Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (22 page)

But when they were working on a drawing, the atmosphere seemed to become quite charged. He would look at her with a serious, brooding intensity that made her feel a little bashful. Then again, Daisy had seen just that kind of intensity in the eyes of casting directors comparing the model standing in front of them with the photographs in her book. It was probably just that, the external sign of a visual artist's concentration, and nothing more. Anyway, it really didn't matter that much because, in spite of what Anouk or Chrissie might say, she felt it was probably still too soon for her to think of getting involved with anyone again.

'So what do you think? Should I just ask him if he is interested?' she asked Marie-Laure the next day, as they discussed her dilemma over lunch.

'No! It's far too direct,' Marie-Laure said, horrified. 'What if he said no? And anyway, do you like him?'

'Well,' Daisy said with a giggle, 'let's just say that I'm beginning to see the point of the whole "older man" thing. He's just so much more ... solid than anyone I've ever known. He's done so much. And he's an artist! But I don't even know if he likes me!'

'Couldn't you create an atmosphere, you know ...'

'But I think that there already
is
an atmosphere. That's the thing.'

Daisy next met Raoul on the following weekend to go to the cinema. It began to dawn on her that she would actually really like him to kiss her, and she found it hard to concentrate on the film, watching out instead for any telltale signs of interest on his part. But Raoul sat next to her throughout with perfect decorum. Afterwards, they went out for something to eat and then went back to his apartment for one of his specialties - a lethally strong mojito.

'You would love Latin America, Daisy,' Raoul said, as his jukebox went into full maracas-shaking Bahia mode. 'The beaches are so unbelievable. And the girls in Brazil wear this amazing swimwear,' he added dreamily. 'It's totally extreme.'

'I can imagine.'

Raoul turned to look at her. 'Are you OK? You're not saying a lot today.'

'I'm fine,' Daisy said, smiling at him, 'I'm just ... thinking.'

'Just thinking about what? You are missing London, your family?'

'Oh no, nothing like that. I mean I'm looking forward to going home for Christmas, but that's not what's on my mind.'

'So what is on your mind, Daisy?' Raoul said, putting his drink down.

'It's a really silly thing.'

'No, no, you can tell me anything. Come on.'

Oh, sod it, Daisy thought. Sorry, Marie-Laure, I'm going in. 'Well,
sometimes ...'
she began, her heart thudding, 'sometimes I wonder if perhaps you aren't flirting with me. Just a tiny bit.'

She held her breath and waited. Raoul's green eyes narrowed. He considered her without smiling. 'You believe that? That I flirt with you?'

'Well, I don't know!' Daisy said, rolling her eyes. 'Our cultures are very different, I realise that. We send out different signals. So perhaps I misunderstood -'

'Daisy,' he interrupted, leaning forwards to whisper in her ear, 'our cultures are not so very different. I think you are a very beautiful woman.' Then he added in that Gallic rasp of his: 'And I really desire you.'

Biting the inside of her cheeks to stem a fit of giggles, Daisy stole a glance at him. Yes, he was completely straight-faced. The French were amazing: they simply did not know the meaning of embarrassment. As she attempted to compose herself, Raoul, judging correctly that the ice had been broken, took her hand and placed it quite casually on his crotch. Well, Daisy thought, her eyes widening a little, if you put it like that ... At that precise moment, any remaining doubts evaporated and she felt quite certain that it
was
time for her to get back in the saddle. Raoul might have been reading her mind as he gradually pulled her closer to him until she found herself in pole position, sitting astride him. They kissed. Yes, it was definitely the right time.

'Yee-haw,' she murmured a little later.

'What did you say, sugar?'

'Oh, nothing.'

19 Isabelle

When the downstairs telephone rang that evening, Isabelle stayed where she was, upstairs in her room, and let Chrissie take the call. She needed a minute to rehearse what she was going to say. And perhaps it wasn't Tom after all. But she had no such luck.

'Darling!' Chrissie called up through the stairwell, 'it's His Quincitude for you.'

Isabelle went down to the hallway, where the receiver lay waiting on the table. She stared at it for a moment. It was odd to think that this ordinary-looking object really contained a person's voice. Eventually, she lifted it to her ear.

'Hello, Tom.'

'Hello.'

The amount of caressing warmth he managed to inject into that single word unsettled her. But it was a temptation she had to resist, that was all.

'How was your day?' he said.

'Quite good, thank you. I went to the library.'

'That's great. It's lovely to hear your voice. Are you feeling tired or ... would you like to come over? I could pick you up in twenty minutes.'

'Tom, I think it would be better if we met another time,' Isabelle said slowly. 'During the day.' Taking advantage of his silence, she continued: 'Last night I think I made a big mistake. It was not your fault at all, but it can't happen again.'

'I see.'

'You know that I'm not available.'

'Yes, I understand what you mean.'

'So I can't behave like this. I have too much at stake, too many plans.'

'Isabelle, you are free to do anything you like. Anything that makes you happy.'

'Yes, I know that. And this is the decision I'm happy with - what I've just told you. I'm sorry if I misled you.'

'Please don't regret anything. I don't.'

'No.'

At least he was not able to see her face. That was something. Now for the really difficult bit.

'And there is another reason for this, which is my work on Meredith. Getting involved with you creates a conflict of interest. It compromises my research.'

'Does it?'

'Yes, of course!'

'Do you say that because we didn't get around to talking about her last night?'

'That was just one example. But generally, even if we had got around to it, I would feel like I was ... using you. Do you understand what I mean?'

Tom started to laugh. 'You are very welcome to use me in any way you like.'

'Tom, please.'

'Seriously, I wouldn't have minded helping you with your work as well. But no, that's fine. I understand.'

Isabelle took a deep breath. 'But the thing is, Tom ... This is going to sound terrible after everything I've just said, but I would still like you to help me with my work.'

'Just without any of the other stuff?'

'Exactly. Don't be angry, please.'

'I'm not angry.'

'I'll understand if you say no. I haven't behaved very well.'

'Oh, I'm not sure I did any better, really. Don't worry. I think I understand your difficulty.'

'So would it be OK if we met to talk about Meredith?'

'Yes.'

'May I come to your house?'

'If you think it's safe. Only joking. Of course, do come whenever you like. It'll be strictly business, I promise.'

'It's just that ... there are a couple of things in the house I'd like to check. I'll explain when I'm there.'

'Excellent. I look forward to it.'

'Are you free this weekend?'

'Free as a bird. Come to lunch on Sunday. One o'clock?'

'That's perfect. Thank you, Tom.'

'And you are welcome to bring someone especially forbidding from the Quince Society with you. As a chaperone.'

It was a relief to laugh with him again.

'I'm really sorry.'

'So am I. I'll see you on Sunday. Goodbye, Isabelle.'

'Goodbye.'

When Isabelle joined her friends in the kitchen, Jules looked tactfully away but Chrissie said, '
Well
? Darling?'

Isabelle walked straight to the fridge, opened the door and hid behind it, staring unseeingly at the contents of the shelves. Chrissie waited respectfully, for as long as 12 seconds, then let out a high-pitched squeal: '
Ooooooh!
Darling, have a
heart
! Think of my poor nerves and tell us what happened.
Well
? Are you seeing him tonight? Is he coming here?'

Eventually Isabelle's eyes focused on a pot of yoghurt and she re-emerged with it in her hand. She got a spoon from the drawer and sat down at the table next to Jules.

'It's all been dealt with,' she said calmly. 'We're just going to be friends now. He understands completely.'

'Oh,
darling
,' Chrissie said, stricken. 'What a
terrible
waste of perfectly good sex.'

Silently, Jules pushed her spectacles to the top of her nose.

'I'm just relieved it's over,' Isabelle said, keeping her eyes down and carefully peeling back the yoghurt's lid. 'Now I can forget about it and concentrate on my work.' She ate a small mouthful meditatively, then added: 'And he's agreed to help me with it, which is really kind. I'm going to see him on Sunday to talk about it.'

'Are you now?' Jules said, smiling almost imperceptibly.

'Yes. I'm hoping to get my hands on those manuscripts so I can study them closely.'

'Ha. That's a new name for it,' Chrissie muttered. '
Ow
! Ju, I wish you wouldn't keep doing that. You
know
I bruise easily.'

On Sunday Isabelle presented herself at Tom's house armoured with the reassuring knowledge that she was simply visiting a relative of Meredith Quince with whom she was on friendly terms. She rang the bell and composed her face into an expression of slightly brisk cordiality.

After a short wait, the door was opened by an unknown young woman with a very brown, freckled and vivacious countenance, clad in half-undone and rather muddy dungarees. It had taken Isabelle the whole length of her journey to prepare herself for her reunion with Tom but the unexpected sight of this person on his doorstep was enough to unman her almost completely.

'Yes?' the girl said, raising her eyebrows. She had a quantity of curly brown hair gathered up with a piece of ribbon into an improvised, untidy ponytail. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek and she was barefoot.

'My name is Isabelle. Tom Quince is expecting me.'

'Oh really? Well, come in, then.'

She opened the door wider and walked back into the hallway, followed by Isabelle. Inside the house the girl called out: 'Tommy? There's somebody here for you!'

There was no response.

'I wonder where he's got to,' the girl said. 'You're not ... staying for lunch, are you?'

'Um, yes,' Isabelle said, startled. 'I ...'

'Oh? OK. In that case I think we might as well go into the kitchen and wait for him there. He's probably gone back into the shed for something.'

They went downstairs together.

'We've had such fun all morning, making the best of the dry weather. It was a bit of a mad race to get all those bulbs in but we're a good team, Tommy and I. And now I'm bushed!' the girl said, before flopping down on the kitchen's tattered velvet sofa.

The table, Isabelle noticed, had in fact been laid for three. The strange girl settled in comfortably, hugging her knees to her chest, while Isabelle, her coat and gloves still on, perched on the edge of a kitchen chair across from her. There was a short silence while they both looked out of the window for signs of Tom's presence in the garden. He was nowhere to be seen. Isabelle turned to smile at the girl as non-committally as she could manage.

'You're ... French, aren't you?' the girl drawled, stretching a brown foot with bright-pink toenails in Isabelle's direction.

'Yes. My name is Isabelle Papillon,' Isabelle said calmly while thinking: And who the
hell
are
you
? with such helpless, vivid intensity that she worried for a moment that she might have spoken the words aloud.

'I'm Rosie.'

They nodded at each other.

'So ... how do you know Tommy?'

Isabelle began to speak, but had barely finished a sentence before Rosie burst out laughing and said, 'Oh, I know! You're one of those Quince Society people! How funny!'

'Why is it funny?' Isabelle asked evenly.

'Because that whole cult of Meredith Quince is really
not
Tommy's style. It's so pompous and absurd.'

'Did he tell you that?'

'Well ... I mean I know they've been hounding him and his parents to get into this house for years. It's creepy.'

'Perhaps it is, but I assure you that he invited me here himself,' Isabelle said, refraining from adding, 'And not for the first time.'

'Oh yes, of course he did. Sorry,' Rosie said, looking nothing of the kind.

Providentially, Tom chose this difficult moment to come in from the garden.

'Oh, good, you're here, Isabelle,' he said, hanging up his coat and hat. 'Sorry to keep everyone waiting. I was in the middle of washing the outside of the greenhouse and I thought I might as well get it over and done with before lunch. I hope Rosie's been looking after you.'

'Oh yes,' Isabelle said, glancing back at Rosie, who, she noticed, had swiftly taken her hair down, spreading it attractively over her shoulders, as soon as Tom had appeared. Another, perhaps significant fact about the unexpected guest was that there was no sign of a bra under her thin T-shirt.

'Tommy,' Rosie said smilingly, wagging a finger at him, 'you never mentioned that this was going to be a highbrow literary luncheon. Is it because I might not have agreed to stay if you had?'

Tom took the time to pull off his boots, then padded over to kiss Isabelle on the cheek. His face felt cool, perhaps because he'd been outside all that time.

'I've no doubt that you can hold your own, Rosie. Isabelle, may I take your coat?' He laid it carefully on the sofa, then pushed his hair back with both hands. 'Right. And now I'm going to check the meat.'

Soon after, they sat down to eat. As a result of some fairly unsubtle territorial dancing around, Rosie secured the chair next to Tom's while Isabelle sat facing him. She did not find lunch at all easy. It wasn't because of the meal itself. She had learned to expect delectable food from Tom and he certainly didn't let himself down with the magnificent roast beef he delivered, accompanied by what was, to her, a new and exotic delicacy - Yorkshire pudding as airy as a goosedown pillow. What marred the occasion for Isabelle was how swiftly she realised - with a quite unexpected pang - that his initial vagueness of manner had returned, obliterating any trace of intimacy as relentlessly as a curtain of clouds being drawn over the sun.