Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (24 page)

'Now let's move on to the main fashion stories,' Daisy said.

'Stories?' Etienne said, intrigued. 'But in what way are these stories? There's no narrative that I can discern. Just pictures of the same model in different outfits.'

'Ah, but
that
, you see, is the story. Here, for example, the story is all about underwear as outerwear. That's quite an old story, which returns from time to time. The whole thing was really invented by Madonna in the early nineties.' (Here Daisy went into a detailed footnote about the singer's association with Jean-Paul Gaultier, the revival of the corset and the significance of conical bras for men.) 'So the person who styled the shoot will have gone looking for pieces that worked within that story, whether they were intentionally designed as outerwear or not. There's always going to be an element of reinvention with really creative stylists. So you might style a pair of tights as a top, you know, or the model might wear a shoe as a hat. That kind of thing.'

Etienne was listening attentively.

'Here, on the other hand,' Daisy went on, moving on to the next series of pictures, 'where they shot the whole thing in Rome, the story is really '
la dolce vita
' as a general idea, hence the scooters and cafe society vibe, but also specifically as in that famous black-and-white film. I haven't seen it, but I know there's a scene in it where a blonde girl in a black strapless dress wades into this amazing fountain. They've recreated it here, you see, with this Russian model who's the hottest face of the moment.'

Etienne looked at Daisy while lighting a cigarette. 'But how can you possibly recognise the allusion if you haven't seen the film?'

'I still get the reference because it's a story that's been around for quite a while.'

'But other people might not get the reference at all?'

'No, but they'll still get the mood of the clothes. And, of course, the designers' names also speak to people. For some,
that
is the story: big brands, nothing else.'

Looking at Etienne's profile, Daisy thought idly how ironic it was that he should have so little knowledge of the fashion world because as a matter of fact, if he hadn't chosen to become a brilliant intellectual, blowing everyone's mind with his insights, he might have made a pretty stunning male model. His skin was flawless and his bone structure was really very good, with a firm jawline and elegant nose. He had the kind of full mouth that would surely photograph like a dream and also the longest, darkest eyelashes Daisy had ever seen on a man. Impulsively, she half-raised her hand towards his face, then checked herself. What
was
she doing?

'So, to sum up,' she went on instead, 'the story is the general theme or mood of the shoot - an eveningwear story, a floral story, whatever. But it's also made up of loads of other visual stuff. References to all kind of things, even private jokes sometimes, that only insanely trendy fashion insiders will get.'

Etienne looked thoroughly absorbed. Daisy could see that, in his relatively contained way, he was showing signs of profound intellectual excitement.

'Daisy, I've understood something. I now see that a fashion story is a text,' he said seriously. 'A text determined, of course, by its incredibly rich and complex intertextuality.'

'Do you really think so, Etienne?' Daisy said, impressed. 'And what is inter ... um ... textuality, by the way?'

'Well, you've explained to me that the meaning of each fashion story, or text, often depends on other references, or intertexts, within fashion but also outside of it. The meaning of the text, or story, emerges from the staging and also, hopefully, from the reading of the clothes. The stylist and the reader both participate in it.'

Daisy nodded. 'That's right. There are all these layers - some obvious, others really obscure. Every outfit has lots of, er, intertexts. And if you don't pick up on any of that stuff, then it just looks like you're wearing lovely pants or whatever.'

'This is wonderful stuff, Daisy. Excuse me a moment,' Etienne said, getting up as his mobile phone rang.

Watching him walk out of the cafe to take the call, Daisy gave a private little whoop of joy. Here she was, sitting outside the Sorbonne, being hailed as an important fashion expert by a real-life Parisian intellectual! If only Etienne weren't so reserved she would really like to hug him. But that would probably embarrass him. Even after a number of meetings he still greeted her with a polite handshake.

Later, while getting dressed to go out to dinner with Raoul, Daisy thought to herself that things really
were
picking up in time for the end of the year. The blog was going well, she was managing to keep body and soul together by helping out Anouk in the shop, and she had also acquired a lovely new boyfriend who really appreciated her. Not too bad after only a few months in France.

Later that evening, looking happily around the huge, square dining room, Daisy basked in the satisfaction of finally being able to enjoy her first proper Parisian date. And it was all down to Raoul. Because even if Octave had, by some miracle, brought her here one evening, Daisy had no doubt that the serious glamour of the turn-of-the-century restaurant - with its dazzling expanse of mirrors and ornate polished woodwork, its chandeliers and its crowd of
bon vivant
diners intent on gastronomy and conversation - would have presented him with an irresistible challenge to misbehave.

Now Raoul, Daisy thought, looking across at him with approval, was clearly at ease in the context of a buzzing Parisian brasserie. He looked very dashing in a dark-grey suit, though the fact that he was not wearing a tie conspired with his customary stubble and untidy hair to give him a rebellious, slightly disreputable air. Very attractive indeed. Daisy had been impressed by the confidence with which he had commandeered a corner table that gave them a view of the entire room. He had also chosen to sit next to her on the red velvet banquette rather than opposite. This meant sitting very close together. It was rather romantic.

Walking through the humming room with Raoul close behind her, Daisy had felt that her Parisian musical comedy was on again. The restaurant was never still and seemed to be warming up for a big song-and-dance number. Groups of happy diners constantly poured in through the revolving glass doors. Others were being ferried from the bar to their table. Meanwhile the army of waiting staff carried out its own mysterious, dramatic choreography. Daisy commented on the difference in their outfits, so Raoul explained the hierarchy of dinner-jacketed
maitres d'hotel
, white-aproned
chefs de rang
and younger white-clad
commis de salle
. A sudden burst of flame not far from their table made Daisy look around with interest.

'They're flambeing pancakes in orange liqueur,' Raoul said. 'A dessert called
crepes Suzette
. It's very delicate to do this right. You see how it's the senior guy who does it while the younger waiter watches and learns. It's a ceremony, an art.'

Raoul had considered opening a restaurant of his own after his stint in clubs, but the hours were not congenial to him.

'If you want to do it right, there's only one way. You've got to get up at three in the morning to go to the market at Rungis and get all the best fresh stuff. Every day. Can you imagine that? I mean, I can stay up all night, that's OK.' He smiled at her pointedly.

'All right, no need to boast,' Daisy said, blushing.

'But getting up before dawn? No way, man. That's not for me.'

Now feeling pleasantly warmed up by the restaurant's atmosphere, Daisy removed her pink pashmina and placed it on top of the embroidered vintage clutch bag she had bought last weekend at the Puces de Clignancourt. She was satisfied that her dress - a short black velvet shift - gave her a grown-up French look. But she had been unable to resist wearing her green satin shoes from Anouk's shop. They were a bit mad - with high, clumpy heels and huge satin bows - but realistically, she thought, there was only so much room for understatement in any outfit. A waiter materialised at their table with two menus.

'You want some champagne while we decide?' Raoul asked, his fingers caressing the back of her neck.

Daisy, who never said no to champagne, nodded enthusiastically and opened her menu. Raoul ordered their drinks, then turned his attention to what they would eat.

'You like
fruits de mer
? Oysters and stuff, you know? Maybe we can share a platter?'

'Yes, that's a lovely idea!'

'And after ... I always have a
steak tartare
here but maybe you don't want everything raw? You'd like fish? The
cassolette de saumon
? The
magret de canard
is great, if you like duck. Or the chicken with morels. Really delicate, but the flavours are just extreme. You like wild mushrooms, yeah? It's such beautiful, classic food. You will love it.'

Tempted by its delicate and extreme flavours, Daisy decided on the chicken with morels. Octave would have found it impossible to sit still with her in this beautiful place for more than about ten minutes, she was certain of it. He'd have devised some elaborate charade to lure her downstairs to the loo for a prolonged snog, trying to unhook her bra through her clothes or some such schoolboy nonsense. That would have seemed a lot more fun to him than simply having a civilised meal in her company. Raoul on the other hand was a proper foodie. He loved fusion and was a complete sushi freak, but he was also incredibly knowledgeable about traditional French cuisine. It would be such a treat, such a privilege to eat out in his company. She was in for a very French experience, there was no doubt about that. Daisy sighed happily and gazed at the other diners, very much looking forward to her gastronomic initiation.

It therefore came as a bit of a surprise to feel Raoul's hand, which had been lying lightly on top of her knee, make its way rapidly up her skirt and into her knickers with the stunning accuracy of a heat-seeking missile. Daisy raised her menu in front of her face like a fan and glared at him. He was staring straight ahead, looking unconcerned.

'
What
are you doing?' Daisy stage-whispered.

'Who, me?' Raoul said, pointing at himself with his free hand with an air of injured innocence. He gave her a wolfish smile. 'Just checking that you're comfortable, that's all.'

'I'm
very
comfortable, Raoul, thank you. Now get
off
! We're in a public place.'

'Yeah, sure we are. It's fun, huh?'

'
Bonsoir. Vous avez choisi?
'

Their waiter, resplendent in formal black and white, stood in front of the table with a notepad. This was too much. Daisy hastily pulled more of the tablecloth over her lap and pressed her starched napkin against her forehead. She made a half-hearted attempt at escape, shifting sideways in her seat. Raoul's fingers followed implacably, and continued their work with absolute dedication and expertise.

Leaning his other elbow on the table and waving his hand for added emphasis, Raoul explained with excruciating deliberation that they would start with a Sancerre and then, possibly, follow this with a Beaujolais - a Moulin-a-Vent, perhaps, or a Julienas - something reasonably light but
corse
, with some depth of flavour. Now I
know
I'm in France, Daisy thought wildly, her eyes streaming, as her thighs came closer together to imprison Raoul's hand. But then again, he went on with careful consideration, might something else be preferable to better complement Madame's
supreme de volaille aux morilles
? What did the waiter think? Yes, something with a little more body, perhaps. Now,
voyons ...
how about a nice Medoc? This went on for quite a while. Meanwhile Daisy's napkin, which she held with both hands, had relaxed much of the stiffness in its folds. At last the waiter departed. Daisy waited as long as possible before clamping one hand on top of Raoul's, pointing her toes hard and allowing her back to arch just a little. Then there was nothing for it but to bury her burning face in her napkin and pass the whole thing off as some sort of coughing fit.

When she had finished dabbing her eyes (thank goodness for waterproof mascara) and replaced her napkin in her lap, Raoul's hand slowly slunk off like a cat burglar in the night. Daisy surreptitiously checked the neighbouring tables. Incredibly, nobody appeared to have called the police. All diners seemed intent on eating, drinking and chattering. Dozens of waiters were weaving their way around the restaurant carrying vertiginous stacks of plates. Looking down at their own table, Daisy noticed that while she had been otherwise engaged a circular metal base had materialised, along with tiny oyster forks, a plate of bread, a small dish of creamy butter and another of pink shallot vinegar. She was particularly delighted to find a very cold glass of champagne in front of her. She picked it up, took a cooling gulp and pressed the glass against her cheek. When she turned to face Raoul, he grinned at her, wholly unrepentant.

'I don't
believe
you!' she whispered, unable to resist smiling back. 'You're a terrible man!'

Slowly, Raoul raised his hand to his mouth and, without taking his eyes from hers, sucked his fingers one by one. Daisy watched him incredulously. It was hard to know what to say.

'Well, really!' she managed eventually, just as the waiter reappeared, carrying a mountainous platter, which he deposited on its metal legs. On a bed of snow-white crushed ice, glistening silver-grey oysters were fanned out next to a bright red curvaceous lobster, its whiskers curling upwards.

That night, asleep in Raoul's arms, Daisy had a strange dream. Afterwards she wondered if it might have been caused by the
fruits de mer
. Perhaps a sudden and unusually high intake of zinc was to blame. In the dream Daisy was walking through the empty streets of Paris at night, desperately looking for something. It was not entirely clear whether this was something she had lost or something she had not yet found. It was dark; her heart was beating fast; nobody else was around to help, but she must get hold of whatever she was looking for. It was vitally important.