Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (11 page)

The food turned out to be a bit of an ordeal. In particular, there was a most disconcerting salad, which, among other things, contained raisins, potatoes, peanuts, carrots and peas. It had been made by Wendy, and Maud had 'jazzed it up' with cubes of soaplike cheese. Isabelle was reminded of a story that had done the rounds when she was at school. A boy in her class, who had spent a summer in England for linguistic purposes, had returned full of shudder-inducing stories about being made to eat banana and anchovy sandwiches. At the time Isabelle had dis missed this as a tall tale. Now, toying with a portion of minced turkey, tinned pineapple and cottage cheese lasagne made by Fern (who described it gushingly as 'wonderfully slimming'), she wasn't so sure.

'So, Izbl,' said Lucy from the top of the table, 'how did you become interested in Meredith Quince?'

Isabelle gratefully put her fork down and explained that she had read her first Quince novel -
Pink Gin Six Feet Under
or, to give it its French title,
Petit cocktail au cimetiere
- purely by chance, having come across it at a friend's seaside house. It had struck her as more interesting than other examples of the crime genre. She had then begun reading Quince systematically in the original English and gradually a hobby had turned into the foundation of her academic research. Unwilling to mention
The Splodge
in front of strangers, Isabelle remained evasive regarding the precise tenor of her thesis, but said enough about her interest in narrative patterns and the sociology of the crime genre to produce a deafening silence around the table.

After a pause, Lucy, her piercing blue eyes somewhat glazed, managed a response: 'I see. Ha. All good fun, all good fun.'

Fern, who was sitting next to Isabelle, added apologetically, 'You see, we at the Society are just what you'd call common or garden fans. We just really enjoy the books.'

Emboldened by Lucy's temporary silence, Wendy joined in: 'We've staged some of the novels as plays, sometimes just the odd scene or two, but it's tremendous fun. We all take turns to play Lady Violet. Or we go on little expeditions, themed walks, you know.'

'Last year we went to all the theatres mentioned in
Death of a Lady Ventriloquist
,' said Herbert, flushing a little. '
I
organised that outing.'

'Yes, yes,' a perkier Lucy interjected. 'But even greater thrills await us. A visit to the author's house. Marvellous!'

'Oh, where is her house?'

'I'm surprised to hear you don't know about
that
, Izbl,' Maud said, a trifle censoriously.

'It's near Kew,' said Fern. 'It's where she lived most of her life after she moved to England. She was born in India, as I'm sure you know.'

'Lucy,' Fern said pleadingly, 'couldn't you call him now and arrange a date? We'd all love to know when we're going.'

'Hear, hear,' cried several members of the Society.

Lucy rolled her eyes in mock-exasperation and trotted off to make the call. While she was gone, the others explained, for Isabelle's benefit, what an exciting development this was. Since its foundation in the early 1970s the Quince Society had been attempting to get into Meredith's house. That was a period when, shortly after her death, Meredith Quince's novels had fallen entirely out of fashion. Meredith's house had passed to her younger brother, and after his death, to his son, Philip. His was not, apparently, an artistic or particularly sympathetic nature and, at any rate, he thought very little of his aunt's oeuvre. As for letting people he saw as mere cranks and nosey-parkers into his new home, he would have none of it.

'But now he has changed his mind?' Isabelle suggested.

'Not him, no,' Peter explained. 'Philip and his wife no longer live in the house. They moved to the country last year, but he didn't let us know, obviously.'

'It was purely by chance that dear Lucy found out,' said Selina. 'She is very, very persistent, you see. She wrote to Philip Quince again, hoping to convince him, and she got a reply from his son. It appears that he now lives in his great-aunt's house.'

'An eccentric bachelor,' Wendy added. 'He's just returned from abroad - Italy!'

'
He
also said no,' said Maud. 'Didn't even bother to explain why. Potty, probably, like his father.'

'Instead,' Peter added, 'he gave us the portrait. Perhaps he felt he owed us some kind of debt.'

'We have been so very loyal!' Wendy said.

Lucy came back in, bouncing with excitement. 'We're all expected for tea next Sunday. Ha! Victory at last.'

Everyone cheered.

'You must come too, of course, my dear Izbl.'

'Yes, thank you,' Isabelle said, nodding absentmindedly. Something had just occurred to her. Luckily, everyone began to mill around with their coffee and she was free to take another look at the portrait. There was the desk and, on it, the inkpot. But surely Meredith would have typed her novels, wouldn't she? The inkpot cast a dramatic shadow, she noticed, which was odd because the books next to it didn't. Then it was all she could do to keep her coffee from shooting out of her mouth in shock. The black zone at the base of the pot wasn't a shadow at all - it was a splodge.

10 Daisy

'What now?' Daisy said, looking down into the manhole with some trepidation.

'We climb down,' Octave replied airily. 'It's completely safe. We do it all the time. It will be worth it, you'll see.'

A fortnight had gone by since the Paris-Plage clinch, which had ended with Octave and Daisy whizzing back to his flat on his scooter and spending the night there. This was fast work by Daisy's standards but there was something irrepressible about Octave's charm and enthusiasm and she had happily given herself over to what felt like a heady holiday romance. Being Octave's girlfriend was a rather breathless state of affairs: in the course of two weeks they had crashed many parties of all kinds, made love on the floor of various people's bathrooms (and once in a cupboard) and drunk a lot of free champagne. They had also been up on the roofs of Paris a number of times because that was another clandestine activity Octave enjoyed. Now Daisy liked going on adventures as much as the next person. And she and Octave had certainly had some pretty thrilling snogs while leaning precariously against gabled attic windows in the moonlight. But all the same she was beginning to long for a boring, uncomplicated date, one on which she could both wear heels and use her own name.

Tonight, though, was not the night for such a date. Daisy was going with the
Pique-Assiettes
to a literally underground party in the Catacombs, the network of tunnels that had once served as Paris's cemetery. Apparently, Bertrand had said with puppyish enthusiasm, the tunnels were full of really old skulls and bones. As if that was a
good
thing. Daisy had been a little underwhelmed, but it was certainly something to tell Jules about. It sounded right up her gothic alley.

Daisy adjusted her speleologist's helmet, tucked her torch in her belt and began the descent down the rungs of a narrow steel ladder. Octave followed after a minute, pulling the manhole cover closed after him. Bertrand and Stanislas, who had gone first, were lighting the way with their torches. Daisy was glad she'd taken the
Pique-Assiettes
' advice and worn stout wellies over her skinny-fit designer jeans. It had not been an easy decision in terms of footwear but she had to admit that Stanislas had been right. Some of the passages they were now going through were half-flooded. Daisy and the boys all splashed merrily onwards in a single file.

'According to my map the entrance we used is the closest to the room where the party is,' Stanislas said after a while. 'Let's just stop a second and listen.'

They all stood still. There was a thudding sound of music coming from somewhere.

'
Oh ouais
! It's really close!' said Octave, '
Allez, courage, les gars
!'

They splashed on for a while, then the floor began to dry up and the passages gradually became wider as the music grew louder and louder. Daisy recognised the euphoric thump-thumping of James Brown's 'Sex Machine'.

'Just here,' said Stanislas, shining his torch on an iron door marked
ENTREE STRICTEMENT INTERDITE
. Underneath the sign, someone had pasted a green flyer that read: '
Acid Rendez-vous
'. Stanislas produced a pass key and inserted it in the lock.

'
Cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un ... et hop
!' he said dramatically, pushing the door open.

Daisy was not prepared for what she saw then. Octave had told her of other underground gatherings he'd been to - small, low-key affairs, with thirty guests at the most. You gathered in a room lit only by your torches, opened cans of beer and exchanged a few pleasantries with other
cataphiles
(as catacomb explorers called themselves). Conversation was mainly specialist stuff about new abandoned underground sites someone had gained access to. After an hour or so, people disbanded and disappeared into the night.

This
secret party, Daisy saw immediately, was in an entirely different league. The space, lit by hundreds of fairy lights, was absolutely huge, and thronged with a crowd of party people. Psychedelic light projections played on the back wall, periodically spelling the phrase '
Paris nous appartient
': Paris belongs to us. Daisy and the
Pique-Assiettes
removed their helmets and coats and left them together in a pile. '
Whose
party is this?' Daisy asked Octave, putting her arms around his waist. 'It's completely amazing.'

'I know! Crazy,
hein
? It is a group of artists who have taken over this place. They use it as a squat. I don't know their real names. They all use pseudonyms. But Stan met one of them at another party and that is how we found out about tonight.'

At one end of the room, Daisy saw, a large piece of shagpile carpet marked out a glamorous sort of lounge, where dozens of people sat talking on low sofas. At the opposite end was a communal dining area festooned with balloons. Huge cooking pots and piles of plates were laid out on trestle tables covered with white tablecloths. Bertrand immediately went to investigate and came back beaming.

'
Ouais
! They've got couscous! Is anyone hungry?'

'I can't believe it! How did they get all this furniture down here?' Daisy asked in amazement.

'They are incredibly organised,' said Stanislas. 'They even have electricity and a phone line down here. Ah, I see Gaspard,' he said, waving at one of the loungers.

'Stan's contact,' Octave explained. Then he saw something behind Daisy that made him bite his lip. '
Ah, merde
!'

'What is it?'

'Nothing. Just Marie-Laure. What the hell is she doing here?'

'Agathe's cousin? The one you had a little tiff with?'

'A tiff?' Octave asked nervously.

'That argument you told me about.'

'Ah, yes! Yes, that's right.'

'Are you still not speaking?'

'Well, no, not really. I would really prefer to avoid her. But it is too late. She is coming over. What a nightmare.'

'
Ah, tiens
?
Bonsoir
,' Marie-Laure said, joining them. She looked very stylish and leggy in a black poloneck and miniskirt worn with red wellies. '
Salut
, Octave.'

'Ah, Marie-Laure,' Octave said easily. 'How are you? Do you want a drink? But I see that you have got one already. I will go get something for you, Daisy.' Upon which he scarpered.

Marie-Laure turned to Daisy, who smiled at her.

'Hello, Marie-Laure. It's nice to see you again. I had a lovely time at your party. Is Agathe with you?'

'Oh, no!' Marie-Laure said, laughing a little. 'This kind of party is not chic enough for Agathe. It is far too "underground".'

'No, you're probably right. It's brilliant, though, isn't it? Do you know the people who discovered this place?'

'No, I don't. I came with someone from work. He found out about it on the internet.'

There was a short pause, during which Daisy looked behind her to see if Octave was coming back with her drink.

'You know, I do not think Octave is coming back. Not so long as I am here,' Marie-Laure said, handing Daisy her glass of wine. 'You can have some of this, if you are thirsty. It is quite nice.'

'Thanks very much,' Daisy said, gratefully taking the wine. 'Look,' she then said, putting her hand on Marie-Laure's arm, 'I know you and Octave have had a falling-out. He told me.'

'He told you what happened?'

'Not in detail,' Daisy admitted. Marie-Laure nodded, looking carefully at her face. 'But I really think you guys should make up,' Daisy went on. 'It's always such a shame to ruin a friendship.'

'I agree with you,' said Marie-Laure. She had an unusual kind of beauty, Daisy thought. On her snow-white face, her slanting eyebrows looked like punctuation marks or Chinese calligraphy. She turned her dark eyes on Daisy. 'So you came here together, you and Octave?'

'Yes. And Bertrand and Stanislas are over there somewhere.'

'Ah, the three musketeers.'

'Exactly! They're so funny together, aren't they? I always think Stan is the brains of the operation. And Bertrand is the baby, following the others around. And Octave ...'

'Octave,' said Marie-Laure, 'is the
tombeur
of the group.'

'What's a
tombeur
?'

'It means, you know ... like Don Juan.'

'Yes, I think he's attractive,' Daisy said, turning slightly pink. Octave
was
lovely and they had been having so much fun! He was also incredibly playful in bed, if a bit of a show-off at times. Privately - although she'd found it really entertaining the first couple of times - Daisy was getting a little tired of watching him do headstands in the nude.

'He is attractive, yes. But also completely amoral. For example, he thinks it is OK to take what does not belong to him.'

Daisy was nonplussed for a minute, then remembered those bottles of champagne the
Pique-Assiettes
had snaffled at Marie-Laure's party. They'd probably been seen. Oh dear.