Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (3 page)

First thing tomorrow, she'd go to the library and get her ticket, then spend the whole day there searching the catalogue. From now on it would be work, work, work.

2 Daisy

Daisy lay in bed, hugging herself and smiling. She was in love. Every morning she woke up with a surge of excitement, suddenly remembering where she was. All of Paris was downstairs waiting for her to come out and play. For the first few days she had simply wandered in a happy trance from shop to shop, her mind permanently lit up like a Christmas tree with the names of all the Parisian designers, occasionally refuelling with an espresso before starting again on her fashion pilgrimage. She would manoeuvre herself into Isabelle's tiny bathroom, tucked in a corner next to the diminutive kitchen, and shower carefully (there wasn't much elbow room), listening to the sounds of the Paris traffic below. It then took her hours to get ready. What to wear? Her 1930s tea gown and silver peep-toe sandals maybe? Just the thing for going around the flea markets. Or perhaps, if she fancied tackling the chic Bon Marche department store, something more straightforward - emerald silk cigarette pants, jewelled mules, a Pucci shirt and her big white Jackie O sunglasses. Then there was make-up. Powder, blusher, varying shades of red lipstick and
always
some carefully applied black liquid eyeliner to give herself the cat's eyes of a Rive Gauche siren.

This particular morning, a week into the house swap, Daisy woke up feeling as excited as usual but also, she realised, really quite hungry. She went into Isabelle's kitchen to investigate. The tiny fridge was completely empty apart from a bottle of Evian. Daisy pondered this for a moment, then was struck by inspiration. The greeting letter left by Isabelle had mentioned there was an open-air market on the boulevard every Saturday: she would get some lovely food there!

In keeping with this plan, her sartorial inspiration was on the rustic side - gypsy-style white blouse, long flouncy Liberty skirt, high-heeled red clogs, a red bandana worn as a headscarf and, pulling the look together, Isabelle's wicker shopping basket, discovered in the kitchen.

Walking past the bakery on Isabelle's street, Daisy decided to buy some bread. As she walked into the shop, its owner, a plump middle-aged woman with a huge white-blonde chignon and pink pinafore, practically sang out her greeting: '
Bonjour, Mademoiselle!
'

'Erm,
bonjour
,' Daisy replied happily. '
Une baguette, s'il vous plait
.'

Since her arrival she had felt permanently like the heroine in a Hollywood musical and half-expected the crowds on the street to break into a choreographed song and dance. And indeed, wouldn't it be lovely, she thought dreamily as she was handed the warm bread wrapped in a sheet of paper and picked up her change, if a lush musical score began to swell in the background as the
boulangere
, gracefully leaping over the counter (admittedly a bit hard to imagine, but never mind) and landing next to Daisy, then took her by the hand and led her in some sort of pas de deux around the shop. Daisy walked out, carefully placing the baguette in her basket. Now she had entered the stretch of the boulevard occupied by the market. A crowd of people were slowly making their way through the stalls. Daisy joined them, gazing at tall symmetrical pyramids of tomatoes, courgettes and apricots as she went past. How beautiful. How long did it take to build those? This was more fun than the weekly trips with Jules to their local supermarket in London, with Daisy trying to keep her friend's fixation on baked beans and chocolate Hob-Nobs in check. It would be so excellent if this (actually rather yummy-looking) fruit-and-veg guy started to juggle a few peaches while this young mother, in her fab sleeveless linen dress, began to tap a funky beat on the handle of her baby's pushchair. More would start to do the same, juggle-juggle, tap-tap-tap, until eventually the whole market erupted into song. Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la ... Then the fruit-and-veg guy would lift her high up, she'd stretch out her hands and launch into her big number, '
Paris, je t'aime! Paris, je t'adore!
'

'
Non mais! Pouvez pas faire attention, non?
'

Oh no. She had walked slap bang into a man carrying a tray of melons and they had all rolled off everywhere. He looked very cross.

'
Oh, pardon
! Let me help.' Daisy fumbled around, vainly trying to locate the melons between the feet of the moving shoppers. The man was more efficient and managed to retrieve a few.

'
Idiote!
' he threw at Daisy before moving on with his tray. That wasn't very nice! She hadn't done it on purpose.

'
C'est pour aujourd'hui ou pour demain
?' said another voice, which also sounded cross. Daisy looked up. A stallholder was staring at her expectantly. And there were people behind her, huffing and puffing. She seemed to have accidentally come to the head of the queue and she was holding everyone up.

'Er,
des cerises, s'il vous plait. Et quatre nectarines
.'

Daisy made her way back to the flat, having also purchased a goat's cheese and some olives from a friendlier stall. She was exhausted. It was actually quite hard work being a typical Parisian. After lunch, she should really give some thought to her writing. Daisy had been commissioned by
Sparkle
, an up-and-coming Internet fashion magazine, to write a blog reflecting the experiences of a London style expert in Paris. The deal had come together just as she was about to leave for France, which was good news in terms of her finances. It would supplement the little bit of money her parents had given her, the rent she got from Chrissie and Jules and whatever she could earn by doing a bit of freelance styling or window-dressing. After a stint working as in-house PR for a designer, she had impulsively decided that she needed a change from the London fashion scene without really thinking too much about practicalities. In truth Daisy generally went through life trusting that 'something would turn up', and it usually did.

She walked up the five flights of stairs that led to the flat, her stomach rumbling. As she let herself into the flat, she got a shock. The door was shut, not locked, yet she was sure she had locked it on her way out. A burglar? Daisy pushed the door open, calling out a cautious 'Hello?' Another voice, a girl's, answered '
C'est Daisy
?' A burglar wouldn't know her name, Daisy reasoned. She walked resolutely into the book-filled living room that was also Isabelle's study. An unknown girl, who had been sitting at Isabelle's desk, stood up when she saw Daisy and held out her hand.

'Hello,' she said in fluent English, 'you must be Daisy. My name is Agathe. I'm a friend of Isabelle's. Her best friend.'

Agathe was, Daisy saw, very beautiful, with large hazel eyes and long golden-blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail, which shone like glass. In jeans and a white shirt, she looked incredibly smart. She gave a little shrug and smiled.

'You must be wondering why I'm here!'

'Well ...'

'I left something here that belongs to me, and I have a duplicate of Isabelle's keys, for emergencies. So I came and picked up my stuff. That's all.'

'Oh, that's OK. But ...'

'I love what you're wearing!' Agathe exclaimed.

'Oh, thank you.'

'It's very original. Very
folklorique
.'

'What's that?'

'It means traditional, from the provinces. You know, like in Brittany, for example, the women wear black dresses and tall white coifs and the men play old instruments,' Agathe said, gracefully miming the turning of a handle, 'and sing songs in
patois
.'

'What's
patois
?'

'It's local dialect.'

There was a pause, then Agathe, her eyes narrowed, enquired about what was pinned to Daisy's peasant top.

'Oh, that! It's my heart-shaped brooch. It's complete tat but I love it. It's the way it winks in that 3-D sort of way, like those really kitsch postcards. You see?'

She did a little shimmy to demonstrate. Agathe, who was wearing a small string of pearls, nodded, her face neutral.

'A boyfriend gave it to me years ago as a joke,' Daisy explained.

'He is no longer your boyfriend?'

'Oh, no! As a matter of fact since then he's turned out to be completely gay. Fashion, you know! I'm single at the moment.'

Agathe smiled sympathetically. 'Well, I'm going to a party tonight. Would you like to come?'

'Oh,
yes
! Thank you, that would be lovely.'

'A lot of Isabelle's friends will be there. They are all very curious to meet you.'

Agathe left, promising to call later to arrange a time. Left alone, Daisy first jumped up and down with excitement, then her face took on a more serious expression. She sat down, rummaged for her mobile and texted Chrissie: 'FASHION POLICE EMERGENCY SOS.' He ought to be awake by now.

Sure enough her phone beeped almost immediately: '
ICI LE
FASHION POLICE. HOW CAN I ENHANCE YOUR FABULOUSNESS?'

'PARTY TONIGHT IN PARIS. WHAT 2 WEAR?'

'OH DARLING IT'S A CODE SHRIEK. WHOSE PARTY? IS IT DESIGNER?'

'JUST A FRIEND OF ISABELLE'S,' Daisy texted back. Then she had an inspiration: 'ASK HER FOR TIPS?'

'OH MY DEAREST DARLING NO,' came the reply. 'WHY NOT?'

'ISABELLE V. SWEET BUT NO FASHION GURU. ACTUALLY SPURNS ONE'S HATS. MOST MORTIFYING.'

How like Chrissie to take everything so personally and blow it out of proportion. So what if Isabelle was not a hat person? She was probably mad for shoes instead.

'OK, SO YOU ADVISE.'

'GO KICKASS BOND GIRL PUSSY GALORE.'

'?'

'LEATHER CATSUIT.'

'TOO SWEATY. V. HOT IN PARIS!'

'HOW BROWN ARE U SWEETIE?'

'NOT BAD, FAKE TAN STILL DOING ITS THING.'

'THEN IS NO BRAINER. FULL-ON KITSCHY DALLAS VIBE. HALTER-NECK, WHITE RA-RA SKIRT, METALLIC BRONZE COWBOY BOOTS. TRES CHIC.'

'BRILLIANT, THANKS.'

'BIG HAIR.'

'OF COURSE. ALL WELL AT YOUR END?'

'PERFECT HEAVEN. MUST DASH. JULES AND I HAVING A BITCH AT MTV CRIBS. MWAH!'

So her first
Sparkle
blog could be about party wear. Excellent: she would be having fun and doing important research at the same time. Her Parisian life was falling into place.

3 Isabelle

'Oh, I know! I could be a grave digger,' Jules said, holding up her spoon.

'Mmm,
yes
, I can totally see that. Though really I suppose you'd have to start as an apprentice. It's a proper
trade
, isn't it? Besides, wouldn't you have to be a
sexton
or something?'

'You know I couldn't do that - I'm a pagan.'

'Naturally, darling. But
oh
, it would be
gorgeous
, imagine, swanning around among all those beautiful stones and crypts, so
very
Buffy the Vampire Slayer.'

'Well, perhaps.' Jules smiled a little, her mouth full of Weetabix.

Over communal breakfast on Saturday morning, Chrissie was helping Jules decide on her next career move. As usual for this time of day they were both
en deshabille
, Jules in her purple velvet dressing gown and Chrissie in his fluffy white bathrobe. Jules' long fringe was held back with a plastic hairclip, presumably to allow her to see what she was eating. Cereal as usual. That appeared to be all she ate. Chrissie, who was picking at a half of grapefruit, had a green mud mask on. Raven the cat sat on the dresser cleaning behind her ears. Isabelle, also sitting at the kitchen table, took no part in the ridiculous conversation, which she privately thought was in bad taste. She remained utterly silent, alternately taking a sip of black coffee and a small bite of toasted baguette, while going through the notes she had made during yesterday's library session.

Jules was currently 'between jobs'. Before that she had worked in a pub, in a video store and in a clothes shop, but none of these suited her. She was looking for something cooler and more atmospheric. This was all to do with Jules being something called a goth, a bit of information Chrissie had volunteered. It was
vital
that goths wear black at all times, he had said, or they might spontaneously
combust
. This didn't particularly impress Isabelle, who found Jules' usual get-up - the clumpy motorcycle boots, sinister clothes (usually including strange outgrowths made of net and lace) and dramatic make-up that made her look like a raccoon - disconcerting and, above all, dreadfully unfeminine. Hideous black nail polish, too, Isabelle noticed out of the corner of her eye.
Quelle horreur!

'As a matter of fact,' Jules said in her usual monotone, 'I've been offered a really plum job.'

'Darling, that's wonderful! Where?'

'A fetish shop in Soho.'

Forgetting that she hadn't been paying any attention, Isabelle looked up, astonished. 'You mean ... a sex shop?'

Jules stared at her impassively. 'Exactly. That's what I like about it. It sounds like the perfect place to meet Mr Right.'

Chrissie gave a snort of laughter. Jules stood up, picked up her empty bowl and mug and walked slowly towards the sink. It was never exactly easy, Isabelle thought, to decide whether her new housemate was being serious or not. It was a question of semiotics. Perhaps there was an article in it. She finished her coffee and tapped her notes into a neat little pile.

'All dressed up and ready to go, darling,' Chrissie commented. 'Are we off to the
library
again?'

Isabelle nodded. She had been in London over a month and had managed to get into a good rhythm. Every morning she joined the small crowd of enthusiasts waiting for the doors of the British Library to open, then she walked to her preferred seat with a lot of overhead space and close to the catalogues. On arrival Isabelle checked the other regulars off an imaginary list. The Wolfman, so nicknamed by her because of his Dickensian bushy side-whiskers and very hairy hands. The Extremely Skinny Woman with the Enormous Beehive and Beads, who seemed to pile her hair up higher and wear more necklaces every day and muttered little mantras - 'Yeah yeah, sure sure' - like the lyrics of a Beatles song. Isabelle usually sat almost opposite 'Miss Marple', a severe-looking old lady in a stiff tweed suit adorned with a cameo brooch. The mysterious Meredith Quince had probably looked something like this, Isabelle thought wonderingly whenever she saw her.