Finding Monsieur Right

by Muriel Zagha

  Once inside, as they clicked their champagne flutes while feigning interest in the art, Daisy asked, ‘So, François Polisson? Who’s he?’

  ‘Me, sometimes … It’s just an easy name to remember. Zurban is a big magazine and they have a lot of staff.’

  Later Daisy was able to admire the calm efficiency with which Bertrand and Stanislas hoovered up most of the canapés displayed on the buffet. It was all Octave could do to salvage a few for her.

  Once restored, Bertrand and Stanislas went their separate ways and, ignoring the art, started checking out the girls in the gallery.

  ‘I feel sad for them,’ said Octave, while reaching towards a passing tray for two more glasses of champagne. ‘This really seems to be the only way for them to get out and meet girls.’

  ‘I don’t know … You seem to know quite a lot of girls!’

  ‘Agathe, Isabelle et compagnie? Ah yes, but they are our girls. In fact most of them are related to at least one of us. It’s nice to get out of your milieu sometimes. You meet some exciting people.’

  They smiled at each other while Daisy reflected that she, for example, had only ever been out with stylists, photographers or show producers. The whole fashion thing got a bit wearing after a while and it was a welcome change to flirt with a cute Frenchman who wasn’t in the least bit fashiony. Not that she was, of course, flirting.

  Getting into the ‘restaurant-club-lounge, très hype’ proved not much more difficult, thanks to Daisy’s improvisational skills. The place – simply called Le Trend – was in a small street off the Champs-Elysées. As before, Daisy and the Pique-Assiettes stood at some distance to reconnoitre the lie of the land.

  Having watched several people go in, Stanislas was pessimistic.

  ‘Merde alors. They all had a special pass. The PRs must have posted them out. My contact did not tip me off about this.’

  ‘Attendez-moi,’ Daisy said, suddenly detaching herself from her friends. The Pique-Assiettes watched her walk towards a group of girls who were standing further down the street, evidently looking for taxis. Daisy spoke to them for a moment. The girls rummaged in their bags and fished out … four passes for Le Trend.

  Daisy returned, a little flushed with triumph. ‘They were really nice about it! They arrived early and they’re going on to something else.’

  ‘I am pleased to welcome a new honorary sister into the brotherhood,’ Stanislas said with a smile.

  It turned out to be a really good launch and once inside Daisy and the Pique-Assiettes spent many happy hours dancing – Daisy was beginning to realise just how much the French loved disco – before re-emerging from the cavernous basement of Le Trend in the small hours of the morning. The sky was blue: it was going to be another beautiful day. Daisy held on to Octave and let her head rest on his shoulder as they cruised home on his scooter. Ahead of them, Bertrand and Stanislas raised a hand in farewell as they branched out on their own scooters in the direction of the apartment the three Pique-Assiettes shared, not far from Boulevard Malesherbes.

  As Octave walked Daisy to the door of Isabelle’s building, she thought of inviting him up for breakfast. Why the hell not? As she was making her mind up, Octave curled a stray lock of her hair between his fingers and stretched it gently above her mouth.

  ‘It would suit you well, a moustache, I think,’ he pronounced gravely.

  ‘Oh, yes, definitely,’ Daisy replied. ‘People are always telling me to grow one.’

  Now! Now he was going to kiss her!

  Octave gently stroked her hair back into place. ‘So … did you have fun, going out with us?’

  ‘It was great.’

  ‘Alors, à bientôt.’

  ‘A bientôt.’

  That was it. No snogging. Just that damned no-contact air-kissing rigmarole. That was much better, of course, Daisy told herself as she walked sulkily up the stairs. Octave just wasn’t her type. Merde alors.

  7 Isabelle

  English pubs, Isabelle decided, must be an acquired taste. Where were those cosy establishments she had read about in Marie-Claire Maison, featuring log fires, beamed ceilings and delicious food? Probably not in Camden, by the look of things. So far, apart from a very old man snoring over his pint at the far end of the bar, she and Chrissie were the only customers in the Dungeon.

  The large and very cold room where they sat was painted entirely black. A blackboard advertised the Dungeon’s Blood-Curdling Selection of Home-Made Sandwiches and the Grim Reaper’s Three-Course Sunday Lunch, but at this time of the evening (much to Isabelle’s scandalised astonishment) the kitchen was closed. In desperation she was sharing Chrissie’s prawn cocktail-flavoured crisps, a strange and alien food. It was a very low point in terms of gastronomy.

  Jules’ band The Coven were playing at the Dungeon tonight and they were now ‘backstage’ (in the storeroom where the pub’s brooms and other cleaning equipment lived), getting ready for their performance.

  ‘Well, I must say, darling, this is very welcome. Very welcome indeed. I had been simply gagging to go out for a drink,’ Chrissie said expansively.

  ‘Yes, I suppose we have been working hard.’ Isabelle pulled out a small notebook. In her neat handwriting she had been keeping a careful account of which hats had been made and which remained to be completed. She smiled, pleased at the steady progress she and Chrissie had been making. ‘So tomorrow we do the sequinned turbans. And then we have finished.’

  ‘K-k-kool and the gang.’

  Isabelle put the notebook away and looked towards the door. ‘Do you really think anybody is coming?’

  ‘Oh, fear not, darling,’ Chrissie answered. ‘The Coven have a following. I’ve seen it. It’s quite scary. Look for yourself.’

  Isabelle followed the direction of his gaze. Tonight’s audience was beginning to arrive. At first it was hard for Isabelle to see any details: it was like a black tidal wave. After a while, though, she began to see that like all uniforms, le style goth actually made it easier to notice people’s faces. And what faces they were. There was, apparently, such a thing as black lipstick, and goths couldn’t get enough of it, particularly applied to faces so white they were almost blue, and festooned with piercings. Isabelle was beginning to see that Jules’ usual style of dressing – black jeans and T-shirts – was actually quite restrained. Other female goths did not shy away from delirious fancy dress: a hooded jet-fringed velvet cape thrown over a red rubber corset dress, for example, or a kimono-sleeved purple gown accessorised with a coffin-shaped handbag. And then there was the hair. Some people liked to crimp theirs so that it stood on end. Others preferred to tease their locks through tentacle-like rubber tubes, having first shaved off their eyebrows for good measure.

  Within twenty minutes of the first arrivals, the atmosphere in the Dungeon had been completely transformed. The management had put on some suitably mournful-sounding rock music, and there were goths chatting away in every nook and cranny. Isabelle noticed that they all appeared to be drinking the same thing and, surprisingly, it wasn’t beer.

  ‘Absinthe, darling.’

  The pub had become rather noisy.

  ‘What did you say? Who’s absent?’

  ‘No, that’s the goth drink du jour. They all love it.’

  ‘Absinthe?’ said Isabelle, reacting as though a unicorn had suddenly entered the room. ‘But no, that’s impossible. That doesn’t exist any more. It’s banned. It’s very dangerous! In the nineteenth century in France many poets and artists destroyed themselves with absinthe. They went blind or mad, or died.’

  ‘Is that so, darling? How sad.’ Chrissie paused to nibble on a crisp. ‘But then I should imagine that only adds to the attraction for our little friends.’ He lowered his voice sepulchrally. ‘The seductive embrace of death ! How terribly thrilling! Though, actually,’ he added, amused by Isabelle’s horrified expression, ‘I think you’re right. The old kind is totally illegal. This is just some boring aniseed drink.’

  A group of Coven fans had al
ready secured their places at the foot of the stage in the next room. Gradually, everybody else went in, Isabelle and Chrissie along with the rest. The lights went down and cheers rose from the crowd.

  From behind a black curtain, four silhouettes emerged. The first one, upper body motionless, slowly clumped to the far left of the stage: it was Jules.

  ‘Oh, Isabelle, doesn’t she look fab? I feel like a proud father.’

  Actually, Jules did look rather spectacular, tall and slim in her floor-length leather coat and laced-up ankle boots of Victorian inspiration. She had exceptionally left off her spectacles, the better to show off the elaborate stage makeup Chrissie had done for her – an extravaganza of eyeliner and false eyelashes that, combined with her dark bob, made her look like a 1920s movie star. Then the drummer, a redhead in drainpipe PVC trousers and a sleeveless T-shirt with tattooed ‘bracelets’ on her arms, came to sit behind her kit.

  ‘That’s Ivy,’ said Chrissie helpfully, ‘and here’s Belladonna.’

  A plump girl with poker-straight jet-black hair took her place behind the synthesiser.

  ‘And that’s Legend.’

  The lead guitarist came on last, wearing such enormously high platform boots that she could have been on stilts, and with her hair in a very high ponytail. The crowd began to chant rhythmically, calling out something that Isabelle couldn’t make out.

  ‘It’s the singer’s name: Karloff,’

  ‘His name is Carlos?’

  ‘No, even better than that,’ Chrissie spoke close to her ear. ‘Karloff, as in Boris. He’s a bit of a character.’

  The drummer raised her drumsticks and then brought them down with a deafening thud. Isabelle felt like she had been punched in the stomach. Belladonna produced some eerie chords on her keyboards. Jules and Legend began to ‘play’. It was the same discordant metallic din Isabelle remembered from the Brighton trip. Was it ‘Eviscerate Me’? Possibly. She couldn’t be absolutely sure. She covered her ears, hoping the surrounding fans were too busy to notice and resent her lack of appreciation. The crowd began to roar and stamp their feet. Then Isabelle noticed a motion behind the backdrop, like a trapped insect trying to get out.

  ‘Brace yourself, darling. Karloff will be with us any minute now.’

  Right on cue, Karloff emerged on stage in the manner of a cannonball. Isabelle was full of admiration for the practised manner in which Jules, with razor-sharp timing, took a couple of steps sideways to avoid collision. Karloff ran straight at the wall then let out a piercing scream perfectly in tune with the music. The crowd went berserk and howled with delight. Karloff’s upper body was cocooned in bizarre black swaddling clothes that appeared to pin his arms to his sides.

  Isabelle turned to Chrissie. ‘I don’t understand. What is he wearing?’

  ‘Oh, that ! Why it’s Karloff’s black straitjacket, of course! It’s his trademark, you know. Something to do with Victorian insane asylums. He really digs that vibe.’

  Bent double, Karloff had been running from one end of the stage to the other. Now he was gyrating in a central position, the sleeves of his straitjacket flying out like wings. In the course of the next song, he emerged from it, revealing a black shirt, baggy black combat trousers and jet bead necklaces. His black eye make-up made him look like a demented panda.

  As the gig progressed, Isabelle tried to think of other things to distract herself from the noise. If only she had had enough foresight to bring her earplugs. She looked around at the crowd. Some of the men were dressed up as Romantic poets, with frilly white shirts and cloaks, and even carried silver-tipped walking sticks.

  She looked again at the stage. Something had changed. Although Karloff still stood centre stage, he was turned not towards the audience but towards Jules, who was also facing him. Thud, thud, thud, thud, went Jules on her bass. Meanwhile she looked … different, animated and even … rapt. And she was … staring at Karloff! Isabelle looked at the band’s frontman more closely. He was ‘singing’ (a nameless wailing) and ‘dancing’ (stumbling around like a bear in his big boots) in time to Jules’ guitar. Isabelle’s brain began to click rapidly. She looked from Karloff to Jules and back again. They were glaring at each other out of identically black-rimmed eyes, their bodies swaying, Karloff’s voice coming in to respond to Jules’ rhythm. There was a strain of energy between them, like a powerful invisible chain constantly being yanked. Yes, of course! There was no doubt about it. Having reached the obvious conclusion, Isabelle’s brain slowed down again and she smiled. How very intriguing.

  She turned to Chrissie, who bent down so she could semi-shout in his ear. ‘Are Jules and Karloff very close friends?’

  Chrissie looked put-out for a moment. ‘I imagine so, sweetie. Yes, they must get on OK.’

  ‘Just “get on OK”?’

  Chrissie followed Isabelle’s gaze and looked at the stage. Hugging the microphone, Karloff was writhing on the floor at Jules’ feet like an overexcited puppy.

  ‘Well …’ Chrissie stopped talking, transfixed by what he saw. He gripped Isabelle’s arm. ‘My God, she’s actually pouting. Isabelle! Do you realise what this means?’

  Silently, they nodded at each other and burst out laughing. They spent the rest of The Coven’s performance giggling at every sign of Jules’ and Karloff’s infatuation with each other.

  At the end of the performance Chrissie and Isabelle went home early, leaving the band to their adoring fans. The milliner had agreed to give up late nights until he had completed the collection. This was a win-win plan, he thought, because early nights would also do wonders for his skin. When they arrived at the house, the answering machine in the hallway was flashing. Chrissie went downstairs to make himself a cup of Horlicks and Isabelle pressed PLAY MESSAGES.

  ‘Oui. Hallo, good he-ve-ning.’ It was Clothaire, speaking in a very loud voice as usual when attempting a foreign language. ‘I want to live a massage for Ma-de-moi-selle I-sa-belle Pa-pil-lon,’ he boomed almost menacingly. ‘Can she – Ma-de-moi-selle Pa-pil-lon – call me when she gets the massage. Voilà. Ah, mais est-ce que ça marche? Is it working? Heu, tell her that this is Clothaire. Clothaire. I am living the massage.’ Then there was an exasperated ‘Ah, ces machines infernales!’ and the line went dead. Isabelle smiled. Clothaire loathed technology of any kind. She looked at the time. It would be after midnight in Paris and Clothaire was always peevish when she disturbed his sleep. Best to call him in the morning. She erased the message. There was no point in leaving it for Jules to find. In fairness, now that she and Isabelle were on more friendly terms, Jules no longer mimicked Clothaire’s voice and manner (at least not openly), but why put temptation in her way? Besides, after tonight, the tables had turned. Now it would be Isabelle’s turn to tease Jules about her love life.

  8 Daisy

  Daisy and Agathe were shopping. ‘How French women shop for clothes’ was to be the topic of Daisy’s next Sparkle blog and she was very keen to learn from her friend. That was the thing about the French: they did everything differently.

  First, apparently, there was a correct way to walk into a shop. You didn’t smile at the vendeur or vendeuse and say a bright ‘Bonjour!’ You did, however, brush off their own greeting and repel any offer of help with a chilly ‘Merci,’ sometimes accompanied by the briefest of smiles. Then you turned your back on them.

  Looking through the rails, you didn’t express enthusiasm or admiration. What you did do was flick through the clothes disdainfully, occasionally pulling something out and quickly rejecting it as tragically hideous and unworthy of you. ‘Agathe somewhat Terminator, except prettier,’ Daisy jotted down excitedly on her pad. ‘Seems in trance. Probably wouldn’t notice if earthquake or even end of world. Shop assistant suggests another colour, A. laughs crushingly. V. efficient but a bit scary.’ What was fascinating was that, although Agathe didn’t particularly appear to be enjoying herself – she looked like she was taking some kind of exam – Daisy had to admit that her friend had a very good eye for what suited
her.

  After three hours, Agathe had acquired two jersey tops, one black, one olive green, both with exquisitely flattering necklines, and a chocolate-brown pleated silk skirt which made her legs look at their most coltish and graceful. Daisy meanwhile had bought a huge lime-green velvet corsage, a frilly purple wraparound shirt, a lot of bangles, a baby-blue suede jacket and some raffia wedge sandals adorned with plastic fruit.

  ‘But all these things, they do not go together,’ objected Agathe as they reviewed their purchases over a Perrier.

  ‘Well, no … but I always find a use for everything in the end! I promise you that, one day, I’ll be rummaging in my wardrobe, half-ready to go out and saying, “Oh, if only I had a … purple wraparound shirt! A frilly one!” And then I’ll find it and it’ll be such a nice surprise because, of course, I’ll have forgotten all about it by then. It’s my way of planning for every eventuality.’

  Agathe laughed and gave a delicate mock-shudder. ‘I could never do this.’

  ‘But it’s so great to have a lot of fun clothes!’

  ‘Perhaps. I like beautiful, well-cut things. But of course for you it is different. You are English.’ She gave Daisy an affectionate smile.

  This statement had become a familiar way for Agathe to agree to disagree with Daisy. There had, for example, been the recent occasion when Agathe had invited a few friends around for dinner and Daisy had got there early to help her. In fact Agathe was so organised that Daisy had had very little to do, except for one thing. To round off her menu of taboulé au melon et jambon de parme and saumon en papillote, Agathe had made a chocolate cake. ‘It needs a little decoration,’ she had said musingly. ‘What do you think?’

  Daisy had looked at the cake – a perfect cube dusted with cocoa powder – and said, ‘Yeah, perhaps it looks a little boring like that.’ Then inspiration had struck. ‘You know what, I have some Smarties in my bag. We could dot them all over, it would look brilliant.’