Finding Monsieur Right Read online

  They all stood still. There was a thudding sound of music coming from somewhere.

  ‘Oh ouais! It’s really close!’ said Octave, ‘Allez, courage, les gars!’

  They splashed on for a while, then the floor began to dry up and the passages gradually became wider as the music grew louder and louder. Daisy recognised the euphoric thump-thumping of James Brown’s ‘Sex Machine’.

  ‘Just here,’ said Stanislas, shining his torch on an iron door marked ENTRÉE STRICTEMENT INTERDITE. Underneath the sign, someone had pasted a green flyer that read: ‘Acid Rendez-vous’. Stanislas produced a pass key and inserted it in the lock.

  ‘Cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un … et hop!’ he said dramatically, pushing the door open.

  Daisy was not prepared for what she saw then. Octave had told her of other underground gatherings he’d been to – small, low-key affairs, with thirty guests at the most. You gathered in a room lit only by your torches, opened cans of beer and exchanged a few pleasantries with other cataphiles (as catacomb explorers called themselves). Conversation was mainly specialist stuff about new abandoned underground sites someone had gained access to. After an hour or so, people disbanded and disappeared into the night.

  This secret party, Daisy saw immediately, was in an entirely different league. The space, lit by hundreds of fairy lights, was absolutely huge, and thronged with a crowd of party people. Psychedelic light projections played on the back wall, periodically spelling the phrase ‘Paris nous appartient’: Paris belongs to us. Daisy and the Pique-Assiettes removed their helmets and coats and left them together in a pile. ‘Whose party is this?’ Daisy asked Octave, putting her arms around his waist. ‘It’s completely amazing.’

  ‘I know! Crazy, hein? It is a group of artists who have taken over this place. They use it as a squat. I don’t know their real names. They all use pseudonyms. But Stan met one of them at another party and that is how we found out about tonight.’

  At one end of the room, Daisy saw, a large piece of shagpile carpet marked out a glamorous sort of lounge, where dozens of people sat talking on low sofas. At the opposite end was a communal dining area festooned with balloons. Huge cooking pots and piles of plates were laid out on trestle tables covered with white tablecloths. Bertrand immediately went to investigate and came back beaming.

  ‘Ouais! They’ve got couscous! Is anyone hungry?’

  ‘I can’t believe it! How did they get all this furniture down here?’ Daisy asked in amazement.

  ‘They are incredibly organised,’ said Stanislas. ‘They even have electricity and a phone line down here. Ah, I see Gaspard,’ he said, waving at one of the loungers.

  ‘Stan’s contact,’ Octave explained. Then he saw something behind Daisy that made him bite his lip. ‘Ah, merde!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Just Marie-Laure. What the hell is she doing here?’

  ‘Agathe’s cousin? The one you had a little tiff with?’

  ‘A tiff?’ Octave asked nervously.

  ‘That argument you told me about.’

  ‘Ah, yes! Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Are you still not speaking?’

  ‘Well, no, not really. I would really prefer to avoid her. But it is too late. She is coming over. What a nightmare.’

  ‘Ah, tiens? Bonsoir,’ Marie-Laure said, joining them. She looked very stylish and leggy in a black poloneck and miniskirt worn with red wellies. ‘Salut, Octave.’

  ‘Ah, Marie-Laure,’ Octave said easily. ‘How are you? Do you want a drink? But I see that you have got one already. I will go get something for you, Daisy.’ Upon which he scarpered.

  Marie-Laure turned to Daisy, who smiled at her.

  ‘Hello, Marie-Laure. It’s nice to see you again. I had a lovely time at your party. Is Agathe with you?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Marie-Laure said, laughing a little. ‘This kind of party is not chic enough for Agathe. It is far too “underground”.’

  ‘No, you’re probably right. It’s brilliant, though, isn’t it? Do you know the people who discovered this place?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I came with someone from work. He found out about it on the internet.’

  There was a short pause, during which Daisy looked behind her to see if Octave was coming back with her drink.

  ‘You know, I do not think Octave is coming back. Not so long as I am here,’ Marie-Laure said, handing Daisy her glass of wine. ‘You can have some of this, if you are thirsty. It is quite nice.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Daisy said, gratefully taking the wine. ‘Look,’ she then said, putting her hand on Marie-Laure’s arm, ‘I know you and Octave have had a falling-out. He told me.’

  ‘He told you what happened?’

  ‘Not in detail,’ Daisy admitted. Marie-Laure nodded, looking carefully at her face. ‘But I really think you guys should make up,’ Daisy went on. ‘It’s always such a shame to ruin a friendship.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Marie-Laure. She had an unusual kind of beauty, Daisy thought. On her snow-white face, her slanting eyebrows looked like punctuation marks or Chinese calligraphy. She turned her dark eyes on Daisy. ‘So you came here together, you and Octave?’

  ‘Yes. And Bertrand and Stanislas are over there somewhere.’

  ‘Ah, the three musketeers.’

  ‘Exactly! They’re so funny together, aren’t they? I always think Stan is the brains of the operation. And Bertrand is the baby, following the others around. And Octave …’

  ‘Octave,’ said Marie-Laure, ‘is the tombeur of the group.’

  ‘What’s a tombeur?’

  ‘It means, you know … like Don Juan.’

  ‘Yes, I think he’s attractive,’ Daisy said, turning slightly pink. Octave was lovely and they had been having so much fun! He was also incredibly playful in bed, if a bit of a show-off at times. Privately – although she’d found it really entertaining the first couple of times – Daisy was getting a little tired of watching him do headstands in the nude.

  ‘He is attractive, yes. But also completely amoral. For example, he thinks it is OK to take what does not belong to him.’

  Daisy was nonplussed for a minute, then remembered those bottles of champagne the Pique-Assiettes had snaffled at Marie-Laure’s party. They’d probably been seen. Oh dear.

  ‘Octave is …’

  ‘A bit of an idiot?’ Daisy suggested, laughing indulgently.

  ‘Yes. A cruel idiot.’

  Marie-Laure was clearly about to say something else, but Bertrand suddenly popped up between them, bearing pieces of chocolate cake.

  ‘Salut, Marie-Laure,’ he said, kissing her lightly. ‘Un peu de gâteau?’

  ‘Non, merci.’

  Daisy, who was starving, accepted a piece. Bertrand immediately began to eat the second one, silently looking from one girl to the other.

  ‘Daisy, listen,’ Marie-Laure said quickly. ‘Just be careful, OK? I am going to find my friend now. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’ Daisy was baffled. Bertrand looked at her, his mouth full of cake, and shrugged. Together they went in search of the other two. The music had changed to some kind of French techno and Daisy led the way, pushing through groups of dancing strangers. At last she recognised the back of Octave’s head – he was sitting on a sofa with Stanislas, a little way from the DJ and his sound system. They were absorbed in conversation and didn’t notice her approaching.

  ‘You have no choice now,’ Stanislas was saying in French. ‘In fact it’s probably too late. You screwed up.’

  ‘I did not screw up,’ Octave replied. ‘It’s not always that easy, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know why you waited so long. It’s always a mistake with girls. And I don’t know why it had to be someone we actually see all the time. Again! It’s really against the rules. Anyway, you know what to do.’

  They were obviously talking about Marie-Laure! And Stanislas was encouraging Octave to sort things out. How sweet of him!

  ‘Hi,’ Daisy said,
putting her hands on Octave’s shoulders, who jumped a little.

  ‘Ah, the gorgeous Daisy,’ Stanislas said. ‘How was Marie-Laure?’

  ‘Very nice. I really like her.’

  ‘And so, what did you talk about?’

  ‘Well,’ Daisy said, climbing over the back of the sofa and into Octave’s arms, ‘she warned me that you were a dangerous tombeur. Of course, I told her it was nonsense. You know I find you completely unattractive.’

  Stanislas gave them a tolerant smile, then got up and left, taking Bertrand with him. Octave stared at Daisy distractedly for a minute. He must be thinking about Marie-Laure. He’d obviously made his mind up to do the right thing. Best not to nag him about it.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Daisy said.

  ‘Yes!’ he said, snapping back into his usual smiling self. He kissed her. After a while, he spoke again: ‘Can we stay at your place tonight?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I thought you wanted to go back to yours?’ On past occasions Octave, who was reasonably tall, had found Isabelle’s doll-size shower cubicle a bit of a challenge.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  The next day, Octave left early to go to the gym. Dreamily, Daisy got ready very slowly, power-dressing with special care. Paris Fashion Week was in full swing and she was meeting Anouk to go to a couple of shows. Afterwards they were having tea at Ladurée, where, if they were in luck, they might catch a glimpse of fashion royalty – Mario Testino, perhaps, or Anna Wintour – sitting incongruously in the midst of soignées Parisiennes and their poodles. It was quite a place for fashion moments even out of show season. Daisy had once seen an old lady dressed entirely in shocking pink, hat and gloves included, order a plate of tiny magenta-coloured raspberry and cherry macaroons and feed them discreetly to her basset – who sat quietly beneath the table wearing a small pink coat.

  Daisy did not believe in dressing down for the shows: it had to be designer battledress, and preferably by someone only the cognoscenti would be able to identify. She settled on a black high-necked, slim-hipped and belted coat dress by Savage from two seasons ago, worn with long black boots. It was a sample that had never actually gone into production, a unique piece embroidered with intricate braids of stiff black horsehair. Oh yes, it looked good. It did sort of say ‘kiss the whip, slave’ but then again that look always went down well in the fashion world. Daisy cocked her head to one side: perhaps she looked a touch too strict? She needed a frivolous touch – her flashing heart-shaped brooch, of course! Daisy reached for it automatically: it usually lived on her bedside table when she wasn’t actually wearing it. But now, she saw, it wasn’t there. How odd. She hunted around for it for a moment, then checked the time. She should leave right now if she didn’t want to be horribly late. Instead, she’d wear that lime-green corsage she’d bought with Agathe. As for the little heart, it couldn’t have gone very far.

  11 Isabelle

  Isabelle was feeling dizzy. Only an hour ago she had been happily ensconced in her research in the now familiar atmosphere of her room in Daisy’s house. Now she found herself on the top floor of a dark and derelict warehouse in Whitechapel, apprehensively following Jules, who herself was being led through the alien crowd.

  ‘You’re in there, right,’ said their guide, a frighteningly trendy girl armed with a clipboard, pointing at a row in a sea of none too clean plastic chairs. ‘The two in the middle.’

  Isabelle and Jules took possession of their seats. Savage’s show was about to begin and the two blocks of grey plastic chairs framing the catwalk were almost full to capacity. Jules had been to a few of these events before and sat unmoved, flicking through the Sunday Times. Isabelle, on the other hand, looked about her with the wide eyes of a first-timer. With its peeling walls and concrete floor, the setting did not match Isabelle’s mental picture of a fashion show – rows of well-groomed middle-aged women sitting on small velvet chairs among the boiseries of a seventeenth-century salon.

  Savage, Chrissie had explained, wanted to steer clear of ‘the tent’, the marquee erected outside the Natural History Museum in Kensington, where London Fashion Week set up temporary home twice a year. That was too soulless and corporate for her, apparently. What she wanted instead was to show in a space that ‘felt like home’. Savage must be somewhat spéciale, Isabelle thought while surveying the enormous low-lit warehouse littered with mysterious remnants of defunct machinery and smelling vaguely of dust and chemicals.

  She turned to Jules. ‘It is a bit sinister, this place.’

  ‘Never let it be said of Savage that she doesn’t like things edgy.’

  ‘It seems a little bizarre to invite people here for this. Isn’t Whitechapel where there was … you know … Jack the Ripper?’

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely. You can practically feel his presence at your elbow, can’t you? It really gives you gooseflesh.’ Jules looked around appreciatively. ‘This is more of a Silence of the Lambs sort of setting, though.’

  Isabelle had not seen the film Jules referred to but she got the general idea.

  ‘Have you read the press release, by the way?’ Jules said, drawing Isabelle’s attention to the photocopied sheet they had found on their seats. Isabelle had nervously folded hers away into her coat pocket on arrival but closer inspection revealed that it was information of sorts on what they were about to see. The text was set out in the style of a blackmailer’s letter, with each word looking as though it had been cut out of newspaper:

  SAVAGE:

  SPRING–SUMMER WOMENSWEAR

  ALL TOGETHER NOW!

  Isabelle read on:

  In her most revolutionary collection to date, Savage waves goodbye to the individual. Collectively produced by Savage and her team, this collection is also designed to be worn collectively.

  Savage’s clothes are political and non-elitist. They are for everybody to wear at the same time.

  All together now!

  Knickerbockers come as modules, to fit as many legs as necessary. Asymmetric skirts composed of spiralling press-studded panels may be extended to include all your friends, whole families and neighbourhoods – and ultimately, in Savage’s vision, the whole of humankind.

  Boundaries dissolve between self and other, ugly and pretty, one and many, soft and rough, safe and risky, yes and no, big and little, good and bad, why and because, hello and goodbye.

  Perhaps understandably, Isabelle only took in a fraction of what she read. Dazed by her first exposure to fashionese, she turned helplessly towards Jules.

  ‘You might enjoy the other side better,’ Jules said drily.

  Isabelle turned the sheet over. It was a list of credits in which she was surprised and delighted to find her own name: ‘Headwear by Christopher Seamyngley, with the invaluable assistance of Isabelle Papillon.’ That was sweet of Chrissie. But she was also thankful that Professeur Sureau would never get to hear about her unorthodox extra-curricular activities. It had been a bit of a rush to get everything finished in time, and Isabelle could imagine Sureau’s face if he’d seen his serious-minded protégée engaged in last night’s frantic sewing of sequins (true to form, Savage had demanded some last-minute changes), which had alternated with equally frantic bouts of dancing to Girls Aloud – an indispensable part of Chrissie’s creative process.

  There followed what seemed like a very long wait – mainly caused by the late arrival of two Very Important Editors, one male, in a floor-length overcoat made of a patchwork of actual teddy bears, and the other female, wearing a lobster on her head. Isabelle stared in disbelief as they settled themselves after much air-kissing, waving and exclaiming. The lights went down. There was an expectant hush.

  Then began a most disorientating phantasmagory. Heralded by the sound of howling wolves punctuated by screeching violins and an occasional nerve-shredding clash of cymbals, eight of Savage’s models, their faces made up in the style of Japanese geishas, shuffled down the catwalk in two-by-two crocodiles, bathed in a pale-grey light. Closer inspection of their fee
t revealed that they were perched on extremely high Eastern-style wooden sandals. Above these they wore shimmering white shorts and tank tops which were joined at the hip and waist, forming a single outfit to include them all, and rakish pink and blue asymmetric harlequin bicorns. As they exited, the next crocodile of eight girls was ready to shuffle on, clad in a gigantic black foam rubber dress, each head topped with black sequinned cat’s ears tipped sideways. There followed a shared nude-coloured body stocking overlaid with red lurex embroidery, worn with sculptural pheasant feather headdresses. Each outfit was greeted with gasps and frantic applause. Many of the fashion editors, Isabelle was amused to see as she looked across the catwalk, had stopped scribbling on their pads and were weeping freely.

  More hallucinatory visions unfurled, punctuated by howls and sounds of clashing brass: girls joined at the hips in columns of metallic taffeta worn with blue tulle conical hats, bathed in electric blue light; girls with their heads emerging from a communal lace ruff over a communal black rubber sleeveless dress, bathed in red light. For the finale, Savage unleashed a sixteen-legged, sixteen-armed gold Aertex catsuit topped with eight futuristic gold hats reminiscent of the headgear worn by cyclists in the Olympic Games. Isabelle felt a rush of genuine joy. It was all insensé – insane, as Jules would no doubt put it – and utterly unwearable. It was ridiculous, pretentious and pointless. And yet, much to her surprise, she found that her own eyes, too, were filled with tears.

  ‘There she is. Feast your eyes,’ Jules whispered, as a slender silver-haired woman dressed in a black velvet trouser suit appeared at the catwalk’s entrance and took a bow. There was a standing ovation but the designer disappeared into the wings immediately. ‘Come on,’ Jules went on, gathering her coat and bag, ‘let’s go backstage and get a drink.’

  Isabelle’s experience of nightclubs was limited to the Club de la Plage, an entirely wholesome establishment on the Ile de Ré, unsullied by the vagaries of fashion. It catered to people of her own set and felt like an extension of Marie-Laure’s house or Claire’s apartment. Seats of more adventurous and branché nightlife had never appealed to Isabelle. And yet, as she and Jules were whisked off behind a velvet rope by the frighteningly trendy girl with the clipboard, now their ally – while members of the press were kept waiting on the other side – Isabelle reflected with astonishment that she had never felt quite so thrilled in her life.