Finding Monsieur Right

by Muriel Zagha

  ‘Hmmmmm …’ said Agathe, on a rising note. It was a sort of half-miaow that sounded approving but, Daisy now knew from previous experiences, probably wasn’t. Come to think of it, that sound had been Agathe’s response whenever Daisy held up one of her finds in the course of their shopping trip.

  ‘Don’t you like Smarties?’ Daisy said, thinking that jelly babies might do the trick instead.

  ‘I used to, when I was a very small girl,’ said Agathe, turning to open a cupboard. ‘No … I was thinking more of something … like that.’ She unwrapped an edible gold leaf and dropped it cunningly on top of the cake, so that the whole thing suddenly looked like a work of art.

  ‘Oh, Agathe! That looks so stunning!’

  ‘Well, it’s very simple. It’s the sort of thing I like to make for my guests. But of course for you it is different. You are English.’

  And there had been other occasions. Many others, in fact … But that was exactly why it was so great to be friends with Agathe! She didn’t mean to sound critical: she was just so French. It was a mutually enriching cultural exchange.

  ‘Well, I’m really pleased with the things I bought. And I can’t wait to wear them,’ Daisy concluded happily.

  ‘What do you want to do now?’ Agathe was also very good at moving on from difficult topics of conversation. ‘We could go to the Paris-Plage.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A beach on the banks of the Seine.’

  ‘Really? Does it have sand?’

  ‘Of course, and also palm trees. It is very agreeable. We could go and drop these things off in my flat and I will lend you a bikini.’

  About an hour later Agathe and Daisy sat in blue canvas deckchairs under blue canvas parasols, gazing at the shimmering river through their sunglasses. All along the quai, potted palm trees alternated with chic blue banners that looked like sails. Daisy marvelled at the energy the French invested in the pursuit of pleasure. It must have taken ages to put all this together and it would be gone in a few weeks. They had thought of everything. There were cafés and grass patches where you could have a picnic. Over there you could play boules on a boulodrome. And there was even a siesta area, where people lay serenely like basking seals. It was surreal. One minute you were walking through ordinary Paris streets full of urban people going about their business, the next you found yourself transported to Saint-Tropez. The place was thronged with stylish beach bunnies in Dior swimwear and redolent of coconut sun oil. But actually, thought Daisy, it was better than Saint-Tropez: it was Paris-on-the-Sea. Looking around, you knew exactly where you were. You could see the Louvre and the Ile Saint-Louis. There were graffiti artists at work under the bridge, and skateboarders at play. On the Pont Saint-Louis a group of musicians wearing striped jerseys were playing 1930s accordion music. Daisy’s musical-comedy fantasy was shaping up again.

  Then Agathe’s mobile phone rang, playing a short burst of dramatic music which she had told Daisy was Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’.

  ‘Allo? … Près du petit café. Et vous êtes où? Ah oui! Look, Daisy, over there!’

  Agathe began to wave. A group of familiar-looking people were making their way towards the spot where she and Daisy were sitting. Daisy recognised Agathe’s friend Claire (the haughty, dark-haired girl who’d hosted that first party) with her teenage sister Amélie, looking painfully diffident in a baggy dress that had clearly been selected in an attempt to cover up her puppy fat. Behind them came Isabelle’s boyfriend Clothaire and, closing the ranks, Bertrand, Stanislas and Octave.

  ‘Salut,’ said Claire, briefly kissing Daisy and giving her the once-over. ‘Isn’t that your bikini from Princesse Tam-Tam, Agathe?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Daisy replied. ‘We suddenly decided to come here and Agathe let me borrow it. It’s pretty, isn’t it?’

  Claire continued to look at Agathe. ‘It is just that it looks so different on Daisy.’

  ‘Ah, but Daisy is much more …’ Stanislas paused, thinking hard. ‘She is pulpeuse.’

  ‘What’s “pulpeuse”?’

  ‘It means you are, heu …’ Bertrand smiled and used his hands expressively to sketch an hourglass figure in the air. ‘Like this. Bien roulée, quoi.’

  Daisy was about to ask what that meant but thought better of it. Clothaire was staring ahead, looking bored. Octave, who was wearing shades, had turned away from the glare of the sun to check the messages on his mobile phone.

  ‘Yes, well, she’s much larger than Agathe,’ Claire concluded drily, taking off her jeans and stepping out of them in a chic one-piece black swimsuit. There was a pause, during which the boys went off towards the blue-and-white stripy tents to get changed.

  ‘Actually, I am jealous of Daisy’s shape,’ Agathe said as Claire and her sister, now both in their swimsuits, sat down next to them. ‘It must be such fun to have really big breasts!’

  ‘They’re not really that big,’ said Daisy, pulling at her triangle top in an effort to cover some of her cleavage. ‘It’s because your swimsuit is a little snug for me.’

  ‘Hmmmmm,’ Claire said from behind her shades. She lay on her stomach and began to flick through Marie Claire.

  There was another pause. The four boys returned in their swimming trunks. They all got down to serious sunbathing. Noticing that Amélie was reading a French translation of the last Harry Potter book, Daisy began to chat to her about it. Luckily she knew all there was to know about Harry Potter, having been forced by Jules, practically at gunpoint, to read all the novels. Amélie was shy initially but was soon asking Daisy, in a soft wistful voice, if she’d gone to a school like Hogwarts.

  ‘Not really. It wasn’t a boarding school. But we did have uniforms.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! I would love an English uniform. Of what colour?’

  ‘It was hideous, really. Brown with orange piping. I hated mine with a passion.’

  ‘Did you really play a game like Quidditch? Without the flying, obviously.’ Amélie was trying hard to be grown-up.

  ‘Well, yes and no … Hockey. And also netball. I used to love the bit where you spin on one leg …’ Daisy said, demonstrating and checking out of the corner of her eye to see if Octave was looking. He wasn’t.

  ‘And then did you go to Cambridge?’ asked Stanislas, looking up at Daisy. ‘I spent a summer there once. It is quite a beautiful place.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Daisy shook her head, laughing.

  ‘So you went to Oxford? That is also good, I think.’

  ‘No! Nothing like that! I went to university in Bangor. I wanted to do media studies, though I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but I thought it sounded cool. But actually I got bored with it, so one day I was in Harvey Nichols – a really great department store in London – and I just got a job there, which was excellent fun for a while. And then there was this girl I knew who was going for a job in fashion PR and then she was like, “Oh, I’m suddenly going to Thailand to travel,” so she went to Thailand and I went to the interview instead. Voilà.’

  Everyone looked astonished at this, except round-faced fifteen-year-old Amélie, who looked dazzled.

  ‘You English!’ Agathe said, looking at Daisy with a brilliant smile. ‘You are so eccentric!’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘I suppose,’ Clothaire said from behind his copy of Le Monde Diplomatique, ‘this proves that the British really are an empirical people. Nothing has changed since the eighteenth century.’

  ‘Are we going to have the discussion about Newton’s apple again?’ said Stanislas. ‘Because I need coffee for that.’

  Daisy looked at Amélie and they exchanged a puzzled shrug.

  ‘Enfin, Clothaire,’ said Agathe, lazily stretching a slim brown arm to lower Clothaire’s newspaper, ‘do not be so rude, please. Not everyone can be as Cartesian as you. You are the most rational man in Paris, everyone knows it.’

  Clothaire smiled at her and went back to his reading. Daisy flicked through the pages of French
Vogue for a moment, then turned to look at the three Pique-Assiettes, who had found a spot next to Claire. Octave was lying on his back with shades on, sunbathing and listening to his iPod. Fine, Daisy thought a little peevishly, if he chooses to ignore me, tant pis! Bertrand and Stanislas, meanwhile, were sitting up and, typically, watching the girls go by. Occasionally, Daisy noticed, one of them would look harder at a passer-by, nod enthusiastically and say something to the other under his breath. This went on for a while, then Bertrand reached for a small notebook and began to write in it.

  ‘Not a bad score this week,’ he told Stanislas in French. ‘But of course you will not be surprised to know who is still in the lead.’

  ‘What are you doing, Bertrand?’ Daisy had walked around to where the Pique-Assiettes were sitting. ‘May I see?’

  Giggling nervously, Bertrand threw the notebook at Stanislas, who caught it deftly in his raised hand and passed it to Octave. Meanwhile Bertrand had stood up to face Daisy. ‘It is nothing. Just a boring game.’

  Now Daisy really was intrigued. ‘You know what I think?’ she asked with a laugh. ‘I think you give girls marks out of ten!’

  At this Octave raised himself on his elbows and looked at Daisy over the top of his shades, smiling slightly. ‘Ah, so that is what you think of us, Daisy? That we are just stupid machos?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Are you?’

  Octave got up and, gently moving Bertrand out of the way, came to stand close to Daisy. ‘I have an idea. A very good idea,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Oh yes?’ Daisy said, holding his gaze.

  ‘Yes. Would you like an ice cream?’

  ‘Oh, can I have one?’ Amélie cried.

  ‘Are you going to Berthillon?’ asked Clothaire without lowering his newspaper. ‘Get me a scoop of the bitter cocoa sorbet. Not the ordinary chocolate, I don’t like that. The bitter cocoa.’

  ‘Banana and strawberry for me, please,’ said Amélie.

  ‘Hmm, Amélie, hello? Remember what the dietician said about sugary things?’ Claire interrupted.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Amélie said, in a crestfallen little voice.

  ‘Nothing for me,’ said Agathe. ‘I’ve got my Evian.’

  ‘I have an apple,’ said Claire.

  Bertrand opened his mouth but Octave stared him down. ‘If only Daisy and I are going, we cannot carry ice creams for everyone. Clothaire, mon pote, you can get your own when you are ready. I am not the replacement for Isabelle.’

  Clothaire looked up furiously. ‘I can’t do everything! I am trying to do some reading!’

  ‘Yes, we are very impressed. Well, you can stop reading when you want your ice cream and walk over the bridge. Frankly, you need the exercise,’ Octave added, smiling at Amélie, who smiled back shyly.

  During this exchange, Daisy had got dressed and begun to walk towards the stairs. After hastily throwing on his jeans and shirt and slipping his bare feet into Italian loafers, Octave caught up with her. He took hold of her hand and she didn’t take it away.

  ‘What did you mean just now when you said you were not the replacement for Isabelle?’

  ‘Clothaire exaggerates sometimes. He can be a real pain in the ass. Isabelle is sweet. And she likes things to be simple. It is simpler to say yes to Clothaire than to have an argument.’

  They now stood in a long queue outside a minuscule ice-cream parlour.

  ‘But Clothaire is very romantic, isn’t he?’

  Octave raised his eyebrows. ‘Clothaire, romantic? Not really. Completely tyrannique, in fact.’

  Daisy was beginning to see Isabelle’s relationship with Clothaire in a different light. ‘So you think that he doesn’t appreciate Isabelle?’

  ‘Well, he appreciates some things. He likes to have a pretty girlfriend. She dresses with elegance and she is a good cook. And she is very intelligent, so when they get married and have dinners, she will be a good hostess.’

  Daisy was shocked. ‘That sounds dreadful! Why is she with him?’

  ‘Good question. Clothaire is quite an interesting guy, but he is so pompous. I think Isabelle is too good for him. But women are strange sometimes.’ Octave smiled at Daisy. ‘You never know what they are thinking.’

  They walked back slowly, eating their ice cream, and stopped on the bridge for a while to look at the river.

  ‘It’s so hot!’ Daisy said, fanning herself ineffectually with her purse.

  ‘If you like,’ Octave said casually, ‘I could blow on the back of your neck. Like this.’

  He lifted her hair up and Daisy felt his cool breath on her skin.

  ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Shall we go back now?’

  ‘OK.’

  They walked down to the beach hand in hand. But instead of turning towards Agathe and the others, Octave led Daisy further down the promenade.

  ‘If you are still too hot, I have just remembered that they have this water thing. Like a kind of fountain. You’ll see.’

  They came upon some amazing giant sprays. Daisy was impressed. The French really did things in style! You waited your turn, then stood in a strategic position and waited for a misty jet of water to start out of the wall. Children, she saw, loved to run right under the water jet and get wet through, while most adults simply cooled their arms or legs. That’s what she would do. She stood at the right distance and waited. The water started. Daisy wet her hands and ran them over her neck and throat. Oh hurrah, how refreshing! She waited patiently and after a brief interval there was another gush of water. As she kicked off her shoes to cool her feet she suddenly felt Octave’s arms around her as he walked her right into the spray, pinned her against the wall and kissed her with surprising force.

  9 Isabelle

  On a rainy September afternoon, Isabelle, wearing her belted mac and carrying Jules’ enormous black umbrella, emerged from Hampstead tube station. After consulting her A to Z one more time, she opened the umbrella and set off confidently in the general direction of the Heath, in search of the squiggly little turns that would lead her to Lucy Goussay’s house. Miss Goussay was the president of the Quince Society and Isabelle was on her way to her first meeting. As she came up to the house, at the far end of a leafy street, she noticed a very muddy Land Rover parked in front of it. How strange. It was hard to imagine an old lady driving such a car. Isabelle checked her watch to make sure that she was neither early nor late, but right on time. Then, walking quickly up the few steps leading to the door while shaking the rain out of her umbrella and closing it – the catch was rather stiff – she suddenly ran into someone who was, just at that moment, coming out of the house. She dropped the umbrella and the other person picked it up.

  ‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t see you. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It is nothing.’

  The stranger, who was wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a brown felt hat over floppy blond hair, also had on one of those green English outdoor coats whose name, Isabelle knew, sounded a bit like Babar – but wasn’t.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush,’ he said. ‘But you’re sure you’re quite all right?’

  Isabelle nodded. Curiously, she saw, he appeared to have three playing cards tucked into the band of his hat. She couldn’t quite tell which they were, although she thought she could see hearts, and also diamonds and clubs.

  ‘Well, goodbye,’ he said, ‘I really have to run.’ He looked at Isabelle in an unfocused sort of way. ‘I hope you have fun at the meeting. They’re all right, really. You’ll see.’

  He handed her the furled umbrella, then headed down the steps towards the Land Rover. Isabelle followed him with her eyes. He was wearing jeans tucked into muddy wellington boots. What a curious person, she thought. Was he, perhaps, a member of the Society? If so, why was he running away just as the meeting was about to begin? It was odd. Keen not to be late, Isabelle put the stranger out of her mind and rang the doorbell. After a moment,
she heard excited chatter inside, and the door was opened by a lady of a certain age wearing dark tinted glasses. Her shortish hair was of a vibrant shade of purple not usually found in nature.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Isabelle said politely. ‘I’m here for the meeting of the Quince Society. My name is Isabelle Papillon.’

  ‘Oh, how marvellous! You’re the French scholar! Do come in!’

  The purple-haired lady seized Isabelle’s arm and pulled her inside. Another, stouter lady, with grey curls and the air of a timid sheep, stood in the hallway. One of them must be her hostess, Miss Goussay, Isabelle thought, as she found herself efficiently divested of coat and umbrella, but which one?

  ‘Hello, my dear,’ said the sheep lady, ‘and welcome! I’m Wendy.’

  ‘And I am Maud,’ said the purple-haired lady in a tone that brooked no contradiction. ‘Come and meet the rest of the gang.’

  They shepherded Isabelle into a room in which a group of people were crowded around a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. Everyone looked up as Isabelle walked in.

  ‘This is Miss Peppy-on,’ said the lady called Maud. ‘You know Fern Goody, I think, from the bookshop.’ (Fern gave Isabelle an enthusiastic little wave and mouthed the word ‘hello’.) ‘And next to her is Peter Holland.’ (A man with a grey beard who had the look of a geography teacher.) ‘This is Selina Dexter.’ (A short rotund lady with a pudding-bowl haircut who was wearing a sort of floor-length poncho.) ‘And her sister Roberta.’ (Similar shape and hairstyle but wearing a green jersey trouser suit and engaged in knitting something complicated involving many different kinds of wool.) ‘Herbert and Emily Merryweather.’ (A beaming couple who bore a strong resemblance to elderly squirrels.) ‘Wendy and me, you’ve met, of course. And this is Lucy, our president.’

  Lucy was a thin, wiry lady with piercing blue eyes and a cloud of fuzzy grey hair that looked alive with static electricity. This was due, Isabelle saw with some dismay, to its entirely natural state. Miss Goussay had obviously decided a long time ago not to waste any more time on hairdressers, conditioner, blow-drying or any such nonsense and to let her hair do its own thing. Isabelle thought briefly of her own mother’s delicately highlighted chignon. Lucy Goussay detached herself from the brown paper parcel and came towards Isabelle.