thrown around this way and that. Octave was very patient, stopping to retrieve her when she whirled too far away from him to catch his outstretched hand and repeating certain complicated steps so that Daisy would know what to do the following time. It was fun once you began to get the hang of it.

  ‘DID U PULL?’

  ‘NOPE.’

  ‘BUT THERE WAS THIS FRENCH BOY, WASN’T THERE?’

  Chrissie was truly amazing: his antennae worked just as well from across the Channel!

  ‘WELL, KIND OF …’

  The track ended and Octave kissed her hand, cheekily but charmingly. They sat down together on a sofa and watched the others. Daisy’s eyes became more accustomed to the atmospheric lighting. The room was huge and bathed in a dark golden glow.

  ‘Agathe is such an amazing dancer,’ Daisy said wistfully, as her new friend glided past them effortlessly, one hand in her partner’s and the other casually holding up a lit cigarette. How in hell did she do that?

  ‘Yes, she’s not bad,’ said Octave, his eyes on Agathe’s receding silhouette. ‘You’re very good too,’ he added gallantly.

  Daisy spent the rest of the evening with Octave as her guide. He appeared to know everybody and Daisy was able to satisfy her curiosity about the people who attracted her attention. The haughty-looking girl in the red miniskirt, with her dark hair twisted into a loose chignon, was their hostess, Claire. The apartment was her parents’, but she still lived in it along with her sister Amélie – that slightly pudgy younger girl who was dancing with Stanislas.

  ‘So are these people all Isabelle’s friends?’ Daisy asked later, as they stood side by side in the vast hallway. On a table were ranged row upon row of smart little gold paper cups, each filled a single ball of fruit sorbet: violet blackcurrant, orange mango, dark-red raspberry, snow-white lemon. It was very stylish and Daisy, transfixed with admiration, had dithered for a while as to which one she should have. Finally, she had taken Octave’s advice, and was now happily eating delicious pale-green apple sorbet.

  ‘Most of her friends are here, yes. In fact that is Clothaire, her boyfriend, who has just come in. He is the one talking to Claire. It is bizarre to see him without Isabelle, you know. Because normally they are always together.’

  Daisy, who had been greedily scraping the bottom of her cup, looked up. That sounded so sweet! Isabelle was lucky to be in such a romantic set-up.

  ‘I think perhaps I should say hello to him.’

  ‘Come on and I’ll introduce you.’

  They walked together across the room just as Clothaire was emerging from the group he’d been greeting.

  ‘Bonsoir, cher ami,’ said Octave as the two boys shook hands. ‘I have brought you a nice surprise: Daisy, Clothaire; Clothaire, Daisy.’

  Clothaire said hello to Daisy, then, raising his eyebrows, addressed himself to Octave: ‘Ah d’accord, je vois!’

  Undeterred, Daisy gave him a friendly smile. ‘Hi! It’s so lovely to meet you! I feel like I sort of know you! Because of Isabelle,’ she added, a little unnerved by his silence.

  ‘But you do not know Isabelle, I think,’ Clothaire said, looking over Daisy’s shoulder. He smiled at someone behind her.

  ‘No. But living in her place makes me feel that I know her a little bit. So have you been to my house yet?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Clothaire extracted a packet of cigarettes from his jacket and made the briefest of gestures with it towards Daisy. She shook her head and he pulled one out for himself.

  ‘I mean, have you been to stay with Isabelle in London?’

  ‘Not yet. I will go soon, I hope.’ Clothaire lit his cigarette and blew out a long jet of smoke. ‘Do you like Paris?’

  ‘Oh yes! What I really love is …’

  The dark-haired, haughty-looking Claire had reappeared and put her arm through Clothaire’s to get his attention. She whispered something to him and laughed.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said distantly, and walked off.

  Daisy was left feeling oddly let down. For some reason she had expected Isabelle’s boyfriend to be just a tiny bit curious about what she was like. Perhaps Clothaire was shy, she told herself. It wouldn’t be surprising, if he was such a romantic. And he must miss Isabelle a lot. At that point Octave, who had wandered into a nearby group, returned to her side, and they went out for a bit of air on the balcony. Claire’s apartment took up a whole corner of the top floor and the view, over the tree-lined Avenue de l’Observatoire and the Luxembourg Gardens, was mysterious and lovely.

  ‘You are not cold, I hope?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I like the breeze.’

  ‘Tout va bien, Octave?’ said Bertrand, stepping onto the balcony to join them.

  ‘You need any help?’ Stanislas – he was the tallest – was there, too.

  Octave did not look very pleased to see them. His two friends moved to either side of Daisy, elbowing Octave out of the way.

  ‘Octave, you are monopolising the petite Anglaise,’ said Stanislas, wagging his finger at his friend.

  ‘It’s too much: you exaggerate,’ said Bertrand.

  ‘Actually, I’m taking Daisy home now,’ said Octave crossly.

  ‘Oh non, mon vieux. We will all go together, yes?’ said Bertrand, putting an arm around Daisy’s shoulders.

  She looked at them all and laughed. She could see Agathe inside, signalling to her. ‘Agathe is giving me a lift, actually,’ she said primly.

  * * *

  ‘So, did you have a good time?’ Agathe asked Daisy as they zoomed down the deserted Boulevard Saint-Michel towards Isabelle’s studio flat on Rue de la Harpe.

  ‘Yes, I did, thank you,’ Daisy replied a little sleepily. ‘Octave and his friends are really sweet, aren’t they?’

  ‘Sometimes they are.’ Agathe looked across at Daisy and smiled. Then she bit her lower lip and said, ‘There is something I must tell you, Daisy, and I hope you won’t be angry with me. You see, in fact it was my idea to ask Octave to be nice to you. Because I was worried you might … faire tapisserie, er, be a wallflower all evening. That would have been really awful!’

  Daisy had been dozing but at this her eyes opened again. Her face felt quite hot for some reason.

  ‘But you don’t mind?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t mind,’ Daisy said quickly. It was a bit of a shock to find that Octave had not actually been interested in talking to her. Then she remembered her tricky conversation with Clothaire and the cool, dismissive glances from the other girls at the party. So they had all hated her! Oh well.

  Agathe pulled up to the corner of Boulevard Saint-Germai
n, let Daisy out and promised to call her soon, then drove off in the direction of Sèvres-Babylone, where she lived.

  ‘HAVE YOU MADE ANY FRIENDS YET?’

  Well, she had at least made one, Daisy thought, her spirits lifting a little. Because, of course, Agathe had meant well, trying to protect her. That had been nice. Though perhaps it would have been even nicer not to know about it.

  ‘AGATHE ROCKS,’ she texted back. ‘AND I HAVE LOADS OF FABULOUS STUFF FOR MY BLOG. OVER AND OUT.’

  5 Isabelle

  ‘Would you be looking for anything in particular?’ a voice said suddenly. Isabelle turned around. It was the lady who ran the bookshop. Isabelle had been browsing around Bloomsbury on her way home from the library and had been drawn inside this particular store because it claimed to be ‘the biggest crime bookshop in the world’. Barely noticing the woman with grey hair who sat behind a counter reading, she went straight to the P–Q aisle to check what they had by Meredith Quince. Ellery Queen … Quince usually came next, but instead there was an empty space, followed by dozens of copies of Ian Rankin’s novels.

  ‘I was looking for Meredith Quince, but …’ Isabelle gestured towards the shelf.

  The lady nodded sympathetically. ‘She always sells out very quickly. She’s become very fashionable again, you see.’

  Isabelle winced. Fashionable indeed! Surely a literary pioneer like Meredith Quince transcended such superficial labels!

  ‘Ah? I did not know.’

  ‘May I ask where you’re from?’

  ‘France.’

  ‘Oh really? How nice. Has Quince been translated into French?’

  ‘Yes, but a long time ago, in the 1950s. The translations are very old-fashioned and full of mistakes.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘Anyway, thank you,’ said Isabelle, turning to leave.

  ‘Do you know,’ the lady said, ‘I’m sure the Quince Society would love to know about those French translations. They might even commission new ones.’

  Isabelle stared at her in confusion. ‘The Quince Society?’

  ‘Don’t you know about it? Oh, but you must join! I’m a member, I can introduce you.’

  As Fern, the bookshop lady, explained, the Quince Society had been set up some thirty years ago by a small band of enthusiasts and had grown steadily since – to a slightly larger band of slightly older enthusiasts. The members met about once a month for dinners and readings at a house in Hampstead. Sometimes they went on pilgrimages, to visit some of the novels’ locations. Unfortunately, Isabelle had just missed the latest meeting on Friday, but Fern would love to invite her to the next one.

  ‘I’ll pop you on the list,’ Fern said, giving Isabelle the address of the society’s headquarters in Hampstead. ‘Just turn up. We’re very informal.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘So tell me, which one is your favourite?’ Fern asked breathlessly, clasping her hands to her bosom. She was wearing a long baggy brown dress and a necklace of chunky orange and silver beads. Her hair was a helmet of pale-grey wisps. Isabelle reflected that most of the women who had taught her English at school had looked a bit like that. She was about to say that she didn’t actually care for detective novels as such but Fern stopped her. ‘No, no, don’t tell me! Save it for the meeting!’

  Sitting on the train on her way home, Isabelle turned the card from Fern’s bookshop around and around between her fingers and looked pensively out of the window. The Quince Society had no academic credentials. How could a meeting with ordinary thriller fans be of any use to her work?

  As she let herself into the house she heard music coming from Chrissie’s room. Jules was out. On Monday she had started her new job at the fetish shop. Pushing her glasses to the top of her nose, Jules had remarked at breakfast that the customers might be perverts but they were remarkably polite perverts. They said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and called you ‘madam’. Not for nothing was the shop called the House of Discipline, she had concluded in her deadpan way.

  Once in her room, Isabelle changed into her black one-piece swimsuit, threw a crisp white shirt on top and slipped on some sandals. The weather was beautiful and she wanted to sit in the garden to work on her library notes. She collected a large glass of ice-cold orange juice and a cushion from the kitchen and walked to the wooden bench in the shade of the magnolia. She made herself comfortable, sighed contentedly and turned to her notes. This, she remembered, was exactly what she had pictured after receiving Daisy’s first email: herself at work, sitting in a quiet garden, on her own, completely focused. No distractions, no interrup–

  ‘HELP! HELP! HEEEEEEEELLLPPP!’

  Isabelle started horribly. Chrissie was standing at the kitchen door, clutching at his hair. She ran towards him. ‘What happened? What is wrong?’

  Chrissie fell into her arms, whimpering. ‘Oh, Isabelle, what shall I do?’

  ‘About what?’ Isabelle asked anxiously.

  ‘It’s a disaster. My life is finished.’

  Isabelle took a step back and looked carefully at her housemate. No bleeding, no bruising. His hands, she noticed, were covered in sequins and glue. Chrissie sank down on the step, rocking backwards and forwards and running his fingers through his hair – thus coating it with glue. Isabelle opened her mouth to point this out, then thought better of it. No need to add to his worries. She sat down next to him.

  ‘Chrissie, please stop wailing,’ she said coldly, ‘and tell me what is going on.’

  ‘It’s … Savage,’ he said brokenly.

  ‘What’s savage?’

  Chrissie looked at Isabelle with swimming eyes. ‘No, darling, it’s a person,’ he said patiently, as though talking to a simpleton. ‘Savage is a genius designer. Daisy used to do her PR and I’m doing the hats for her September show. Which is an amazing chance for me. But oooooooh,’ he said, whimpering again, ‘she’s going to have my guts for garters.’

  ‘Come on,’ Isabelle said, helping him to his feet. ‘Show me what the problem is. It cannot be so terrible as that.’

  As they entered Chrissie’s room Isabelle noticed with satisfaction that she had become almost immune to the decorative scheme. On her first visit, soon after moving in, she had only been conscious of a mass of overwhelming, swirling colours looming at her. She remembered taking in two television sets, a square orange one and a round white one (it later transpired that Chrissie often liked to watch two different programmes at once), a row of lava lamps on the mantelpiece and, in the corner, a large bed covered in fake white fur, over which hung a multicoloured portrait of Chrissie done (not very well, by a boyfriend) in the style of Andy Warhol’s Marilyn series.

  Since that first visit, and after repeated exposure, Isabelle had become quite capable of standing in the room without hyperventilating, even when Chrissie’s giant powered disco ball was revolving at full speed, as was the case today.

  They walked into the sunlit studio. Chrissie’s working table, which ran the whole length of the room, was lined with tall jars of multicoloured beads, sequins and feathers. Before them lay a narrow strip of felt embroidered with a single and rather forlorn-looking bead – a work in progress that did not look encouraging. The unhappy hatmaker collapsed onto an orange inflatable sofa. Isabelle sat down next to him cautiously. Previous experience had demonstrated that too sudden an impact might send the other person flying out of their seat. After a little questioning, Isabelle got some idea of Chrissie’s situation. He had done the odd hat for Savage before, usually a complicated showstopper for the final exit, and he had agreed to work on this collection on the same basis. Now, however, Savage had suddenly decreed that she wanted not one but eight hats for every one of the ten looks she was planning.

  ‘Why eight?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. It’s all to do with a revolutionary fashion concept she’s devised and she won’t tell us what it is.’

  ‘So that’s eighty hats. And when is the show?’

  ‘Mid-September,’
Chrissie whimpered.

  ‘It’s only the end of June now,’ Isabelle said reasonably.

  ‘Yes, but Savage wants me to deliver all the hats to her in four weeks. Ev-e-ry last one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She likes to lock herself up for the last couple of weeks to give the collection a last review and tweak everything. It’s part of her process.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And each hat I create takes me up to three or four weeks to get right. That’s my process.’

  ‘Yes, you have a problem,’ Isabelle admitted. She thought for a moment. ‘Well, she cannot change the conditions like that. It is not fair. What does your contract say?’

  ‘Dar-ling,’ Chrissie said patiently, ‘I don’t have a contract. The arrangement is that I do as she says. I’m so lucky to be given this break. Working with her could make my name.’

  ‘I understand.’ It was like having a neurotic but well-respected supervisor for your research.

  ‘The thing is that she’s not human! The first time I worked with her she had a major freakout a week before the show and decided she hated the collection. She destroyed everything, all our work, and started all over again, working nights as well. We were all terrified but she was quite chirpy about it.’

  Isabelle looked at Chrissie sympathetically. This Savage did sound like a tricky proposition.

  ‘Maybe … you could hire some people to help you?’

  ‘I can’t afford to. The only money I’m getting for this is for the materials. There’s nothing else.’

  Isabelle was profoundly shocked. ‘You mean you don’t get paid for the work you do?’

  ‘Noooo! Savage doesn’t pay anyone. She’s skint herself, and anyway she doesn’t need to. She’s the hottest designer around, you know.’

  It was unbelievable, Isabelle thought, that some crazy fashion person should command that kind of respect and devotion. After all she was hardly Mozart or Michelangelo. Suddenly Chrissie stopped swaying and clutching his head. He inhaled deeply and took Isabelle’s hand between his own lightly sequinned ones.