by Muriel Zagha
‘That’s Bertrand, a friend of Octave’s. But I thought you’d all come together? You must have met him earlier.’
‘Darling, believe me, if I had, I would remember those cheekbones,’ Chrissie said, gazing at Bertrand appreciatively. ‘He must have been the one who had his helmet on when they collected us in their divine motorcycling leathers. And then he vanished mysteriously when we got here.’
‘Yes, that makes sense,’ Daisy said, nodding. ‘Bertrand always makes a beeline for the buffet when he gets to a party.’
Watching Chrissie rise and turn to the mirrored wall to straighten his white tie with quick, practised movements, Daisy said gently, ‘Chrissie, wait. Bertrand is completely straight.’
Chrissie looked at her gravely. ‘Ah, yes, of course he is, darling,’ he said, before throwing his head back and giving a peal of silvery laughter.
Daisy grinned back. Her friend’s instinct had proved pretty unerring in the past.
‘Help me out, Daisy darling. I need something of an opening gambit. What’s the French for dream? La rêve?’
‘It’s le rêve,’ Daisy said automatically. ‘Dreams are masculine in French.’
‘How fitting,’ Chrissie said, his eyes on Bertrand. ‘And a boat is ... le bateau?’
‘Yes,’ Daisy confirmed, giggling.‘But “dreamboat” doesn’t really translate into French. Try saying “Bonsoir” instead.’
‘Right. See you later, angels,’ Chrissie said, gliding away decisively in Bertrand’s direction.
Isabelle and Jules watched him sit down next to the young Pique-Assiette and help himself to a petit four, all the while talking animatedly. Bertrand’s face, Daisy noticed, seemed to light up. Within minutes, the two were laughing together.
‘Chrissie never ceases to amaze me,’ Daisy said. ‘I’ve really missed you two.’
‘Yeah,’ Jules said, clearing her throat and pushing her spectacles to the top of her nose.
Daisy smiled. Her friend was, she knew, profoundly moved and wanted to conceal it. They sat in silence, then: ‘So, Paris: good times or bad times?’ Jules asked tersely.
Daisy closed her eyes: she could see, all jumbled together, her picnics in Isabelle’s little flat, the gleaming window of Anouk’s shop, the beach on the banks of the Seine thronged with glamorous Parisians, Etienne’s face as he listened intently to her fashion musings and the cinema screen at the Catacombs party flashing with the words, ‘Paris Belongs to Us’.
‘Oh, good times! Absolutely!’ she said, opening her eyes again. ‘It’s been a real adventure. I made some great new friends. And I also learned loads about life.’
‘Right. Like what?’
‘Maybe ... that you can’t always have everything,’ Daisy said slowly. ‘And that it’s completely OK. Take it as it comes.’
Wordlessly, Jules slipped her arm through Daisy’s. Daisy smiled at her, leaning against the back of her chair.
‘It’s almost over. Soon I’ll be coming home. And then I can look back on it all and say: “Goodbye, Paris – it’s been nice.”’
THE END
WELL, NOT QUITE ...
Epilogue
Daisy turned away from the wall and stretched drowsily. What time was it? It still felt like the middle of the night. She slowly counted fifty sheep, her eyes closed. Then she opened them again and turned to lie on her back, looking at the ceiling. It seemed unfamiliar, much higher than usual. It took her a minute to work out where she was: Anouk’s loftlike living room, of course. Now she remembered her friends dropping her off after the ball, and how she had collapsed a few minutes later into the sofa bed Anouk had made up for her.
There followed a few blurry flashbacks of the ball, her rooftop adventure and the end of the evening when, stepping out of the Opéra with Jules, she had wondered aloud where Chrissie had disappeared to. Wordlessly, Jules had shown the three breathless text messages Chrissie had sent her in the course of the last hour:
‘SORRY, GIRLS, HAD TO GO. HAVE UNEXPECTEDLY FALLEN IN LOVE. OH GOD, OH GOD. JU-JU, SEE YOU BACK AT HOTEL FOR DEBRIEFING.’
Then: ‘OOPS CHANGE OF PLAN, SWEETIE. CATCH UP WITH YOU TOMORROW INSTEAD.’
And finally: ‘NO, SCRAP THAT. PLEASE ASK LOVELY HOTEL TO HOLD ON TO ONE’S THINGS. WILL COLLECT THEM ASAP BUT ACTUALLY NO NEED FOR ANY CLOTHES WHATSOEVER IN FORESEEABLE F UTURE. MIGHT STAY ON IN PAREE FOR TEENSY BIT. BON VOYAGE TOMORROW, JU-JU! BIG LOVE TO DAZE!’
‘Yeah – he bolted with the dreamboat,’ Jules had concluded.
It was very unlike Chrissie to be so lackadaisical about his beloved clothes, Daisy thought drowsily, to say nothing about his grooming products. Clearly something unusual had happened – something impulsive and romantic. Well, Bertrand was very sweet. Go, Chrissie.
She stretched. Now what time was it? She hadn’t worn her watch last night because it didn’t go with her dress. She needed to find her mobile. She turned her head and looked at the floor. She could just about make out her clutch bag where she had dropped it last night, with most of its contents spilling out – a jumble of keys, purse, lipstick and miniature hairspray. No phone, though. Where could it be? Her coat pocket, maybe?
Daisy rolled over, reached for the chair where she had dropped her clothes and located her pink coat. Drowsily, she flopped back down and felt her way inside the first pocket. To her surprise her fingers encountered an unexpected object. She pulled it out – it was a white envelope. Daisy frowned: where had this come from?
She yawned. There was a reading lamp, somewhere – yes, there. She ripped the envelope open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. She brought it close to her face, peering at it through sleepy eyes. It was in French and began, traditionally enough, with the greeting ‘Chère Daisy’.
‘From the very first time I saw you,’ it went on, ‘I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had found the great love of my life.’
Daisy sat bolt upright in bed. The rest of the letter read:
I am sure you have already guessed how I feel about you, although I’m doing everything I can to conceal it. I think about you constantly. I can’t eat or sleep. I only live for the times when we meet, for those precious moments when I can gaze at your lovely face.
You are the most adorable person I have ever met and I do adore you.
I have never felt this sort of passion for anyone else and I know myself well enough to realise that I am unlikely ever to feel it again. There is no one else for me but you.
Daisy, I have found it much easier to declare myself for the first time in writing. But now, would you allow me to speak to you about this face to face?
Please meet me tomorrow at noon on the Pont des Arts, between the Louvre and the Bibliothèque Mazarine. I very much hope you will be there.
If, however, you choose not to come, I promise I won’t mention any of this again.
Yours,
Etienne
Daisy fell back on her pillows, silently mouthing the words: ‘Oh my God’. Though she’d had a certain amount of experience of men, she had never before received a letter of this kind. Now wide awake, she reread it several times with the sort of extreme attention she usually reserved for reports on the new collections.
It was astonishing, yes, but it was there in black and white. Etienne, who had always seemed so cool and distant, so wrapped up in his work. Etienne, whom she had thought of as utterly out of bounds. Serious Etienne with his long lashes and his rare, flashing smiles. Etienne loved her. He really did.
And she, what did she feel? Well, she ... She felt hot and cold, delighted and terrified all at the same time. And now she became aware of a strong rising tide within her, something that had been there a long time. It was on the tip of her tongue like a memory coming up to the surface but that wouldn’t reveal itself to her. What was it? What did it mean? Was it possible that she could ... that she did, in fact, love Etienne? There was only one way to find out for sure. She would, of course, go and meet him later on the bridge. They would talk it over. Oh, what
to wear for such an occasion, she wondered, spreading her hair all over the pillow. She would go shopping later this morning and buy something especially pretty, something irresistible. Shifting around in the bed to put her feet against the back of the sofa, she began to read Etienne’s letter once more, letting every word sink in.
It was then that she noticed the date at the top of the page. February the fourteenth. That was Valentine’s Day, of course. The most romantic date of the year, how lovely ... Hang on a minute! What? No, it couldn’t be, because on Valentine’s Day, Daisy clearly remembered, she had gone out to dinner with Raoul to a mega-trendy new Chinese place. And that had been ... seven weeks ago!
She sat up again and thought hard. Her pink coat! She hadn’t worn it for quite a while. In fact the last time had been ... yes, Valentine’s Day. On that day she had met Etienne in the afternoon before going out with Raoul in the evening. Now she understood! Etienne had decided to tell her that he loved her by means of a handwritten letter. But he had not dared to give her the letter directly, so he had slipped it into her coat pocket, thinking that she would find it when she got home. But she hadn’t. She’d never been terribly methodical about emptying her pockets, for one thing. And then, she remembered, there had been a spell of exceptionally warm weather, and she had gone out without a coat for ages.
And meanwhile ... Oh, meanwhile, Etienne had waited for her in vain on the Pont des Arts, all those weeks ago! And since then ... well, that bit was even worse, Daisy thought, clutching her forehead. He and Daisy had carried on meeting to talk about his research – and she, of course, had not known. Vaguely registering that Etienne was a little withdrawn, she had chattered away and made silly jokes just as she had before. He must have thought her so cruel and unfeeling, so cold-hearted – a real monster. Now she remembered the dark circles she had noticed under his eyes. And there had been occasions when it looked like he hadn’t even shaved, when he was usually so immaculately turned out. She had put that down to hard work making him cranky. But it hadn’t been crankiness. It had been sadness, perhaps even despair.
She swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed in her nightshirt. She would call him. That was the thing to do. She located her mobile in her other coat pocket: it was half past five. Never mind. She searched for his number, her heart thumping. There were four, five, six, seven rings, then an electronic voice informed her in French that the person she was trying to call was not available. The tone sounded and she jumped.
‘Oh! Um, hello, Etienne, it’s Daisy. Hi! It’s very early and I’m very sorry to be disturbing you. Though I’m not really disturbing you, obviously, because you’re not picking up. Which is fine. In fact it’s brilliant that you’re asleep. But, um, I wanted to speak to you as soon as possible because ...’
Because what? I only just got your letter from two months ago because I live in a slightly slower parallel universe?
Daisy dithered, then resumed in a panic: ‘Um, er, I think it would be best if we met, actually. I mean, I know you’re busy with the book, but ... Call me as soon as you get this. OK, bye,’ she finished breathlessly.
Now she’d have to wait for Etienne to wake up, check his messages and get in touch. There was no other way. Or ... she could just go and see him. Now, immediately. Why the hell not? No faffing – just put a coat on and go! After all, she knew where he lived. If this wasn’t an emergency, what was? Daisy stood up and, for the first time since the age of eight – when she had first started selecting her own clothes from the Next catalogue – did not give any thought to her outfit. She threw on her coat over her nightshirt. Over there was one of the battered pink plimsolls she’d worn yesterday before getting changed for the ball. It took her barely a minute to locate its partner behind the sofa. After tying her pashmina around her neck, she scribbled a note for Anouk, grabbed her clutch bag and went out into the street.
Anouk lived in a tiny street in the Marais. Daisy had hoped to find a taxi outside, but there weren’t any, so she headed straight for the Rue de Rivoli, and beyond it, the river. It was still dark and the streets were quiet, but there were already signs that Paris was waking up: dustbin collectors out on patrol in their green lorries and bundles of today’s papers being dropped outside news kiosks. Daisy walked on. This must be what it was like to be a homing pigeon. A few minutes after crossing the bridge, she emerged onto the Rue des Ecoles.
One of the very few personal facts she knew about Etienne was that he rented a chambre de bonne – a tiny studio flat – which he claimed was the smallest in all of Paris. This was a temporary arrangement while his own apartment was being refurbished.
Daisy turned into the Rue Monge and suddenly, there it was, the Place Cardinal-Lemoine, with all its shops still closed and their iron curtains pulled down. Etienne lived on a street just off the square, the Rue des Boulangers. Hooray: here it was, right in front of her. Having located Etienne’s building, Daisy stood outside the porte cochère, staring in frustration at the impenetrable panel of letters and numbers that guarded the door. The building could only be accessed by dialling the right electronic door code. Daisy did not know the code and there was no way of guessing it. It was now almost six o’clock. Should she try his phone again? Or come back later? She was beginning to walk away when the door suddenly opened wide, as though in answer to her desire. An old lady emerged with a chic little dog on a leash – a brown terrier wearing a tiny red tartan coat – and held the door open for Daisy, who thanked her and stepped inside.
Only one staircase and no lift. Grateful for the months of training she had had in Isabelle’s building, Daisy bounded up the stairs to the top of the house. There were seven doors, but the name of Etienne Deslisses was clearly written above one of the bells. She pinched her cheeks and shook her hair out, and then, before scaring herself by thinking too much about what she was doing, rang the bell. There was silence on the other side. She rang again, twice, and then once more for good luck. This time she heard a bit of a commotion, as Etienne presumably jumped out of his skin prior to falling out of bed.
‘Oui?’ he said behind the door, sounding none too pleased.
‘Etienne, it’s Daisy.’
A full minute’s silence greeted this announcement. Then Daisy heard him moving about – throwing some clothes on, possibly. Eventually the door opened and he stood on the threshold in jeans and a sweatshirt, which he had put on back to front. He’d obviously attempted to smooth down his hair as well, but Daisy could see one untamed bit sticking up at the back of his head. He stared at her.
‘It’s really you.’
‘Yes, it’s me! Hi! Can I come in?’
‘Of course,’ Etienne said, letting her through and closing the door behind her. ‘Tell me, is there a fire or something?’
‘N-no, no fire,’ Daisy said slowly.
The room she walked into was still warm from sleep. The window blind was down. She looked around, taking in a table and two chairs in front of the window, piles of books everywhere and the bed he’d just got out of, its white duvet flung back like the crest of a wave. Daisy put her bag down on the table next to an object of some considerable antiquity – Etienne’s typewriter. She rubbed her face, took a deep breath and turned to face him. He was leaning against the door, his arms crossed. She threw herself into it.
‘This is going to sound a bit mad but the thing is I got your letter today. Your letter from February. I mean, I’ve only just read it. I found it this morning.’
Etienne’s eyes narrowed as he digested this news.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Daisy went on. ‘It had been in my coat pocket all this time.’
Etienne, silent, continued to lean against the door. Daisy turned away to give him time and discovered that what he’d said was true: his kitchen was even more minuscule than Isabelle’s. He actually lived in a garret. How utterly fantastic. She continued, ignoring her shaking hands, ‘I thought I should tell you right away. Because until an hour ago, I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything!�
�
She glanced at him. He was looking pensive, rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth.
‘What I mean is that if I’d ... if I’d found your letter in February, then I ... I would have been there to meet you on the bridge. That’s all I wanted to say, really.’
Etienne let his hand drop slowly to his side. His eyes met Daisy’s across the room.
‘And so you came here right away, just like that?’ he said, taking a few steps from the door.
‘Yes!’ Daisy said, rolling her eyes. ‘Actually, I’m still in my nightie.’ She pulled one side of her coat open. ‘Ta-da!’
Etienne began to laugh. ‘And I thought it was another amazing designer outfit.’
‘No. Although,’ Daisy said, looking down critically, ‘now that you mention it, it might actually work, but with different shoes. Chunky biker’s boots, perhaps. And this is really a man’s nightshirt, so I think it would need a belt to turn it into daywear. That would be a lot more flattering, like a shirtwaister sort of thing. But I didn’t have time to think about any of that,’ she said hurriedly, remembering her purpose. ‘I wanted to see you. I’m sorry I’m so horribly early. And horribly late, of course, as well.’
Etienne nodded, smiling. ‘Mieux vaut tard que jamais.’
‘Better late than never? Yes, I think so, too.’
‘You want a coffee?’
‘That would be lovely.’
She attempted to follow him into the tiny kitchen, but it soon became apparent – after almost bumping into each other several times as Etienne reached for the kettle and realising that he would have to squeeze impossibly close to her to get at the cups and sugar – that there was only room in it for one person. She sat down at the table instead.
‘How are you, anyway?’ she asked nervously after a few moments’ silence.
‘Stunned, I think. But fine,’ Etienne said, bringing the cups through.