Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (14 page)

After tea, the members of the Quince Society were at long last able to have a look around the house. They started, thrillingly, with Meredith's bedroom.

'Oh,' Fern said, unable to conceal her disappointment.

'Ah yes,' Tom Quince said apologetically. 'I'm afraid it's not "just as she left it". My father turned it into his own study when he took over the house, then stored all kinds of unwanted things in it when they moved out. It does look a little forlorn now. I suppose it might do as a guest bedroom.'

'Perhaps,' Wendy said as loud as she dared, 'you might like to restore it to what it was in her day?'

'Mmm, yes, that is an idea,' he said absent-mindedly.

They looked into the dining room, then went up one more flight of stairs to look at what had been a nursery for Meredith's younger brother.

'Meredith would have visited my grandfather in here and played with him when he was a small boy. Then it became my room, until I left home in my twenties. And now I have reclaimed it. I'm afraid it's rather untidy.'

The room, painted a very dark green, had the look of an attractive masculine den. Isabelle noticed a lovely etching of formal gardens above the bed and a desk piled high with botanical journals. They all went back down the stairs to the ground floor.

Tom Quince opened a door, saying, 'And this is the library.'

Isabelle was briefly reminded of the games of Cluedo she had played as a child: was she about to come face to face with Colonel Mustard (or Moutarde, as in the French version of the game) wielding the candlestick? Instead, she went in behind Herbert and Emily Merryweather and found herself in the exact setting of Meredith Quince's portrait. There was a chorus of delight from the members of the Quince Society.

This room, in contrast to the others, appeared to be just as Meredith had left it. Isabelle recognised the bookshelves, the writing desk, the round coffee table, the green-and-red Persian rug. Meredith's green armchair had been reupholstered in primrose yellow. Beyond the French windows, the garden was plunged in darkness. Tom Quince was explaining to his rapt audience that this was the room where his great-aunt had done most of her writing, at this very desk. They all gazed at this piece of furniture with reverence. Furtively, Herbert ran his hand over it, no doubt thinking of the genesis of
Death of a Lady Ventriloquist
.

'Which of your great-aunt's books do you like best, Tom?' Selina asked their host.

He ran his hand through his hair, which, after many such questions from the visitors, was beginning to look rather untidy.

'Ah, the books, yes. You're going to think me the most dreadful philistine, but I'm ashamed to say I have never read any of them.'

A polite but scandalised silence greeted this confession.

'It's a feeble excuse, I know, but my parents never encouraged me to take an interest in Meredith's novels. I suppose I've always taken them for granted. I think the original manuscripts are all here somewhere,' he concluded vaguely.

Isabelle's heart did a small somersault.

'Oh, how jolly!' Lucy barked. 'D'you think we could have a peek?'

'I should imagine,' Maud interjected, 'that you keep them locked away in a safe.'

Tom Quince frowned and shook his head. 'N-no, I don't think we have a safe. They're just -' he gestured around the room '- in the house. I'm really not sure where.'

'What do they look like?' Peter asked, stroking his beard excitedly. 'Did she type or write in longhand?'

'Ah, let me see, um, type, I think. I was shown them once when I was younger.'

Isabelle could barely contain herself. Meredith's relative might not have the faintest idea of his great-aunt's literary genius but he lived here, in this house. And somewhere in this house might also be the manuscript of
The Splodge
. She waited until Lucy, Peter and Maud had moved away to examine the bookshelves, then sidled up to him.

'Excuse me ... Mr Quince?'

'Please call me Tom, Isabelle. That is your name, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'And the Peppy-on bit?'

'In fact it's Papillon.'

'Papillon? That actually means something, doesn't it? Something to do with fairy tales, isn't it?'

'Er, no.' He wore an open-necked shirt and as Isabelle looked up at him her eye was drawn to a light tuft of interesting golden fur in the hollow of his throat. She blinked, then smiled at him. 'Maybe you're confusing it with Cendrillon - the French name of Cinderella.'

'Of course, yes. How silly of me. Hang on - I think I remember now. Is Papillon something like a whirl?'

'A whirl?'

'Something that carries you off irresistibly,' Tom Quince said.

Isabelle frowned, then her mind cleared. 'Oh, I think you mean
tourbillon
. In fact,
papillon
means "butterfly".'

'Ah, yes, of course. A very nice name.'

'There is something I'd like to ask you about.'

'Oh?'

'It's about your great-aunt.'

'Oh.'

Isabelle looked around. The members of the Society were all chatting happily out of earshot. She had just had an idea.

'Perhaps ... the people I share a house with are having a little party for Halloween. Would you like to come? Then we could talk properly.'

He smiled vaguely. 'Halloween? Yes. Why not? Should I bring my own pumpkin?'

12 Daisy

'Paris is pulsating to the beat of Fashion Week. Who's in? Who's out? What are the season's most important new trends? And what to wear to be
a la mode
at the shows?' Daisy typed slowly on her laptop, using just two fingers.

So far, her
Sparkle
blogs had flowed out in a frenzy of excitement. This one was much harder going. She stared listlessly out of the window of Isabelle's study and wrapped her fluffy pink dressing gown more closely around her. For the first time since moving to Paris she felt very chilly. Perhaps the notes she'd made at the shows would provide some inspiration. She turned the pages of her pad and typed in whatever seemed vaguely relevant:

Patent everything - shiny shiny shiny.

Nude tights in/bare legs out.

Soft pale grey is new black?

The new black, really? Whatever. It was hard to care at the moment. Daisy paused and looked out of the window. Outside the sky was just that newly fashionable shade of grey. It looked like it was going to rain in a minute. She turned another page and typed in:

Vintage returns with contemporary, slouchy edge.

Airport chic - French pleats and turquoise mascara.

Seven-inch heels on pain of social death - five at a push.

Key look of the season: think Sophia Loren meets Hello Kitty.

Dullsville, all of it. What else? Oh yes:

Best party: launch of Ca pue, non? Revolutionary new perfume that smells like petrol. Brilliant party food - experimental canapes, some delicious, others disgusting, laid on giant Perpex table like snakes and ladders board.

div

She stared at the paragraph, then highlighted the word 'snakes'. Then she typed:

Snake, snake, Octave is a snake.

A rat.

A complete and utter bastard.

Who'd have thunk it?

Daisy closed her eyes and replayed, for the millionth time, the devastating film of her last encounter with Octave, under the trees of the Luxembourg Gardens. 'Heartbroken' wasn't just a turn of phrase - her heart
was
literally broken. She reached for the box of tissues. After a while her computer went to sleep. It began to rain.

'What heart? Oh, the plastic brooch you always wear?' said Agathe, after taking a small sip of her Perrier. She had been summoned to an emergency meeting by Daisy and they now sat face to face in a noisy cafe on Place Saint-Sulpice. Agathe looked particularly immaculate and radiant today, in a blue silk shirt that fitted her perfectly, her sleek hair held back with a velvet Alice band. 'Well, that is OK!' she said with an exaggerated sigh. 'Actually, you are lucky, Daisy. Now you can get yourself something pretty instead. I can help you choose.

'They have this rule that it has to be a thing the girl will miss. Like a trophy they can show each other as proof of their conquest. They all do it, but Octave is the most successful, I believe. Can you imagine how many of these trinkets he must have? Hundreds of them, probably, no? He is really awful!'

She started to laugh but, seeing Daisy's expression, stopped herself just in time. She went on: 'In actual fact Marie-Laure told me what happened to her at the time - but in confidence, you know. So I didn't feel that I could tell you about it. It's so important to respect other people's privacy. You understand, don't you? Anyway, judging by your behaviour at the Paris-Plage, you knew what you wanted. That is what everyone thought anyway when we all talked about it afterwards.

'Yes, that little notebook is where they keep score. I think that when they saw you at Claire's party, it was just a question of who was going to get you first. Like betting on a horse. The same thing happened last year when Aurelie's little Swiss-German penpal came to stay. But with her it was just a question of a few kisses at a party. So it was not as humiliating as what has happened to you. And she went home after a few days. But you have to stay and deal with this for the rest of the year. How do you think you will cope?

'Do not take it too personally. There have been so many others. The thing about French men is that they are very proud of being misogynists. They are always talking about
la misogynie
this,
la misogynie
that. They find it hilarious.' Agathe tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and smiled slightly. 'And if I were you I would stop plaiting the fringes of your pashmina like that. You are going to damage it.'

'In the Luxembourg Gardens?' Marie-Laure asked incredulously. 'No! Oh, he is completely incorrigible. You know that is also where he told
me
that it was over.'

In desperation Daisy had got Marie-Laure's number from Isabelle's Rolodex. Thank goodness Isabelle was so organised. Daisy now sat on a sofa in Marie-Laure's house, an untouched little fruit tart on the table in front of her. Her tea was turning cold in its cup.

'The funny thing is that it wasn't that long ago, but I can't really remember what he said to me,' Marie-Laure continued, crossing her long legs.'Probably something from the classics: it was all a terrible mistake; it should never have happened. We were walking. We were holding hands. It was a beautiful day and I was looking around at the other people, and it took me completely by surprise. It was very quick, over in two minutes. You too? Yes, Octave likes to work quickly. He is an expert. And then he put me in a taxi and vanished.
Et hop!
And then he had the nerve to crash my party with his acolytes.

'Of course I should have known that something was wrong. The day after ... well, that night he spent with me, I couldn't find my favourite earrings, the ones with the coral. They really are swines.
De vrais salauds.
And the worst thing is that I had heard rumours before about Octave and his friends and their little games but I ...' She inhaled sharply and tossed her head. 'You see, I thought ... I didn't think it could happen to me!'

She bit her lip and took Daisy's limp hand in hers. 'But you know, Daisy, I ran into Octave the other day with Stanislas and I thought he looked really ...
embete
. Preoccupied, upset. And that's really not his style. Perhaps you have taught him a lesson.

'Actually, you know, it is complicated. It counts a lot for Octave, what his friends think of him. He has a fragile ego, like most men.'

'Daze, you're mad,' Jules said tonelessly on the telephone. 'It's not complicated at all. He just needs a good punch up the bracket.'

13 Isabelle

When Isabelle came downstairs, the preparations for Halloween were in full swing. Belladonna was mixing gallons of Bloody Mary in an enormous punch bowl. Chrissie and Legend were festooning the kitchen walls with garlands of dead leaves they had collected from the garden and sprayed a brilliant black. Flame-haired Ivy stood at the sink, filling surgical rubber gloves with water and fastening them with a knot. Isabelle was mystified but did not feel quite up to quizzing the taciturn drummer. Jules and Karloff sat side by side at the table, without speaking or looking at each other, studiously carving pumpkins into jack-o'-lanterns. Chrissie looked around as Isabelle walked in and gave her a conspiratorial smile. Isabelle smiled back. After dinner, their Brilliant Plan would kick into action - with a little help from the spirits.

Isabelle went back upstairs to make a last-ditch attempt with her boyfriend, who had picked this particular week to come and see her. Clothaire had not taken to Isabelle's eccentric housemates and spent most of his time holed up in her room, reading and sulking. He was attending tonight's party under duress but had refused categorically to wear fancy dress because it was childish, stupid and pointless. Jules and the others, on the other hand, took Halloween very seriously. Jules was going as Cleopatra and Legend as the Mummy. Karloff, taking the easy option, was going as a Victorian lunatic in a straitjacket, Ivy as Joan of Arc in chain-mail, and voluptuous Belladonna as a sexy vampire. Chrissie, who loved dressing up, had considered Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
(with Raven the cat cross-dressing as Toto the dog) but had changed his mind after trying on a traumatically unflattering ginger wig with braids. He was now going as cheeky Huckleberry Finn, in cut-off trousers and a straw hat, and Raven, under her own steam, as Catwoman (in a minimalist outfit consisting of a small black satin cape).