Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (23 page)

'Isabelle is in the process of writing a thesis about my great-aunt's novels,' Tom said, pouring Rosie a glass of wine.

'Really? What's it about?'

Isabelle repressed a small sigh. This was not at all how she would have liked to broach the subject of
The Splodge
with him.

'Oh, it's a bit boring and technical, really,' she replied evasively. 'It's about the narrative strategy of her detective novels.'

'That sounds great,' Rosie said, looking deeply unimpressed. She immediately turned to Tom and launched into a long disquisition about the type of bubble polythene best suited to insulating his greenhouse during the winter.

While this was going on, Isabelle experienced the oddest feeling of division of her self. Her conscious mind was firmly congratulating her on how well she was handling herself in the company of Tom Quince. It also stated with pedantic satisfaction that the presence of a third person was a wonderful boon, acting as it did as a sort of censoring device that made it impossible even to allude to certain recent events which had taken place, for some of them, on the very table at which they were now seated.

Meanwhile her body was following a very different course. Almost painfully delighted to see Tom again, it would gladly have leapt over the table that stood between them to be more closely reunited with him. Also, being rather feral in outlook, Isabelle's body did not at all care for Rosie, having instantly categorised her as a first-class
tete a claques
- an irritating person whose face seemed to invite a good hard slap, or several, come to that.

Somewhere between the two, another, more diffident and tender part of her consciousness was following its own meandering line of questioning, chiefly to do with what might be the exact status of the bra-less barefoot Rosie in Tom's life.

'Rosie and I took the same horticulture course a few years ago,' Tom said, as he stood up to clear their plates.

'And then we met up again in Florence last year,' Rosie added for Isabelle's benefit. 'Oh, Tommy,' she said, laughing throatily, 'we had such a fantastic time there, didn't we? And as I only live around the corner,' she went on, her eyes gradually returning to Isabelle, 'I often pop over to help with the garden. By this stage it almost feels like my own garden too. Because it's been such a joint project for us, you see.'

'So, are you also a professional gardener?' Isabelle asked, still trying not to think of Tom and Rosie having a fantastic time in Florence.

'At the moment I work in a nursery.'

'Oh? Looking after babies?'

Rosie laughed a little. 'No, after trees and plants, actually. Though I
am
hoping to have babies at some point.'

'Thank you,' Isabelle said as Tom handed her an enticing piece of apple pie. 'Tom, I was wondering ... I would be very interested to see Meredith's manuscripts. Can you remember where they are?'

'I
think
they might be in a box in the attic,' he said vaguely.

'Really? Could I go and have a look after lunch?'

'By all means.'

'What do you want them for?' Rosie asked. 'Is it something
else
for the Quince Society? I thought Tommy had already made you a gift of that portrait. Surely that's enough.'

'No, it's nothing to do with the Society. It's for me. I'm trying to get an idea of how Meredith composed her stories, of her creative process. The manuscripts might show corrections, successive versions, comments in the margins, all that sort of thing.'

'All that sort of thing is way over my head,' Rosie said, picking up crumbs of pastry with the tip of her finger and licking them off. 'I can't understand why anyone would want to spend all their time poring over dusty old papers. Personally, I much prefer to be out in the fresh air.'

Tom had been looking absent-mindedly in Isabelle's direction. He turned to his neighbour. 'In that case, perhaps you could make us all some coffee while I take Isabelle up to the attic. You know where everything is, don't you?'

'Yes, but ...'

'Oh, thank you. You
are
a good guest.'

Isabelle followed Tom up the stairs to the top floor. Her body remembered very clearly that this was where his bedroom was. Her conscious mind concentrated firmly on the proximity of the manuscripts.

'It's through here,' Tom said, opening a narrow door at the far end of the landing. 'I'll go first - hopefully catch some of the cobwebs on my way.'

Isabelle followed up a cramped spiral staircase and emerged after Tom into a vast cluttered attic.

'Hang on, stay where you are. I know there's a light switch somewhere.'

The light came on, illuminating an overwhelming jumble of travel cases, dismantled furniture and empty picture frames, as well as innumerable cardboard boxes.

'Over here, I think, are some of Meredith's papers at least. I remember helping Dad move them out of her room.'

The boxes Tom was referring to sat on top of a bed, whose sunken mattress was punctured by a few curly metal springs. As Tom opened the first box, Isabelle began to kneel on the mattress to look over his shoulder.

'Keep off that thing, Isabelle, it's booby-trapped.' He pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed them to her.

'Oh. These look like ... bills,' Isabelle said, disappointed.

'Yes, you're right. Not without some historical interest if you were writing about the day-to-day running of a 1930s household, but possibly not of great literary value. Shall we try the other box?'

'Yes, please.'

The other box was full of yellowed newspapers.

'You know, I think these must be Dad's,' Tom said pensively. 'He's always hoarded papers, thinking he would get around to reading them later.'

'Those manuscripts could be anywhere,' Isabelle said, looking around with some discouragement.

'Too true. We would need to search the place methodically but I think it would take longer than we've got today. Let's go down.'

Tom switched off the light and headed back towards the stairs, closely followed by Isabelle. As she began her descent, one of her kitten heels got stuck between two floorboards. She tried to yank herself free, but her foot slid out of the trapped shoe and she became airborne, careering downwards behind Tom who, alerted by her cry of terror, turned around just in time to catch her in his arms and cushion the impact of her body by hitting the wall rather hard with his own.

'I've got you,' he said, sounding a trifle short-winded, as they collapsed on the stairs in a closely conjoined sitting position. Feeling his breath on her mouth, Isabelle wondered in a rush of bewildered longing what it might be like to kiss this man every day of her life - if only such a thing were allowed.

'Thank you,' she said coldly, disengaging herself. 'I'm so sorry. That was really clumsy of me.'

'Actually, you know,' Tom said, slowly taking his hands off her shoulders, 'nobody's more graceful than you, even when falling down the stairs. If you will allow me to pay you a small and entirely platonic compliment.'

'I hope I didn't hurt you too much.'

Tom straightened his spectacles and ran his hand over his chest. 'No, no, absolutely not. I have far too many ribs anyway - they're all at your service. It was not unlike dodgems, I suppose, except a lot more fun. And you may remember that something similar happened the first time we met - a collision on the stairs. It's obviously going to be a recurring pattern in our friendship.'

'Obviously,' Isabelle said, smiling a little and rubbing her legs.

'Are you hurt?'

'No, I don't think so. Just a bit shaken.'

Tom got up and climbed a few steps to retrieve her shoe. 'It looks OK to me,' he said, testing the heel. 'Shall I put it back on your foot?'

'Oh no, thank you. I can manage on my own.'

He handed her the shoe and stood back silently while she brushed down her clothes and picked a few cobwebs out of her hair. They made their way down to the landing and Tom closed the door behind them.

'I don't know about you, Isabelle, but I could probably do with some coffee now.'

'Yes, that would be nice.'

'I'm afraid Rosie's usually isn't quite up to Continental standards but at least it'll be hot.'

In the kitchen they found Rosie curled up on the sofa, sullenly looking through a mail-order seed catalogue. She was now wearing a zipped-up red fleece over her dungarees.

'That attic must be full of fascinating treasure,' she said, without looking up. 'Were you throwing furniture around, by the way? I heard a commotion.'

'Oh, that was just us falling down the stairs.'

Rosie raised her eyes and stared. 'Tommy, you do look a mess! Are you all right?'

'I'm fine. It's Isabelle who's in need of solicitude. She almost lost a shoe, you know. I understand that's quite traumatic.'

'Really? But you're OK, aren't you?' Rosie said, coolly looking Isabelle up and down. 'Apart from ripped tights.'

Tom poured two mugs of coffee, added milk and stirred two lumps of sugar into Isabelle's.

'Oh ... Thanks, but I don't usually have milk or sugar in coffee.'

'I know, but you're in shock. No arguments. Drink it.'

Isabelle obeyed and felt instantly better.

'So the long and short of it is that we have no idea where the manuscripts are.'

'N-no,' Isabelle said slowly, sitting down next to Rosie without really noticing her presence.

'Who cares?' Rosie said. 'They're probably lost anyway. It doesn't matter that much, surely?'

'Well, it matters to Isabelle,' Tom said vaguely, brushing dust out of his floppy hair. 'And I suppose I do feel some kind of family responsibility too. She was my great-aunt.'

'Tom? I don't suppose your father might remember what he did with them?'

'Oh, he won't know. And even if he did, he would pretend not to. He hated Meredith being an author and wants no part of it now. I suppose that's partly why I've never read her books.'

'Tommy, I hate to interrupt this fascinating conversation but the light is going. We should get started if you want to do any more in the garden today.'

'I think I should go home,' Isabelle said, reaching for her coat.

'Why don't you stay and rest for a while? I can run you home later.'

'No, thank you, I'm perfectly fine now. Thanks for lunch - it was lovely. Nice to meet you, Rosie.'

'Nice to meet you, too,' Rosie said, pulling on her wellies with her back to Isabelle.

'Isabelle,' Tom said, walking her back to the front door, 'why don't you come back tomorrow and start on the attic? Unless you have other plans?' Seeing her hesitate, he added, 'It might make a nice change from the British Library.'

'Well ... I'd love to if you don't mind,' Isabelle said gratefully. 'But wouldn't I be interfering with your work in the garden with, um, Rosie?'

'Leave Rosie to me. Just concentrate on finding the manuscripts. It might also be an idea to wear flat shoes tomorrow, unless of course you're planning even more ambitious acrobatics. In which case I would, of course, be delighted to assist you again.'

20 Daisy

'You look very well,
mon petit
,' Anouk said approvingly when her friend next visited her in her shop. 'I can see that a little change of climate is doing you good.'

The climatic change in question combined periods of intense shagging with frequent bouts of shopping for underwear, which was fun but also very necessary to keep Daisy provided with a reasonable trousseau. Raoul got through a fair few pairs because he loved to rip them apart when undressing her. Such enthusiasm was very welcome after the Octave debacle. Of course there had never really been any doubt in Daisy's mind that Raoul was generally disposed to show an interest in sex. The first time he'd taken her into his bedroom, she had been quite prepared to find a mirror on the ceiling. In actual fact there wasn't one, but the eye-popping Japanese etching of a kimono-clad couple embracing that hung above his bed more than made up for it. As for Raoul's outspoken appreciation of her person, it could sometimes be a little disconcerting, but overall it was hard not to warm to a man who said, among other things, that her pubic hair was like mink to the touch.

Meanwhile Daisy went on meeting Etienne Deslisses on Mondays for an hour or so of fashion talk. The writer seemed pleased with her contributions, and Daisy really enjoyed her unaccustomed role as initiator into a foreign, esoteric culture. What was perhaps nicest about Etienne was that he never made fun of her. He actually seemed to take her seriously. Not many people had done that, in Daisy's experience. For example, when meeting him for the third or fourth time, Daisy had said, 'By the way, Etienne, are you still reading that travel book - what was it ...
Club Tropicana
?'

Etienne looked at her for a minute, then said, 'You mean
Tropic of Cancer
.'

'Oh, right. Yes.'

'No, I finished it a while ago. At the moment I'm reading a book about delinquency and repression in the nineteenth century. It's something I'm reviewing for a periodical. How about you?'

'Well, I'm reading
Vogue
,' Daisy said with a certain amount of embarrassment. 'But it's French
Vogue
!' she quickly pointed out. 'So it's a good way for me to pick up more vocabulary.'

'Perhaps you could talk me through it today. I have never read
Vogue
.'

'Really? Not even
Vogue Homme
?'

'No. I didn't know there was one.'

This was simply unbelievable, Daisy thought, managing somehow to resist the urge to text Chrissie on the spot.

'Good grief, Etienne! But you
must
familiarise yourself with
Vogue
.
I
started reading it when I was eleven. Think of it as a serious periodical for people who know about fashion. Right. Come and sit next to me. We don't have a moment to lose.'

Daisy patiently walked Etienne through the entire magazine, explaining how it was put together, why it contained so much advertising and what stylistic impact the fact that one of the editors used to be a certain designer's muse necessarily had on editorial content.