Finding Monsieur Right

by Muriel Zagha

‘Isabelle, will you do me a huge favour?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Isabelle replied automatically. Perhaps he wanted a tankard of beige tea or a biscuit.

  ‘Will you please, please, help me with this?’

  ‘Help you … make the hats?’

  ‘Yes! You are French, aren’t you? You must have heaps of flair. Yes, I see it all!’ He squeezed her arm, cheering up visibly. ‘Oh, it will be fun! Please say yes!’

  ‘The last time I made anything I was six years old,’ Isabelle said carefully. ‘We cut flowers out of felt and glued them to linen bags. It was a present for Mother’s Day. My one looked a bit strange.’

  ‘That’s perfect! You know the basics already!’ Restored to his usual sunny self, Chrissie bounced out of the sofa, sending Isabelle reeling sideways. ‘Shall we start?’

  ‘I do not think …’ Isabelle began, but Chrissie was already marching her towards the jars of feathers.

  Much later, there was a knock at the door. It was Jules, back from band practice with The Coven. Since it was not in her nature to show surprise, she merely stood looking into the room in silence, taking in the unexpected sight. Chrissie and Isabelle sat side by side at the work table with their backs to the door and were so absorbed that they didn’t look around. They both wore hats: a small black sequinned headdress in the shape of cat’s ears tipped at a rakish angle for Chrissie and a high cone of pale-blue tulle dotted with pink rosebuds for Isabelle, who, for some reason, was wearing a swimsuit. A clothing line had been hung across the room and sketches were pegged neatly all the way along it. Chrissie, humming a little, was selecting pheasant feathers of varying lengths and arranging them into a spray. Isabelle was carefully cutting shapes out of a sheet of gold PVC.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jules after a few minutes.

  ‘Oh, hey, Ju-Ju!’ Chrissie called out, spinning around happily to face her. He pointed to Isabelle’s head. ‘What do you think of this baby? I’m calling it “Horn of Plenty”. Isn’t it just perfect heaven?’

  ‘It’s insane,’ Jules said impassively.

  ‘I know. And this one,’ he continued, briefly tipping off the cat’s ears, ‘is “On the Tiles”. Très chic if I say so myself. Allow me to introduce my new assistant and production manager, Isabelle.’

  At the sound of her name Isabelle seemed to snap out of a sort of trance. She looked around at Jules and blinked. ‘I’m only staying for a few minutes,’ she said quickly. ‘I left my notes in the …’ She looked through the glass wall and seemed surprised to see that it was dark outside. ‘Heu … what is the time?’

  Jules smiled almost imperceptibly. ‘Ten o’clock. I don’t imagine anyone’s had any supper?’

  In the kitchen, as they all ate cheese on toast prepared by Jules, Isabelle began, with great enthusiasm, to sketch out a detailed work schedule for the collection. Her love of organisation had kicked in as soon as she had grasped the urgency of Chrissie’s plight. She had convinced him to work methodically (a revolutionary concept for him), starting with the most intricate pieces and leaving simple feather headbands for last. Isabelle was also adamant that she must continue visiting the library in the mornings.

  ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow at half past one and we can start with that asymmetric Harlequin bicorn,’ she concluded brightly.

  Jules opened her mouth wide, then pushed it closed again by placing a hand under her chin – to suggest that her jaw had fallen into her lap and was being repositioned.

  ‘Well, Isabelle,’ she said, ‘I dare say you’ve been Chrissie-ed. Not to worry. It happens to us all in the end.’

  6 Daisy

  Daisy might have noticed her admirer’s presence earlier if she hadn’t been so absorbed in her window display. She had made it an all-white composition, to create a soothing, cooling fashion oasis for the Parisian passers-by who were dragging themselves through the canicule – the heatwave. Besides, it would look so graphic framed by the black shopfront with the name, Organdi & Néoprène, painted in red copperplate letters. Daisy put the finishing touch to her display, shaking pieces of scrunched-up newspaper and broken china out of a flour sack and onto the floor – for that distressed, post-apocalyptic feel – then she took a step back to admire her work. The window contained two abstract evocations of the female form made of tubular steel. One of them wore wide trousers with a mini-train for each leg, a bleach-free paper top by Savage and the briefest of satin capes, beautifully shredded. On the other, Daisy had gone for a full-length crinoline by a seminal young Hungarian designer and a cropped jacket made of kangaroo leather. Both dummies wore identical white wigs, stiffened with glue to look like the hair stood on end.

  Now, Daisy wondered critically, was it all a bit too telegraphed, too boring, too déjà vu?

  ‘Anouk! Tu es là? Come and tell me what you think!’ she called into the shop.

  Uncompromising fashion expert Anouk was the inspiration behind Organdi & Néoprène. She only sold hand-picked individual pieces from international design ers, the more out-there, the better. Daisy was a huge fan and it was an honour to dress the windows of the shop. Her next blog for Sparkle was shaping up as a profile of Anouk.

  It had been a relief to meet a Parisian who took fashion seriously. Agathe and her elegant friends showed no interest in trends. Sometimes Daisy even got the feeling that they thought it was all funny or something.

  ‘J’arrive!’ said Anouk, climbing into the window to join Daisy. She was tiny, completely ageless (though Daisy would have put her at fifty-something) and – Daisy knew from having seen her many times at shows in London, where she came to buy from the collections – never deviated from the same look: a black pinafore dress over black cigarette pants, ballerina slippers, her short orange hair carefully marcel-waved, her mouth painted into a dark maroon Cupid’s bow. She took in Daisy’s work at a glance and clapped her hands in delight. ‘J’adore! C’est simple, élégant … Merci, ma petite Daisy.’ Anouk turned around to look into the street and tapped Daisy’s shoulder. ‘But you have a visitor, I think.’

  Daisy looked around: it was Octave, carrying a motorcycle helmet under his arm. For once he was on his own. He and Daisy had bumped into each other at parties but he was always escorted by Bertrand and Stanislas. He removed the cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth, and bowed deeply. Daisy giggled and gave him a little wave, then climbed back down into the shop and went outside to say hello.

  ‘Hi, Octave, how are you?’

  ‘Salut, Daisy. I cannot believe my eyes. What are these incredible things?’

  ‘Fabulous clothes by fabulous designers,’ Daisy sighed happily, looking back at her work.

  ‘But …’ Octave gestured helplessly towards the crinoline. ‘Who would wear this? And why?’

  Daisy looked at him worriedly. ‘Oh. You don’t think it works as a look?’

  ‘“As a look?” Oh my God!’ Octave burst out laughing. ‘It’s very … original,’ he concluded diplomatically before changing the subject. Did Daisy have a minute for a coffee? She did. She went back in to say a quick goodbye to Anouk, who whispered, ‘Très mignon,’ and gave her a conspiratorial thumbs-up.

  As they sat in the shade on the terrace of a small café in Rue Montorgueil, Daisy had a good look at Octave, deciding that although he was attractive – slim, with broad shoulders, very white teeth and smooth, lightly tanned skin – he was definitely far too suave for her. Look at his hair, for example: sleek brown wings that screamed ‘mummy’s boy’! As for what he was wearing – a really boring blue-and-white striped shirt, indigo 501s and shiny black brogues (not a stitch of Helmut Lang in sight), Daisy told herself firmly not to go there.

  All the same, Octave had bags of Gallic nonchalance. Lolling back in his chair, he was talking presently of his high-flying job as an executive something-or-other in telly.

  ‘Octave,’ Daisy interjected when he paused to take a sip of his express, ‘can I ask you something? You remember the last time we met?’

  Octave narrow
ed his eyes, obviously scanning through myriad memories of recent parties. ‘Heu, voyons … that was at the party in Auteuil, no?’ he smiled at her. ‘You were wearing a very short dress, I think.’

  ‘Yes,’ Daisy said, blushing. ‘Octave, why were you hiding in that wardrobe?’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes, remember? I saw you, Bertrand and Stanislas come out of the wardrobe in Marie-Laure’s bedroom. You were each carrying a bottle of champagne. I waved but you walked straight past me. You seemed in a hurry to get away.’

  ‘You’re right: we were. We didn’t mean to be rude to you.’

  Daisy raised her eyebrows. ‘Well? Explain yourself.’

  Octave looked briefly embarrassed. Then he took a long, deliberate drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke out and looked at Daisy directly. He leant forward and took her hand. ‘Listen to me, Daisy, this is important. Can I trust you? I mean, one hundred per cent?’

  ‘Er, yes, of course.’ It was all getting rather exciting.

  ‘Right.’ Octave put out his cigarette resolutely. ‘Have you ever heard of the Confrèrie des Pique-Assiettes?’

  An assiette was a plate, Daisy knew. And then something about taking a peek? She didn’t have a clue about the first word. ‘What is it? A restaurant?’ That sounded likely. After all, there was a restaurant in Paris called the Beef on the Roof, or something.

  ‘Well, in a way, at least sometimes,’ said Octave with a smile. ‘It’s really a group of people.’

  ‘Oh. Who?’ she found herself whispering. Octave was being so damned mysterious. ‘Are you one of them?’

  Octave nodded and squeezed her hand. It felt quite nice. Even though he wasn’t her type.

  ‘Who else?’ Daisy got a mental picture of Octave at all the parties where she had run into him. That was it: he was never without his two friends. ‘Bertrand and Stanislas?’

  Another nod, and a more lingering squeeze.

  ‘What does the whatsit peek-assiette mean?’

  ‘The Confrèrie – it means brotherhood. And a piqueassiette is … an uninvited guest, like a stowaway. A sort of secret agent, really.’ Octave gave a self-satisfied smile. ‘It’s extremely cool to be one.’

  ‘So what do you do exactly?’

  ‘We turn up at parties to which we have not, strictly speaking, been invited.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Daisy said primly, taking her hand away. ‘A pique-assiette is what we call a freeloader. We get lots of them in London during Fashion Week.’

  ‘A freeloader?’

  ‘Mmm, yeah. Or a ligger. You and your mates are the Brotherhood of Liggers.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very complimentary,’ said Octave defensively, before launching into a long glorification of the pique-assiette lifestyle. The true pique-assiette was not interested in free food and drink. Not generally, he added, remembering that Daisy had witnessed his recent champagne peccadillo. No, the pique-assiettes were really heroes, adventurers, the dilettante aristocrats of the night!

  ‘Now that party in Auteuil, that was quite a coup for us. Private parties in a beautiful hôtel particulier are worth a lot more points.’

  ‘Points?’

  ‘Yes, we have a scoring system. It makes it more fun. A party like that is worth a lot because to get in you really need a carton, a proper invitation.’

  ‘And how did you get one?’

  ‘We didn’t.’

  Daisy stared at Octave. She remembered clearly that she and Agathe had been asked to produce their cartons at the door before being let in. Even though the party was given by Agathe’s cousin, a girl called Marie-Laure.

  ‘Wait a minute. I can understand the whole ligging thing when it’s just random launches and things but aren’t these people your friends?’

  Octave waved this aside. ‘It is not important. There was a bit of a misunderstanding and now Marie-Laure is sulking, that’s all. It is all very silly.’

  Daisy digested this. ‘So did you go to her party to try and make up with her?’

  Octave smiled delightedly and pulled his chair closer to Daisy’s. ‘Yes! That’s perfect – I mean, that’s exactly it.’

  ‘But the champagne you stole? Didn’t she mind?’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t what I’d call stealing. Nobody missed it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You see, sometimes we allow ourselves a little trophy.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Climbed up the gutter and through a window at the back of the house.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘But, no, absolutely not. In fact …’ He looked at Daisy for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No, it is a bad idea.’

  ‘What? What?’

  Octave now moved around the table to sit right next to her, his face quite close. He had dimples. He also smelled very, very good. Typical suave Frenchman. Not her type at all.

  ‘Would you like to come out with us tonight? It’s only a private view in an art gallery, but it should be an interesting one. And afterwards there’s the opening of a restaurant-club-lounge, très hype.’

  ‘Très hype, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Octave whispered, leaning a bit closer still. Daisy held his gaze smilingly, then very slowly pulled away from him. She was beginning to have fun. So, would she come tonight? Yes, she would.

  For some reason it took Daisy even longer than usual to dress. Obviously that had nothing to do with Octave. It was always more difficult to dress when it was very hot. Luckily, tonight’s expedition would not require any abseiling or crawling through bushes, so Daisy could wear something quite skimpy, obviously the most practical option. That short punky number – a red slip dress adorned with dozens of zips – would do very well. She added a pair of patent red trainers and tied her hair into a high toponytail to stay as cool as possible. As she walked past the hallway mirror on her way out, she noticed that, as usual, a few locks of hair were already straying from the elastic band. Agathe’s hair, on the other hand, was always disciplined and flawless. How did she do it?

  Octave, looking rather good in slim black trousers and a navy-blue shirt, was waiting for her downstairs, leaning against his black scooter. As he put his hand on the small of her back to kiss her, she felt slightly weak at the knees.

  ‘I like your dress,’ he said approvingly. ‘All those zips. It is very encouraging.’

  Then he pointed at her heart brooch quizzically. Daisy explained.

  ‘Yes, it is kitsch,’ he said with a smile. ‘But it does not matter because you are wearing Cristalle.’

  Daisy was impressed. A straight man who could identify her favourite Chanel perfume! Gallantly, Octave insisted on putting Daisy’s helmet on for her. She climbed on behind him, gripped him tightly around his waist and they zoomed towards Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where they were meeting the other two pique-assiettes in a café opposite their first port of call.

  Stanislas and Bertrand greeted Daisy ceremoniously, though not without their customary hint of irony.

  As Daisy drank a cooling citron pressé, Stanislas explained their plan of attack: ‘First of all in a case like this – where you don’t have an invitation – what you must do is take up an observation post and watch the entrance.’

  Daisy looked across the street. A burly man in black stood at the door of the gallery. Inside, the white space was still empty apart from a couple of black-clad young women talking on their mobile phones.

  ‘Les attachées de presse – the PR girls,’ Bertrand said, nodding in their direction.

  ‘It’s a good thing these girls don’t usually stay in their jobs for too long,’ interjected Stanislas. ‘Or they would soon recognise us.’

  ‘And it’s also a good thing PRs are not too bright,’ added Bertrand. Octave kicked him hard under the table. ‘Apart from you, Daisy, of course,’ Bertrand said quickly. He looked so uncomfortable that Daisy had to laugh.

  ‘You know, you really shouldn’t underestimate us,’ Daisy said mischievously, with a sidelong glance at Octave,
who smiled back. ‘When I’m on the door for a show in London,’ she continued, eyeing them all severely, ‘I’m very polite but also ruthless. I can always tell when somebody’s trying to blag their way in. It never works with me.’ Daisy refrained from admitting that she always let her own friends in, saying instead: ‘What makes you think these girls won’t be just as tough?’

  Stanislas was briefly disconcerted, then rallied round: ‘Obviously you have to apply the right methods. First you have to watch and then decide on the best thing to do.’

  Octave moved a little closer to Daisy and lay his arm on the back of her chair. Her heart did a little dance in her chest.

  ‘So, for example,’ Octave said, ‘do people show their invitation or is it just a guest list? Do they ask for ID? All that stuff.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Bertrand said excitedly, ‘people just walk straight in. It is absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘So you take your time,’ Stanislas continued. ‘You stay cool. You think it through.’

  Daisy was beginning to see who was the puppy in the pack, and who was the mastermind. But what about Octave? What was he?

  ‘Actually I think tonight we are in luck,’ Octave said nonchalantly. ‘Look.’

  Daisy looked across the street, where people were beginning to arrive. There were no signs of invitations being produced or a list being checked.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Stanislas, straightening his tie. ‘Let’s split into pairs. The best plan is that I go in first with Daisy, then if all goes well, you two follow us.’

  ‘I don’t think so, mon vieux,’ Octave replied sardonically. ‘Daisy is my guest. It was my idea to invite her and she’s clearly brought us good luck. Venez, ma chère,’ he said, getting up and offering Daisy his arm.

  As they approached the door, Octave whispered: ‘Let me do the talking. Just follow me.’

  ‘OK. I can’t wait to see you in action.’

  ‘Bonsoir,’ Octave said to the man on the door. ‘Je suis François Polisson, journaliste à Zurban. Nous venons pour le vernissage.’

  Superstitiously, Daisy thought that she must be sending involuntary signals (RED ALERT, RED ALERT: WE ARE BIG FAT LIGGERS) to the door person. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn her brooch: a flashing red thing was bound to send some kind of subliminal message. But he waved them in without so much as a searching look.