Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (29 page)

'
Salut
. Good trip?' Camille asked.

'Yes, thanks.
He! Dis donc
, you've had your hair cut,' Isabelle observed, ruffling Camille's new sleek bob.

'And you are wearing your hair down. That is quite a change! It suits you.'

'
Mais c'est incroyable!
' Aude exclaimed, holding Isabelle at arm's length. 'She looks just like a
petite Anglaise
!'

Isabelle looked down at her fawn military jacket and brown tartan miniskirt, with its hint of dark gold lurex. They were a gift from Chrissie, samples from Savage's last winter collection. Back in London, he had convinced her that she looked wonderful in the outfit, but now, under the gaze of her more conservatively clad siblings, Isabelle began to have her doubts.

'It's not ... too much, is it?'

'No, it's really cool!' Aude said longingly. 'I wish I had one just the same.'

'You look great,' Camille confirmed, adding: 'You are perhaps wondering where Clothaire is?'

'Yes. I thought ...'

'He called us to say that he had a last-minute
empechement
. He sounded very harassed and said he only had time for one call, so that's why he didn't call you.'

'Of course,' Isabelle said automatically.

'Don't worry. He will meet us at home a bit later. In fact he's probably there already.'

'Of course,' Isabelle said again. She was puzzled.

The three sisters piled into a taxi en route for the parental apartment, and Isabelle, looking out of the window at the glistening darkness of well-remembered Parisian streets, gave kindly, absent-minded answers to Aude's questions about her London life. Once she was reunited with her parents, things became curiouser. Clothaire had apparently just rung Isabelle's mother to excuse himself from dinner and, indeed, from turning up at all that night. There was, he had said vaguely, an urgent
crise
he needed to attend to. Her parents were very put out and would have liked an explanation, which Isabelle was unable to provide. As a result, there was a slight sense of strain to the evening, and Isabelle was particularly grateful to puppyish Aude for her insouciant stream of chatter.

By the time she got to bed in her own flat, Isabelle was too tired to give much thought to what might have happened to change Clothaire's plans. She had also been pleasantly distracted by Daisy's surprise: bunches of flowers in every colour, like cheerful notes of music, had been left in every available container in the flat to welcome her home.

In the morning Clothaire turned up on her doorstep, looking white-faced and tetchy. Such impulsive behaviour was very much out of character and made Isabelle feel on edge. After a perfunctory kiss, he sat her down next to him on the sofa and impatiently parried her attempts at conversation.

'It is really not the moment for chit-chat, Isabelle. I want to speak to you about something important.'

At first Isabelle thought Clothaire was actually going to propose. Then, looking at his expression, she changed her mind. Quite suddenly, she knew with absolute and chilling certainty that he had somehow found out about Tom. But how? Jules was the soul of discretion, but was it just possible that Chrissie had blabbed to Daisy? And that the story had then made its way into the circle of her Paris friends? In any case honesty was the best policy, since they were, after all, planning to spend the rest of their lives together.

'This is not easy for me to say, Isabelle.'

'No,' Isabelle replied in a small voice. 'Clothaire, I'm really sor--'

'No, no, no. Be quiet and listen to me.'

'OK. Go ahead.'

Clothaire glared at her. 'You know, don't you, that I was completely against your going away to London, but did you listen to me? No, of course not.'

Isabelle sighed and nodded a few times. Clothaire lit a cigarette and went on more calmly: 'So you accept that as a fact. Good. I did warn you before you left that your disappearance would create problems. Well, I was right, absolutely right.'

Isabelle took a deep breath, steadying herself in preparation for Clothaire's accusation.

'Let us get one thing clear, Isabelle. You cannot blame me for what happened. The whole thing was your fault. You behaved very selfishly. You deserted me. I was lonely. And I have certain needs, like all men. So of course I had to turn to someone else. It was the natural thing to do.'

Isabelle blinked and looked up at him.

Clothaire smiled thinly. 'Yes, you see, if you weren't interested in being with me, there was somebody else who was. Someone quite attractive, I might add.'

'Who?'

'It is not important who she is,' Clothaire said, waving his cigarette. 'Anyway ...'

'Clothaire, it
is
important, if you prefer her to me, don't you think?'

'Let me finish, Isabelle. You have this habit of interrupting my train of thought. It is exasperating. Surely I have mentioned this to you many times before?'

'Yes, you have. Many times.'

'I am very good at evaluating people's characters, as you know. It did not take me very long to discover that this girl was not, in fact, at all what I expected. She is difficult, very difficult - very
capricieuse
. And endlessly demanding and critical - of
me
!' Clothaire shook his head with some severity. 'It was a shock and a disappointment, as I'm sure you appreciate. But I am over it now. So you will be pleased to hear that I have ended things with her. And,' he said taking Isabelle's hands in his, 'I am willing to take you back.'

'
You
are willing to take
me
back?'

'Yes, Isabelle, I am. Provided, of course, that you curtail this absurd stay in London. I want you to come back here, where you belong.'

'I slept with Tom,' Isabelle heard herself say in her flutelike tones, much to her surprise.

'You ... what? Slept with ... who, did you say?'

'I slept with Tom Quince.'

'Never heard of him. What are you talking about?'

'Meredith's great-nephew. You met him at the Halloween party.'

'At the Halloween party?' Clothaire said, narrowing his eyes. 'But that is absurd. All the men there were homosexual.'

'Not all, just Chrissie. Karloff and Jules are together now. And as for Tom ...'

Clothaire's face flushed a dark shade of brick-red. 'You mean the ...
florist
? That guy? I do not believe it. I mean, you do not even really enjoy ...'

'It's true.'

Clothaire was completely silenced, a phenomenon Isabelle did not remember ever witnessing before. After a while he said, 'I am very surprised. But I think I will ... yes, find it in myself to forgive you, in time. When you come back for good, we can put all this behind ...'

Isabelle got to her feet. She felt very light, as though a great weight had fallen off her shoulders. '
Joyeux Noel
, Clothaire. Give my regards to your parents.'

'But we are going to see them in two days' time. You can tell them yourself.'

'I'm not coming. I'm going to stay here and spend time with my family.'

'My mother will be very surprised by your extraordinary behaviour. You are not yourself, Isabelle.'

'And afterwards I'm going back to London, as planned.'

'What? But I thought I made myself clear: I will only take you back on condition that ...'

Isabelle walked to her front door and opened it wide. 'Think about it, Clothaire, and try to understand. It's really very simple. Goodbye.'

'Ah, women! They are all mad, all of them,' Clothaire muttered, putting his cigarette out with furious energy before storming out.

He disappeared down the stairs without a backwards glance.

26 Daisy

As she stood outside the doors of the Sorbonne amphitheatre waiting for the end of Etienne's lecture, Daisy found herself going over last night's version of her now well-established recurring dream. In it, she had been wandering along Boulevard Haussmann outside the big department stores. At this time of year these were still festooned with glamorous Christmas lights - clusters of oversized Chinese lanterns in a delightful shade of hot pink. It was only a couple of weeks ago that, out shopping with Agathe for presents, she had stared up, entranced at their happy glow. At the time it had felt like half of Paris was out on the same cheerful errand, so crowded were the pavements, but in her dream the lanterns swung ghostlike, dark and drab in the night air, and there was no one about.

Daisy took a turn off the empty boulevard and came in sight of the Gare Saint-Lazare, which, equally deserted, looked almost like a cardboard facade behind which lay nothing but thin air. In an instant she was magically transported to the middle of the station's empty waiting hall. This place, Marie-Laure had once told her, had got the nickname of the
salle des pas perdus
, the hall of lost footsteps, because so many people paced up and down it while waiting for their train, or for a friend's arrival - sometimes in vain. Daisy too, pacing alone in the silent hall of lost footsteps, felt that she was waiting anxiously, longingly, for something, expecting something, but what? No trains were announced on the arrivals or departures boards. Perhaps she was too late and had missed ... whatever it was. It - or was it they? - had left without her, and now she would never find them again. She had woken up in tears, her heart beating wildly, Raoul peacefully asleep beside her.

Raoul never had nightmares. He only dreamed about pleasant or 'extreme' things. Not that this dream was a nightmare, exactly. It made her sad, yes, but in an odd way Daisy now looked forward to its return when she went to sleep because she hoped, night after night, that it would yield up its meaning to her.

Here too, in the busy corridor outside the lecture halls, people were pacing up and down, waiting for the end of a lecture or the start of another. Today, Daisy and Etienne had arranged to meet at the Faculty before going to lunch. Their topic of discussion for the day was to be, at Etienne's request, appearance and authenticity in fashion. Daisy had no real idea of what he meant by that, though he had wondered aloud how fashion-conscious people could possibly stay true to themselves. How like an intellectual to get into a tizz about such things! She was very much looking forward to defending the sincerity of fashionistas everywhere.

'I mean, why should it be,' she told Marie-Laure, who was standing next to her looking nervous, 'that just because you put some thought into getting a good look together you're not expressing your true self? That's just silly! Why shouldn't your true self express itself in a silver lame boob tube and pop socks? Etienne is so clueless still. It's hilarious.'

She had been about to add: 'I would love to take him home and give him a complete makeover,' but stopped herself just in time. In actual fact Daisy couldn't help feeling that Etienne - perhaps because he was so cerebral, and so reserved - somehow existed on a higher plane than her own. Trying to get him out of his ultra-traditional togs and into edgy fashion would be like ... toppling an idol from its pedestal. He was ... untouchable.

'Yes, perhaps you are right,' Marie-Laure replied, straightening her scarf and hair. 'I think it is almost time. They will be out in a minute.'

Agathe, Claire and Amelie sat on a wooden banquette nearby, chatting and showing rather less agitation than Marie-Laure. They had been having coffee together nearby and, on hearing of Daisy's appointment, Marie-Laure had suggested, in a burst of daring, that they all accompany her to be introduced to the great Deslisses. Claire and Agathe had agreed more languidly, although Daisy could tell that they, too, were actually rather curious to see him for themselves. Daisy glanced at her watch. It was time: Etienne's lecture should be drawing to a close. But as she and Marie-Laure turned to look expectantly at the double doors of the lecture hall, another set of doors opened further down the corridor. Another lecture had finished before Etienne's. A dozen students came straggling out and hurried away, followed, a few moments later, by Clothaire.

Looking around, he caught sight of the group of girls, stood stock-still at first - looking oddly uncomfortable and trapped, Daisy observed - and then made up his mind to approach them.

'
Ah, tiens
?
Salut
. Are you ... waiting for me?'

'No, not at all,' Claire said. 'What an idea!'

'In fact we have all come to meet the great Deslisses,' Agathe explained with a brilliant smile. 'Daisy's friend.'

Stepping forward to greet Clothaire, Daisy said, 'Hi! How are you? But in fact,' she went on, squeezing Marie-Laure's arm teasingly, 'it was Marie's idea. She's Etienne's number one fan, you see.'

Marie-Laure glanced at Clothaire and blushed. 'Oh, stop it, Daisy! I am not his fan. I admire his work, that is all.'

Clothaire stared back with icy disdain. 'Well, I thought you had better taste. It is ridiculous the fuss everyone makes about that guy.'

Daisy looked from Marie-Laure to Clothaire, uncertain what to say. Clothaire and Isabelle had recently split up, Agathe had said, adding that poor Clothaire was terribly upset. No doubt that was why he was more than usually unpleasant. Although why he should pick on Marie-Laure, Daisy had no idea.

To defuse the tension, she said, 'Happy New Year, by the way. I thought I'd see you at Marie-Laure's bash but I couldn't make it in the end.'

Clothaire looked at her dispassionately and nodded.

'My boyfriend and I ended up at an all-night salsa party. It was right at the other end of town and we couldn't get a taxi.'

Clothaire sighed theatrically and turned slightly away from Daisy and towards Marie-Laure.

'But I'm so sorry I missed your party, Marie,' Daisy went on. 'Oh, and there was going to be a
surprise
, wasn't there? What was it?'

Marie-Laure opened her mouth to reply, but at that point there suddenly arose, from behind the closed doors of the amphitheatre, the thunderous, exhilarating sound of rapturous applause. Clothaire looked spectacularly cross. The ovation went on for quite some time, then the double doors swung open, letting through a throng of enthusiastic students. Quite a few of them, Daisy noticed, nodded guiltily in Clothaire's direction, muttering '
Bonjour, Monsieur
,' as they walked past. Well, what do you know, she thought, academia isn't a million miles away from the fashion world after all. During Fashion Week, there were those dull shows hardly anyone bothered to attend, and then a few magical, white-hot ones that nobody wanted to miss. In catwalk terms Etienne's lectures were clearly front-page and front-row stuff.