by Muriel Zagha
‘It’s true.’
Clothaire was completely silenced, a phenomenon Isabelle did not remember ever witnessing before. After a while he said, ‘I am very surprised. But I think I will ... yes, find it in myself to forgive you, in time. When you come back for good, we can put all this behind ...’
Isabelle got to her feet. She felt very light, as though a great weight had fallen off her shoulders. ‘Joyeux Noël, Clothaire. Give my regards to your parents.’
‘But we are going to see them in two days’ time. You can tell them yourself.’
‘I’m not coming. I’m going to stay here and spend time with my family.’
‘My mother will be very surprised by your extraordinary behaviour. You are not yourself, Isabelle.’
‘And afterwards I’m going back to London, as planned.’
‘What? But I thought I made myself clear: I will only take you back on condition that ...’
Isabelle walked to her front door and opened it wide. ‘Think about it, Clothaire, and try to understand. It’s really very simple. Goodbye.’
‘Ah, women! They are all mad, all of them,’ Clothaire muttered, putting his cigarette out with furious energy before storming out.
He disappeared down the stairs without a backwards glance.
26 Daisy
As she stood outside the doors of the Sorbonne amphitheatre waiting for the end of Etienne’s lecture, Daisy found herself going over last night’s version of her now well-established recurring dream. In it, she had been wandering along Boulevard Haussmann outside the big department stores. At this time of year these were still festooned with glamorous Christmas lights – clusters of oversized Chinese lanterns in a delightful shade of hot pink. It was only a couple of weeks ago that, out shopping with Agathe for presents, she had stared up, entranced at their happy glow. At the time it had felt like half of Paris was out on the same cheerful errand, so crowded were the pavements, but in her dream the lanterns swung ghostlike, dark and drab in the night air, and there was no one about.
Daisy took a turn off the empty boulevard and came in sight of the Gare Saint-Lazare, which, equally deserted, looked almost like a cardboard façade behind which lay nothing but thin air. In an instant she was magically transported to the middle of the station’s empty waiting hall. This place, Marie-Laure had once told her, had got the nickname of the salle des pas perdus, the hall of lost footsteps, because so many people paced up and down it while waiting for their train, or for a friend’s arrival – sometimes in vain. Daisy too, pacing alone in the silent hall of lost footsteps, felt that she was waiting anxiously, longingly, for something, expecting something, but what? No trains were announced on the arrivals or departures boards. Perhaps she was too late and had missed ... whatever it was. It – or was it they? – had left without her, and now she would never find them again. She had woken up in tears, her heart beating wildly, Raoul peacefully asleep beside her.
Raoul never had nightmares. He only dreamed about pleasant or ‘extreme’ things. Not that this dream was a nightmare, exactly. It made her sad, yes, but in an odd way Daisy now looked forward to its return when she went to sleep because she hoped, night after night, that it would yield up its meaning to her.
Here too, in the busy corridor outside the lecture halls, people were pacing up and down, waiting for the end of a lecture or the start of another. Today, Daisy and Etienne had arranged to meet at the Faculty before going to lunch. Their topic of discussion for the day was to be, at Etienne’s request, appearance and authenticity in fashion. Daisy had no real idea of what he meant by that, though he had wondered aloud how fashion-conscious people could possibly stay true to themselves. How like an intellectual to get into a tizz about such things! She was very much looking forward to defending the sincerity of fashionistas everywhere.
‘I mean, why should it be,’ she told Marie-Laure, who was standing next to her looking nervous, ‘that just because you put some thought into getting a good look together you’re not expressing your true self? That’s just silly! Why shouldn’t your true self express itself in a silver lamé boob tube and pop socks? Etienne is so clueless still. It’s hilarious.’
She had been about to add: ‘I would love to take him home and give him a complete makeover,’ but stopped herself just in time. In actual fact Daisy couldn’t help feeling that Etienne – perhaps because he was so cerebral, and so reserved – somehow existed on a higher plane than her own. Trying to get him out of his ultra-traditional togs and into edgy fashion would be like ... toppling an idol from its pedestal. He was ... untouchable.
‘Yes, perhaps you are right,’ Marie-Laure replied, straightening her scarf and hair. ‘I think it is almost time. They will be out in a minute.’
Agathe, Claire and Amélie sat on a wooden banquette nearby, chatting and showing rather less agitation than Marie-Laure. They had been having coffee together nearby and, on hearing of Daisy’s appointment, Marie-Laure had suggested, in a burst of daring, that they all accompany her to be introduced to the great Deslisses. Claire and Agathe had agreed more languidly, although Daisy could tell that they, too, were actually rather curious to see him for themselves. Daisy glanced at her watch. It was time: Etienne’s lecture should be drawing to a close. But as she and Marie-Laure turned to look expectantly at the double doors of the lecture hall, another set of doors opened further down the corridor. Another lecture had finished before Etienne’s. A dozen students came straggling out and hurried away, followed, a few moments later, by Clothaire.
Looking around, he caught sight of the group of girls, stood stock-still at first – looking oddly uncomfortable and trapped, Daisy observed – and then made up his mind to approach them.
‘Ah, tiens? Salut. Are you ... waiting for me?’
‘No, not at all,’ Claire said. ‘What an idea!’
‘In fact we have all come to meet the great Deslisses,’ Agathe explained with a brilliant smile. ‘Daisy’s friend.’
Stepping forward to greet Clothaire, Daisy said, ‘Hi! How are you? But in fact,’ she went on, squeezing Marie-Laure’s arm teasingly, ‘it was Marie’s idea. She’s Etienne’s number one fan, you see.’
Marie-Laure glanced at Clothaire and blushed. ‘Oh, stop it, Daisy! I am not his fan. I admire his work, that is all.’
Clothaire stared back with icy disdain. ‘Well, I thought you had better taste. It is ridiculous the fuss everyone makes about that guy.’
Daisy looked from Marie-Laure to Clothaire, uncertain what to say. Clothaire and Isabelle had recently split up, Agathe had said, adding that poor Clothaire was terribly upset. No doubt that was why he was more than usually unpleasant. Although why he should pick on Marie-Laure, Daisy had no idea.
To defuse the tension, she said, ‘Happy New Year, by the way. I thought I’d see you at Marie-Laure’s bash but I couldn’t make it in the end.’
Clothaire looked at her dispassionately and nodded.
‘My boyfriend and I ended up at an all-night salsa party. It was right at the other end of town and we couldn’t get a taxi.’
Clothaire sighed theatrically and turned slightly away from Daisy and towards Marie-Laure.
‘But I’m so sorry I missed your party, Marie,’ Daisy went on. ‘Oh, and there was going to be a surprise, wasn’t there? What was it?’
Marie-Laure opened her mouth to reply, but at that point there suddenly arose, from behind the closed doors of the amphitheatre, the thunderous, exhilarating sound of rapturous applause. Clothaire looked spectacularly cross. The ovation went on for quite some time, then the double doors swung open, letting through a throng of enthusiastic students. Quite a few of them, Daisy noticed, nodded guiltily in Clothaire’s direction, muttering ‘Bonjour, Monsieur,’ as they walked past. Well, what do you know, she thought, academia isn’t a million miles away from the fashion world after all. During Fashion Week, there were those dull shows hardly anyone bothered to attend, and then a few magical, white-hot ones that nobody wanted to miss. In catwalk terms
Etienne’s lectures were clearly front-page and front-row stuff.
Daisy smiled. ‘Wow! That was quite something.’
‘You did not know that his lectures were so popular?’
‘Well, not really. I know you said so, Marie. But he’s never acted like a big famous person or anything.’
‘No,’ Marie-Laure said in awestruck tones, ‘I am sure he doesn’t. Somebody like Deslisses has no vanity at all because he is completely cerebral. He lives the contemplative life. He is like ... a monk.’
‘Really?’ Daisy said, reflecting that this confirmed her own impression. It was true that Etienne seemed to have almost no interest in his own appearance, unlike most men she had known. Nor had he ever volunteered any information about his personal life, while Daisy herself, who did most of the talking when they met, had probably blabbed quite a lot about Raoul. She had never dared ask Etienne very much about himself – his reserve was just too intimidating.
‘I bet lots of his students fancy him,’ Daisy said.
Marie-Laure looked outraged. ‘Oh, but somebody like him would never ... I mean he has so much integrity.’
‘Then you’re in with a chance ... Ow!’ she said laughingly as Marie-Laure elbowed her in the ribs.
‘Well, I am going to go,’ Clothaire said, looking exasperated. ‘I do not have the time to hang around here all day. Alors, salut.’
As he began to move away, Agathe suddenly stood up. ‘Wait! I will come with you.’ And after conveying to Daisy that she was concerned for Clothaire and sorry to leave so soon with the help of a brief, expressive pantomime, she hurried after him.
The crowd of students was thinning out now, and Daisy could see Etienne emerging slowly out of the amphitheatre, talking earnestly with a small band of students whose ecstatic demeanour and starry eyes reminded Daisy of what Chrissie was like when they were out clubbing together. And no, her eyes did not deceive her: Etienne really had a navy-blue duffel coat slung over his shoulder. Daisy was astounded. Had she missed some sort of ironic revival? Spotting her, Etienne excused himself and joined her group.
‘Hi, Etienne! These are my friends: Marie-Laure, Claire and Amélie. They wanted to say hello.’
Etienne smiled at each girl in turn, bowing very slightly, then looked at Daisy.
‘Goodness, Etienne!’ Daisy said, grinning back. ‘I had no idea!’
‘No idea?’
‘Well, all that applause. You’re like a big sodding rock star.’
Marie-Laure, who had been standing on one foot like a child, something she always did when she was intimidated, screwed up her courage to speak. ‘I think Daisy exaggerates. I mean ... what you do is so serious ... so important. You are teaching people how to think, comment penser le réel, en fait.’
Etienne shook his head and smiled. ‘I would not go that far.’
‘But you have taught me so much. The limpidity of your analyses. The elegance of your metaphors!’ Marie-Laure went on, changing feet.
‘Marie has read all your books, Etienne. Every single one.’
‘Thank you very much. I am honoured.’
‘But you see, if Etienne really were a rock star,’ Daisy said teasingly, ‘you could ask him to sign your bra or something. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’
‘Daisy!’
‘I’m only joking.’
Claire, who had not said a word, was beginning to look bored. ‘Daisy, we are going to go.’ She nodded curtly in Etienne’s direction. ‘It is nice to have met you. Bye, Marie.’
‘Wait for me. Goodbye.’ Marie-Laure shook hands with Etienne ceremoniously, then departed with the other two girls.
‘Your friends are charming, Daisy. Shall we go to lunch? Do you like Chinese food?’
‘Love it. I love all food.’
‘There is a nice little place around the corner where I have luckily never run into any colleagues. Then you can tell me all about appearances and truth.’
‘OK. And then you can tell me something ... Does the name Paddington Bear mean anything to you, Etienne?’
‘Paddington? Sorry, what ... a kind of beer? No, not really, in fact.’
‘Yep. I thought not.’
27 Isabelle
‘That is really, really fly. But I think we need the puttees to break the look down. With the lurex apron? Or maybe the jumpsuit underneath? We need to rough it up a bit.’
‘Savage doesn’t want it too pretty. Savage hates pretty. Pretty makes her puke.’
‘Right. Those puttees and maybe also ... a tea cosy on her head or something. Perhaps little fish-face could run and fetch it, hmm? Oi, you, what’s your name again?’
‘Isabelle.’
‘Oh, right. Yeah, get that cosy for me, will you, sweetie? Let’s make it surreal.’
‘Yeah, and Savage wants some per-so-na-li-ty in that coat! OK, darling?’ said Savage.
‘I know, I know, it’s just that her tits are getting in the way.’
‘Can’t she suck them in or something?’
‘That looks lovely, sweetie, but can you just soften the face, hmm? I’m not getting the right vibe for the look.’
Isabelle cleared her throat as she came back into the room. ‘Heu ... I’m sorry – I looked in the accessories cupboard and I don’t think that, er, thing you mentioned is there.’
Savage slowly turned around in her black leather director’s chair to stare at Isabelle through the pink lenses of her enormous sunglasses. She looked like a very glamorous and angry rabbit. She then nodded at Paquita, the stylist standing next to her.
Paquita sighed and gave her many bangles a little shake. ‘Oh yeah, no, it won’t be in the accessories cupboard, sweetie,’ she said with a pitying look. ‘If I were you, I’d try the kitchen, hmm? Chances are you’ll find it sitting on the teapot.’ Then she burst into prolonged high-pitched laughter and, after a moment, so did Savage. They turned away and focused again on the model standing impassively before them.
Walking into the kitchen, Isabelle found Chrissie leaning against the counter, furtively dipping a chocolate biscuit into a cup of tea.
‘Hello, sweetie! Are Dorothy Discipline and her henchwoman on the warpath?’
‘Yes. They’re not very polite today. Chrissie, they want something called a ti, um ... cosi. It sounds Italian?’
Chrissie reached across the kitchen counter for something that looked like a knitted ski hat and twirled it around his forefinger. ‘Easy-peasy. This is the objet in question, darling. I take it it’s to be worn?’ he asked with interest.
‘Yes.’
‘Goodness, Paquita is clever, isn’t she? In a league of her own – or should that be “world”? Here, sweetie, take it to Savage this minute, or she’ll scream the place down, and we can’t have that because Muggins here is feeling a tad fragile this morning.’
Isabelle hurried back into the studio, holding the tea cosy aloft.
‘Ah, there she is,’ Paquita said. ‘About time. Oh wow, Savage! I know what we can do! Let’s get little fish-fa—I mean you, sweetie, have a go, mmm? Go on, you put it on Greta’s head.’
‘Me? Oh, I don’t know ...’
‘Come on, come on – we want it to look fierce, fierce, fierce.’
‘Savage would really like you to try!’ Savage said excitedly.
Kneading the tea cosy with both hands, Isabelle walked up to the expressionless model. She was reminded of being taken to the zoo in the Bois de Vincennes with Camille and Aude when they were all quite small and watching a man climb to the top of a ladder in order to wash a giraffe’s head. But before she had to raise the question of whether a stepladder (or at the very least one or two volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica) would be available, the girl bent her knees and lowered her neck, meekly allowing herself to be crowned with the tea cosy.
‘Oh goody, it fits,’ Paquita said happily. ‘Thank goodness she’s got such a minute little pinhead. No cellulite there, eh, sweetie? That makes a nice change!’
Unsure what to do n
ext, but painfully aware that some mysterious fashion statement was expected of her, Isabelle tweaked the tea cosy this way and that.
Paquita looked at Savage, who nodded slowly several times.
‘Oh, sweetie,’ Paquita said expansively. ‘It’s just gorge! Well, that can be our sample for production, I think, yeah? You can work with that, can’t you, Chrissie?’
‘Definitely,’ said Chrissie, who had come to stand behind them in prudent silence.
‘Savage wants it embroidered with magic mushrooms and blue caterpillars,’ said Savage.
‘Oooh,’ Paquita wailed, ‘that’s so genius!’
What had happened to bring Isabelle into Savage’s orbit was Posy’s abrupt departure in the early days of January. After working under Savage for five years, the diminutive PA had moved on to another job without so much as giving notice, and created a vacancy that needed filling as a matter of urgency. Having noticed that Isabelle seemed listless since her return from Paris – she spent most of her time sitting at the kitchen table staring into space – it had occurred to Chrissie that she might like to replace Posy, at least for a short while. A change of scene would help her get over her break-up with that horrid Clot-(of)-Hair, since she claimed that was the one and only cause of her abstracted mood.
Thus it had been arranged that Isabelle and Chrissie would meet Savage at an opening in one of the designer’s regular hang-outs, a small art gallery in the East End. Surrounded by a clique of oddly dressed people, Chrissie and Isabelle had looked at the exhibit from every angle, but, Isabelle thought with some exasperation, it remained just what it was – dozens of bottles of soy sauce lined up on a none-too-clean tabletop. Although it did not seem polite to say this out loud, since the artist (a very slim and silent young man in a white boiler suit with a challengingly asymmetric haircut) was present, she thought privately that it was no real competition for a single painting by, say, Chardin or Watteau. After an hour of waiting in vain for Savage, Isabelle’s patience was exhausted.