by Muriel Zagha
Later that evening, looking happily around the huge, square dining room, Daisy basked in the satisfaction of finally being able to enjoy her first proper Parisian date. And it was all down to Raoul. Because even if Octave had, by some miracle, brought her here one evening, Daisy had no doubt that the serious glamour of the turn-of-the-century restaurant – with its dazzling expanse of mirrors and ornate polished woodwork, its chandeliers and its crowd of bon vivant diners intent on gastronomy and conversation – would have presented him with an irresistible challenge to misbehave.
Now Raoul, Daisy thought, looking across at him with approval, was clearly at ease in the context of a buzzing Parisian brasserie. He looked very dashing in a dark-grey suit, though the fact that he was not wearing a tie conspired with his customary stubble and untidy hair to give him a rebellious, slightly disreputable air. Very attractive indeed. Daisy had been impressed by the confidence with which he had commandeered a corner table that gave them a view of the entire room. He had also chosen to sit next to her on the red velvet banquette rather than opposite. This meant sitting very close together. It was rather romantic.
Walking through the humming room with Raoul close behind her, Daisy had felt that her Parisian musical comedy was on again. The restaurant was never still and seemed to be warming up for a big song-and-dance number. Groups of happy diners constantly poured in through the revolving glass doors. Others were being ferried from the bar to their table. Meanwhile the army of waiting staff carried out its own mysterious, dramatic choreography. Daisy commented on the difference in their outfits, so Raoul explained the hierarchy of dinner-jacketed maîtres d’hôtel, white-aproned chefs de rang and younger white-clad commis de salle. A sudden burst of flame not far from their table made Daisy look around with interest.
‘They’re flambéing pancakes in orange liqueur,’ Raoul said. ‘A dessert called crêpes Suzette. It’s very delicate to do this right. You see how it’s the senior guy who does it while the younger waiter watches and learns. It’s a ceremony, an art.’
Raoul had considered opening a restaurant of his own after his stint in clubs, but the hours were not congenial to him.
‘If you want to do it right, there’s only one way. You’ve got to get up at three in the morning to go to the market at Rungis and get all the best fresh stuff. Every day. Can you imagine that? I mean, I can stay up all night, that’s OK.’ He smiled at her pointedly.
‘All right, no need to boast,’ Daisy said, blushing.
‘But getting up before dawn? No way, man. That’s not for me.’
Now feeling pleasantly warmed up by the restaurant’s atmosphere, Daisy removed her pink pashmina and placed it on top of the embroidered vintage clutch bag she had bought last weekend at the Puces de Clignancourt. She was satisfied that her dress – a short black velvet shift – gave her a grown-up French look. But she had been unable to resist wearing her green satin shoes from Anouk’s shop. They were a bit mad – with high, clumpy heels and huge satin bows – but realistically, she thought, there was only so much room for understatement in any outfit. A waiter materialised at their table with two menus.
‘You want some champagne while we decide?’ Raoul asked, his fingers caressing the back of her neck.
Daisy, who never said no to champagne, nodded enthusiastically and opened her menu. Raoul ordered their drinks, then turned his attention to what they would eat.
‘You like fruits de mer? Oysters and stuff, you know? Maybe we can share a platter?’
‘Yes, that’s a lovely idea!’
‘And after ... I always have a steak tartare here but maybe you don’t want everything raw? You’d like fish? The cassolette de saumon? The magret de canard is great, if you like duck. Or the chicken with morels. Really delicate, but the flavours are just extreme. You like wild mushrooms, yeah? It’s such beautiful, classic food. You will love it.’
Tempted by its delicate and extreme flavours, Daisy decided on the chicken with morels. Octave would have found it impossible to sit still with her in this beautiful place for more than about ten minutes, she was certain of it. He’d have devised some elaborate charade to lure her downstairs to the loo for a prolonged snog, trying to unhook her bra through her clothes or some such schoolboy nonsense. That would have seemed a lot more fun to him than simply having a civilised meal in her company. Raoul on the other hand was a proper foodie. He loved fusion and was a complete sushi freak, but he was also incredibly knowledgeable about traditional French cuisine. It would be such a treat, such a privilege to eat out in his company. She was in for a very French experience, there was no doubt about that. Daisy sighed happily and gazed at the other diners, very much looking forward to her gastronomic initiation.
It therefore came as a bit of a surprise to feel Raoul’s hand, which had been lying lightly on top of her knee, make its way rapidly up her skirt and into her knickers with the stunning accuracy of a heat-seeking missile. Daisy raised her menu in front of her face like a fan and glared at him. He was staring straight ahead, looking unconcerned.
‘What are you doing?’ Daisy stage-whispered.
‘Who, me?’ Raoul said, pointing at himself with his free hand with an air of injured innocence. He gave her a wolfish smile. ‘Just checking that you’re comfortable, that’s all.’
‘I’m very comfortable, Raoul, thank you. Now get off ! We’re in a public place.’
‘Yeah, sure we are. It’s fun, huh?’
‘Bonsoir. Vous avez choisi?’
Their waiter, resplendent in formal black and white, stood in front of the table with a notepad. This was too much. Daisy hastily pulled more of the tablecloth over her lap and pressed her starched napkin against her forehead. She made a half-hearted attempt at escape, shifting sideways in her seat. Raoul’s fingers followed implacably, and continued their work with absolute dedication and expertise.
Leaning his other elbow on the table and waving his hand for added emphasis, Raoul explained with excruciating deliberation that they would start with a Sancerre and then, possibly, follow this with a Beaujolais – a Moulin-à-Vent, perhaps, or a Juliénas – something reasonably light but corsé, with some depth of flavour. Now I know I’m in France, Daisy thought wildly, her eyes streaming, as her thighs came closer together to imprison Raoul’s hand. But then again, he went on with careful consideration, might something else be preferable to better complement Madame’s suprême de volaille aux morilles? What did the waiter think? Yes, something with a little more body, perhaps. Now, voyons ... how about a nice Médoc? This went on for quite a while. Meanwhile Daisy’s napkin, which she held with both hands, had relaxed much of the stiffness in its folds. At last the waiter departed. Daisy waited as long as possible before clamping one hand on top of Raoul’s, pointing her toes hard and allowing her back to arch just a little. Then there was nothing for it but to bury her burning face in her napkin and pass the whole thing off as some sort of coughing fit.
When she had finished dabbing her eyes (thank goodness for waterproof mascara) and replaced her napkin in her lap, Raoul’s hand slowly slunk off like a cat burglar in the night. Daisy surreptitiously checked the neighbouring tables. Incredibly, nobody appeared to have called the police. All diners seemed intent on eating, drinking and chattering. Dozens of waiters were weaving their way around the restaurant carrying vertiginous stacks of plates. Looking down at their own table, Daisy noticed that while she had been otherwise engaged a circular metal base had materialised, along with tiny oyster forks, a plate of bread, a small dish of creamy butter and another of pink shallot vinegar. She was particularly delighted to find a very cold glass of champagne in front of her. She picked it up, took a cooling gulp and pressed the glass against her cheek. When she turned to face Raoul, he grinned at her, wholly unrepentant.
‘I don’t believe you!’ she whispered, unable to resist smiling back. ‘You’re a terrible man!’
Slowly, Raoul raised his hand to his mouth and, without taking his eyes from hers, sucked his fingers one
by one. Daisy watched him incredulously. It was hard to know what to say.
‘Well, really!’ she managed eventually, just as the waiter reappeared, carrying a mountainous platter, which he deposited on its metal legs. On a bed of snow-white crushed ice, glistening silver-grey oysters were fanned out next to a bright red curvaceous lobster, its whiskers curling upwards.
That night, asleep in Raoul’s arms, Daisy had a strange dream. Afterwards she wondered if it might have been caused by the fruits de mer. Perhaps a sudden and unusually high intake of zinc was to blame. In the dream Daisy was walking through the empty streets of Paris at night, desperately looking for something. It was not entirely clear whether this was something she had lost or something she had not yet found. It was dark; her heart was beating fast; nobody else was around to help, but she must get hold of whatever she was looking for. It was vitally important.
In the course of the following months this dream would recur many times, with subtle variations, and not necessarily after a large dish of fruits de mer. So perhaps it wasn’t the seafood after all.
21 Isabelle
At the Dungeon, The Coven’s post-gig post-mortem was not going well.
‘Look, you guys,’ Legend said gravely. ‘It’s like we’re not communicating on stage. Maybe some of us are losing sight of their commitment to the band. Anything you’d like to say, Ivy?’
Everybody looked at the drummer, whose face now matched the beetroot shade of her hair.
Legend stared at her challengingly, then shrugged. ‘OK, fine. Well, if you all want to know, in the car on our way home after the last gig, she told me she’d rather work a checkout in a supermarket all her life because it would be more fulfilling than being in the band.’
Ivy stamped her foot – there was a silvery whisper of tiny cymbals.
‘I was just sounding off! You have no idea what it’s like being the drummer. I’m sick of being taken for granted when I’m carrying the whole band!’
Belladonna made an inarticulate sound of outrage.
Legend snorted. ‘One thing’s for sure. It would help if our drummer didn’t play like a dying old man with one arm.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard.’
Seeing Ivy’s green eyes flash with anger and her knuckles tighten purposefully around her drumsticks, Karloff got up to interpose himself between his two bandmates.
‘Right,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m putting my foot down. Stop messing about.’
‘I keep saying we should do more meditation as part of band practice,’ Belladonna interjected. ‘We should all strive to maintain harmony, like a healing sphere of white light.’
‘Ivy, mate,’ Karloff went on doggedly, ‘you’re a great drummer and I won’t have anyone say any different.’
‘Maybe I’ve lost a bit of my edge, lately,’ Ivy said quietly. ‘Things have been frantic at the piercing salon.’
‘And what about your playing, Ledge? Any comments?’ Belladonna asked suddenly.
‘I don’t know, Bella. Do you have any? Go ahead, then. Though, on reflection, I’m not sure you’re the best person to do that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have my doubts about your commitment to the scene.’
‘How dare you?’ Belladonna cried, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘You know I donate some of my earnings to the Bat Conservation Trust.’
‘Oooh yeah, well done,’ Legend said, slow-clapping, ‘but I’m not talking about that. I can’t be the only one who cringes when you put on a Transylvanian accent.’
‘You know I have Rrromanian ancestrrry.’
‘You do not. Your mum and dad are from Milton Keynes.’
‘Well, pardon me for actually doing research into all my past lives. If you bothered to try regression, you too might discover something interesting about yourself. Though, personally, I doubt it.’
‘Ledge has a point,’ Ivy said, smiling. ‘You do live in fantasy land, Bella.’
‘See, me, for instance,’ Legend went on, ‘I dreamed the other night that I eloped with Robert Smith in a golden carriage, but I know it didn’t really happen.’
‘What a cool dream,’ Jules said, with a faraway look in her eyes.
‘Who is Robert Smith?’ Isabelle asked in an undertone.
‘The singer of a band called The Cure,’ Chrissie whispered back. ‘Major-league goth totty. And actually,’ he added meaningfully, ‘he looks not unlike Karloff.’
‘Since we’re being so open,’ Jules said, turning to Karloff. ‘I have a bone to pick with you, Kazza.’
‘Yeah?’ Karloff said, looking both tickled and nervous.
‘I checked out The Coven’s website this morning to see how you’re getting on with it.’
Karloff swallowed.
‘You posted those sepia pictures of us, the ones we took last summer in Highgate Cemetery.’
‘Not the ones of us striking ridiculous dramatic poses on gravestones?’ Belladonna said.
Jules nodded at her. ‘That’s exactly what he did.’
‘But those pictures are kind of nice,’ Ivy said.
‘I love them too,’ Jules admitted. And indeed Isabelle had noticed a few of the photographs in question – including a rather unsettling close-up of a gurning Karloff – on the walls of her bedroom. ‘But I thought we were going to post the other ones. The serious ones where we look dead cool and moody.’
‘Oh, right,’ Karloff said, crestfallen.
‘It’s too late now, the fans will have got completely the wrong idea.’
‘Does it really matter that much, though?’ Ivy asked philosophically. ‘At the end of the day, we’re still goths. We’re scary and mean. It comes with the job title. Check your manual.’
‘You’re one to talk,’ Belladonna said sardonically.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you weren’t always so knowledgeable about the scene.’
Ivy glared at her in silence.
‘I’m referring,’ Belladonna went on inexorably, ‘to your closet love of pink.’
Furious, Ivy looked around her assembled bandmates. ‘When have you ever seen me wear pink? Except perhaps as an accent or in a sarcastic fashion.’
Belladonna pursed her lips, looking at her short black fingernails.
‘That’s now, Ivy. I’m talking about then. Back at school.’
There was an uneasy silence during which they all cast their minds back to their early-teenage selves.
‘Ivy,’ Belladonna said implacably, ‘when I met you you’d never even seen a silent movie. You’d never heard of Nosferatu, even. Your favourite film was Pretty Woman. I had to start your education from scratch.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Ivy said. ‘You had blonde highlights and stonewash jeans with stretch in them. And on the subject of education, I seem to recall I was the one who showed you how to backcomb properly.’
‘You’re just jealous because you’re still a beanpole with no boobs.’
‘ENOUGH!’ Karloff suddenly yelled, turning his gentle voice to maximum volume. ‘Right,’ he murmured, acutely embarrassed now that he had everyone’s attention. ‘I want you all to make up, all right? All this bitching puts me in a right twilight zone.’
‘Sorry, Kazza. Sorry, Ivy.’
‘That’s all right. I’m sorry too. Sorry, Ledge.’
‘I started it. Sorry I was such a bitch.’
‘And I’ll post the good serious pictures on the website when I get home,’ he said in a low voice, without looking directly at Jules, who smiled a little.
‘Glorious drama, isn’t it, darling?’ Chrissie said as he and Isabelle headed home together, leaving The Coven to have another round of drinks before dismantling and packing up their equipment.
‘Do they often argue like that?’
‘Oh, constantly. I personally think it’s how they keep the band together. I mean these people go on tour for weeks sometimes, all cooped up in a minibus, playing at sixth-form colleges and shopping centre
s. In the North,’ he added, lowering his voice to an awed whisper. ‘They wouldn’t be able to hold it together without the odd bout of vitriolic banter.’
‘I thought it was quite sweet, when Karloff said he was going to replace the pictures on the website just to please Jules.’
‘Oh, adorable. But over-subtle, as ever. I’m beginning to think they’ll never get it on – just to spite me.’
The next morning, Isabelle went down early to get some breakfast. She walked into the silent kitchen and put the light on. Then she screamed.
‘Whoa!’ Karloff said, sounding offended. ‘There’s no need for that. It’s just me making some tea, all right?’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry. It’s just that ... I didn’t see you there, in the dark.’
Karloff, in a black T-shirt and black boxer shorts, his hair a jet-black mess, grinned at her. ‘Yeah, I kind of blend into the darkness, don’t I?’
‘Why didn’t you put the light on?’
‘Yeah, that’s, like, because I’ve just put my white contact lens in this eye. You see?’
‘Aaah, yes!’ Isabelle said, reeling back slightly, ‘It’s very ... original.’
‘I like that dead-eye look. Anyway, the light hurts my eye a bit at first when I put it in, so I like to keep things on the dark side first thing in the morning. More gentle, like.’
‘Of course,’ Isabelle said, reflecting on his presence and attire, observing the two mugs of tea he was holding, and drawing a conclusion that made her smile.
Karloff turned bright red. ‘Anyway, right,’ he stammered. ‘Thing is, I’d better take these up. Before they get cold.’
‘Yes. That’s a good idea.’
Isabelle waited for his footsteps to recede up the stairs then made a beeline for Chrissie’s room. Consumed with giggling curiosity, Chrissie and Isabelle nevertheless had to wait a good hour for Karloff to depart before they could interrogate Jules. As she made a dignified entrance into the kitchen, sporting her hairclip, they both whooped with glee.