by Muriel Zagha
‘Well, well, well. And I thought he looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his – Ow! What was that for?’
‘Are you going to see him again?’ Jules said.
‘No. Yes. I don’t know. He said he’d call me tonight. Oh, this is terrible. What am I going to do?’
‘Honey, if ever there was a no-brainer, this is it,’ Chrissie said, his eyes twinkling. ‘Of course you must see him again, for all our sakes. He sounds like a real find.’
‘Yes,’ Jules said coldly, ‘that’s one way of looking at it. But if Legend were here, she’d say that just because someone can make you come that doesn’t make him Jesus. It’s worth thinking about that, too.’
‘You’re right,’ Isabelle said. ‘I’m going to call Clothaire now and tell him everything.’
‘That would, of course, be a brilliant course of action,’ Jules said sardonically, ‘but it’s not at all what I meant. If I were you I would consider the consequences. How do you think Clothaire is likely to react? No offence, but he didn’t strike me as particularly easy-going.’
Isabelle was silent.
‘Look,’ Jules said, ‘you’re blowing this way out of proportion. What you need is to get some sleep. Then you’ll feel like yourself again and you can decide what you want to do.’
Isabelle was beginning to feel better.
‘I’ll go to bed for a bit,’ she said, standing up and divesting herself of Chrissie’s duvet. ‘Thanks for being so nice.’
Three hours later, she awoke to find a message from Clothaire on the phone. He was back. He hoped she was making progress with her research and he would call her at the weekend. Yes, her research, Isabelle thought, hurriedly putting on her dressing gown. She had better get to the library to make the best of the afternoon opening hours. Work would clear her head. It always did. Once she had got dressed and tied her hair back in a neat ponytail, Isabelle thought she was definitely back in control. Travelling to the library, she felt stronger, more solidly anchored in reality. As she made her way to her seat in the Rare Books Room, everything was wonderfully normal. She switched on her laptop. And then, as soon as she opened a file and reread her most recent notes, things began to go haywire.
It was as though – just like that, overnight – her experience of research had undergone a dramatic upheaval. Previously, the name of Quince had been almost an abstract concept to her, or at least a purely literary essence, shorthand for her work, her thesis, her academic status as a narratologist. Now, on the other hand, the mere sight of the name on the page, the mere mention of it in her mind, was enough to conjure up vivid images of Tom Quince completely naked, underscored by memories of some of the intoxicating things he’d said, for example when he ... No, no, stop. Concentrate.
Isabelle shook her head from side to side and squared her shoulders. She was puzzled. This was the very first time that sex had interfered with her intellectual processes. She’d never had that problem with Clothaire, for example. What was happening to her? Last night, it was true, she had been neither sensible nor rational. But then, she thought, remembering the strong pull of his mouth, Tom had been so extremely ... Flushing a little, Isabelle sat up straighter. She crossed her legs in one direction, then the other. It didn’t help at all.
Surely yesterday’s aberrant behaviour, that moment d’égarement, couldn’t have changed her in any lasting way? It couldn’t have rewired her brain, her body? Of course it couldn’t. Bon, reprenons. Isabelle tightened her ponytail and began to type rapidly on her laptop, roughing up a chapter about the pressures exerted by the commercial book market on Meredith’s direction as a writer. In particular there was the issue of Meredith’s agent Paul Celadon’s influence. In his autobiography My Life as a Bookmark, Celadon congratulated himself on having discouraged Meredith from pursuing literary experimentation, persuading her instead to exploit her gift for crowd-pleasing ‘spine-tinglers’. Isabelle paused. What a clever expression that was. Yes, the spine did indeed tingle – sometimes in other contexts than the enjoyment of crime fiction. Chrissie, who had a word for everything, called it having a ring-a-ding-ding. In spite of herself, Isabelle smiled a little.
Anyway ... Could it be that Meredith had set out to outplay Celadon by planting experimental clues in the midst of seemingly conventional novels? In so doing she had been pushing hard against the limitations of the crime genre. Ah yes, Isabelle thought, staring at the screen. Pushing. Hard. Those were such good and evocative words. Not so long ago, she herself had been ... No, no, no. Stop. Stop right now. She took a deep, calming breath. This was, after all, a library and under no circumstances should she allow herself to moan out loud.
Last night had been a sort of dream, that was all. In that dream she had completely forgotten about Meredith, the manuscripts and the possible existence of a secret room. But in truth, even now, none of that seemed very real to her. Other things did. For example, how Tom had gathered her into his arms and carried her upstairs to his bedroom; the voluptuous pressure of his naked body against hers; and, flowing between them, the brilliant crackle of energy that had seemed to light up the room. Looking around at the familiar surroundings of the Rare Books Room, those things seemed wholly incredible. Yet they had happened. But most immediately present to her perception was the taste of the baked fruit Tom had brought to her in bed. She had eaten it in his arms, her back resting against his chest, and with every morsel she had crushed with her tongue, an aromatic, almost alcoholic explosion had suffused her mouth.
But, of course, all that was irrelevant, Isabelle told herself firmly. How natural and unselfconscious it had all seemed to her meant nothing, because it had all been a dream, a disturbing but temporary enchantment of the senses. Nothing more. Now she must consider reality – the orderly life that lay mapped out in front of her and her bond with Clothaire, which was unshakeable. She couldn’t lose all that. On the tannoy a voice announced that the reading rooms would be closing in thirty minutes. Isabelle saved her work, closed the file and switched off her laptop. She would speak to Tom and explain that it had all been a mistake. He would understand.
18 Daisy
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Clothaire said, addressing himself to Daisy directly, something he usually avoided. ‘I have something to ask you.’ He had joined their little group – which also included Agathe, Marie-Laure, Claire and her sister Amélie – for a Sunday lunch in Montparnasse and, after holding forth almost single-handedly throughout, speaking over everybody else as usual, was standing up to leave. Daisy looked up at him, surprised.
‘It’s this university colleague of mine. He lectures in contemporary history, but he’s published a few cultural essays. Anyway, he’s preparing a new book about the sociology of fashion, or is it the mythology of fashion? Something like that. I thought it was not completely impossible that you could be useful to him,’ Clothaire went on, glancing at Daisy and looking utterly unconvinced. ‘So I want to know if you will speak with him.’
Daisy was perplexed. ‘Me? But ... I’m not an academic.’
‘No, to be sure,’ Clothaire said with heavy sarcasm. ‘He doesn’t care about that. He wants to speak to an ordinary person who works in fashion.’
‘Who is your colleague?’ Claire asked.
‘Etienne Deslisses.’
‘Deslisses?’ said Marie-Laure. ‘But he’s famous. I didn’t know you knew him.’
‘Not that famous,’ Clothaire said crossly.
‘He’s not as brilliant as you, perhaps,’ Agathe said, ‘but he is rather clever. His book on intimacy for example, that was really witty and sharp.’
‘Hmmmmm ... I much preferred the one on transgression,’ Claire said coldly. ‘I thought it was more rigorous, less personal.’
This exchange went into one of Daisy’s ears and out of the other.
Then Marie-Laure squeezed her arm and said enthusiastically, ‘You shouldn’t miss an opportunity of meeting a brilliant intellectual like Deslisses while you’re in Paris, Daisy. Personally, I love his
work. It is clever, but also poetic. He’s a marvellous stylist.’
‘Is he really?’ Daisy asked, suddenly interested. ‘He’s a stylist as well as a writer, that’s unusual. I suppose he freelances on the side. Who does he work for mostly? Men’s magazines? Or women’s?’
It was Amélie who eventually broke the silence. ‘Not a fashion stylist, Daisy,’ she said kindly. ‘Marie means that he has great literary style, you know, in his writing.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Daisy said, turning scarlet.
‘Daisy, you’re so funny,’ Agathe said, looking across at Claire, who smiled back. ‘If only I could be there like a little mouse when you meet Deslisses, and listen in to your conversation.’
‘I don’t think he’s such a great stylist,’ Clothaire said jealously. ‘He’s OK. Nothing so extraordinary.’
‘And what is he like, Clothaire?’ Marie-Laure asked. ‘In person?’
‘Oh, I don’t know ... serious, studious, dedicated to his work. The students seem to like him. It’s even a ridiculous sort of cult. It’s true that he is very productive. He never misses a conference. Personally, I find him boring.’
‘You mean he doesn’t show enough interest in your own work?’ Claire said playfully.
‘That’s got nothing to do with it. Don’t be stupid, Claire.’
Clothaire’s friend sounded terrifying, Daisy thought. How to get out of this?
‘So what would I have to do?’ she asked tremulously.
‘Ah, enough with the questions! I don’t know!’ Clothaire said irritably, fastening his coat. ‘Go and talk to him about clothes. You can manage that, no?’
‘Clothaire, don’t be so unpleasant,’ Marie-Laure said.
‘Sorry,’ Clothaire said ungraciously. ‘Anyway, I have to go. Daisy, can he call you, yes or no?’
‘All right, if you like. But I’m really not ...’
‘Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. You can tell him that yourself. It’s not my business any more.’
Etienne Deslisses, who sounded extremely polite and spoke very good English, had rung Daisy the next day and they had arranged to meet a week later in a café on Place de la Sorbonne. In the interests of speedy identification, Daisy mentioned that she would be wearing a bright-pink coat.
When she got to the café, she found almost every table occupied by lone men, all smoking, all drinking coffee and all deeply engrossed in a book. Which was Etienne Deslisses? This one, probably, Daisy thought, noticing a distinguished silver-haired fifty-something who was busy marking his way through a pile of essays. It suddenly crossed her mind that it might have been as well to wear something slightly less frivolous for this meeting. Well, it was too late now and, frankly, if this big-shot intellectual didn’t see the point of a bell-sleeved, dip-dyed minidress in tangerine brocade with matching tights and Mary-Jane shoes, that was his problem, not hers. Daisy could only be herself, after all. As she stood irresolutely near the door, wondering whether to make her presence known to him, someone else, at a corner table next to the bar, looked up and waved in her direction. He rose, putting his cigarette out, as Daisy walked over to his table. They shook hands.
‘Etienne? Hi, I’m Daisy Keen.’
‘Hello. Have a seat. What would you like to drink?’
‘Café crème, please.’
Etienne Deslisses was years younger than Daisy’s mental picture of him. In fact he was probably quite near her own age. He had very dark, almost black eyes and short chestnut hair with a slanting fringe, and was soberly clad in jeans and a navy-blue jumper with a beige tartan scarf, the ends neatly tucked into the loop in that French preppy way. While he ordered, Daisy’s eyes fell on the paperback that lay splayed open on the table in front of him. She moved it around to read the title: Tropic of Cancer, by somebody called Henry Miller. Some kind of travel guide about visiting hot regions, no doubt. At least they could talk about that to begin with, she thought, relieved.
‘So, Etienne, are you planning a holiday?’
‘No, not at the moment. Why?’
Daisy nodded in the direction of his book.
‘I see what you mean,’ Etienne said after a moment. ‘It is the most remarkable travel memoir, isn’t it? I have read it before in translation but the original is so much better, of course. I imagine you think he’s a terrible misogynist,’ he added, offering her a cigarette. ‘Many women do.’
‘Who, me?’ Daisy said, startled. ‘No, not really.’ Better stay neutral on that one. ‘I only asked because I would love a gorgeous holiday in the sun at this time of year. It’s so tempting in this weather to escape to the nearest beach, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Etienne said politely before changing the subject. ‘Daisy, I really want to thank you for agreeing to do this. It’ll be of enormous help to me with this book. I don’t know how much Clothaire has already explained ...’
‘Yes, um ... Listen, Etienne, I’m really not sure I can help you. I don’t even understand what your book is about.’
‘It’s very simple. It’s a study of fashion as semiotics.’
So it was just as she had feared. Daisy stared at the Frenchman helplessly and shrugged. ‘I have no idea what that means.’
‘Don’t worry. Nor do I at this point. But I’m hoping to clarify the concept with your help. It’s a question of definition, first of all. On the one hand, there’s clothing, which is what human beings devised to protect themselves from the weather. And on the other, there’s fashion, which is something quite different. More complicated.’
Biting her lip, Daisy slowly nodded. Actually that didn’t sound too incomprehensible.
‘If fashion didn’t exist, we wouldn’t need more than one outfit each,’ Etienne said, tapping a cigarette out of his packet, ‘at least in theory. So long as it was well made and kept us warm, that would be enough. But that’s not what we do.’
‘No-oo! Thank goodness,’ Daisy said, her head reeling at the thought. ‘That would just be so boring.’
‘I admit that I am very ignorant about fashion,’ Etienne went on earnestly, ‘but I have the impression that it is a sort of language, a code even. Would you agree with that?’
‘Oh, completely!’ Daisy said enthusiastically. She shrugged off her pink coat and draped it on the back of her chair. ‘Fashion is amazingly complicated. That’s why it’s so brilliant.’
Etienne reached into his bag and produced a small digital recorder.
‘Do you mind if I record this?’
‘OK,’ Daisy said, her sense of trepidation returning as she eyed the device. Oh please, don’t let her make a complete fool of herself. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Let’s treat this as a trial session. We’ll talk for a while. Do you have an hour or so? Good. Then, if at the end you feel you are not interested, you don’t need to do any more. D’accord?’
‘D’accord.’
‘Let’s start with ... your coat, for example. What you’re wearing now. Why did you decide to wear those particular things today? What do they mean to you? And where did they come from?’
That was unexpectedly easy. Daisy launched into a detailed history of her outfit, warming to her subject by the minute. There were many ramifications, by way of acid colours and contrasting textures being such a big story this season, echoes of Carnaby Street and Twiggy, the refinements of vintage couture, ambient electronic pop and the perfect Technicolor world of musical comedies. Etienne smoked and listened without interrupting, his face quite serious.
‘The other thing about my pink coat,’ Daisy concluded, her throat a little parched at the end of her long speech, ‘is that when I wear it, things tend to happen. People start funny conversations with me in shops. Complete strangers give me things. I’ve met some really hilarious people that way. It’s a lucky coat, for making friends. But when I wear my blue coat, I get stopped constantly by people asking me for directions. Perhaps it makes me look like a traffic warden.’
‘Fascinating,’ Etienne said, pu
tting his cigarette out. The recorder clicked and blinked. ‘You know, I think the disc is full. Would you like another drink?’
‘A glass of water would be nice.’
‘Yes, you must be exhausted. It was quite a lecture, and without any notes. This is exactly the sort of material I’m looking for. It’s amazing how much detail you carry around in your head – you’re like a walking encyclopaedia.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ Daisy said, delighted. ‘It’s the first time anyone’s called me that!’
‘So do you think it would it be OK to do this again a few more times?’
‘Of course! I’d love to! It was much easier than I thought. I don’t mind telling you now that I was scared stiff on my way here. I’ve never been very good at exams.’
‘This is not in any way an exam. In fact if anyone is the teacher, it’s you. And I should have said so earlier but of course I’ll pay you for your time.’
‘Oh no, don’t be silly,’ Daisy said, laughing.‘Talking about clothes is my favourite thing to do. I don’t need paying.’
She left soon after, having agreed to dispense more of her specialist knowledge on the following Monday, same time, same place. As she walked home, she wondered whether Etienne and his project might perhaps make a good subject for her Sparkle blog. It had been an unexpectedly interesting encounter.
A few weeks later, Daisy again stepped on top of the white cube in Raoul’s studio.
Raoul studied her for a minute, then his face lit up. ‘I think because of how you are dressed today, all in black with the miniskirt and the boots,’ he said, ‘I would like to try something like Chapeau melon et bottes de cuir. You know what I mean?’
Daisy frowned, perplexed. ‘“Bowler hat and leather boots”? What’s that?’
‘Oh, sure you know. It’s an English TV show, very famous. There’s a guy and a girl – they’re detectives. He’s called John Steed and she’s called Madame Peel.’
‘Mrs Peel? Oh, you mean The Avengers!’