Read Online Finding Monsieur Right (2010) by Muriel Zagha - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Muriel Zagha
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Isabelle was full of admiration for the practised manner in which Jules, with razor-sharp timing, took a couple of steps sideways to avoid collision. Karloff ran straight at the wall then let out a piercing scream perfectly in tune with the music. The crowd went berserk and howled with delight. Karloff's upper body was cocooned in bizarre black swaddling clothes that appeared to pin his arms to his sides.
Isabelle turned to Chrissie. 'I don't understand. What is he wearing?'
'Oh, that ! Why it's Karloff's black straitjacket, of course! It's his trademark , you know. Something to do with Victorian insane asylums. He really digs that vibe.'
Bent double, Karloff had been running from one end of the stage to the other. Now he was gyrating in a central position, the sleeves of his straitjacket flying out like wings. In the course of the next song, he emerged from it, revealing a black shirt, baggy black combat trousers and jet bead necklaces. His black eye make-up made him look like a demented panda.
As the gig progressed, Isabelle tried to think of other things to distract herself from the noise. If only she had had enough foresight to bring her earplugs. She looked around at the crowd. Some of the men were dressed up as Romantic poets, with frilly white shirts and cloaks, and even carried silver-tipped walking sticks.
She looked again at the stage. Something had changed. Although Karloff still stood centre stage, he was turned not towards the audience but towards Jules, who was also facing him. Thud, thud, thud, thud, went Jules on her bass. Meanwhile she looked ... different, animated and even ... rapt. And she was ... staring at Karloff! Isabelle looked at the band's frontman more closely. He was 'singing' (a nameless wailing) and 'dancing' (stumbling around like a bear in his big boots) in time to Jules' guitar. Isabelle's brain began to click rapidly. She looked from Karloff to Jules and back again. They were glaring at each other out of identically black-rimmed eyes, their bodies swaying, Karloff's voice coming in to respond to Jules' rhythm. There was a strain of energy between them, like a powerful invisible chain constantly being yanked. Yes, of course! There was no doubt about it. Having reached the obvious conclusion, Isabelle's brain slowed down again and she smiled. How very intriguing.
She turned to Chrissie, who bent down so she could semi-shout in his ear. 'Are Jules and Karloff very close friends?'
Chrissie looked put-out for a moment. 'I imagine so, sweetie. Yes, they must get on OK.'
'Just "get on OK"?'
Chrissie followed Isabelle's gaze and looked at the stage. Hugging the microphone, Karloff was writhing on the floor at Jules' feet like an overexcited puppy.
'Well ...' Chrissie stopped talking, transfixed by what he saw. He gripped Isabelle's arm. 'My God, she's actually pouting . Isabelle! Do you realise what this means ?'
Silently, they nodded at each other and burst out laughing. They spent the rest of The Coven's performance giggling at every sign of Jules' and Karloff's infatuation with each other.
At the end of the performance Chrissie and Isabelle went home early, leaving the band to their adoring fans. The milliner had agreed to give up late nights until he had completed the collection. This was a win-win plan, he thought, because early nights would also do wonders for his skin. When they arrived at the house, the answering machine in the hallway was flashing. Chrissie went downstairs to make himself a cup of Horlicks and Isabelle pressed PLAY MESSAGES.
' Oui . Hallo, good he-ve-ning.' It was Clothaire, speaking in a very loud voice as usual when attempting a foreign language. 'I want to live a massage for Ma-de-moi-selle I-sa-belle Pa-pil-lon,' he boomed almost menacingly. 'Can she - Ma-de-moi-selle Pa-pil-lon - call me when she gets the massage. Voila . Ah, mais est-ce que ca marche ? Is it working? Heu , tell her that this is Clothaire. Clothaire. I am living the massage.' Then there was
Isabelle turned to Chrissie. 'I don't understand. What is he wearing?'
'Oh, that ! Why it's Karloff's black straitjacket, of course! It's his trademark , you know. Something to do with Victorian insane asylums. He really digs that vibe.'
Bent double, Karloff had been running from one end of the stage to the other. Now he was gyrating in a central position, the sleeves of his straitjacket flying out like wings. In the course of the next song, he emerged from it, revealing a black shirt, baggy black combat trousers and jet bead necklaces. His black eye make-up made him look like a demented panda.
As the gig progressed, Isabelle tried to think of other things to distract herself from the noise. If only she had had enough foresight to bring her earplugs. She looked around at the crowd. Some of the men were dressed up as Romantic poets, with frilly white shirts and cloaks, and even carried silver-tipped walking sticks.
She looked again at the stage. Something had changed. Although Karloff still stood centre stage, he was turned not towards the audience but towards Jules, who was also facing him. Thud, thud, thud, thud, went Jules on her bass. Meanwhile she looked ... different, animated and even ... rapt. And she was ... staring at Karloff! Isabelle looked at the band's frontman more closely. He was 'singing' (a nameless wailing) and 'dancing' (stumbling around like a bear in his big boots) in time to Jules' guitar. Isabelle's brain began to click rapidly. She looked from Karloff to Jules and back again. They were glaring at each other out of identically black-rimmed eyes, their bodies swaying, Karloff's voice coming in to respond to Jules' rhythm. There was a strain of energy between them, like a powerful invisible chain constantly being yanked. Yes, of course! There was no doubt about it. Having reached the obvious conclusion, Isabelle's brain slowed down again and she smiled. How very intriguing.
She turned to Chrissie, who bent down so she could semi-shout in his ear. 'Are Jules and Karloff very close friends?'
Chrissie looked put-out for a moment. 'I imagine so, sweetie. Yes, they must get on OK.'
'Just "get on OK"?'
Chrissie followed Isabelle's gaze and looked at the stage. Hugging the microphone, Karloff was writhing on the floor at Jules' feet like an overexcited puppy.
'Well ...' Chrissie stopped talking, transfixed by what he saw. He gripped Isabelle's arm. 'My God, she's actually pouting . Isabelle! Do you realise what this means ?'
Silently, they nodded at each other and burst out laughing. They spent the rest of The Coven's performance giggling at every sign of Jules' and Karloff's infatuation with each other.
At the end of the performance Chrissie and Isabelle went home early, leaving the band to their adoring fans. The milliner had agreed to give up late nights until he had completed the collection. This was a win-win plan, he thought, because early nights would also do wonders for his skin. When they arrived at the house, the answering machine in the hallway was flashing. Chrissie went downstairs to make himself a cup of Horlicks and Isabelle pressed PLAY MESSAGES.
' Oui . Hallo, good he-ve-ning.' It was Clothaire, speaking in a very loud voice as usual when attempting a foreign language. 'I want to live a massage for Ma-de-moi-selle I-sa-belle Pa-pil-lon,' he boomed almost menacingly. 'Can she - Ma-de-moi-selle Pa-pil-lon - call me when she gets the massage. Voila . Ah, mais est-ce que ca marche ? Is it working? Heu , tell her that this is Clothaire. Clothaire. I am living the massage.' Then there was
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