by Muriel Zagha
‘It can be, I suppose,’ Daisy allowed. ‘It’s a great city, really diverse and full of energy. And working in fashion, there are moments of tension. Savage – the designer I did public relations for – is very edgy, very avant-garde,’ Daisy said, delighted to be using the right French word for once. ‘And everyone goes mad at the time of the shows, you know.’
‘Is that by her, what you’re wearing today?’ Raoul asked, gesturing towards Daisy’s distressed pink lace tank top.
She nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, it is! I love this piece! It’s from the first collection I did the press for, when Savage was just starting out. The whole collection was pink, but not at all girly – quite strange and apocalyptic. It was called “Sugar and Spike”. She was making a point about women in today’s society. So inspired,’ Daisy said fervently. Seeing Raoul’s face break into a wide grin, she checked herself. ‘You think it’s silly.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, leaning forwards and fixing her with his laughing green eyes. ‘I love that you’re so enthusiastic about your job. It’s great. And I think fashion is, you know, crucial,’ he added more seriously. ‘In fact I believe there is nothing more important than making women look beautiful.’
Daisy smiled, basking in the warmth of his interest. On that first date, in case Raoul turned out to be impossible, she had taken the precaution of arranging a meeting with Agathe immediately afterwards in a nearby café. But he wasn’t at all. He was easy to talk to, very laid-back and funny, and really seemed to enjoy life. It was also lovely to have made a new friend who had never heard of Octave. Another cool thing about him was that he actually smoked Gauloises – as a result, his voice, which was incredibly French, also sounded deeply husky.
A few days later they had gone out for sushi. As they were settling the bill Raoul suddenly said, thrillingly, ‘You know, I’d really like to draw you one day. If you like.’
‘Me? That would be brilliant!’
‘I like to draw all my friends. And I think you have a really interesting face.’
It was as a result of that conversation that Daisy had found herself standing in Raoul’s studio that morning. She had turned up at his flat in Les Halles two hours ago, in time for Sunday brunch. In Raoul’s honour, Daisy had gone for a ‘frontier’ look – black shirt tucked into a long gipsy skirt, short denim jacket, red bandana neckerchief and, of course, metallic cowboy boots. Walking out of the lift, she had been guided to the right door by the sound of music. Daisy smiled as she recognised the song. It made sense that Raoul, who was heavily under American influence, should be a Beach Boys fan.
Raoul had opened the door dressed in jeans and a denim shirt and wearing a pair of his customary Texan boots.
‘Hey, Daisy,’ he said, kissing her on the cheeks.
‘Howdy, partner.’
She followed him down a book-lined corridor and into a large modern apartment, entirely painted white. Most of the furniture looked Italian and was upholstered in white leather. A huge 1950s jukebox stood in a corner, playing the last few notes of ‘California Girls’.
‘You like my monster?’ Raoul said proudly, pointing at the massive multicoloured machine. ‘I brought it back from LA.’
‘It’s fab.’
The jukebox started to play Raoul’s next selection, a song by Enrique Iglesias, which was then followed by what turned out to be fun-loving Raoul’s default option – insanely upbeat Brazilian music.
After sitting side by side on red diner stools at the Formica counter of his American-style kitchen to eat scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, Daisy and Raoul flopped down on a vast white leather sofa to drink their coffee.
‘We’ll go into the studio when you’re ready. The light is much better there.’
‘No one’s ever drawn me before,’ Daisy said, suddenly feeling nervous. ‘What happens exactly? Are my clothes OK?’
‘I told you to wear anything you wanted,’ Raoul said reassuringly. ‘It’s real easy. I just need you to stand, I think, not sit, in front of me, just like you are now. And you must try not to move too much.’
In the sun-filled studio Daisy had perched for a good half-hour on a white wooden cube, one arm extended in front of her, pointing with her forefinger at an imaginary object, her other hand resting on her hip. Staring at the opposite wall behind Raoul, she had gradually remembered reading a couple of Tintin and Asterix stories when she was a child. It would be fun to look at stuff like that again.
She now moved away from Barbarella and came to look at another picture of a shapely girl, this one standing in a graveyard in a clinging black dress with a plunging neckline and looking at once alluring and bloodthirsty.
‘That’s Vampirella,’ Raoul said, putting away his pad and pencils on his desk, ‘from a 1970s American comic book. I love her.’
‘A friend of mine is in a band in London, and one of the other girls in the band often dresses like that. They’re goths.’
‘Really? Your friends sound cool.’
‘Raoul,’ Daisy said impulsively, ‘can I see some of your work, please? I’m really interested.’
‘You’re so sweet. Of course I’ll show you some stuff if you want. But I must tell you that it’s quite erotic. You don’t mind that, right?’
‘No! Not at all,’ Daisy said firmly, while inwardly undergoing a panic of nuclear intensity. ‘Quite erotic’? Good grief. What did that mean exactly? How ‘extreme’ was Raoul’s stuff? She sat down rigidly on the sofa, watching him select a few of his books off the shelves and instinctively gathering her gipsy skirt closer around her legs. Oh, come on, get a grip, she told herself, don’t be such a prude! You can do this. Look on it as a test, a turning point in your year in Paris. This is your chance to show that you are just as blithe and nonchalant about sex as the French. It’s going to be fine.
‘Et voilà,’ he said, handing her the books. ‘These are the ones I prefer. You want a Diet Coke or something like that?’
‘Yes, please,’ Daisy said, relieved to see him leave the room. Right. Now then. She glanced nervously at the cover of the first book. A girl dressed as a pirate stood at the helm of a ship. She wore knee-length breeches and a flouncy white shirt. Her long hair, tied back with a black scarf adorned with skull and crossbones, was floating in the wind. Well, that was absolutely fine. The title was La Flibustière – The Buccaneer – which was OK, too. Gingerly, Daisy turned the first few pages. The story was set in the eighteenth century. The heroine was called Caroline and she lived in a château by the sea, somewhere near La Rochelle. Raoul really had a great eye for colour, Daisy thought, taking in the exquisite pinks and blues of Caroline’s dress. So far, so good. She turned another page and scanned the speech bubbles. It seemed that Caroline’s parents had arranged for her to marry somebody she had never met before, as was the practice in those days. How dreadful. But that night, with the help of her maid, Caroline ran away from the château, climbing out of her bedroom window disguised as a boy. Actually, Raoul was right about B.Ds, Daisy thought, turning another page, this was cracking good stuff, as absorbing as any film.
Now the scene had shifted to the harbour in the small hours of the morning and Caroline – who, in all fairness, did not make a very convincing boy – was sailing on a ship on her way to Louisiana. This involved sharing below-deck quarters with a lot of men who adopted her as a sort of urchin mascot, all apparently oblivious to her distracting curves. Now more relaxed, Daisy turned another couple of pages. Oh dear: it looked like Caroline had been summoned to the captain’s cabin. He was rather attractive, Daisy noted in passing. Now he would probably find out that she was travelling under false pretences and then she’d be forced to disembark at the next port of call, or something. Although, hang on a minute, he appeared to be sort of ... taking her to task about it. Caroline didn’t seem to mind too much, though. In fact it looked like she ... Oh, wow.
This was it, Daisy reminded herself, this was the big test. Blithe and nonchalant is how she would remain. She could handle a few saucy drawings and
speech bubbles. Nothing to get het up about. Bracing herself slightly, she turned to the next page. Well, yes. Raoul did have the most amazing talent for the naked female form. Oh, and also for the naked male form, as it turned out. It was all beautifully drawn and somehow very real. Daisy flicked through the next few pages and it became more and more obvious that Raoul, like many of his compatriots, seemed completely unaware of political correctness. Caroline got into all sorts of scrapes. She had to escape again, this time from the captain, who was a little too possessive for her liking. Then, after some adventures in Louisiana – which involved, variously, a plantation owner, his younger brother, a runaway slave, two amazingly hunky soldiers and a short stint in a New Orleans brothel – she took to the sea again, this time as a pirate, captaining a crew that seemed entirely made up of very good-looking (and randy) boys. And they lived happily ever after. The End.
Well, it was certainly a change from Tintin’s adventures, which, from what Daisy remembered, were not big on graphic depictions of sexual pleasure.
Raoul came back into the room, holding two glasses of Diet Coke. ‘So? You like it?’ he asked, sitting next to her.
‘Oh, it’s amazing. I love it.’
‘You have a favourite?’
‘Actually I’ve only had time to look at this one,’ Daisy said, composedly putting La Flibustière down on the sofa next to her. And frankly, she thought, I had no idea you were so incredibly pervy. Aloud she asked, ‘So where do you get your inspiration? For your stories?’
‘Yeah, well, it sort of depends,’ Raoul said, lighting an unfiltered Gauloise, then removing a fragment of tobacco from his lip. ‘I love to do costume stories like this one. Or exotic stuff like this,’ he said, picking up another book entitled La Sultane, on the cover of which a ravishing girl appeared to be doing the Dance of the Seven Veils.
‘Is there a harem in this, by any chance?’
‘Yeah, there is,’ Raoul said, surprised. ‘But I thought you hadn’t read it?’
‘Just a lucky guess. And your next book, the one you’re completing at the moment? You mentioned it was about a girl having surreal adventures.’
‘Yeah, in fact it’s like a ... psychedelic fairy tale. You know Lewis Carroll, right? Well, it’s based on Alice au pays des merveilles.’
‘Alice in Wonderland? Really?’
‘Yeah, but it’s very different. My Alice is much, much older – eighteen, nineteen years old – and it’s set in the 1960s.’
Daisy considered this for a minute. ‘So does she do it with the White Rabbit?’ she asked with genuine curiosity. It was amazing how quickly you got used to discussing this stuff.
‘Oh sure, but in my version, you know, it’s not really a rabbit. It’s a guy dressed up as a rabbit.’
‘Right.’
‘She meets him when she’s totally tripping on acid.’
‘It sounds great,’ Daisy said, repressing a small spasm of laughter. ‘I look forward to reading it.’
‘You’re very sweet,’ Raoul said with a smile. ‘But I also like science fiction,’ he went on. ‘This one, for instance –’ he helding up another book entitled Planète Femme ‘– is about a race of beautiful female aliens who take over the Earth.’
‘By killing everybody?’
‘No, no. By having sex with everybody,’ Raoul said, exhaling a plume of smoke. ‘Their weapon is the orgasm.’ He caught Daisy’s eye and they both burst out laughing. ‘I know, I know. It’s kind of dumb. But you wanted to know what inspires me. You can borrow those two,’ he said, handing her La Sultane and Planète Femme. ‘Keep them as long as you like.’
‘Oh thanks, Raoul. That’s great.’ Daisy looked at her watch. ‘I should go,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be late for my little friend.’
Daisy was meeting Amélie – Claire’s younger sister – at the swimming pool. This was part of a project to help Amélie lose her puppy fat. In place of depressing trips to the dietician, Daisy had been taking her swimming or running with her once a week, after which the French teenager went home with her to spend many happy hours trying on all of Daisy’s clothes and make-up. This approach was yielding encouraging results. Amélie had lost half a stone and was now – much to her older sister’s dismay and Daisy’s amusement – dreaming of becoming a fashion stylist.
17 Isabelle
Isabelle and Tom had been sitting in his car outside Daisy’s house for quite a while. Isabelle had tried to leave several times but some mysterious law of physics appeared to be preventing her from doing so. As it was, she had somehow manoeuvred herself into his lap and they were kissing deeply, occasionally conversing.
‘I should go.’
‘Mmm, yes. Absolutely.’
‘Thank you for dinner.’
‘You’ve already thanked me.’
‘Really? I had a lovely time.’
‘So did I.’
‘I’m going now.’
‘Are you? That’s good.’
‘Tom, if you do that, I can’t get out.’
‘Oh, shall I not do it?’
‘Mmm. OK, just another minute.’
This went on for quite some time, until Isabelle, by a tremendous effort of will, broke through the invisible barrier that was holding her inside Tom’s car. He waited until she had reached her door, then drove off, waving out of the window.
At that moment, without warning, her bubble burst. She felt like she’d just come out of a mad dream. What had she done? Suddenly overcome by a sense of panic, she felt around in her satchel. Where was her blasted key? Eventually she lost patience and rang the bell. Chrissie came to the door in his dressing gown, a sleeping mask embroidered with the words ‘The Bitch Is Sleeping’ perched on his forehead. He beamed at her. ‘Oh, hello, darling! Did you forget your key?’
‘No, I don’t think so. It’s just that ... I can’t find it.’
Isabelle scurried towards the stairs. If she could just get to her room quickly, all would be well.
‘By the way, did you pick up a paper while you were out? Or, even more brilliantly, some milk?’
She stopped in her tracks. ‘No. I ...’
‘You know, you should wear your hair down like this more often: it really suits you,’ Chrissie drawled. Then, suddenly, he switched to intense peering mode. He probably hadn’t got his contact lenses in yet. ‘Hang on a minute. Aren’t these yesterday’s clothes? And, darling, if I may say ...’ he went on slowly, ‘you’re looking a little ... well ... a little sexed-up and crazy.’
‘I don’t know wha–’ Isabelle began uncertainly. Then she started to cry.
Chrissie was aghast. ‘Oh Lord, I’m sorry,’ he said, putting his arms around her. ‘What’s wrong? Tell your Uncle Chrissie.’
Isabelle tried to speak through her tears, but the results were disappointing.
‘No. Didn’t get a word of that. Right.’ He threw his head back. ‘Juuules!’
‘What?’ came the reply from upstairs.
‘Get down here. We have a crisis.’
Later on, sitting on the floor of Chrissie’s room wrapped in his duvet and equipped with a mug of coffee, Isabelle had regained enough of her composure to speak of the previous night’s events.
‘On the kitchen table?’ Chrissie snorted. ‘That is so iconic. I am green with envy.’
‘Chrissie,’ Jules said tonelessly.
‘I don’t know what came over me.’
‘Now, darling, as for that, I think we have a pretty good idea ...’
‘Chrissie, shush. Turn it off for a minute.’
‘Oh, all right. But I can only take so much provocation.’
‘Right,’ Jules said to Isabelle. ‘So, basically, you’ve gone and been a bit wanton. Well, you know, we’ve all been there ...’
‘Especially me!’ Chrissie said, a delighted smile lighting up his pretty face.
Jules stared him down, then turned back to Isabelle. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not the end of the ...’
‘Darling, I beg
of you, don’t keep us in suspense! How was it? Do tell!’
‘Chrissie, I’m going to have to muzzle you.’
‘It was fantastic,’ Isabelle said mournfully.
‘And what about his cooking? Or did you not bother with food, you saucy madam?’
‘No, we ate afterwards. We were very hungry.’ Isabelle paused, then wailed: ‘And it was delicious!’
‘I knew it. You’ve set her off again. Just button it, will you?’
‘You French are so sophisticated,’ Chrissie went on dreamily. ‘With all your gorgeous affaires and things. What a perfectly divine way to live. And you’ve got it right, you know. A lover is the one accessory one absolutely cannot do without. I must get one too, and double plus quick. Two weeks without sex is my absolute limit. After that I get all tetchy and start to lose my glow.’
‘But Chrissie, I do not have affairs!’ Isabelle said, taken aback.
‘Oh, darling, is this your first time? That’s so adorable.’
‘You mean you’ve never cheated on Clothaire before?’ Jules said, a note of utter disbelief struggling to make itself heard through her usual monotone.
‘No, of course not!’ Isabelle said indignantly. ‘I love Clothaire. And we’re going to be married.’
‘Oh, I see. You were planning to take lovers after you were married?’
‘No, Chrissie! I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Honestly, darling, you disappoint me. Not a trace of oh-là-là. It’s enough to make you wonder if you’re really French at all.’
‘Is Clothaire really hot stuff in bed?’ Jules asked, her face impassive.
Isabelle thought for a moment. ‘Well ... You know, with him, it’s like ...’
‘A walk in the park?’ Jules offered.
‘Yes, exactly.’
‘And last night?’
Isabelle closed her eyes and said very fast, without a moment’s hesitation, ‘That was like riding through a thunder storm on the back of a centaur.’
Chrissie’s hands flew to his face and he made a small whimpering sound.
‘Blimey,’ Jules said, almost inaudibly. Then she added: ‘That’s quite gothic, actually.’