by Muriel Zagha
‘Raoul, I think they’re fantastic,’ she’d said, calling to thank him later that morning. ‘I really like all the outfits – very Bardot. But what will your publisher say?’
‘Whaddaya mean, sugar?’
‘What happened to shagging Elvis?’
Laughing, Raoul had explained that he had changed his mind about that, adding that, in any case, the drawings were not for publication but for her to keep, as a souvenir.
‘Ah, un vrai gentleman,’ Anouk said, nodding.
‘Well, I don’t know about that. You haven’t heard the best bit. So then he said, all tender and moody –’ Daisy grinned and put on a sexy Gallic growl ‘– “Ah, I’m gonna need to go to the end of the earth to forget you, baby.” And then he tells me that he’s off to Brazil for a couple of months by the sea! Can you believe it? The rogue! Somehow I don’t think he’ll have any trouble forgetting me when he’s there.’
Anouk giggled indulgently, putting the last diamanté hairgrip in. ‘Voilà! What do you think?’
Daisy smiled at her in the mirror. ‘It’s really lovely. Thanks, Anouk.’
Turning this way and that to make her organza train rustle glamorously, Daisy reflected that it was silly, really, to call any party a ball. The trouble with a ball was that it sounded like something out of a fairy tale. And it was all nonsense, because life was not really like that. And a party, even if it were huge and smart and set in a big gold-and-marble palace-type building, was still basically a party. She had been to a lot of parties and she could totally handle herself at this one. Especially with Jules and Chrissie by her side. So there.
‘I don’t understand,’ Isabelle said for the hundredth time to no one in particular. ‘What information about my research? It sounds really bad!’
‘It’s probably just to do with admin,’ Jules said. ‘Maybe there’s a form you forgot to fill in?’
There had, it was true, been many complicated forms to fill in over the last couple of years, Isabelle thought. Had she made some terrible mistake somewhere? But where? Had she unwittingly committed some sort of perjury?
‘And now it’s Friday night and I will not be able to get hold of him before Monday. It’s just terrible,’ Isabelle said, her head in her hands.
‘Please cheer up, darling,’ Chrissie said kindly. ‘Hey, I know: why don’t you get changed, hmm? You’ll feel so much better in your lovely frock!’
Isabelle looked unseeingly at her dress, then back at her friends, both resplendent in their evening finery. ‘I feel so anxious,’ she said eventually. ‘I would not be good company. But you should go. Daisy is expecting you.’
‘Oh, wait till you see her dress, darling! She had it on when we arrived at Anouk’s. It’s just glorious. You will expire!’
‘She won’t mind if we’re a bit late,’ Jules added more calmly. ‘I’ll give her a call.’
Isabelle looked across at Tom, who stood leaning against her desk, clad in the jeans and polo neck he’d travelled in and holding a cup of tea.
‘I understand how you feel, Isabelle,’ he said, ‘but I think Chrissie’s right.’
‘Do you, your Quincitude? Thank you ever so!’
‘Not at all,’ Tom said, giving Chrissie a quick smile before returning his attention to Isabelle. ‘You’re quite sure that we can’t reach your supervisor before Monday?’
‘Yes, unfortunately.’
‘Then I would say that getting dressed up and going out is the thing to do. You’ll enjoy seeing your friends again.’
It would, of course, be lovely to see Agathe, Claire, Amélie, Octave and the rest of the gang, Isabelle thought wistfully. And, of course, Marie-Laure too, in spite of that lingering suspicion. Oh, but did she really care about all this now?
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Clothaire will probably be there, so ...’
‘No, no, no, no, no, darling!’ Chrissie said, energetically wagging a finger. ‘The Clot-of-Hair is no longer allowed to stop you from having fun. That was then, remember. This,’ he went on, pointing dramatically at Tom, ‘is now!’
Isabelle smiled at Tom, who smiled back and said quietly, ‘Though, of course, if you’d really prefer to stay, you know I’ll do my best to keep you amused.’
‘Oh come on, darling,’ Chrissie said, stamping his feet. ‘Seize the flipping day! Seize it! For me!’
‘Look,’ Jules said, crossing her legs and revealing the sturdy Doc Martens boots that had hitherto been concealed by her velvet gown, ‘you’ve been away from home a long time. You need to show that you’re back in town. It’s a territorial thing – like a cat. Clothaire doesn’t own Paris, does he?’
‘N-no,’ Isabelle admitted.
‘And how long have you been going to this do?’
‘For the last three years, but it was always ...’
‘With all your friends, I know,’ Jules completed with unusual warmth. She squared her shoulders. ‘Well, this year you’re going with us. We’re your friends too. All right?’
Isabelle was beginning to feel better. ‘All right.’
‘I’ll do your hair and make-up for you, sweetie!’ Chrissie said, taking Isabelle’s hands in his. ‘Trust me, I will excel myself!’
Isabelle could not help smiling. ‘As long as you don’t make me look like Savage’s models.’
According to the press release, the make-up for the February show was ‘natural, but also conceptual’, which did not quite capture the profoundly disconcerting effect of the glossy red-and-white horizontal stripes that had been painted over the girls’ faces as they paraded in the designer’s fantastical creations: a corset and oversized puffball skirt covered in tiny squares of mirror; a house-shaped dress with holes for one arm and one leg only; and, walking the line between the sublime and the ridiculous, an inflatable egg-shaped dress out of which the model’s striped face looked out, defiantly glamorous.
‘All right, all right,’ Chrissie admitted as Isabelle raised her eyebrows sardonically, ‘I won’t do anything quite so radical, and I promise that you will look fabulous.’
‘ONE LAST DAB OF ROUGE AND WE’LL BE ON OUR WAY,’ Daisy read on the screen of her mobile phone. Well, today would be nice, she thought, heaving a small sigh. It was typical of Chrissie to be late for everything, even an event where he was supposed to be her escort, or half of it, anyway. The evening had not started well. First the London gang had kept her waiting for half an hour in a bar off the Place de l’Opéra, then Jules had called, arranging to meet inside the venue instead. Outside the Opera House, as Sod’s Law would have it, Daisy had run into the last person she wanted to see: Clothaire, wearing a smart dark overcoat over his dinner jacket.
‘Bonsoir, Daisy,’ he had said coolly, performing his usual trick of letting her kiss his cheek without actually touching her face with his own lips in return. After a moment of awkward silence during which she looked around in vain for another familiar face, Clothaire had eventually glanced at his watch and, putting out his cigarette, said irritably, ‘Look, I do not want to go in on my own. It looks stupid. Shall we go together?’
Charming as ever, Daisy thought.
‘Oh, I would be honoured !’ she replied sarcastically, taking his arm. So that they had made their entrance into the Opera House together in the midst of a chattering crowd of French people in evening dress, and ascended side by side to the top of the monumental grand escalier d’honneur between two rows of solemn Republican guards in uniform.
Seeing Clothaire had automatically reminded Daisy of Etienne – with a bit of a pang, for her meetings with her intellectual friend had now come to an end. They had petered out over the last few weeks until the other day, when Etienne had announced that he had all the material he needed. Daisy had been surprised and not a little disappointed. She had really enjoyed their talks. Etienne had thanked her courteously for all her help and bought her a lovely lunch before saying goodbye. And that had been that. As far as she knew, he was now in the process of writing the thi
ng up. Perhaps she would see it one day in a bookshop and be reminded that she had played a part in bringing it into being.
After everybody had gone into the auditorium to watch the ballet that was part of the evening’s entertainment, Daisy remained outside, leaning on the enormous banister overlooking the staircase to await the arrival of her friends. Looking around, she had to admit that the place was stunning – a riot of red velvet, crystal and marble. But she probably would have enjoyed it quite a lot more if she hadn’t felt so forlorn and out of things.
‘Ça va, Daisy?’ a small voice asked shyly. It was Claire’s sister Amélie, who added: ‘You are looking a bit sad.’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ Daisy said, smiling brightly at her little friend before hugging her. ‘Hi! Are you here with all the others?’
‘With Claire and Agathe. Have you seen Isabelle yet? With her new English boyfriend?’
‘No, not yet. What do you think he’s like?’
‘I don’t know. Nicer than Clothaire, I hope!’
Daisy smiled knowingly, rolling her eyes. Earlier in the day, over a quick cup of tea at Anouk’s, Chrissie had described Isabelle’s new flame as ‘a scrumptious hunk of loveliness’. As for Jules, she had merely said expressionlessly that he was ‘all right’, which, given her systematic tendency to understatement, amounted to the same sort of accolade. Daisy sighed deeply. Isabelle was lucky to be in love with her scrumptious hunk of loveliness. Daisy wished them both well, of course, but all the same it did seem just a bit unfair that nobody appeared to want to love her.
‘Oh, but you are sad!’ Amélie exclaimed, looking worriedly at Daisy’s face. ‘What is wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ Daisy said, bursting into tears. ‘Oh, Amélie, I’m sorry.’
‘No, no. Come on, let’s sit down.’
‘It’s just ...’ Daisy said, then stopped to blow her nose in the handkerchief Amélie had produced from a small reticule. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with me.’
‘But nothing is wrong with you, Daisy. You are really nice.’
‘I know I’m being silly,’ Daisy went on, wiping off fresh tears, ‘but after a while it drives you mad to feel that boys never take you seriously. Nobody ever does, you see –’ she looked into a mirror opposite their banquette and caught sight of herself in her vaporous dress ‘– because they think I’m just ... a bit of fluff. I know they do. And maybe I am. Oh, never mind.’
‘You just haven’t met the right person, that is all. But you will, I am sure of it.’
‘I just feel like it’s all gone a bit ... flat, you know? Coming to Paris was such a big thing for me, and I got so excited about it,’ Daisy continued, shaking her head ruefully. ‘And, for a while, it did feel like my life was really changing. I even thought ... I might actually want to live here. But now the year’s almost over and I haven’t done anything with my time here apart from write a pointless blog for Sparkle.’
‘Daisy, that is not true,’ Amélie said seriously. ‘You have really helped me, for example. You know, you are much more my sister than Claire ever has been.’
It was Amélie’s first ball and she looked adorable in a white-and-gold vintage prom dress they had found together on an expedition to the Puces de Clignancourt.
‘And the year is not over yet,’ Amélie continued, slipping her arm through Daisy’s. ‘You have the whole summer left. Why don’t you come with us to the Ile de Ré? Everybody will be there.’
‘Well, maybe,’ Daisy said, smiling. ‘Come on, I need a bit of fresh air. I think I look a bit ... blotchy.’
As they approached the nearest set of tall, gleaming French windows, Daisy could see the outlines of a man and a woman standing on the monumental balcony, looking out at the city lights. Champagne glass in hand, they were laughing together and looked the epitome of glamour. The man had his arm around the woman’s waist. Daisy sighed – yet another happy couple! She was really beginning to feel like a prize gooseberry! Then the woman’s voice rose, clear and confident, and Daisy and Amélie stopped in their tracks.
‘Do not worry,’ the woman was saying. ‘Isabelle is no match for me. She never was. I thought we always agreed about that.’
‘Of course,’ the man replied. ‘But how can you be sure that it will work?’
Daisy and Amélie looked at each other: it was Agathe and Clothaire!
‘Isabelle will never dare stand up to me,’ Agathe went on dismissively. ‘She is nothing but a little mouse.’
‘I don’t know,’ Clothaire said uneasily, ‘she’s changed. She’s become quite assertive.’
Agathe laughed. ‘We shall see. Surely you agree that it would be a waste for somebody like Isabelle to get the lecturing job at the Sorbonne? I would obviously be much better at it. She might have stumbled upon something interesting by accident, but I am the one who can turn it into a really brilliant piece of work. No, no, Clothaire, Isabelle belongs in a little job in a little provincial school. I think that will suit her much better. And believe me, once I have had my chat with Professeur Sureau tomorrow morning, it will be over for her.’
‘But are you ready for Sureau?’ Clothaire asked, sounding nervous. ‘He is pretty shrewd, you know.’
‘Well, he can cross-examine me as much as he likes. I know everything there is to know about Meredith Quince. Remember, I have all of Isabelle’s files.’
‘Even the preliminary research?’
‘Oh yes! I got hold of that as soon as she left for England. Daisy almost caught me that day in the flat, but she did not suspect anything. She is not exactly a bright spark, is she?’
Clothaire gave a short scornful laugh. At this Amélie made a dash forwards, but Daisy held her back.
‘Go back to your sister,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
Amélie hesitated for a moment, then obeyed.
‘And as you know, I had no trouble helping myself at regular intervals after that,’ Agathe went on complacently. ‘Isabelle likes to email her work to herself for safekeeping. Well, it wasn’t safe from me – I know her password. And now all I need is the manuscript of The Splodge. As soon as she arrives I will slip away and get it from her flat. That should convince Sureau, I think.’ She threw her arms around Clothaire.
They kissed.
‘But her friends in London?’ Clothaire said after a moment’s silence. ‘They might be able to back her up.’
Agathe sneered. ‘Oh please, Clothaire. A bunch of senile eccentrics and a gardener? Do you really think Sureau would take their evidence seriously? Relax, Clothaire. I promise you: nothing can go wrong.’
Daisy took a step forward.
‘Oh yes, it can!’ she cried, trembling with shock and anger. ‘And I promise you that it will.’
‘Hello, Daisy,’ Agathe said, unruffled. ‘What a very ... unusual dress! How long have you ...?’
‘Long enough. I know what you’re up to. Agathe, how could you? You’re supposed to be Isabelle’s friend! And you!’ she went on, turning to look at Clothaire, who shrank a little from her glare. ‘You really are the lowest of the low!’
‘Do not speak to me like that,’ he spat back. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’
‘I will be the judge of that, thank you very much,’ Daisy said, standing her ground.
‘Clothaire, let me speak to Daisy alone,’ Agathe said calmly, gesturing him away. ‘I think it is better if I explain myself to her.’
Clothaire slunk off, glowering.
‘All right, then. Explain away,’ Daisy said.
‘Yes, of course. Come with me, we will walk a little. It will be easier for me to find the words.’
Daisy, struggling to keep her emotions in check, followed her back inside.
Looking entirely self-possessed in her elegant black dress, Agathe looked to right and left, then said, ‘Shall we have a drink at the bar, Daisy?’
‘I’m not in the mood,’ Daisy said shortly. ‘Let’s just have your explanation.’
‘I know what you are thinking,’ Agathe said softly, fixing her clear eyes on Daisy’s. ‘That I am a ... bitch, yes? And I can understand that. But it is not as it seems. You do not know everything.’ So saying, she began to walk off again slowly and Daisy fell into step with her. ‘You have never met Isabelle, I think?’
‘Well, no,’ Daisy admitted. ‘But ...’
‘Oh, I am sure that your English friends told you that she is great,’ Agathe said, smiling a little.
‘Yes, they have, actually!’ Daisy snapped back.
They walked through one, then another dazzling salon adorned with gilt mouldings, antique mirrors and crystal chandeliers. The ballet had finished and the guests were gradually coming out of the auditorium, looking for a pre-dinner drink. Daisy could hear an orchestra downstairs playing an annoyingly romantic waltz.
‘Daisy, you must understand that Isabelle has a lot of charm. She can be very persuasive.’
‘Really? But didn’t I hear you say that she was nothing but a little mouse?’
‘Well,’ Agathe continued, as they made their way through the growing crowd of revellers into yet another magnificent salon, ‘I meant that she can make herself appear more interesting than she really is.’
Daisy looked back over her shoulder, wondering whether Chrissie and Jules might have arrived with Isabelle. But she could always catch up with them later. This was important.
‘You think badly of me, don’t you?’ Agathe said, looking shamefaced. ‘I admit that Clothaire and I have been having an affair for a long time. I know it was wrong, but I could not help myself!’
‘Oh, really?’
‘You see, I love him,’ Agathe said seriously. ‘And I believe we belong together.’
Daisy pondered this. She knew very well how difficult it was to fight romantic impulses. But she musn’t let Agathe get to her.