Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (17 page)

Daisy looked up, jolted out of her fantasy. There was now a man in the seat opposite hers. Judging by his expectant expression, he was the one who'd just spoken, and the remark had been addressed to her. She glanced out of the window. The bus had stopped at the lights near the bottom of the boulevard and the Seine was in view.

Daisy said wearily, '
Heu, oui, c'est tres joli
.'

To her horror, she could feel tears rising immediately. How predictable and boring. Well, at least that would shut him up and then she'd be allowed to indulge in her pitiful but comforting daydreams. Instead of which he said pleasantly, 'You are American? English?'

Oh, here we go, Daisy thought irritably, how very original. She inhaled, trying to quell her tears. Couldn't he see that she wanted to be left alone?

'I'm English,' she said coldly, without looking at him.

'From London?'

'Yessss,' Daisy said, sighing audibly in an attempt to put an end to the conversation.

And as it turned out her fellow traveller did not ask her any more about herself. Instead, as the bus started again and began crossing the Pont Saint-Michel, Daisy heard him say in quiet wonderment, 'This is a damn fine bus route. Oh, yeah.'

For a split second, Daisy was amused by the incongruous alliance of his textbook Gallic accent and transatlantic style of expression, then she remembered her sad predicament.

'Yeah, you know I have lived here all my life,' the American-inflected Parisian stranger continued, 'but I still get a kick out of how beautiful Paris is. You know what I mean?'

Staring out of the window through her tears, Daisy discerned the movements of passers-by who were also crossing the bridge. Everyone seemed harassed and pinched. They all wore boring clothes. And the Seine and the
quais
looked very drab and wintry today. Daisy closed her eyes. As she strove to recapture her daydream at the point of Octave's appearance on his scooter, she heard: 'Especially I love how this time of year, everything turns just one colour: the sky, the river, the buildings. It's all like this gorgeous beige - grey - gold - I dunno what to call it.'

With an effort, Daisy opened her eyes again and stared at the tree-lined river. She had to admit he had a point about the colours. They were actually more subtle and delicate than she'd realised - chic neutrals.

'Yeah, that sounds boring, I know, but to me, it's not at all. It makes a great background for the life of the city.'

As the bus left the bridge, Daisy glimpsed the thronged stalls of the
bouquinistes
and the glorious mass of Notre-Dame just before they disappeared from view.

'I am in a weird state right now,' he went on confidentially, just as Daisy was beginning to wonder if he was indeed a complete nutter. 'Cos I have just come from a meeting about my next project.'

Looking across in his general direction, Daisy noticed that he was very tanned, with longish dark hair streaked with grey, wolflike green eyes and a lot of rather sexy stubble. In his forties, probably. He wore a black leather biker's jacket over a black poloneck and held a marbled green-and-black portfolio in his arms. What was he? A photographer? A painter? Not particularly wishing to encourage conversation, Daisy turned away and looked out of the window as they drove past that lovely flower market on the Ile de la Cite. It occurred to her that she might come back tomorrow and buy a lavender or two for Isabelle's balcony.

'They make me so mad, you know. They forget to show me proofs or they want me to change a colour. Always something like this! So we shouted at each other like crazy people, banging on the table, and now I have totally lost my voice.'

Well, Daisy thought, if that was the case he wasn't doing too badly. There was apparently no shutting him up.

'Each time I work with this guy - his name is Antoine - it has to be this big macho battle. Sometimes I think maybe it will be better if we actually fight, you know, with fists. More honest, you know. Now I am totally exhausted. But it was worth it. Because it's going to be a really great book, I think. Maybe the best I have done.
Le top du top
.'

Some kind of writer, then. Well, no self-esteem problems there, Daisy thought, smiling slightly. The bus had taken another turn and the sunlit Rue de Rivoli was unfurling before her eyes. The cafe terraces were thronged, as usual, with happy loafers nursing a coffee and watching the world go by.

'Then when the book comes out, I'll take Antoine - my publisher - to dinner as usual to celebrate. Like always, we'll get totally drunk on Armagnac and smoke cigars and be best friends again. I like to go somewhere like Hotel Costes for that. It's one of the most beautiful places in Paris. I know the guys who run it, so I always get a great table. I always have the
confit de canard
, really well grilled. I'm from the south-west of France, so it's in my blood.'

While she was listening to him talk, Daisy's tears had dried without her noticing. The bus had driven past the Louvre, crossed the Place du Palais-Royal and was now dancing up the Avenue de l'Opera towards the opera house, whose green roof and glittering gold statues Daisy could see in the distance. This meant that her stop was coming up. She looked around but her travelling companion was quicker. He stood up, pressed the green button and stayed standing, holding on to the handrail, his portfolio under his arm. So he was getting off here too. While doing up her coat and getting out of her seat, Daisy noticed that he wore dark jeans and, perhaps unsurprisingly given his speech patterns, Texan cowboy boots. Yee-haw, she thought, smiling inwardly. Then, as the doors opened with a whoosh, she felt a pang of conscience. She had been very rude to him.

As the bus departed, leaving them alone at the bus stop, the man smiled at Daisy. 'So, take care now.'

'Goodbye,' Daisy said. 'Look, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to be unfriendly. I was ... a bit upset about something.'

'Yeah, I could see that. That's why I kept talking,' he said, making a rapid 'chatterbox' gesture with his fingers and thumb. 'It wasn't too boring, I hope?'

'Oh no!' Daisy said, feeling genuinely touched. 'It was very interesting. Thank you for keeping me company. I'm glad you were going as far as I was.'

He looked at her for a moment, biting his upper lip. Then he grinned, showing very good teeth. 'Well, you know, in fact, I wasn't. I was supposed to get off at Les Halles for a meeting. No, no, it's cool, don't worry,' he said, seeing her expression, 'the earth will not stop turning because of that.'

Daisy looked at her watch. She couldn't possibly be late for Anouk yet again! 'I have to go,' she said, holding out her hand. 'Thank you.
Vous avez ete tres gentil.
'

'
De rien
. No problem. Hey, wait,' he said, as Daisy began to move away. He tucked his portfolio under his arm, pulled a black felt pen out of his breast pocket and, taking hold of Daisy's hand again, wrote a telephone number on it. 'My name is Raoul. You can call me if you wanna hear the rest of my life story.'

Daisy burst out laughing, something she hadn't done in weeks. 'OK, maybe I will. Bye now!'

'Bye, English girl who did not tell me her name.'

'Sorry. It's Daisy.'

'So long, Daisy. Take it easy.'

Clearly, this Frenchman had watched far too many westerns and the like, Daisy thought as she crossed the avenue. Once on the other side, she looked back. Raoul was still standing at the bus stop. He waved. Daisy waved back and walked briskly towards the Boulevard des Capucines and into the Cafe de la Paix, where Anouk was waiting for her. When Daisy located her friend's table in the plush red velvet interior, Anouk took one look at her and asked immediately whether she had just had a facial. Daisy shook her head and launched into her tale.

'
Eh oui
,' Anouk said, nodding sagely when Daisy had finished. 'It does happen like that sometimes, just like the cinema. So that's why you look like this, with pink cheeks? And I thought it was just a good exfoliation! So you are going to call this Raoul, yes?'

'Oh, I don't know,' Daisy said, looking at the number on her hand.

'Daisy,' Anouk said earnestly, 'listen to me,
mon petit
. When I was your age, life was completely open, like a book with blank pages. I could go into the Tuileries Gardens, for example, and sit down on a bench and ... anything could happen. And you know, it did,' she added, smiling reminiscently. 'I don't mean to say that nice things can't happen later in life, so long as you retain a bit of allure, you know. But the truth is they don't happen as easily as when you're young. And also, frankly, having a drink with a good-looking man ... he is good-looking, yes?'

'Ye-es ... I think so. A bit rugged.'

'
Rugged
?'

'
He
doesn't look like he exfoliates much,' Daisy said, before describing the sunburn and stubble.

'Oh yes, a real man!' Anouk said delightedly, clasping her hands together. 'But that's perfect!'

'I think he's probably forty or something. A bit old for me, don't you think?'

'What nonsense. Having a drink with a good-looking, rugged forty-year-old man,' Anouk resumed firmly, 'is probably the best way to help you get over Octave. You need a change of ... climate. And you know why I'm giving you this advice?'

'Why?'

'Because,
mon petit
, it's the first time since your breakup that I mention Octave and it doesn't make you cry.'

Daisy remembered yesterday's text message from Chrissie in response to yet another one of her anguished outpourings. 'GET BACK IN SADDLE ASAP,' he'd said with customary levity, adding after half a minute's pause: 'BUCKING BRONCO WD B BEST.' Daisy smiled, thinking of Raoul's Texan boots. Well then, she thought, yee-haw to you, cowboy.

15 Isabelle

'Oh no, not now, Isabelle,' Clothaire groaned from behind his book, in a martyred tone of voice. 'I'm exhausted.'

Isabelle, who had been covering his chest with delicate kisses and sliding her bare legs caressingly against his underneath the bedclothes, obediently rolled off Clothaire's unresponsive body.

She lay next to him, staring pensively at the ceiling. If not now, when? Clothaire was going home later that morning, after which they would not see each other until Christmas. And it wasn't as though he'd been particularly enthusiastic in his attentions during his stay in London. There had been one, no, two occasions, but generally his mind had seemed to be on entirely other things. He'd spent most of his time reading or going for walks on his own to 'clear his head'. Clear his head of what? Isabelle had hoped for greater passion, but in truth there was nothing very out of the ordinary about this behaviour. Clothaire did sometimes go through these phases, especially when something important was going on at work. Exams had always been a no-sex zone, for example. In fact now Isabelle thought about it, so had the run-up to exams. And also, often, the period that had followed them. And holidays too, because that was when Clothaire needed to recuperate.

Sitting up in bed to put her underwear and T-shirt back on, Isabelle considered the simple fact that although he talked about it a great deal at dinner parties and had many theories about it, Clothaire just wasn't that focused on sex as an activity. That was because he was such a cerebral and brilliant person. And also because he loved Isabelle for herself, not just her body. And Isabelle, of course, felt exactly the same. That was one of the reasons why she and Clothaire were such a good match - because they communicated on a higher level than just sex.

And now Clothaire was waiting to hear about the possibility of a lecturing job at Sciences Po, the prestigious college where future diplomats and civil servants were trained. Of course, that was it! Well, there was no reason to worry, really. The main thing was not to pressure him.

'I'm going to have a quick bath, OK?' she said, getting out of bed and putting her robe and slippers on.

'Mmm? Yes, OK.'

'Then when you're ready, we'll have time for a bit of breakfast before going to St Pancras Station. And then I think I'll go to the library. I'm looking into the history of ventriloquist acts of the period - the sort of thing Meredith might have seen when she was growing up.'

'Right,' Clothaire said, looking up. 'Did you say you're coming to the station?'

'Yes, of course, silly - to see you off,' Isabelle said, twisting her hair into a ponytail.

'Oh, that's not necessary. You know how much I hate those kinds of environments. I'd rather say goodbye here.'

Isabelle remembered her resolution to keep pressure to a minimum. 'OK, if you prefer.'

Clothaire nodded and went back to his book. Remembering her plans for the evening, she grabbed a couple of Tom's quinces and put them in her satchel. Then she went off to get ready.

As it turned out, Clothaire didn't really want breakfast, either - there was no point, he said, with no decent bread or croissants available. He downed a cup of black coffee standing at the sink, while Isabelle ate a piece of toast at the table with Jules and Chrissie.

'Shall we
all
come to the station with you, Clo-Clo darling?' Chrissie asked teasingly, ignoring Isabelle's pleading eyes. He simply could not help himself.

'Actually, Clothaire is going to the station on his own,' Isabelle said. 'He wants to be in really good time for his train.'

Jules gave her a quick look across her bowl of Weetabix, but remained silent.

There was an entertaining interlude in the hallway when Chrissie, ignoring the Frenchman's protests, forcibly kissed Clothaire on both cheeks. Then it was Clothaire's turn to plant two kisses on a most embarrassed and unwilling Jules, who tried vainly to shake his hand instead. Afterwards Jules and Chrissie withdrew, leaving the French couple to their goodbyes.

'I'm going to miss you,' Isabelle said sadly, throwing her arms around Clothaire's neck.

Showing rather more affection than he had during the past week, Clothaire gave her a long, cool kiss. 'It's not long until Christmas,' he said. 'Agathe and Claire are planning a big party. You will see everyone there.'