Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (20 page)

'Is there a harem in this, by any chance?'

'Yeah, there is,' Raoul said, surprised. 'But I thought you hadn't read it?'

'Just a lucky guess. And your next book, the one you're completing at the moment? You mentioned it was about a girl having surreal adventures.'

'Yeah, in fact it's like a ... psychedelic fairy tale. You know Lewis Carroll, right? Well, it's based on
Alice au pays des merveilles
.'

'
Alice in Wonderland
? Really?'

'Yeah, but it's very different. My Alice is much, much older - eighteen, nineteen years old - and it's set in the 1960s.'

Daisy considered this for a minute. 'So does she do it with the White Rabbit?' she asked with genuine curiosity. It was amazing how quickly you got used to discussing this stuff.

'Oh sure, but in my version, you know, it's not really a rabbit. It's a
guy
dressed up as a rabbit.'

'Right.'

'She meets him when she's totally tripping on acid.'

'It sounds great,' Daisy said, repressing a small spasm of laughter. 'I look forward to reading it.'

'You're very sweet,' Raoul said with a smile. 'But I also like science fiction,' he went on. 'This one, for instance -' he helding up another book entitled
Planete Femme
'- is about a race of beautiful female aliens who take over the Earth.'

'By killing everybody?'

'No, no. By having sex with everybody,' Raoul said, exhaling a plume of smoke. 'Their weapon is the orgasm.' He caught Daisy's eye and they both burst out laughing. 'I know, I know. It's kind of dumb. But you wanted to know what inspires me. You can borrow those two,' he said, handing her
La Sultane
and
Planete Femme
. 'Keep them as long as you like.'

'Oh thanks, Raoul. That's great.' Daisy looked at her watch. 'I should go,' she said. 'I don't want to be late for my little friend.'

Daisy was meeting Amelie - Claire's younger sister - at the swimming pool. This was part of a project to help Amelie lose her puppy fat. In place of depressing trips to the dietician, Daisy had been taking her swimming or running with her once a week, after which the French teenager went home with her to spend many happy hours trying on all of Daisy's clothes and make-up. This approach was yielding encouraging results. Amelie had lost half a stone and was now - much to her older sister's dismay and Daisy's amusement - dreaming of becoming a fashion stylist.

17 Isabelle

Isabelle and Tom had been sitting in his car outside Daisy's house for quite a while. Isabelle had tried to leave several times but some mysterious law of physics appeared to be preventing her from doing so. As it was, she had somehow manoeuvred herself into his lap and they were kissing deeply, occasionally conversing.

'I should go.'

'Mmm, yes. Absolutely.'

'Thank you for dinner.'

'You've already thanked me.'

'Really? I had a lovely time.'

'So did I.'

'I'm going now.'

'Are you? That's good.'

'Tom, if you do that, I can't get out.'

'Oh, shall I not do it?'

'Mmm. OK, just another minute.'

This went on for quite some time, until Isabelle, by a tremendous effort of will, broke through the invisible barrier that was holding her inside Tom's car. He waited until she had reached her door, then drove off, waving out of the window.

At that moment, without warning, her bubble burst. She felt like she'd just come out of a mad dream. What had she done? Suddenly overcome by a sense of panic, she felt around in her satchel. Where was her blasted key? Eventually she lost patience and rang the bell. Chrissie came to the door in his dressing gown, a sleeping mask embroidered with the words 'The Bitch Is Sleeping' perched on his forehead. He beamed at her. 'Oh, hello, darling! Did you forget your key?'

'No, I don't think so. It's just that ... I can't find it.'

Isabelle scurried towards the stairs. If she could just get to her room quickly, all would be well.

'By the way, did you pick up a paper while you were out? Or,
even
more brilliantly, some milk?'

She stopped in her tracks. 'No. I ...'

'You know, you should wear your hair down like this more often: it really suits you,' Chrissie drawled. Then, suddenly, he switched to intense peering mode. He probably hadn't got his contact lenses in yet. '
Hang
on a minute. Aren't these yesterday's clothes? And, darling, if I
may
say ...' he went on slowly, 'you're looking a little ... well ... a little sexed-up and crazy.'

'I don't know wha-' Isabelle began uncertainly. Then she started to cry.

Chrissie was aghast. 'Oh Lord, I'm sorry,' he said, putting his arms around her. 'What's wrong? Tell your Uncle Chrissie.'

Isabelle tried to speak through her tears, but the results were disappointing.

'No. Didn't get a word of that. Right.' He threw his head back. 'Juuules!'

'What?' came the reply from upstairs.

'Get down here. We have a crisis.'

Later on, sitting on the floor of Chrissie's room wrapped in his duvet and equipped with a mug of coffee, Isabelle had regained enough of her composure to speak of the previous night's events.

'On the
kitchen
table?' Chrissie snorted. 'That is so
iconic
. I am
green
with envy.'

'Chrissie,' Jules said tonelessly.

'I don't know what came over me.'

'Now, darling, as for
that
, I think we have a
pretty
good idea ...'

'Chrissie, shush. Turn it off for a minute.'

'Oh, all right. But I can only take so much provocation.'

'Right,' Jules said to Isabelle. 'So, basically, you've gone and been a bit wanton. Well, you know, we've all been there ...'

'Especially
me
!' Chrissie said, a delighted smile lighting up his pretty face.

Jules stared him down, then turned back to Isabelle. 'Don't worry, it's not the end of the ...'

'Darling, I
beg
of you, don't keep us in suspense!
How
was it? Do tell!'

'Chrissie, I'm going to have to muzzle you.'

'It was fantastic,' Isabelle said mournfully.

'And what about his cooking? Or did you not bother with food, you saucy madam?'

'No, we ate afterwards. We were very hungry.' Isabelle paused, then wailed: 'And it was delicious!'

'I knew it. You've set her off again. Just button it, will you?'

'You French are so sophisticated,' Chrissie went on dreamily. 'With all your gorgeous
affaires
and things. What a perfectly
divine
way to live. And you've got it right, you know. A lover is the
one
accessory one absolutely cannot do without. I must get one too, and
double plus
quick. Two weeks without sex is my
absolute
limit. After that I get all tetchy and start to lose my glow.'

'But Chrissie, I do
not
have affairs!' Isabelle said, taken aback.

'Oh, darling, is this your first time? That's so
adorable
.'

'You mean you've never cheated on Clothaire before?' Jules said, a note of utter disbelief struggling to make itself heard through her usual monotone.

'No, of course not!' Isabelle said indignantly. 'I love Clothaire. And we're going to be married.'

'Oh, I see. You were planning to take lovers
after
you were married?'

'No, Chrissie! I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Honestly, darling, you disappoint me. Not a
trace
of
oh-la-la
. It's enough to make you wonder if you're really French at all.'

'Is Clothaire really hot stuff in bed?' Jules asked, her face impassive.

Isabelle thought for a moment. 'Well ... You know, with him, it's like ...'

'A walk in the park?' Jules offered.

'Yes, exactly.'

'And last night?'

Isabelle closed her eyes and said very fast, without a moment's hesitation, 'That was like riding through a thunder storm on the back of a centaur.'

Chrissie's hands flew to his face and he made a small whimpering sound.

'Blimey,' Jules said, almost inaudibly. Then she added: 'That's quite gothic, actually.'

'Well, well, well. And I thought he looked like butter wouldn't melt in his - Ow! What was that for?'

'Are you going to see him again?' Jules said.

'No. Yes. I don't know. He said he'd call me tonight. Oh, this is terrible. What am I going to do?'

'Honey, if ever there was a no-brainer,
this
is it,' Chrissie said, his eyes twinkling. 'Of course you
must
see him again, for all our sakes. He sounds like a real
find
.'

'Yes,' Jules said coldly, 'that's one way of looking at it. But if Legend were here, she'd say that just because someone can make you come that doesn't make him Jesus. It's worth thinking about that, too.'

'You're right,' Isabelle said. 'I'm going to call Clothaire now and tell him everything.'

'That would, of course, be a brilliant course of action,' Jules said sardonically, 'but it's not at all what I meant. If I were you I would consider the consequences. How do you think Clothaire is likely to react? No offence, but he didn't strike me as particularly easy-going.'

Isabelle was silent.

'Look,' Jules said, 'you're blowing this way out of proportion. What you need is to get some sleep. Then you'll feel like yourself again and you can decide what you want to do.'

Isabelle was beginning to feel better.

'I'll go to bed for a bit,' she said, standing up and divesting herself of Chrissie's duvet. 'Thanks for being so nice.'

Three hours later, she awoke to find a message from Clothaire on the phone. He was back. He hoped she was making progress with her research and he would call her at the weekend. Yes, her research, Isabelle thought, hurriedly putting on her dressing gown. She had better get to the library to make the best of the afternoon opening hours. Work would clear her head. It always did. Once she had got dressed and tied her hair back in a neat ponytail, Isabelle thought she was definitely back in control. Travelling to the library, she felt stronger, more solidly anchored in reality. As she made her way to her seat in the Rare Books Room, everything was wonderfully normal. She switched on her laptop. And then, as soon as she opened a file and reread her most recent notes, things began to go haywire.

It was as though - just like that, overnight - her experience of research had undergone a dramatic upheaval. Previously, the name of Quince had been almost an abstract concept to her, or at least a purely literary essence, shorthand for her work, her thesis, her academic status as a narratologist. Now, on the other hand, the mere sight of the name on the page, the mere mention of it in her mind, was enough to conjure up vivid images of Tom Quince completely naked, underscored by memories of some of the intoxicating things he'd said, for example when he ... No, no, stop. Concentrate.

Isabelle shook her head from side to side and squared her shoulders. She was puzzled. This was the very first time that sex had interfered with her intellectual processes. She'd never had that problem with Clothaire, for example. What was happening to her? Last night, it was true, she had been neither sensible nor rational. But then, she thought, remembering the strong pull of his mouth, Tom had been so extremely ... Flushing a little, Isabelle sat up straighter. She crossed her legs in one direction, then the other. It didn't help at all.

Surely yesterday's aberrant behaviour, that
moment d'egarement
, couldn't have changed her in any lasting way? It couldn't have rewired her brain, her body? Of course it couldn't.
Bon, reprenons
. Isabelle tightened her ponytail and began to type rapidly on her laptop, roughing up a chapter about the pressures exerted by the commercial book market on Meredith's direction as a writer. In particular there was the issue of Meredith's agent Paul Celadon's influence. In his autobiography
My Life as a Bookmark
, Celadon congratulated himself on having discouraged Meredith from pursuing literary experimentation, persuading her instead to exploit her gift for crowd-pleasing 'spine-tinglers'. Isabelle paused. What a clever expression that was. Yes, the spine did indeed tingle - sometimes in other contexts than the enjoyment of crime fiction. Chrissie, who had a word for everything, called it having a ring-a-ding-ding. In spite of herself, Isabelle smiled a little.

Anyway ... Could it be that Meredith had set out to outplay Celadon by planting experimental clues in the midst of seemingly conventional novels? In so doing she had been pushing hard against the limitations of the crime genre. Ah yes, Isabelle thought, staring at the screen. Pushing. Hard. Those were such good and evocative words. Not so long ago, she herself had been ... No, no, no. Stop. Stop right now. She took a deep, calming breath. This was, after all, a library and under
no
circumstances should she allow herself to moan
out loud
.

Last night had been a sort of dream, that was all. In that dream she had completely forgotten about Meredith, the manuscripts and the possible existence of a secret room. But in truth, even now, none of that seemed very real to her. Other things did. For example, how Tom had gathered her into his arms and carried her upstairs to his bedroom; the voluptuous pressure of his naked body against hers; and, flowing between them, the brilliant crackle of energy that had seemed to light up the room. Looking around at the familiar surroundings of the Rare Books Room, those things seemed wholly incredible. Yet they had happened. But most immediately present to her perception was the taste of the baked fruit Tom had brought to her in bed. She had eaten it in his arms, her back resting against his chest, and with every morsel she had crushed with her tongue, an aromatic, almost alcoholic explosion had suffused her mouth.

But, of course, all that was irrelevant, Isabelle told herself firmly. How natural and unselfconscious it had all seemed to her meant nothing, because it had all been a dream, a disturbing but temporary enchantment of the senses. Nothing more. Now she must consider reality - the orderly life that lay mapped out in front of her and her bond with Clothaire, which was unshakeable. She couldn't lose all that. On the tannoy a voice announced that the reading rooms would be closing in thirty minutes. Isabelle saved her work, closed the file and switched off her laptop. She would speak to Tom and explain that it had all been a mistake. He would understand.