by Muriel Zagha
‘Lots, as it happens. He’s one of our best customers. He owns pretty much the entire catalogue.’
‘No doubt he’ll be back to buy it all again after tonight. I think the old boy really enjoyed himself there.’
‘Thank you, Jules,’ Isabelle said gratefully. ‘You were great.’
‘Oh, it was nothing,’ Jules said modestly.
‘Not nothing, darling,’ Chrissie said sententiously. ‘It goes to show, boys and girls, what I’ve always believed. An honest day’s work – whether it be spent in furnishing the good people of London with S & M knick-knacks or not is quite immaterial – is always, always rewarded.’
30 Daisy
It was the cake that did it in the end, and really tipped Daisy over the edge. Coming as it did towards the end of a pretty jaw-dropping evening, the cake made everything quite, quite clear, and she had no alternative but to speak out.
The cake in question had been baked specially to mark Raoul’s birthday. Daisy remembered how he’d first begun talking about this important event several weeks ago, discussing various possible ways of celebrating. Should they fly to Rio? Or have a big private party at his favourite club, Les Bains-Douches? Or maybe do both? Then with only three days to spare before the big day, Raoul realised that he had run out of time to plan anything remotely complicated and so decided instead on a simpler, more homely sort of celebration – a dinner party at his flat with Daisy and his closest friends. Afterwards, he would take Daisy to Deauville for the weekend.
Although she had met a few of Raoul’s many friends, Daisy had not yet been introduced to his inner circle, the people he referred to as his ‘family’, and she was curious to see what they were like – a bunch of extrovert machos, as likely as not, and all as obsessed with rugby as he was! The dinner party would also be a welcome distraction from her current state of mind: an overwhelming sense of listlessness that she had never experienced before and was at a loss to understand. This had been accompanied by a considerable increase in the frequency of her recurring dream. It had her wandering the dark, deserted streets of Paris almost every night, looking anxiously for something – or someone – she yearned for very powerfully, but never managed to find. If only she could work out what the dream meant!
When the doorbell rang for the first time on the night of his birthday dinner, Raoul was still shaving, and it was Daisy who answered the door. On the landing, holding a pile of presents wrapped in pink-and-gold paper, a bunch of flowers and a large oven dish covered in foil (for Raoul, who did not believe in wasting time on cooking when he could be enjoying himself, had had the foresight to ask each of his guests to bring a different course), stood two stunning girls. Daisy had a vague impression that she had met them somewhere before.
‘Salut! You are Daisy, yes?’ one of them, a blonde, exclaimed with a big smile. ‘I’m Natacha.’
‘And I’m Stéphanie. On a apporté des lasagnes.’
‘Oh, that’s great! Thank you,’ Daisy said, carrying the dish into the kitchen-diner. The two girls followed and removed their coats. They were both wearing extremely sexy dresses and vertiginous high heels, Daisy noticed. Natacha, the one with blue eyes and a spectacular mane of golden curls, immediately proceeded to set the oven to the right temperature. Meanwhile, Stéphanie, an olive-skinned girl who was wearing a bright-red afro wig and huge gold hoop earrings, opened the fridge which Raoul had packed with magnums of pink champagne. She pulled out a bottle and opened it with a nonchalant swiftness that bespoke many years of practice. Daisy got some glasses from the counter and Stéphanie began to pour the wine.
‘So, Daisy,’ she said, ‘you’re Raoul’s famous petite chérie anglaise!’
‘Santé !’ Natacha said, clinking her glass with Daisy’s. ‘It’s nice to meet you, finally.’
‘Thank you,’ Daisy said, touched by their friendliness. ‘So we haven’t met before?’ she added, tentatively. ‘Because I thought that we had, maybe?’
The doorbell rang again.
‘I’ll get it, baby,’ Raoul called out from his bedroom.
A minute later he came into the kitchen dressed in jeans and a white shirt open to the navel, and forming the central element of a cluster of enthusiastic girls – four more guests had arrived and they were all hugging him, whooping all the while in excited Gallic voices:
‘Ouais! C’est la fête!’
‘On va s’éclater ce soir!’
‘C’est trop!’
‘Wou-hou!’
Natacha and Stéphanie distributed glasses of champagne and Daisy was introduced to another four glamourpusses: Lola, Vanessa, Karine and Nathalie. All were dressed to the nines and smelled wonderful. It was weird, Daisy thought, looking at the new arrivals, because she had a nagging feeling that she might have seen them somewhere before, too. Raoul unwrapped dishes of taboulé, salade au Roquefort, chilli con carne and mousse au chocolat and kissed every cook on the cheek. Lola, who wore a skintight spangly catsuit with thigh-high boots, and Karine, in a draped silver minidress and stilettos, walked over to the jukebox and put some music on. At the first notes of the ‘Macarena’, delighted squeals rose from every corner of Raoul’s living room and all the girls leaped to their feet to form a line, hands on hips, and hop their way through the song’s routine.
Raoul took Daisy by the hand. ‘Come on, let’s go dance.’
‘Oh, I don’t know the steps,’ Daisy said hesitantly.
‘Just follow the others,’ Raoul said, demonstrating by hopping forwards and backwards in time to the music. ‘Sympa, non? They really know how to party, my friends, right? You’re having fun? They’re sweet, no? You like them? Ehhhhh, Macarena!’
‘Oh, yes! They seem really nice,’ Daisy said, surveying the scene as the doorbell rang again.
Shortly afterwards, as she sat on the white leather sofa with Mélodie, Juanita and Patricia, all gorgeous sultry creatures in tiny dresses, wondering whether she might also have met them somewhere before, it occurred to Daisy to ask herself what was keeping all the male guests. Was there an important rugby game on or something?
Raoul emerged from the kitchen arm in arm with Vanessa, who carried off red satin hotpants and a matching boob tube with the easy confidence of the very slim and beautiful.
‘OK, les filles!’ Raoul called out, holding out a saucepan for Vanessa to bang on with a ladle. ‘The food’s ready. Come on, let’s eat!’
Daisy signalled to him to come over and whispered in his ear, ‘Don’t you think we should wait a bit longer for the other guests?’
‘What other guests? No, no, baby, everybody’s here,’ Raoul said, grinning. ‘All my best buddies, yeah! Come on, everybody – feeling hot, hot, hot!’ he sang out, pulling her to her feet and leading a stampede of singing girls into the kitchen. Daisy was staggered: so he had invited no men at all! Raoul really was outrageous!
The girls all climbed, with much giggling and pouting, onto the high diner stools of Raoul’s kitchen counter. Dishes began to circulate and they helped themselves. Daisy, who sat next to Raoul, soon found herself deep in conversation about the Paris fashion scene with Patricia, a friendly model perched on her other side. Across from her, Vanessa and Mélodie were discussing beauty treatments. Next to them, Nathalie, Lola and Juanita were talking about yoga retreat holidays. Natacha was telling Raoul about the songs she was recording for her next album. At the other end of the table, Karine and Stéphanie, both dancers, were talking about their present contracts.
‘So you like it at the Moulin Rouge?’ Karine was asking, delicately sipping her champagne. ‘Are they good guys?’
‘Yes, I get on with all the dancers,’ Stéphanie replied breathily, chewing a small forkful of lasagne. ‘A lot of my friends are in the company. But it doesn’t really compare to the Crazy. You are so lucky to work there.’
Daisy pricked up her ears. The Crazy? Wasn’t that the club Raoul had mentioned to her dad at Christmas, the one where they had the live nude show? Then Karine had to be ...
/> ‘Eh oui, it’s still Froufrou des Jarretelles,’ Karine was saying at that very moment in answer to a question from Vanessa. ‘It’s quite easy to remember and I guess it suits me, right?’ she added with a sexy little shimmy. The other girls applauded, and there were a few cries of ‘Ay, ay, caramba!’
So! Karine used to go out with Raoul, Daisy thought with slight annoyance. Really, he might have warned her that one of his exes was coming tonight! Oh well, she told herself, philosophically, he probably thought that it didn’t matter. After all, he was with her, Daisy, now, and if he’d kept on good terms with Karine, then good for him. Which was when Patricia said, ‘You know, when I was with Raoul, he always used to eat chocolate chip cookies in bed. All those crumbs! They got everywhere. He doesn’t still do that, I hope.’
‘N-no, I don’t ...’ Daisy began to say, startled.
‘That’s nothing!’ Juanita said. ‘When I was with him he had that thing for wearing leather trousers with no underwear!’ She turned to wink at Raoul, who smiled back. ‘I kept telling him: where’s the mystery in that?’
‘Well, I don’t do that any more!’ Raoul said mock-indignantly. ‘No way!’
‘With me,’ Lola said, blowing a ribbon of smoke from her cigarette, ‘it was his love affair with crazy golf. We had to go and play every weekend.’
‘I still like crazy golf,’ Raoul admitted. ‘We can play in Deauville, baby,’ he added, leaning towards Daisy. ‘I’ll teach you.’
As Vanessa, and then Stéphanie launched into their own romantic reminiscences, the truth began to dawn on Daisy. All the members of Raoul’s ‘family’ of ‘best buddies’ were ex-girlfriends, every single one of them.
‘OK, Raoul,’ Mélodie said, tapping her knife against her glass to get everybody’s attention. ‘Are you ready for your special cake?’
‘You bet!’ Raoul said, squeezing Daisy’s hand. He turned to her and said, ‘This is going to blow your mind. Lola is, like, a total artist.’
Lola, who had been putting the last touches to her creation in the kitchen, turned and slowly walked, beaming, towards the counter, onto which she now deposited a large pink and white concoction surrounded by a glowing circle of candles. Like a chorus of sirens, the guests launched into a melodious rendition of ‘Joyeux Anniversaire’ and Raoul blew all his candles out with gusto.
‘Bravo, Raoul! Ouais! Wouh-ouh ! Feeling hot, hot, hot!’ everyone shouted, throwing their napkins into the air.
After that Daisy was able to see the cake in all its glory. Its round base was topped with two perfect mounds of snow-white meringue in the shape of breasts, complete with erect pink sugar nipples. She stared at it, lost for words.
‘Oh,’ she managed. ‘It’s ...’
‘Lola, honey,’ Raoul said solemnly. ‘I mean, wow ... it’s really, really extreme. Thank you. I’m touched.’
Champagne glasses were clinked around and across the table.
‘Hé, Raoul! It’s nice to be entre nous, hein?’ Juanita said. ‘Just our little group.’
‘You know what it reminds me of?’ Stéphanie said, giggling. ‘Planète Femme! It’s just like in your story. Like we have completely taken over the world.’
Raoul roared with amusement. ‘Allez, les filles! But of course nobody could resist a gorgeous alien like you, Stéph!’
Wide-eyed, Daisy looked at Stéphanie. Now she remembered where she had seen her before. Planète Femme! One reason why, perhaps, she had not immediately recognised her as the leader of Raoul’s army of sex-crazed alien invaders was that in real life she did not have bright blue skin. Daisy slowly shifted her gaze to Natacha. Yes. Put her in an eighteenth-century costume and what did you get? Caroline in La Flibustière, of course! As for Nathalie, that was obvious: she was the sultan’s bewitching favourite in La Sultane. And on and on it went, all the way down to Vanessa, who had, Daisy now realised, inspired Raoul’s central character in his most recent oeuvre, the psychedelic sex romp Alice ’69, and must therefore be the girl who had immediately preceded Daisy in his life. And next in line was ... herself, of course.
Daisy remained quiet and subdued during coffee and was so lost in thought that she did not notice Raoul’s perplexed glances. Afterwards, when some of the guests started dancing and others remained in the kitchen making tequila slammers, Daisy took advantage of the party atmosphere to go into Raoul’s bedroom to collect her coat and bag.
‘What’s going on, sugar?’ Raoul said, coming in and closing the door behind him. ‘You are not leaving?’
‘Yes, I am. I’m very tired.’
‘Oh, baby, don’t go! My friends all love you. Don’t you want to stay and hang out with them?’
‘I think your friends are all very nice. But I really have to go.’
‘OK, that’s cool,’ Raoul said easily. ‘So what time do you wanna meet tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’ Daisy asked vaguely.
‘To drive to Deauville. Don’t you remember?’
‘Ah.’ Daisy sat down on Raoul’s bed and looked up at him. ‘Raoul, listen. I know it’s your birthday but I don’t think I want to go away this weekend after all.’
‘No?’ Raoul came to sit next to her, looking concerned. ‘What is it, Daisy? You had too much champagne? You don’t feel so good? Don’t worry, baby, lie down and I will give you my special foot massage.’
‘No, I’m OK, thanks. It’s just that ...’ Daisy stopped. How best to explain what she was feeling? ‘Raoul, are all your stories inspired by ex-girlfriends?’
Raoul grinned. ‘Yeah, they are, a little bit.’
‘I thought so. You know, you might have warned me that all your guests tonight were your exes.’
‘Oh, but that’s not how I think of them any more. We’re all just really good friends.’
‘Well, the thing is,’ Daisy said, looking at him seriously, ‘I think that’s what we are too, you and me: just really good friends.’
Raoul seemed surprised. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I mean ... you know your idea for your next album, with me in it as the 1950s nympho cheerleader?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Tell me, with your other girlfriends, what came first, breaking up or putting them in one of your stories?’
Raoul stared at her in silence.
Daisy shook her head slowly. ‘Well, either way it means it’s over between us, doesn’t it?’
‘But, baby,’ Raoul protested, taking her hand in his, ‘you don’t understand: I love you.’
Daisy sighed and looked at him affectionately. ‘I know you do, Raoul. But the thing is ... you love all women!’
Raoul opened his mouth to protest, then smiled and nodded. ‘Well, er ... yeah, I guess I do.’
Daisy began to laugh. ‘I mean, look at you tonight: you’re the only man allowed on Planet Woman! I think it’s great that you’re happy, but ... the whole thing is ... not right for me. I’m sorry.’
‘OK,’ Raoul said after a minute. ‘You are sure?’
‘I’m really, really sure. And Raoul, about that cheerleader story: just do what you want, OK?’ Daisy said, hugging him. ‘I don’t want to stand in the way of your creative urges.’
Raoul hugged her back and kissed the top of her head. ‘You’re very sweet. So long, Daisy. Take care now. Hasta la vista, baby. See you later, alligator. After a while ...’
Oh, really, Raoul! Daisy thought, and bit her lip to keep from laughing.
31 Isabelle
At first Isabelle had experienced a sinking feeling when, having gone feverishly through the reams of Meredith’s manuscripts, she had found the novels all present and accounted for – except, that is, for The Splodge.
Jules wasted no time in telephoning Paul Celadon in her most severe voice. Celadon apologised, dear madam, but assured her that the missing manuscript was not in his possession. The thing had never actually been published, thank goodness. As far as he knew, there had only ever been one copy and a quick look at it had convinced him, at the time, tha
t it simply would not do. He had advised Meredith to put the worthless piece of drivel in the dustbin. Since then, he had put it entirely out of his mind and, sixty-odd years later, he was very much afraid that he couldn’t remember anything about it. He apologised again, wished Jules a very good day, dear madam, sent Isabelle his compliments, reiterating that the manuscripts were hers to keep, and that was that.
The next morning Isabelle instinctively rang up Lucy Goussay, who, on hearing that dear Meredith’s manuscripts were available for perusal, let out a yelp of delighted excitement and called an emergency meeting of the Society for that very evening. Such enthusiasm was infectious, and Isabelle was much cheered by it. When she later turned up in Hampstead with the manuscripts, carefully packed into her small suitcase on wheels, she was given a heroine’s welcome.
‘You really have done us proud, Izbl,’ Maud said, peering at her over her dark glasses with something like approval.
‘Yes, bravo!’ Lucy barked. ‘Ha, ha! Frightfully plucky of you to stand up to Paul.’
‘My friends helped me,’ Isabelle said, thinking it best not to go into too much lurid detail about the House of Discipline.
‘I’m so glad I invited you to join us on that day you came to the bookshop,’ Fern said, giving Isabelle a warm hug. ‘I just knew that you were one of us.’
‘You have been a tremendous addition to our little group, Mademoiselle,’ Peter Holland said, twinkling at her.
‘Have a fat-free carob biscuit, dear,’ Wendy said, proffering a plate of dark brown discs. ‘They’re a bit overdone, but very slimming. And will you have a cup of nettle tea?’
‘Thank you,’ Isabelle said, a little embarrassed at all this attention. ‘But really it’s you who have all been so kind to me.’
She sat down near Meredith’s portrait and watched as Wendy and Fern unwrapped the reams of paper with great care, arranging them on the coffee table in a dainty fanlike effect. Each of the members then settled happily with the manuscript of their favourite novel and silence descended, only broken by the occasional appreciative grunt.