Finding Monsieur Right (2010) (19 page)

16 Daisy

'You are tired?'

'No, I'm OK!' Daisy said. 'But I'm getting pins and needles in my arm.'

Raoul frowned. 'Pins and needles? What is pins and needles? Ah, yeah -
des fourmis
! Sorry. You are very patient. If you can just hold the pose one more minute. It's nearly finished, I swear.'

'Of course!'

'
Et voila
. I've got you, I think. You want to see?'

'Yes, please!' Daisy said, stepping down from the white cube she had been standing on. Rubbing her arms, she walked across the room to where Raoul was holding up an A3 drawing pad for her inspection.

'Goodness,' Daisy said.

'Oh, come on! Gimme a break! You are not going to say that you don't like it,' Raoul said, looking up at her.

'No, no, I do! I do like it. It's very -
very
- flattering.'

'It's you.'

'Well,' Daisy replied, laughing, 'it's me with bigger eyes, much longer legs and, um, a bit more of other things.'

Raoul looked critically from model to drawing and back, then shook his head. 'Perhaps I exaggerate just a little bit, but it's you, I think. How you look.'

'Oh, all right then, if you say so ...'

Faintly embarrassed, Daisy began to walk around the studio, examining the pictures on the walls. There were a few exceptions but it was fair to say that, generally speaking, Raoul appeared far more interested in images of women than in those of men. Earlier, when they were in his kitchen, Daisy had noticed that the fridge was covered in transfers of those pouting 1950s American pin-ups. A similar theme could be detected on the walls of the studio.

'That one, that's Barbarella,' Raoul said as Daisy paused in front of a confused-looking and scantily clad blonde floating upside down in a spaceship. 'You know?'

'I think so,' Daisy said, remembering a beauty editorial in
Vogue
a few seasons ago about big, 'bedroom' hair. 'There was this amazing film, wasn't there?'

'With Jane Fonda when she was totally gorgeous. But before that there was a really great
bande dessinee
. It's a total classic.'

Bandes dessinees
(B.Ds for short), Daisy now knew, was what the French called comic books. Drawing
bandes dessinees
was how Raoul made his living, he had told Daisy in the course of their first meeting in a bar in Les Halles. He had fifteen books under his belt and a new story in the making, the one he had mentioned on the bus. Daisy's notion of what a
bande dessinee
might actually be like was a little hazy.

'Is it anything like, well, Batman or Spiderman comics, basically?' she had asked tentatively.

Raoul had laughed heartily. 'Spiderman! Ha, ha, ha - stop, you're killing me!' He had taken a swig of his Mexican beer, then said, 'The B.D., it is an art form. In France we call it the ninth art.'

While a perplexed Daisy quietly tried to work out what the other eight arts might be, and most importantly whether fashion counted, Raoul went on: 'In France we are a very literary nation, you know? So a B.D. tells a story, just like a novel, just like a great film. It's more than everything going "pow" and "whizz". The story is crucial. Some guys do just the illustrations and leave the story to a writer. But not me. I am like a total, crazy perfectionist so I write all my own storylines and all the dialogue.'

'And what's your next story?'

'Oh, it's about a girl,' Raoul said, smiling at her warmly across the table. 'My stories are always about a girl.'

'Always the same girl?'

'No, no, different ones. I have lots of heroines.'

'And what happens to this one, your new heroine?'

'She has some cool adventures. It's kind of surreal. Difficult to explain just like that. But listen, tell me: what is it like to live in London? It must be kind of extreme, no?'

'Extreme' was one of Raoul's buzz words. Before getting into the comic book world, he had run a couple of nightclubs in Paris and the South of France and done a lot of motorcycle racing, some of it across China. It had all been 'kind of extreme'.

'It can be, I suppose,' Daisy allowed. 'It's a great city, really diverse and full of energy. And working in fashion, there are moments of tension. Savage - the designer I did public relations for - is very edgy, very avant-garde,' Daisy said, delighted to be using the right French word for once. 'And everyone goes mad at the time of the shows, you know.'

'Is that by her, what you're wearing today?' Raoul asked, gesturing towards Daisy's distressed pink lace tank top.

She nodded eagerly. 'Yes, it is! I love this piece! It's from the first collection I did the press for, when Savage was just starting out. The whole collection was pink, but not at all girly - quite strange and apocalyptic. It was called "Sugar and Spike". She was making a point about women in today's society.
So
inspired,' Daisy said fervently. Seeing Raoul's face break into a wide grin, she checked herself. 'You think it's silly.'

'Not at all,' he said, leaning forwards and fixing her with his laughing green eyes. 'I love that you're so enthusiastic about your job. It's great. And I think fashion is, you know, crucial,' he added more seriously. 'In fact I believe there is nothing more important than making women look beautiful.'

Daisy smiled, basking in the warmth of his interest. On that first date, in case Raoul turned out to be impossible, she had taken the precaution of arranging a meeting with Agathe immediately afterwards in a nearby cafe. But he wasn't at all. He was easy to talk to, very laid-back and funny, and really seemed to enjoy life. It was also lovely to have made a new friend who had never heard of Octave. Another cool thing about him was that he
actually
smoked Gauloises - as a result, his voice, which was incredibly French, also sounded deeply husky.

A few days later they had gone out for sushi. As they were settling the bill Raoul suddenly said, thrillingly, 'You know, I'd really like to draw you one day. If you like.'

'Me? That would be brilliant!'

'I like to draw all my friends. And I think you have a really interesting face.'

It was as a result of that conversation that Daisy had found herself standing in Raoul's studio that morning. She had turned up at his flat in Les Halles two hours ago, in time for Sunday brunch. In Raoul's honour, Daisy had gone for a 'frontier' look - black shirt tucked into a long gipsy skirt, short denim jacket, red bandana neckerchief and, of course, metallic cowboy boots. Walking out of the lift, she had been guided to the right door by the sound of music. Daisy smiled as she recognised the song. It made sense that Raoul, who was heavily under American influence, should be a Beach Boys fan.

Raoul had opened the door dressed in jeans and a denim shirt and wearing a pair of his customary Texan boots.

'Hey, Daisy,' he said, kissing her on the cheeks.

'Howdy, partner.'

She followed him down a book-lined corridor and into a large modern apartment, entirely painted white. Most of the furniture looked Italian and was upholstered in white leather. A huge 1950s jukebox stood in a corner, playing the last few notes of 'California Girls'.

'You like my monster?' Raoul said proudly, pointing at the massive multicoloured machine. 'I brought it back from LA.'

'It's fab.'

The jukebox started to play Raoul's next selection, a song by Enrique Iglesias, which was then followed by what turned out to be fun-loving Raoul's default option - insanely upbeat Brazilian music.

After sitting side by side on red diner stools at the Formica counter of his American-style kitchen to eat scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, Daisy and Raoul flopped down on a vast white leather sofa to drink their coffee.

'We'll go into the studio when you're ready. The light is much better there.'

'No one's ever drawn me before,' Daisy said, suddenly feeling nervous. 'What happens exactly? Are my clothes OK?'

'I told you to wear anything you wanted,' Raoul said reassuringly. 'It's real easy. I just need you to stand, I think, not sit, in front of me, just like you are now. And you must try not to move too much.'

In the sun-filled studio Daisy had perched for a good half-hour on a white wooden cube, one arm extended in front of her, pointing with her forefinger at an imaginary object, her other hand resting on her hip. Staring at the opposite wall behind Raoul, she had gradually remembered reading a couple of Tintin and Asterix stories when she was a child. It would be fun to look at stuff like that again.

She now moved away from Barbarella and came to look at another picture of a shapely girl, this one standing in a graveyard in a clinging black dress with a plunging neckline and looking at once alluring and bloodthirsty.

'That's Vampirella,' Raoul said, putting away his pad and pencils on his desk, 'from a 1970s American comic book. I love her.'

'A friend of mine is in a band in London, and one of the other girls in the band often dresses like that. They're goths.'

'Really? Your friends sound cool.'

'Raoul,' Daisy said impulsively, 'can I see some of your work, please? I'm really interested.'

'You're so sweet. Of course I'll show you some stuff if you want. But I must tell you that it's quite erotic. You don't mind that, right?'

'No! Not at all,' Daisy said firmly, while inwardly undergoing a panic of nuclear intensity. 'Quite erotic'? Good grief. What did that mean exactly? How 'extreme' was Raoul's stuff? She sat down rigidly on the sofa, watching him select a few of his books off the shelves and instinctively gathering her gipsy skirt closer around her legs. Oh, come
on
, get a grip, she told herself, don't be such a prude! You can do this. Look on it as a test, a turning point in your year in Paris. This is your chance to show that you are just as blithe and nonchalant about sex as the French. It's going to be fine.

'
Et voila
,' he said, handing her the books. 'These are the ones I prefer. You want a Diet Coke or something like that?'

'Yes, please,' Daisy said, relieved to see him leave the room. Right. Now then. She glanced nervously at the cover of the first book. A girl dressed as a pirate stood at the helm of a ship. She wore knee-length breeches and a flouncy white shirt. Her long hair, tied back with a black scarf adorned with skull and crossbones, was floating in the wind. Well, that was absolutely
fine
. The title was
La Flibustiere
- The Buccaneer - which was OK, too. Gingerly, Daisy turned the first few pages. The story was set in the eighteenth century. The heroine was called Caroline and she lived in a chateau by the sea, somewhere near La Rochelle. Raoul really had a great eye for colour, Daisy thought, taking in the exquisite pinks and blues of Caroline's dress. So far, so good. She turned another page and scanned the speech bubbles. It seemed that Caroline's parents had arranged for her to marry somebody she had never met before, as was the practice in those days. How dreadful. But that night, with the help of her maid, Caroline ran away from the chateau, climbing out of her bedroom window disguised as a boy. Actually, Raoul was right about B.Ds, Daisy thought, turning another page, this was cracking good stuff, as absorbing as any film.

Now the scene had shifted to the harbour in the small hours of the morning and Caroline - who, in all fairness, did not make a very convincing boy - was sailing on a ship on her way to Louisiana. This involved sharing below-deck quarters with a lot of men who adopted her as a sort of urchin mascot, all apparently oblivious to her distracting curves. Now more relaxed, Daisy turned another couple of pages. Oh dear: it looked like Caroline had been summoned to the captain's cabin. He was rather attractive, Daisy noted in passing. Now he would probably find out that she was travelling under false pretences and then she'd be forced to disembark at the next port of call, or something. Although, hang on a minute, he appeared to be sort of ... taking her to task about it. Caroline didn't seem to mind too much, though. In fact it looked like she ... Oh, wow.

This was it, Daisy reminded herself,
this
was the big test. Blithe and nonchalant is how she would remain. She could handle a few saucy drawings and speech bubbles. Nothing to get het up about. Bracing herself slightly, she turned to the next page. Well, yes. Raoul
did
have the most amazing talent for the naked female form. Oh, and also for the naked male form, as it turned out. It was all beautifully drawn and somehow very
real
. Daisy flicked through the next few pages and it became more and more obvious that Raoul, like many of his compatriots, seemed completely unaware of political correctness. Caroline got into all sorts of scrapes. She had to escape again, this time from the captain, who was a little too possessive for her liking. Then, after some adventures in Louisiana - which involved, variously, a plantation owner, his younger brother, a runaway slave,
two
amazingly hunky soldiers and a short stint in a New Orleans brothel - she took to the sea again, this time as a pirate, captaining a crew that seemed entirely made up of very good-looking (and randy) boys. And they lived happily ever after. The End.

Well, it was certainly a change from Tintin's adventures, which, from what Daisy remembered, were not big on graphic depictions of sexual pleasure.

Raoul came back into the room, holding two glasses of Diet Coke. 'So? You like it?' he asked, sitting next to her.

'Oh, it's amazing. I love it.'

'You have a favourite?'

'Actually I've only had time to look at this one,' Daisy said, composedly putting
La Flibustiere
down on the sofa next to her. And frankly, she thought, I had no idea you were so incredibly pervy. Aloud she asked, 'So where do you get your inspiration? For your stories?'

'Yeah, well, it sort of depends,' Raoul said, lighting an unfiltered Gauloise, then removing a fragment of tobacco from his lip. 'I love to do costume stories like this one. Or exotic stuff like this,' he said, picking up another book entitled
La Sultane
, on the cover of which a ravishing girl appeared to be doing the Dance of the Seven Veils.