Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (6 page)

'Chrissie, please stop wailing,' she said coldly, 'and tell me what is going on.'

'It's ... Savage,' he said brokenly.

'What's savage?'

Chrissie looked at Isabelle with swimming eyes. 'No, darling, it's a
person
,' he said patiently, as though talking to a simpleton. 'Savage is a
genius
designer. Daisy used to do her PR and I'm doing the hats for her September show. Which is an
amazing
chance for me. But oooooooh,' he said, whimpering again, 'she's going to have my
guts
for
garters
.'

'Come on,' Isabelle said, helping him to his feet. 'Show me what the problem is. It cannot be so terrible as that.'

As they entered Chrissie's room Isabelle noticed with satisfaction that she had become almost immune to the decorative scheme. On her first visit, soon after moving in, she had only been conscious of a mass of overwhelming, swirling colours looming at her. She remembered taking in two television sets, a square orange one and a round white one (it later transpired that Chrissie often liked to watch two different programmes at once), a row of lava lamps on the mantelpiece and, in the corner, a large bed covered in fake white fur, over which hung a multicoloured portrait of Chrissie done (not very well, by a boyfriend) in the style of Andy Warhol's Marilyn series.

Since that first visit, and after repeated exposure, Isabelle had become quite capable of standing in the room without hyperventilating, even when Chrissie's giant powered disco ball was revolving at full speed, as was the case today.

They walked into the sunlit studio. Chrissie's working table, which ran the whole length of the room, was lined with tall jars of multicoloured beads, sequins and feathers. Before them lay a narrow strip of felt embroidered with a single and rather forlorn-looking bead - a work in progress that did not look encouraging. The unhappy hatmaker collapsed onto an orange inflatable sofa. Isabelle sat down next to him cautiously. Previous experience had demonstrated that too sudden an impact might send the other person flying out of their seat. After a little questioning, Isabelle got some idea of Chrissie's situation. He had done the odd hat for Savage before, usually a complicated showstopper for the final exit, and he had agreed to work on this collection on the same basis. Now, however, Savage had suddenly decreed that she wanted not one but eight hats for every one of the ten looks she was planning.

'Why eight?'

'We don't know yet. It's all to do with a revolutionary fashion concept she's devised and she won't tell us what it is.'

'So that's eighty hats. And when is the show?'

'Mid-September,' Chrissie whimpered.

'It's only the end of June now,' Isabelle said reasonably.

'Yes, but Savage wants me to deliver
all
the hats to her in four weeks.
Ev-e-ry last one
.'

'Why?'

'She likes to lock herself up for the last couple of weeks to give the collection a last review and tweak everything. It's part of her
process
.'

'I see.'

'And each hat I create takes me up to three or four weeks to get
right
. That's
my
process.'

'Yes, you have a problem,' Isabelle admitted. She thought for a moment. 'Well, she cannot change the conditions like that. It is not fair. What does your contract say?'

'
Dar-ling
,' Chrissie said patiently, 'I don't have a
contract
. The arrangement is that I do
as she says
. I'm so lucky to be given this break. Working with her could make my name.'

'I understand.' It was like having a neurotic but well-respected supervisor for your research.

'The thing is that she's
not human
! The first time I worked with her she had a
major
freakout a week before the show and decided she
hated
the collection. She destroyed
everything
, all our work, and started all over again, working nights as well. We were all
terrified
but
she
was quite chirpy about it.'

Isabelle looked at Chrissie sympathetically. This Savage
did
sound like a tricky proposition.

'Maybe ... you could hire some people to help you?'

'I can't afford to. The
only
money I'm getting for this is for the materials. There's
nothing
else.'

Isabelle was profoundly shocked. 'You mean you don't get paid for the work you do?'

'
Noooo
! Savage doesn't pay
anyone
. She's skint herself, and anyway she doesn't need to. She's the
hottest
designer around, you know.'

It was unbelievable, Isabelle thought, that some crazy fashion person should command that kind of respect and devotion. After all she was hardly Mozart or Michelangelo. Suddenly Chrissie stopped swaying and clutching his head. He inhaled deeply and took Isabelle's hand between his own lightly sequinned ones.

'Isabelle, will you do me a
huge
favour?'

'Yes, of course,' Isabelle replied automatically. Perhaps he wanted a tankard of beige tea or a biscuit.

'Will you please,
please
, help me with this?'

'Help you ... make the hats?'

'Yes! You
are
French, aren't you? You must have
heaps
of flair.
Yes
, I see it all!' He squeezed her arm, cheering up visibly. 'Oh, it will be
fun
! Please say yes!'

'The last time I made anything I was six years old,' Isabelle said carefully. 'We cut flowers out of felt and glued them to linen bags. It was a present for Mother's Day. My one looked a bit strange.'

'That's
perfect
! You know the basics already!' Restored to his usual sunny self, Chrissie bounced out of the sofa, sending Isabelle reeling sideways. 'Shall we start?'

'I do not think ...' Isabelle began, but Chrissie was already marching her towards the jars of feathers.

Much later, there was a knock at the door. It was Jules, back from band practice with The Coven. Since it was not in her nature to show surprise, she merely stood looking into the room in silence, taking in the unexpected sight. Chrissie and Isabelle sat side by side at the work table with their backs to the door and were so absorbed that they didn't look around. They both wore hats: a small black sequinned headdress in the shape of cat's ears tipped at a rakish angle for Chrissie and a high cone of pale-blue tulle dotted with pink rosebuds for Isabelle, who, for some reason, was wearing a swimsuit. A clothing line had been hung across the room and sketches were pegged neatly all the way along it. Chrissie, humming a little, was selecting pheasant feathers of varying lengths and arranging them into a spray. Isabelle was carefully cutting shapes out of a sheet of gold PVC.

'Hello,' said Jules after a few minutes.

'Oh, hey, Ju-Ju!' Chrissie called out, spinning around happily to face her. He pointed to Isabelle's head. 'What do you think of this baby? I'm calling it "Horn of Plenty". Isn't it just
perfect
heaven?'

'It's insane,' Jules said impassively.

'I know. And this one,' he continued, briefly tipping off the cat's ears, 'is "On the Tiles".
Tres chic
if I say so myself. Allow me to introduce my new assistant and production manager, Isabelle.'

At the sound of her name Isabelle seemed to snap out of a sort of trance. She looked around at Jules and blinked. 'I'm only staying for a few minutes,' she said quickly. 'I left my notes in the ...' She looked through the glass wall and seemed surprised to see that it was dark outside. '
Heu ...
what is the time?'

Jules smiled almost imperceptibly. 'Ten o'clock. I don't imagine anyone's had any supper?'

In the kitchen, as they all ate cheese on toast prepared by Jules, Isabelle began, with great enthusiasm, to sketch out a detailed work schedule for the collection. Her love of organisation had kicked in as soon as she had grasped the urgency of Chrissie's plight. She had convinced him to work methodically (a revolutionary concept for him), starting with the most intricate pieces and leaving simple feather headbands for last. Isabelle was also adamant that she must continue visiting the library in the mornings.

'So I'll see you tomorrow at half past one and we can start with that asymmetric Harlequin bicorn,' she concluded brightly.

Jules opened her mouth wide, then pushed it closed again by placing a hand under her chin - to suggest that her jaw had fallen into her lap and was being repositioned.

'Well, Isabelle,' she said, 'I dare say you've been Chrissie-ed. Not to worry. It happens to us all in the end.'

6 Daisy

Daisy might have noticed her admirer's presence earlier if she hadn't been so absorbed in her window display. She had made it an all-white composition, to create a soothing, cooling fashion oasis for the Parisian passers-by who were dragging themselves through the
canicule
- the heatwave. Besides, it would look so graphic framed by the black shopfront with the name, Organdi & Neoprene, painted in red copperplate letters. Daisy put the finishing touch to her display, shaking pieces of scrunched-up newspaper and broken china out of a flour sack and onto the floor - for that distressed, post-apocalyptic feel - then she took a step back to admire her work. The window contained two abstract evocations of the female form made of tubular steel. One of them wore wide trousers with a mini-train for each leg, a bleach-free paper top by Savage and the briefest of satin capes, beautifully shredded. On the other, Daisy had gone for a full-length crinoline by a seminal young Hungarian designer and a cropped jacket made of kangaroo leather. Both dummies wore identical white wigs, stiffened with glue to look like the hair stood on end.

Now, Daisy wondered critically, was it all a bit too telegraphed, too boring, too deja vu?

'Anouk!
Tu es la?
Come and tell me what you think!' she called into the shop.

Uncompromising fashion expert Anouk was the inspiration behind Organdi & Neoprene. She only sold hand-picked individual pieces from international design ers, the more out-there, the better. Daisy was a huge fan and it was an honour to dress the windows of the shop. Her next blog for
Sparkle
was shaping up as a profile of Anouk.

It had been a relief to meet a Parisian who took fashion seriously. Agathe and her elegant friends showed no interest in trends. Sometimes Daisy even got the feeling that they thought it was all
funny
or something.

'
J'arrive!
' said Anouk, climbing into the window to join Daisy. She was tiny, completely ageless (though Daisy would have put her at fifty-something) and - Daisy knew from having seen her many times at shows in London, where she came to buy from the collections - never deviated from the same look: a black pinafore dress over black cigarette pants, ballerina slippers, her short orange hair carefully marcel-waved, her mouth painted into a dark maroon Cupid's bow. She took in Daisy's work at a glance and clapped her hands in delight. '
J'adore! C'est simple, elegant ... Merci, ma petite Daisy
.' Anouk turned around to look into the street and tapped Daisy's shoulder. 'But you have a visitor, I think.'

Daisy looked around: it was Octave, carrying a motorcycle helmet under his arm. For once he was on his own. He and Daisy had bumped into each other at parties but he was always escorted by Bertrand and Stanislas. He removed the cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth, and bowed deeply. Daisy giggled and gave him a little wave, then climbed back down into the shop and went outside to say hello.

'Hi, Octave, how are you?'

'
Salut
, Daisy. I cannot believe my eyes. What are these incredible things?'

'Fabulous clothes by fabulous designers,' Daisy sighed happily, looking back at her work.

'But ...' Octave gestured helplessly towards the crinoline. 'Who would wear this? And why?'

Daisy looked at him worriedly. 'Oh. You don't think it works as a look?'

'"As a look?" Oh my God!' Octave burst out laughing. 'It's very ... original,' he concluded diplomatically before changing the subject. Did Daisy have a minute for a coffee? She did. She went back in to say a quick goodbye to Anouk, who whispered, '
Tres mignon
,' and gave her a conspiratorial thumbs-up.

As they sat in the shade on the terrace of a small cafe in Rue Montorgueil, Daisy had a good look at Octave, deciding that although he
was
attractive - slim, with broad shoulders, very white teeth and smooth, lightly tanned skin - he was definitely
far
too suave for her. Look at his hair, for example: sleek brown wings that screamed 'mummy's boy'! As for what he was wearing - a really boring blue-and-white striped shirt, indigo 501s and shiny black brogues (not a stitch of Helmut Lang in sight), Daisy told herself firmly not to go there.

All the same, Octave had bags of Gallic nonchalance. Lolling back in his chair, he was talking presently of his high-flying job as an executive something-or-other in telly.

'Octave,' Daisy interjected when he paused to take a sip of his
express
, 'can I ask you something? You remember the last time we met?'

Octave narrowed his eyes, obviously scanning through myriad memories of recent parties. '
Heu
,
voyons ...
that was at the party in Auteuil, no?' he smiled at her. 'You were wearing a very short dress, I think.'

'Yes,' Daisy said, blushing. 'Octave, why were you hiding in that wardrobe?'

'Was I?'

'Yes, remember? I saw you, Bertrand and Stanislas come out of the wardrobe in Marie-Laure's bedroom. You were each carrying a bottle of champagne. I waved but you walked straight past me. You seemed in a hurry to get away.'

'You're right: we were. We didn't mean to be rude to you.'

Daisy raised her eyebrows. 'Well? Explain yourself.'