by Muriel Zagha
‘You’ll see me, too, of course,’ he said with a touch of impatience.
‘Maybe I could come home for a weekend before then?’ she murmured, not for the first time.
‘No, no, no, no. I really don’t want you to neglect your work,’ he added, lightly patting her bottom. ‘Sureau will be expecting your next chapter.’
Isabelle nodded, then rubbed her face against his coat. ‘Have you got my Christmas present yet?’ she asked, more playfully.
Clothaire hesitated for a second. ‘Well, no, not quite yet. I have been rather busy, you know.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, smoothing down the lapels of his coat. ‘Kiss me again.’
Clothaire did so, holding Isabelle with one hand while reaching behind him for the doorknob with the other. He let go of her, picked up his bag and stepped outside.
‘I’d better go. I want to have plenty of time to get my newspapers for the train.’
‘Have a good trip. I love you.’
‘Mmm? Yes, me too, Isabelle, me too.’
Later, sitting on the train on her way to the library, Isabelle felt a little melancholy. Obviously, she diagnosed, she felt that way because Clothaire had gone. And also because his visit had reminded her what an integral part of her life he was. Clothaire might be a little explosive and once in a while unfair in his behaviour towards her, but he was l’homme de sa vie – the man of her life. She knew that.
When she went home to Paris in the summer, she would be going back to Clothaire for good, and to reality. Although he hadn’t mentioned it in a while, it would probably be the time when they started planning their engagement. They’d have a lovely wedding in Paris, with their families and all their friends in attendance, and Agathe as her chief bridesmaid. By then he’d be settled in his Sciences Po post and on his way to becoming a famous economist. And she’d get a lecturing job at the Sorbonne with Professeur Sureau’s support. And then children would come – a boy and a girl. And she and Clothaire would live together happily ever after. Oddly, she felt her chest contract a little at this prospect.
Don’t dwell on his reticence this morning, she told herself – not for the first time. He was preoccupied, that was all. Reaching into her satchel for her book, Isabelle’s fingers encountered something smooth, rounded and downy – one of the quinces had escaped from its plastic bag. She replaced it carefully with the other one, dug out her copy of Tender is the Night, found her place and began to read.
Once at the library, as she stood in line to check in her coat and umbrella, Isabelle found herself looking at the picture on the far wall. It was an ugly but nonetheless fascinating trompe l’oeil representing rows of bookshelves. She had noticed it before in passing but, put off by its harsh lines and profoundly hideous colour scheme, had never looked at it very closely. Today she walked right up to it, and then moved slowly from left to right, watching the bookshelves ripple and rise out at her in three dimensions. This optical illusion, she saw, was produced by the play of angles and intersecting lines. Quite cleverly done. It also reminded her of something else. Isabelle narrowed her eyes and bit her lip, trying to place the memory.
When she sat down in her usual seat in the Rare Books Room, the answer suddenly hit her. She had returned the shy nod of greeting from the Wolfman and exchanged smiles with the Woman with the Enormous Beehive and Beads. Looking up, she caught sight of ‘Miss Marple’ in her customary tweeds, returning from the delivery desk with a pile of books. That was it, of course. The trick picture downstairs reminded her of the painting of Meredith Quince. It was something to do with the portrait’s distorted perspective: some of the bookshelves around the novelist looked a little wonky, as though struggling for three-dimensionality, as though they wanted to open out. Then Cluedo flashed into her mind and she saw clearly the floor plan on the board and, clearest of all, what had been her favourite part of it when she had played the game as a child: the secret passage.
Isabelle’s mouth became quite dry with excitement. Could it be? Well, why not? It was quite an old house. Was it one of those revolving walls camouflaged with fake books? Or just a door? How did you release it? In films it tended to be by pulling on a candlestick. Isabelle shut her eyes and tried to visualise the room. And if there was a door, what was behind it? A secret room perhaps, or some stairs leading ... where?
And what about Tom Quince – did he know about it or not? Unable to concentrate on her reading, Isabelle leaped to her feet and marched out of the reading room. She had a drink of water from the fountain, and then paced up and down the landing. On impulse, she dialled Lucy Goussay’s number on her mobile phone. It would be very helpful to take another look at the portrait before tonight. But there was nobody home. Well, no matter, in a few hours she would be able to look at the real thing – the actual room in Meredith’s house.
The afternoon dragged on interminably. Isabelle forced herself to read and type a few notes but the results were meagre and incoherent. She would have to reserve her music-hall history books and go over them again tomorrow. When the time finally came to collect her things and she handed the attendant the token for her coat, she turned to look again at the trompe l’oeil picture. Perhaps she had simply stumbled upon another pregnant Quince metaphor. First, ventriloquism, and now this. What better way of imaging Meredith Quince’s literary career: out of sight behind rows of make-believe books – the Lady Violet mysteries – there lay, metaphorically speaking, a secret space where Meredith Quince had put away The Splodge for safekeeping, and there the book had waited to be unearthed, triumphantly, by a dedicated scholar – herself, Isabelle Papillon!
Isabelle walked in the rain towards Meredith’s house in a sort of trance. She was so lost in her thoughts that she was almost surprised to see, in answer to the bell’s summons, Meredith’s great-nephew appear in shirtsleeves and braces, a tea towel flung over his shoulder, his hair in its usual tousled state, on what was now, after all, his own doorstep.
‘Hello! Come in, come in out of the rain,’ he said, pulling Isabelle inside and kissing her on the cheek. ‘Just leave your things up here and come down to the kitchen.’
Isabelle followed him into a room that hadn’t been included in the tour given to the Quince Society. Inside, the walls were painted a wonderful shade of dark blue and there were lighted candles everywhere. The centrepiece was a long lustrous oak table, one end of which was laden with rotund pumpkins and a crate full of apples and pears, like a still life symbolising autumnal plenty.
‘Are these all from your garden?’ Isabelle could see it dimly through the kitchen window. It seemed to go on for miles.
‘Mostly, yes. Which reminds me: did you remember to bring the fruit?’
Isabelle rummaged in her satchel and brought out the quinces. Tom took them from her hands and put them down on a chopping board. Following her nose, Isabelle found her eyes drawn to a number of simmering saucepans.
‘That smells really wonderful.’
‘Well, it’s woodpigeon and some chestnuts and cabbage. And we’re having celeriac mash. And a sort of cranberry thing to go with it. It’s only very simple English cooking, I’m afraid.’
‘You went to a lot of trouble ... just for me.’
Tom smiled, looking down at the fruit. ‘No trouble. We have to eat, after all.’
As he walked to the stove, Isabelle found herself looking with interest at the strong and graceful line of her host’s neck, shoulders and back. He also had long muscular legs, she noticed, and a rather nice ...
‘Do you like smoked salmon?’ he said, turning to face her. Her eyes darted away guiltily.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Good. We’ll start with that, then. Glass of wine?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Tom began to peel and core the fruit with great dexterity. It was essential to bring the conversation around to Meredith Quince as soon as possible. Isabelle cleared her throat. ‘Tom?’
‘Yes?’
‘You know the portrait of Me
redith you donated to the Society?’
‘Yes. Actually, sorry, I could use some help with this if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’
‘Could you pass me that white dish over there, the oval one? Thank you,’ Tom said. He then started rubbing butter into this receptacle and transferred the halved fruit into it. ‘What were you saying?’
‘Did you notice that there is mistletoe in the portrait?’
‘Mistletoe, you say? Really?’ he said, turning around to gaze at Isabelle. He smiled pensively. ‘That is exciting.’
‘Yes,’ Isabelle said, nodding vigorously. ‘I think it’s an allusion to the title of one of her books.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘And there are others. An emerald, a pair of gloves, a piece of lemon, for example.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Yes, I think so, too. Especially because ... Tom, do you know anything about The Splodge?’
‘The what?’
‘Splodge. I think she wrote a book with that title. Have you ever seen it, or heard of it?’
‘N-no, I don’t think so, Isabelle. Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Isabelle said, waving off his apology. ‘I wonder if ... could I have another look at the library?’
‘Certainly, I’ll take you in a moment. But first, can I borrow you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Isabelle, stopped dead in her tracks as she headed towards the door. Manners, she told herself. The library would keep. ‘Yes, of course.’ She joined him in front of the table. ‘What can I do to help?’
Tom walked around Isabelle and reached for a jar of sugar and a spoon, then came to stand beside her.
‘The thing about the quince, you see,’ he said, waving the spoon at her, ‘is that it is a rare and precious thing.’ He pulled the dish of fruit a little closer to the edge of the table. ‘So if you bag a couple – as you have done, thanks to a generous friend – you’re on to a good thing.’
‘I have never tasted one,’ Isabelle admitted sheepishly. ‘I don’t know what they’re like.’
‘No? I’m delighted to hear it. It means I can continue to drone on about them for a while longer. You see, quinces aren’t fast food. I mean that you can’t just pick one and bite into it just like that.’
‘You can’t?’
‘Certainly not. It’s a very hard fruit. And tart. But that’s only because,’ he continued, moving to stand behind Isabelle and placing the spoon in her right hand, ‘it needs a little attention. Before you can eat it, I mean.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
Tom’s own right hand closed over hers and dipped the spoon in the sugar jar. Meanwhile, though he maintained what Isabelle might have called une distance respectueuse behind her, his other hand, she saw, now lay flat and relaxed on the table top, on her other side, close to her waist.
‘Well, basically, what I want you to do is sprinkle masses of sugar over the fruit, like this.’
‘OK.’
‘More.’
‘More than this?’
‘Yes, I know it seems like a lot but they can take it. You’d be surprised.’
Together, their hands sprinkled more sugar. As Tom reached forwards, the distance between their bodies became fractionally less respectueuse.
‘Like this?’
‘Again. Oh, yes. That’s perfect.’
Isabelle let go of the spoon. Her heart was beating extremely fast. Her hand, still covered by her host’s, came to rest on the table next to the dish. A delicious silence descended.
Then Tom said softly, ‘Allow me.’
He picked up the dish, walked across to the oven and slid the quinces in. Isabelle made herself take a couple of breaths, turned around and nonchalantly perched on the edge of the table. She sipped a bit of her wine.
‘So, how long do they take to cook?’
‘You bake them for an hour or so. It’s best not to rush it.’
Isabelle looked down into her glass of wine until she knew that Tom had returned and was standing directly in front of her. Mais allez, vas-y! What are you waiting for, a little voice at the back of her mind asked crossly. Get back to the portrait! Do it now! Isabelle raised her eyes slowly to Tom’s chest. ‘Won’t they be too sweet?’
‘What happens is the sugar becomes one with the fruit. By the end you can’t tell one –’ he moved a little closer ‘– from the other.’
‘Like, um, chemistry?’
‘Exactly. Or alchemy.’
They gazed at each other for a while. Isabelle put her wine down and, reaching up, removed Tom’s glasses.
‘The reason you need so much sugar,’ he resumed, his face naked and serious, ‘is that it softens the fruit. The flesh melts and becomes ... succulent and ... it turns a really beautiful shade of pink.’
Isabelle leaned forwards and rubbed her cheek against Tom’s. Encountering his mouth, she nibbled his lower lip experimentally, to see what would happen. The result was extremely interesting. Tom’s mouth held hers and they began to kiss. Some years ago Isabelle had written a geography essay about the electrification of the Soviet Union in the 1920s. At the time the whole concept of electrification had seemed to her rather abstract, dry and unrewarding. But now – as she pulled Tom closer and slowly wrapped her legs around his – it no longer did. It was all a question of context, she now understood, as the coil of her hair came undone in his hands. Tom was now caressing her body in a way that made her want more than anything to lie down on the table and fling her arms behind her head. So she did just that. She was aware of her shoes being removed and, rapturously, of her underwear travelling down her legs as though it moved of its own volition. Soon after that her host’s warm mouth made its presence felt on the inside of her thigh. ‘Oh, oui ...’ Isabelle whispered under her breath, momentarily forgetting to speak Tom’s language. Meanwhile she pulled his head down with both hands, so that, happily, there was no misunderstanding.
16 Daisy
‘You are tired?’
‘No, I’m OK!’ Daisy said. ‘But I’m getting pins and needles in my arm.’
Raoul frowned. ‘Pins and needles? What is pins and needles? Ah, yeah – des fourmis! Sorry. You are very patient. If you can just hold the pose one more minute. It’s nearly finished, I swear.’
‘Of course!’
‘Et voilà. I’ve got you, I think. You want to see?’
‘Yes, please!’ Daisy said, stepping down from the white cube she had been standing on. Rubbing her arms, she walked across the room to where Raoul was holding up an A3 drawing pad for her inspection.
‘Goodness,’ Daisy said.
‘Oh, come on! Gimme a break! You are not going to say that you don’t like it,’ Raoul said, looking up at her.
‘No, no, I do! I do like it. It’s very – very – flattering.’
‘It’s you.’
‘Well,’ Daisy replied, laughing, ‘it’s me with bigger eyes, much longer legs and, um, a bit more of other things.’
Raoul looked critically from model to drawing and back, then shook his head. ‘Perhaps I exaggerate just a little bit, but it’s you, I think. How you look.’
‘Oh, all right then, if you say so ...’
Faintly embarrassed, Daisy began to walk around the studio, examining the pictures on the walls. There were a few exceptions but it was fair to say that, generally speaking, Raoul appeared far more interested in images of women than in those of men. Earlier, when they were in his kitchen, Daisy had noticed that the fridge was covered in transfers of those pouting 1950s American pin-ups. A similar theme could be detected on the walls of the studio.
‘That one, that’s Barbarella,’ Raoul said as Daisy paused in front of a confused-looking and scantily clad blonde floating upside down in a spaceship. ‘You know?’
‘I think so,’ Daisy said, remembering a beauty editorial in Vogue a few seasons ago about big, ‘bedroom’ hair. ‘There was this amazing film, wasn’t there?’
‘With Jane Fonda when she was totally gorgeous. But before that there was a really great bande dessinée. It’s a total classic.’
Bandes dessinées (B.Ds for short), Daisy now knew, was what the French called comic books. Drawing bandes dessinées was how Raoul made his living, he had told Daisy in the course of their first meeting in a bar in Les Halles. He had fifteen books under his belt and a new story in the making, the one he had mentioned on the bus. Daisy’s notion of what a bande dessinée might actually be like was a little hazy.
‘Is it anything like, well, Batman or Spiderman comics, basically?’ she had asked tentatively.
Raoul had laughed heartily. ‘Spiderman! Ha, ha, ha – stop, you’re killing me!’ He had taken a swig of his Mexican beer, then said, ‘The B.D., it is an art form. In France we call it the ninth art.’
While a perplexed Daisy quietly tried to work out what the other eight arts might be, and most importantly whether fashion counted, Raoul went on: ‘In France we are a very literary nation, you know? So a B.D. tells a story, just like a novel, just like a great film. It’s more than everything going “pow” and “whizz”. The story is crucial. Some guys do just the illustrations and leave the story to a writer. But not me. I am like a total, crazy perfectionist so I write all my own storylines and all the dialogue.’
‘And what’s your next story?’
‘Oh, it’s about a girl,’ Raoul said, smiling at her warmly across the table. ‘My stories are always about a girl.’
‘Always the same girl?’
‘No, no, different ones. I have lots of heroines.’
‘And what happens to this one, your new heroine?’
‘She has some cool adventures. It’s kind of surreal. Difficult to explain just like that. But listen, tell me: what is it like to live in London? It must be kind of extreme, no?’
‘Extreme’ was one of Raoul’s buzz words. Before getting into the comic book world, he had run a couple of nightclubs in Paris and the South of France and done a lot of motorcycle racing, some of it across China. It had all been ‘kind of extreme’.