Read Online Finding Monsieur Right (2010) by Muriel Zagha - Free Book Online
Authors: Muriel Zagha
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the brotherhood,' Stanislas said with a smile.
It turned out to be a really good launch and once inside Daisy and the Pique-Assiettes spent many happy hours dancing - Daisy was beginning to realise just how much the French loved disco - before re-emerging from the cavernous basement of Le Trend in the small hours of the morning. The sky was blue: it was going to be another beautiful day. Daisy held on to Octave and let her head rest on his shoulder as they cruised home on his scooter. Ahead of them, Bertrand and Stanislas raised a hand in farewell as they branched out on their own scooters in the direction of the apartment the three Pique-Assiettes shared, not far from Boulevard Malesherbes.
As Octave walked Daisy to the door of Isabelle's building, she thought of inviting him up for breakfast. Why the hell not? As she was making her mind up, Octave curled a stray lock of her hair between his fingers and stretched it gently above her mouth.
'It would suit you well, a moustache, I think,' he pronounced gravely.
'Oh, yes, definitely,' Daisy replied. 'People are always telling me to grow one.'
Now! Now he was going to kiss her!
Octave gently stroked her hair back into place. 'So ... did you have fun, going out with us?'
'It was great.'
' Alors, a bientot .'
' A bientot .'
That was it. No snogging. Just that damned no-contact air-kissing rigmarole. That was much better, of course, Daisy told herself as she walked sulkily up the stairs. Octave just wasn't her type. Merde alors .
7 Isabelle
English pubs, Isabelle decided, must be an acquired taste. Where were those cosy establishments she had read about in Marie-Claire Maison , featuring log fires, beamed ceilings and delicious food? Probably not in Camden, by the look of things. So far, apart from a very old man snoring over his pint at the far end of the bar, she and Chrissie were the only customers in the Dungeon.
The large and very cold room where they sat was painted entirely black. A blackboard advertised the Dungeon's Blood-Curdling Selection of Home-Made Sandwiches and the Grim Reaper's Three-Course Sunday Lunch, but at this time of the evening (much to Isabelle's scandalised astonishment) the kitchen was closed. In desperation she was sharing Chrissie's prawn cocktail-flavoured crisps, a strange and alien food. It was a very low point in terms of gastronomy.
Jules' band The Coven were playing at the Dungeon tonight and they were now 'backstage' (in the storeroom where the pub's brooms and other cleaning equipment lived), getting ready for their performance.
'Well, I must say, darling, this is very welcome. Very welcome indeed . I had been simply gagging to go out for a drink,' Chrissie said expansively.
'Yes, I suppose we have been working hard.' Isabelle pulled out a small notebook. In her neat handwriting she had been keeping a careful account of which hats had been made and which remained to be completed. She smiled, pleased at the steady progress she and Chrissie had been making. 'So tomorrow we do the sequinned turbans. And then we have finished.'
'K-k-kool and the gang.'
Isabelle put the notebook away and looked towards the door. 'Do you really think anybody is coming?'
'Oh, fear not, darling,' Chrissie answered. 'The Coven have a following. I've seen it. It's quite scary. Look for yourself.'
Isabelle followed the direction of his gaze. Tonight's audience was beginning to arrive. At first it was hard for Isabelle to see any details: it was like a black tidal wave. After a while, though, she began to see that like all uniforms, le style goth actually made it easier to notice people's faces. And what faces they were. There was, apparently, such a thing as black lipstick, and goths couldn't get enough of it, particularly applied to faces so white they were almost blue, and festooned with piercings. Isabelle was beginning to see that Jules' usual style of dressing - black jeans and T-shirts - was actually quite restrained. Other female goths did not
It turned out to be a really good launch and once inside Daisy and the Pique-Assiettes spent many happy hours dancing - Daisy was beginning to realise just how much the French loved disco - before re-emerging from the cavernous basement of Le Trend in the small hours of the morning. The sky was blue: it was going to be another beautiful day. Daisy held on to Octave and let her head rest on his shoulder as they cruised home on his scooter. Ahead of them, Bertrand and Stanislas raised a hand in farewell as they branched out on their own scooters in the direction of the apartment the three Pique-Assiettes shared, not far from Boulevard Malesherbes.
As Octave walked Daisy to the door of Isabelle's building, she thought of inviting him up for breakfast. Why the hell not? As she was making her mind up, Octave curled a stray lock of her hair between his fingers and stretched it gently above her mouth.
'It would suit you well, a moustache, I think,' he pronounced gravely.
'Oh, yes, definitely,' Daisy replied. 'People are always telling me to grow one.'
Now! Now he was going to kiss her!
Octave gently stroked her hair back into place. 'So ... did you have fun, going out with us?'
'It was great.'
' Alors, a bientot .'
' A bientot .'
That was it. No snogging. Just that damned no-contact air-kissing rigmarole. That was much better, of course, Daisy told herself as she walked sulkily up the stairs. Octave just wasn't her type. Merde alors .
7 Isabelle
English pubs, Isabelle decided, must be an acquired taste. Where were those cosy establishments she had read about in Marie-Claire Maison , featuring log fires, beamed ceilings and delicious food? Probably not in Camden, by the look of things. So far, apart from a very old man snoring over his pint at the far end of the bar, she and Chrissie were the only customers in the Dungeon.
The large and very cold room where they sat was painted entirely black. A blackboard advertised the Dungeon's Blood-Curdling Selection of Home-Made Sandwiches and the Grim Reaper's Three-Course Sunday Lunch, but at this time of the evening (much to Isabelle's scandalised astonishment) the kitchen was closed. In desperation she was sharing Chrissie's prawn cocktail-flavoured crisps, a strange and alien food. It was a very low point in terms of gastronomy.
Jules' band The Coven were playing at the Dungeon tonight and they were now 'backstage' (in the storeroom where the pub's brooms and other cleaning equipment lived), getting ready for their performance.
'Well, I must say, darling, this is very welcome. Very welcome indeed . I had been simply gagging to go out for a drink,' Chrissie said expansively.
'Yes, I suppose we have been working hard.' Isabelle pulled out a small notebook. In her neat handwriting she had been keeping a careful account of which hats had been made and which remained to be completed. She smiled, pleased at the steady progress she and Chrissie had been making. 'So tomorrow we do the sequinned turbans. And then we have finished.'
'K-k-kool and the gang.'
Isabelle put the notebook away and looked towards the door. 'Do you really think anybody is coming?'
'Oh, fear not, darling,' Chrissie answered. 'The Coven have a following. I've seen it. It's quite scary. Look for yourself.'
Isabelle followed the direction of his gaze. Tonight's audience was beginning to arrive. At first it was hard for Isabelle to see any details: it was like a black tidal wave. After a while, though, she began to see that like all uniforms, le style goth actually made it easier to notice people's faces. And what faces they were. There was, apparently, such a thing as black lipstick, and goths couldn't get enough of it, particularly applied to faces so white they were almost blue, and festooned with piercings. Isabelle was beginning to see that Jules' usual style of dressing - black jeans and T-shirts - was actually quite restrained. Other female goths did not
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