Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (7 page)

Octave looked briefly embarrassed. Then he took a long, deliberate drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke out and looked at Daisy directly. He leant forward and took her hand. 'Listen to me, Daisy, this is important. Can I trust you? I mean, one hundred per cent?'

'Er, yes, of course.' It was all getting rather exciting.

'Right.' Octave put out his cigarette resolutely. 'Have you ever heard of the
Confrerie des Pique-Assiettes
?'

An
assiette
was a plate, Daisy knew. And then something about taking a peek? She didn't have a clue about the first word. 'What is it? A restaurant?' That sounded likely. After all, there
was
a restaurant in Paris called the Beef on the Roof, or something.

'Well, in a way, at least sometimes,' said Octave with a smile. 'It's really a group of people.'

'Oh. Who?' she found herself whispering. Octave was being so damned mysterious. 'Are you one of them?'

Octave nodded and squeezed her hand. It felt quite nice. Even though he wasn't her type.

'Who else?' Daisy got a mental picture of Octave at all the parties where she had run into him. That was it: he was never without his two friends. 'Bertrand and Stanislas?'

Another nod, and a more lingering squeeze.

'What does the whatsit peek-assiette mean?'

'The
Confrerie
- it means brotherhood. And a
piqueassiette
is ... an uninvited guest, like a stowaway. A sort of secret agent, really.' Octave gave a self-satisfied smile. 'It's extremely cool to be one.'

'So what do you do exactly?'

'We turn up at parties to which we have not, strictly speaking, been invited.'

'Oh, I see,' Daisy said primly, taking her hand away. 'A
pique-assiette
is what we call a freeloader. We get lots of them in London during Fashion Week.'

'A freeloader?'

'Mmm, yeah. Or a ligger. You and your mates are the Brotherhood of Liggers.'

'That doesn't sound very complimentary,' said Octave defensively, before launching into a long glorification of the
pique-assiette
lifestyle. The true
pique-assiette
was not interested in free food and drink. Not generally, he added, remembering that Daisy had witnessed his recent champagne peccadillo. No, the
pique-assiettes
were really heroes, adventurers, the dilettante aristocrats of the night!

'Now that party in Auteuil, that was quite a coup for us. Private parties in a beautiful
hotel particulier
are worth a lot more points.'

'Points?'

'Yes, we have a scoring system. It makes it more fun. A party like that is worth a lot because to get in you really need a
carton
, a proper invitation.'

'And how did you get one?'

'We didn't.'

Daisy stared at Octave. She remembered clearly that she and Agathe had been asked to produce their
cartons
at the door before being let in. Even though the party was given by Agathe's cousin, a girl called Marie-Laure.

'Wait a minute. I can understand the whole ligging thing when it's just random launches and things but aren't these people your friends?'

Octave waved this aside. 'It is not important. There was a bit of a misunderstanding and now Marie-Laure is sulking, that's all. It is all very silly.'

Daisy digested this. 'So did you go to her party to try and make up with her?'

Octave smiled delightedly and pulled his chair closer to Daisy's. 'Yes! That's perfect - I mean, that's exactly it.'

'But the champagne you stole? Didn't she mind?'

'Oh, it wasn't what I'd call stealing. Nobody missed it.' He cleared his throat. 'You see, sometimes we allow ourselves a little trophy.'

'How did you get in?'

'Climbed up the gutter and through a window at the back of the house.'

'You're joking.'

'But, no, absolutely not. In fact ...' He looked at Daisy for a moment and then shook his head. 'No, it is a bad idea.'

'What? What?'

Octave now moved around the table to sit right next to her, his face quite close. He had dimples. He also smelled very, very good. Typical suave Frenchman. Not her type at all.

'Would you like to come out with us tonight? It's only a private view in an art gallery, but it should be an interesting one. And afterwards there's the opening of a restaurant-club-lounge,
tres hype
.'

'
Tres hype
, you say?'

'Yes,' Octave whispered, leaning a bit closer still. Daisy held his gaze smilingly, then very slowly pulled away from him. She was beginning to have fun. So, would she come tonight? Yes, she would.

For some reason it took Daisy even longer than usual to dress.
Obviously
that had nothing to do with Octave. It was always more difficult to dress when it was very hot. Luckily, tonight's expedition would not require any abseiling or crawling through bushes, so Daisy could wear something quite skimpy,
obviously
the most practical option. That short punky number - a red slip dress adorned with dozens of zips - would do very well. She added a pair of patent red trainers and tied her hair into a high toponytail to stay as cool as possible. As she walked past the hallway mirror on her way out, she noticed that, as usual, a few locks of hair were already straying from the elastic band. Agathe's hair, on the other hand, was always disciplined and flawless. How did she do it?

Octave, looking rather good in slim black trousers and a navy-blue shirt, was waiting for her downstairs, leaning against his black scooter. As he put his hand on the small of her back to kiss her, she felt slightly weak at the knees.

'I like your dress,' he said approvingly. 'All those zips. It is very encouraging.'

Then he pointed at her heart brooch quizzically. Daisy explained.

'Yes, it is kitsch,' he said with a smile. 'But it does not matter because you are wearing Cristalle.'

Daisy was impressed. A straight man who could identify her favourite Chanel perfume! Gallantly, Octave insisted on putting Daisy's helmet on for her. She climbed on behind him, gripped him tightly around his waist and they zoomed towards Saint-Germain-des-Pres, where they were meeting the other two
pique-assiettes
in a cafe opposite their first port of call.

Stanislas and Bertrand greeted Daisy ceremoniously, though not without their customary hint of irony.

As Daisy drank a cooling
citron presse
, Stanislas explained their plan of attack: 'First of all in a case like this - where you don't have an invitation - what you must do is take up an observation post and watch the entrance.'

Daisy looked across the street. A burly man in black stood at the door of the gallery. Inside, the white space was still empty apart from a couple of black-clad young women talking on their mobile phones.

'
Les attachees de presse
- the PR girls,' Bertrand said, nodding in their direction.

'It's a good thing these girls don't usually stay in their jobs for too long,' interjected Stanislas. 'Or they would soon recognise us.'

'And it's also a good thing PRs are not too bright,' added Bertrand. Octave kicked him hard under the table. 'Apart from you, Daisy, of course,' Bertrand said quickly. He looked so uncomfortable that Daisy had to laugh.

'You know, you really shouldn't underestimate us,' Daisy said mischievously, with a sidelong glance at Octave, who smiled back. 'When I'm on the door for a show in London,' she continued, eyeing them all severely, 'I'm very polite but also ruthless. I can
always
tell when somebody's trying to blag their way in. It
never
works with me.' Daisy refrained from admitting that she always let her own friends in, saying instead: 'What makes you think these girls won't be just as tough?'

Stanislas was briefly disconcerted, then rallied round: 'Obviously you have to apply the right methods. First you have to watch and then decide on the best thing to do.'

Octave moved a little closer to Daisy and lay his arm on the back of her chair. Her heart did a little dance in her chest.

'So, for example,' Octave said, 'do people show their invitation or is it just a guest list? Do they ask for ID? All that stuff.'

'Sometimes,' Bertrand said excitedly, 'people just walk straight in. It is absolutely wonderful.'

'So you take your time,' Stanislas continued. 'You stay cool. You think it through.'

Daisy was beginning to see who was the puppy in the pack, and who was the mastermind. But what about Octave? What was he?

'Actually I think tonight we are in luck,' Octave said nonchalantly. 'Look.'

Daisy looked across the street, where people were beginning to arrive. There were no signs of invitations being produced or a list being checked.

'Excellent,' said Stanislas, straightening his tie. 'Let's split into pairs. The best plan is that I go in first with Daisy, then if all goes well, you two follow us.'

'I don't think so,
mon vieux
,' Octave replied sardonically. 'Daisy is
my
guest. It was my idea to invite her and she's clearly brought us good luck.
Venez, ma chere
,' he said, getting up and offering Daisy his arm.

As they approached the door, Octave whispered: 'Let me do the talking. Just follow me.'

'OK. I can't wait to see you in action.'

'
Bonsoir
,' Octave said to the man on the door. '
Je suis Francois Polisson
,
journaliste a
Zurban
. Nous venons pour le vernissage.
'

Superstitiously, Daisy thought that she must be sending involuntary signals (RED ALERT, RED ALERT: WE ARE BIG FAT LIGGERS) to the door person. Maybe she shouldn't have worn her brooch: a flashing red thing was bound to send some kind of subliminal message. But he waved them in without so much as a searching look.

Once inside, as they clicked their champagne flutes while feigning interest in the art, Daisy asked, 'So, Francois Polisson? Who's he?'

'Me, sometimes ... It's just an easy name to remember.
Zurban
is a big magazine and they have a lot of staff.'

Later Daisy was able to admire the calm efficiency with which Bertrand and Stanislas hoovered up most of the canapes displayed on the buffet. It was all Octave could do to salvage a few for her.

Once restored, Bertrand and Stanislas went their separate ways and, ignoring the art, started checking out the girls in the gallery.

'I feel sad for them,' said Octave, while reaching towards a passing tray for two more glasses of champagne. 'This really seems to be the only way for them to get out and meet girls.'

'I don't know ... You seem to know quite a lot of girls!'

'Agathe, Isabelle
et compagnie
? Ah yes, but they are
our
girls. In fact most of them are related to at least one of us. It's nice to get out of your milieu sometimes. You meet some exciting people.'

They smiled at each other while Daisy reflected that she, for example, had only ever been out with stylists, photographers or show producers. The whole fashion thing got a bit wearing after a while and it was a welcome change to flirt with a cute Frenchman who wasn't in the least bit fashiony. Not that she was, of course, flirting.

Getting into the 'restaurant-club-lounge,
tres hype
' proved not much more difficult, thanks to Daisy's improvisational skills. The place - simply called Le Trend - was in a small street off the Champs-Elysees. As before, Daisy and the
Pique-Assiettes
stood at some distance to reconnoitre the lie of the land.

Having watched several people go in, Stanislas was pessimistic.

'
Merde alors
. They all had a special pass. The PRs must have posted them out. My contact did not tip me off about this.'

'
Attendez-moi
,' Daisy said, suddenly detaching herself from her friends. The
Pique-Assiettes
watched her walk towards a group of girls who were standing further down the street, evidently looking for taxis. Daisy spoke to them for a moment. The girls rummaged in their bags and fished out ... four passes for Le Trend.

Daisy returned, a little flushed with triumph. 'They were really nice about it! They arrived early and they're going on to something else.'

'I am pleased to welcome a new honorary sister into the brotherhood,' Stanislas said with a smile.

It turned out to be a really good launch and once inside Daisy and the
Pique-Assiettes
spent many happy hours dancing - Daisy was beginning to realise just how much the French loved disco - before re-emerging from the cavernous basement of Le Trend in the small hours of the morning. The sky was blue: it was going to be another beautiful day. Daisy held on to Octave and let her head rest on his shoulder as they cruised home on his scooter. Ahead of them, Bertrand and Stanislas raised a hand in farewell as they branched out on their own scooters in the direction of the apartment the three
Pique-Assiettes
shared, not far from Boulevard Malesherbes.

As Octave walked Daisy to the door of Isabelle's building, she thought of inviting him up for breakfast. Why the hell not? As she was making her mind up, Octave curled a stray lock of her hair between his fingers and stretched it gently above her mouth.

'It would suit you well, a moustache, I think,' he pronounced gravely.

'Oh, yes, definitely,' Daisy replied. 'People are always telling me to grow one.'

Now! Now he was going to kiss her!

Octave gently stroked her hair back into place. 'So ... did you have fun, going out with us?'

'It was great.'

'
Alors, a bientot
.'

'
A bientot
.'

That was it. No snogging. Just that damned no-contact air-kissing rigmarole. That was much better, of course, Daisy told herself as she walked sulkily up the stairs. Octave just wasn't her type.
Merde alors
.

7 Isabelle