Read Finding Monsieur Right (2010) Online
Authors: Muriel Zagha
Finding Monsieur Right (2010)
Muriel Zagha
FINDING
MONSIEUR
RIGHT
Contents
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Published in 2010 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing A Random House Group Company
Copyright (c) 2010 by Muriel Zagha
Muriel Zagha has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental
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Muriel Zagha grew up in Paris where she studied English literature at the Ecole Normale Superieure. She came to Britain at the age of 21, as a French lectrice at Cambridge University, and loved living here so much that she forgot to go home. After completing a PhD on Henry James, she escaped from academia into London's fashion world. She now works as a freelance journalist and broadcaster.
She lives in London with her English husband and their son.
To Robert and Hector, and to Emma and Suzanne, my own 'coven'.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my agent, Teresa Chris, for her enthusiasm and caustic wit, and to my editor, Gillian Green, and the team at Ebury Publishing for all their hard work and shrewd advice.
Prologue
Paris, April Fools' Day
Now there was absolutely no reason to panic. Everything was fine. Just so long as Daisy kept her eyes shut a little while longer. Chances were it was just a dream. But perhaps she should open them a tiny bit, just to be sure. Nice and slow, here we go ... Yup, just as she thought. She was actually standing on the roof of the Paris Opera House in a ball gown, looking down at a swimming sea of lights. Daisy looked up at the cold April stars. It was like being on the moon. And this roof was so damned slippery. She could barely keep her balance. It was probably a blessing that she had lost her shoes in the earlier bun fight with that French, er, witch. Heels wouldn't have been much help up here.
So, to recap: this was
not
a dream. Just a bit of a situation, that was all. Daisy willed herself to take a deep breath and leaned hard against the door. But it was no good, the door was shut. The French witch had actually locked her out. Daisy felt tears of rage welling up. And as for that lying toad, she thought, wait till I get my hands on him - I'll strangle him! On reflection, it was probably best not to kick and punch the air or she might lose her footing. She crouched down - not the easiest thing to do in a deconstructed crinoline and boned bustier - leaned against the door and took another deep breath.
Looking down at the glittering boulevards radiating from the Place de l'Opera, Daisy allowed herself a minute of wistful admiration. How beautiful Paris was! She had always known that the City of Lights was just the place for her. Daisy Keen, fashion queen, in Paris: it was written in the stars! And look where she had ended up, having somehow managed to get everything wrong about this place and the people who lived in it. She
was
a prize April Fool, Daisy thought sadly. And now Isabelle's life would be ruined too. It was a disaster.
And to think that the swap had seemed like such a brilliant idea to begin with, a year ago ...
Faster, faster, or they'd never get there in time, Isabelle thought, as the scooter swerved and swayed through the streets behind the Place des Victoires. She held on more tightly and looked round to see if the others were following. At first she thought they'd got lost, but then, sure enough, she was able to count one, two, three, yes, all eight black-clad figures zigzagging behind her on matching black scooters through the lines of late-night taxis and buses. Now they were all motoring up the Avenue de l'Opera, the illuminated opera house in their sights like a giant cake, with its ornate facade, green domed roof and glinting statues. Out of the corner of her eye Isabelle could see some of the others were catching up with them. Nervous as she was, Isabelle managed a little smile. She was proud of her friends.
One last swerve around the square and they all ground to a halt before the steps of the opera house. They leaped off and dashed towards the central door. Isabelle could see they were expected. The door flew open and they ran up the great staircase in their black catsuits like a squad of avengers, Isabelle in their midst in her red silk ball gown. There wasn't a minute to lose.
One Year Earlier
1 Isabelle
The closest Isabelle and Daisy had come to meeting was in the initial correspondence they'd exchanged to agree the terms of their house swap.
FLAT EXCHANGE. Serious, reliable French girl looking to exchange flat in Paris Left Bank against similar accommodation (preferably quiet) in London for one year, starting early July. Contact [email protected]
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Salut Isabelle!
Je suis une fille anglaise avec un grand maison a Londres. Et je voudrais tellement echanger avec toi! Celaserait fantastique! Je partage avec mes deux 'housemates'(ils louent une partie du maison), Chrissie et Jules, ils sont tres sympa. Il y a un grand jardin. La ou j'habite, c'est comme une petite village dans Londres, tres mignonne. Moi, j'adore Paris, c'est mon reve depuis toujours de vivre la. Certainement tu vas avoir beaucoup d'applications mais s'il te plait, il faut me choisir! Tu ne regretteras pas!!
Lots of love
,
Daisy xxxxxxxx
After Isabelle had replied in slightly more formal English - 'Dear Miss Keen,' 'Yours faithfully' - and explained that she was an academic and would be doing some research in London, further emailing revealed that Daisy worked in fashion. That would explain the loud pink background and curlicued font of her emails, both highly incorrect in Isabelle's opinion. She preferred the neat legibility of Palatino font and plain black and white in what was, after all, business correspondence.
Enfin
, Daisy wasn't French and Isabelle should make allowances for that.
While she was still making her mind up, as they lay in bed in his flat one Sunday morning, Isabelle's boyfriend Clothaire suggested that she might prefer to swap with an academic like herself.
'If this girl works in fashion, chances are she's a weirdo or a bimbo,' he said, stroking her hair while looking through
Le Monde Diplomatique
. 'She won't be anything like you. Doesn't that worry you?'
In truth Clothaire had never been particularly keen on Isabelle's scheme and had done his best to discourage her. London was fine for a weekend but why stay longer? Her boyfriend, Isabelle reflected affectionately, was a creature of habit. Away from the Saint-Germain-des-Pres bookshops where he liked to browse, his favourite walks in the Luxembourg Gardens, the cinemas of Montparnasse and the cafe where he had his lunch (
salade landaise
and a glass of Brouilly) every day between lectures, he would probably start gasping like a fish out of water.
'But I won't have to live
with
her,' Isabelle objected in her precise, flutelike tone. 'In fact I have no reason ever to meet her. It's a business arrangement.'
Looking slightly cross, Clothaire put down his paper and picked up his bowl of
cafe au lait
from their breakfast tray.
'So, you're really going to do it?'
'It's important for my research, you know that. I need to consult the English-language sources properly. And I think I should go now, before we get married and have children. I probably won't get the chance again after that.'
This was not actually Isabelle's own thinking on the question, but a version of what Agathe had said. Agathe was her best friend and she always advised Isabelle on important decisions. Agathe liked Clothaire - she had, in fact, introduced him to Isabelle four years ago. Isabelle was pretty lucky to have netted such a catch, Agathe often said, to tease her. On the other hand she had consistently encouraged Isabelle to go to London. It would be good for Clothaire to miss her a little, Agathe said. And he could so easily pop over for the weekend on the Eurostar whenever he felt like it.
