by Muriel Zagha
‘But you’re planning to disgrace Isabelle and ruin her career!’ she parried. ‘Or couldn’t you help that, either?’
Agathe stopped before another set of enormous doors, which were closed. She glanced around and pushed them experimentally. They opened.
‘Let us go in here, it will be more quiet,’ she said.
‘Isabelle’s work is hers,’ Daisy went on earnestly, following her inside. ‘You can’t say it’s yours instead. It’s like stealing another designer’s collection.’
‘Ah, Daisy, always thinking of fashion,’ Agathe said, smiling at her. ‘You see, Professeur Sureau was always talking about how brilliant Isabelle is – it drove me mad. Because actually, Daisy, how do you know that I did not give Isabelle the idea for her thesis in the first place?’
Daisy was silenced. Because, of course, Agathe was right – she did not know this for sure. They were now standing in an empty, less ornate room. The noise from the ball seemed much further away.
‘Have you been to the Opera House before, Daisy?’ Agathe asked conversationally. Daisy shook her head. ‘It really is a remarkable building. Did you know that the ballet school used to be up there, in the rooms under the roof?’ she went on, pointing at the ceiling. ‘There used to be all these petits rats, the little girls training to become ballerinas, in their pink tutus. It was very charming.’
‘Agathe, tell me the truth,’ Daisy said, a little shaken. ‘Did you give Isabelle the idea for her thesis? Yes or no?’
‘Well, we used to talk about Meredith Quince, certainly,’ Agathe said, looking down and biting her lip. ‘I’m trying to remember exactly how much I said to Isabelle, but, you know, when I read her chapters it all seemed really familiar. So I began to wonder about it, and then it did not seem right that she should get all the credit. What do you think, Daisy?’
‘I don’t know,’ Daisy said, frowning.
‘You see?’ Agathe said, with a little shrug.
Daisy looked at her, uncertainty dawning. Perhaps she had misjudged the situation, and yet ...
‘But why don’t you confront Isabelle directly? It seems really mean to go to her supervisor behind her back.’
‘As I have said, you do not know what Isabelle is like. You are going to laugh at me but ... I was afraid.’
‘You, afraid?’
‘Well, yes,’ Agathe said, smiling at Daisy with disarming self-deprecation.
They had now drifted across the empty room and were standing near another, more modest-looking door. Agathe stopped and said conspiratorially, ‘You know, Daisy, I think this might be the way upstairs to where the ballet school was. I have always wanted to see those rooms. I’m sure it’s not really allowed, but shall we try to find them? Will you come with me? Please?’
‘I really don’t have time for this,’ Daisy said, opening her bag to check her mobile. ‘I bet Chrissie and the others have arrived.’
‘Oh, come on, this will only take a minute,’ Agathe said, putting a hand on Daisy’s arm. She took a deep breath and added, ‘And then we will go and talk to Isabelle together. I promise!’
Daisy stared at Agathe. Did she really mean this?
‘Well, that would be the right thing to do,’ she agreed, automatically closing her bag again.
‘Thank you! You have changed my mind,’ Agathe said, laughing a little and squeezing Daisy’s arm. ‘I am sure I will be braver if you are with me.’
She opened the door and they stepped out onto the landing of a narrow wooden staircase. Agathe found a light switch, and then, lifting the hem of her dress, began to walk up. She beckoned to Daisy to follow.
‘This is exciting, isn’t it?’ Agathe said with a giggle. They arrived at the top floor. ‘Now let me see. This way, I think,’ she said, finding another switch and leading Daisy down a corridor. They walked past several sets of French doors beyond which lay mysterious darkened rooms.
‘Are these the rooms you meant?’ Daisy asked, stopping to peer through the panes. She tried a door: it was locked. ‘I don’t think we’ll be able to see very much. Perhaps we should go back.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ Agathe said vaguely. But she kept on walking and Daisy followed her until they got to a steel door bearing a large red sign that read: DANGER – ACCES INTERDIT.
Agathe clasped her hands in excitement. ‘Oh, Daisy, look! I believe this is the door to the roof. Can you imagine how beautiful the view must be from there?’
‘But the sign says ...’ Daisy began.
‘Oh, do not be such a coward,’ Agathe said, laughing lightly. ‘Look, the key is in the lock.’
She unlocked the door and Daisy felt a gust of fresh night air on her face.
Agathe stuck her head out and gasped, ‘Oh! It looks incredible! We are so close to those wonderful statues. We will never get such a chance again.’ She turned around and caught hold of Daisy’s arm. ‘Come on,’ she said.
‘Well, OK,’ Daisy said reluctantly. ‘Just a quick look.’
As she stepped outside, Agathe stepped back, snatching Daisy’s clutch bag from her hand and throwing it down on the corridor floor. ‘You will not need this,’ she hissed, as Daisy stared at her in amazement. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, Daisy,’ she went on, kicking the clutch out of reach, ‘I have something important to do. There is a manuscript in Isabelle’s flat with my name on it, and I don’t want you interfering, OK?’ Upon which she gave Daisy an almighty shove, pushing her further out on to the roof. Daisy instinctively fought back, grabbing hold of Agathe’s hair and pulling hard.
‘Aïe!’ Agathe yowled. ‘Let go!’
For a moment they struggled desperately at the threshold, panting and shrieking, then Daisy felt one of her stiletto heels give way, breaking with a snap. She stumbled back onto the roof, her arms flailing.
‘Et voilà!’ Agathe yelled triumphantly, slamming the door shut and turning the key in the lock. After getting her balance back, Daisy threw herself against the door and banged on it furiously. But it was no use. Agathe had gone.
Amélie was getting worried. She had looked everywhere for Daisy, in vain. Where had her friend disappeared to? She had just seen Agathe walk past, but had not dared approach her. Agathe had never taken her seriously and would just dismiss her like a child. Who could she possibly turn to?
At first Daisy had been brave, even laughing at her own foolishness. How could she have been so silly as to let Agathe lock her out like that? Her French ‘friend’ had not been far wrong when she had said that Daisy was not exactly a bright spark. In fact that had to be the understatement of the century!
Then, while waiting for Agathe to come back – surely she would come back? – Daisy had tortured herself by replaying the film of her Paris life and dwelling on every instance of her own cluelessness. But at the end of the day, she told herself miserably, what had happened to her – two failed romances, a wholly imaginary friendship with Agathe, and, at this very moment, the fact that she was shivering with cold in a torn, crumpled dress and laddered tights – all that was very small beer indeed. No, what was truly terrible was that by letting Agathe get her out of the way like this, she had ruined poor Isabelle’s career for her. Even now Agathe was probably getting her mitts on the manuscript that Isabelle had brought back from London, and tomorrow she would give Professeur Sureau a performance just as sleek and convincing as the one that had got Daisy onto this blasted and very, very cold roof. Meanwhile poor Isabelle must be innocently enjoying herself downstairs, never dreaming that Agathe was lying in wait for her with a fully rigged guillotine, or something to that effect.
Huddling against a cupola, Daisy looked up at the swimming stars and began to weep.
Unsure what to do, Amélie gravitated back towards her sister, who was talking on her mobile phone.
‘It’s Octave,’ Claire whispered to her. ‘They’ll be here in a minute.’
On impulse Amélie held out her hand. ‘I would like to speak to him.’
‘OK,’ Claire said, perplexed
. ‘Octave, Amélie wants a word with you. But hurry up,’ she added, handing her younger sister the phone. ‘I thought you wanted to see the quadrille?’
‘Yes, yes, I will see you there.’
‘As you wish,’ Claire sniffed irritably, before walking away in a rustle of pale-grey chiffon.
‘Allo, Octave?’ Amélie said, as soon as Claire had left.
‘Allo, petite Amélie,’ Octave said kindly. ‘So, you are having fun?’
‘No, not really! Listen, I need some help. I can’t find Daisy anywhere. I am worried that something has happened to her.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Octave said airily. ‘Daisy probably made a new conquest at the ball, that is all.’
‘Please listen to me, Octave!’ Amélie said, close to tears. ‘Agathe and Clothaire are up to something. You must warn Isabelle! Tell her to hide the manuscript she brought back from London, because Agathe wants to steal it!’
‘Agathe wants to steal ... what?’ Octave adopted a more serious tone. ‘Calm down, Amélie, and start again from the beginning.’
Briefly, Amélie recounted the conversation that she and Daisy had overheard.
Octave listened attentively, then said, ‘I understand. Don’t worry. Marie and I are very near Isabelle’s flat now. Bertrand and Stan are with us, and also Gaspard and some of his cataphile friends. That’s a lot of scooters. We’ll pick up Isabelle and her friends and we’ll meet you at the entrance in fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, you keep an eye on Agathe and Clothaire, OK?’
‘Ah, chers amis, here you are at last!’ Octave exclaimed half an hour later in his most urbane and charming voice. ‘Bonsoir!’
Agathe and Clothaire had been standing together watching men in uniforms and girls in red-and-black gowns twirl their way through a quadrille of military precision. They turned around to find themselves greeted by Octave, Marie-Laure, Amélie and Stanislas.
‘Ah, bonsoir,’ Clothaire said with his usual scowl.
‘What a smart dress, Marie. You always look good in midnight blue,’ Agathe said approvingly.‘Is Isabelle with you?’
Marie-Laure nodded, her face set.
Agathe exchanged a significant glance with Clothaire and said, ‘Actually, I’ve just remembered that I left something in my coat downstairs. I’ll see you in a minute.’
As she turned to make her way towards the cloakroom, Stanislas took her arm.
‘Do stay with us for a minute, Agathe,’ he said, with a sardonic smile. ‘We have only just arrived.’
‘With the London gang,’ Octave added, gesturing towards Chrissie, Jules and Tom, who were making their way towards them, preceded by Isabelle in her red dress, looking extremely fierce and determined.
‘Oh, God,’ Clothaire muttered.
‘Check it out, darling: Little Red Riding Hood Goes Kick-Arse!’ Chrissie whispered in Jules’ ear.
Isabelle walked right up to Agathe, who greeted her with a bright,
‘Salut! Ça va?’
‘Ça va, merci,’ Isabelle replied coldly. ‘Where is Daisy?’
‘Hmmmm, I really don’t know,’ Agathe said insouciantly. ‘I imagine she’s dancing somewhere.’
‘Agathe,’ Isabelle said with a dangerous edge to her voice. ‘I haven’t got time for your little games. You can have Clothaire, I really don’t care. You’re welcome to the Sorbonne job if you’re so desperate for it – I’m now planning to stay in England. But you can’t have The Splodge. Am I making myself clear?’
‘How dare you talk about me like that!’ Clothaire cried indignantly.
‘Be quiet,’ Isabelle said without looking at him.
Clothaire spluttered, then was quiet.
Chrissie gave a delighted little whoop. ‘Bravo, darling! What a diva! Look at her, Tom – I swear she’s got more attitude than Attitude magazine.’
Agathe looked put out for a minute, then drew herself up to her full height and, ignoring Clothaire’s increasingly frantic headshakes, said, ‘Well, I might as well tell you that Clothaire and I have been lovers for ages. It started long before he met you and, afterwards, we just continued as before. I knew he’d tire of you eventually.’
‘I did love you, Isabelle,’ Clothaire protested. ‘In a way.’
‘Except you only really love me,’ Agathe said smugly, slipping her arm through his.
‘Ah yes? And what about me?’ cried another, very angry voice. They all turned around. Claire stood there, livid with rage.
‘Not now, Claire, please,’ Clothaire said, looking trapped.
‘And why not now?’ Claire asked, glaring at him. ‘Tell me, does Agathe know about your little London escapade with me?’
‘What – London – escapade?’ Agathe asked in an arctic tone of voice. ‘Clothaire?’
‘Claire!’ Marie-Laure cried, scandalised. ‘If I’d known that’s what you wanted my coat for, I would have said no!’
‘It was just for one week,’ Clothaire said, exasperated. ‘If that.’
‘You are forgetting all those months in Paris before that,’ Claire said mercilessly.
Agathe turned a withering eye on Clothaire, who was dancing from one foot to the other like a very sullen and uncomfortable bear.
‘You are also forgetting,’ Claire went on furiously, ‘what you told me in London – how possessive Agathe was, and that I was the only woman for you.’
Isabelle looked from Claire to Marie-Laure. Both tall, rangy and dark-haired, they did look superficially alike. Now Isabelle understood: it was Claire whom Bella had seen in London with Clothaire – Claire wearing the red coat she’d borrowed from Marie-Laure!
Stanislas patted an ashen-looking Clothaire on the shoulder and said, laughing, ‘Well, good luck, mon vieux.’
‘I am sure that you will think of a way out of this one,’ Octave added, putting his arm round Marie-Laure’s shoulders.
‘Are you all finished?’ Isabelle asked crisply. ‘Very well. Now, take me to Daisy at once.’
For a minute, Agathe tried to hold her gaze. Then she crumpled. ‘She’s on the roof, through there and up the stairs,’ she said, extracting the key from her bag and handing it to Isabelle.
‘I am loving this staircase, darling,’ Chrissie trilled, standing with Daisy at the top of the grand escalier d’honneur. ‘Believe me, if I weren’t wearing some very expensive and virtually irreplaceable bondage trousers from Westwood, I would be skipping up and down it like Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face!’
Daisy smiled, wrapping her pink pashmina more snugly around herself. Having just eaten a lovely hot dinner with her friends in a vast and stunning hall of mirrors, she was beginning to feel much better.
Just at the point when she had seriously begun to worry that her exile on the roof was never going to end, the door had magically swung open, and a small, slender girl dressed in red, with her hair piled up in a fantastic chignon, had stepped out onto the roof: Isabelle! Behind her, Jules and Chrissie emerged, followed by a tall stranger whom Daisy immediately identified as the scrumptious hunk of loveliness, Tom.
Isabelle had held out her hand to help Daisy to her feet. ‘Salut, Daisy,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Oh, hi!’ Daisy had replied, shivering. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for rescuing me.’
‘Thank you for rescuing me!’ Isabelle had said, squeezing her hand. ‘Come on, I will help you. Be careful not to slip.’
It was now close to midnight and dancing was in full swing all over the Opéra. Having checked out the disco, Daisy, Chrissie, Tom, Isabelle and Jules had returned to the grand escalier around which hundreds of people were now waltzing.
‘Say what you like, darlings,’ Chrissie mused, dropping down on a small gilt chair, ‘I say trad is always best when it comes to a ball.’
‘It’s funny you should say that,’ Jules replied tonelessly, sitting down next to him, ‘because I thought you were going to desert us when we looked into the disco just now and they were playing Sister Sledge.’
‘Once disco-damaged
, always disco-damaged, remember? Not a thing I can do about it.’
For a moment, the three friends sat together in companionable silence, gazing out at the glittering ballroom filled with swelling music and whirling couples. Looking through the anonymous crowd, Daisy could make out Octave dancing with Marie-Laure and, just a little further, Stanislas with Amélie. And over there, that flash of red was Isabelle’s dress, swirling as she waltzed rapturously with Tom.
‘Excuse me,’ an attractive male voice said, addressing Daisy. ‘May I have this dance?’
Daisy looked up to see a tall, dark-haired young man in a black uniform with gold buttons – one of the students from the military-college whatsit, presumably – standing before her with a hopeful smile. She smiled back, shaking her head. ‘Oh, thank you. But I can’t waltz.’
‘I can teach you, if you want,’ he said politely.
‘That’s really sweet of you, but no. The other problem is I don’t have any shoes on,’ she said, stretching out her stockinged feet.
‘I promise I will not step on your toes.’
‘Sorry. But thanks!’
After watching him bow regretfully and walk away, Chrissie and Jules turned to stare at Daisy.
‘Darling,’ Chrissie said with great intensity, ‘are you insane? He was gorgeous! Did you see the way he looked at you?’
‘And he had a sword,’ Jules added impassively. ‘Like a knight. Which is quite cool.’
‘I think I need a break from all that stuff,’ Daisy said, taking a sip from her glass of champagne. ‘Look where it got me in the end: absolutely nowhere.’
‘Daisy, my angel,’ Chrissie said, putting his arms around her, ‘have your little chastity interlude but the moment you get back to London, we’re going to find you a grade-A, drop-dead-gorgeous, super-delicious boyfriend, I promise.’
‘Thanks, Chrissie,’ Daisy said, hugging him back.
‘Speaking of which ...’ Chrissie said slowly, suddenly looking fascinated. ‘Who is that?’
Daisy followed the direction of his gaze. All she could see was Bertrand sitting alone on a small gilt sofa, dreamily eating his way through a plate of petits fours.