Summer Daydreams (26 page)
‘He’s my business mentor,’ I explain, wondering just what Yves is insinuating. ‘He’s been in the industry a long time.’
‘Ah.’ He narrows his eyes and, across the room, studies Tod some more. Then, ‘How is your lovely little girl?’
‘She’s not very well,’ I tell him. ‘I felt terrible leaving her to come here.’
‘Ah.’ He shrugs. ‘This is the way of the working mother, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘I think it is. Do you have children?’
‘No.’ He laughs. ‘I do not have a wife!’ More laughing and those eyes tease me. ‘I like living, how do you say, the single life?’
Yes, I’m sure you do, Monsieur Simoneaux. There are probably a string of broken-hearted
mesdemoiselles
, and possibly
mesdames
, across Paris pining for you.
‘I must go now,’ Yves says, checking his watch. ‘Where are you staying? May I call at your hotel later?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course. I’d like to talk about the business with you.’
He smiles. ‘I will tell you of my progress.’
Oh. There is some, then. Good. I like the sound of this.
I’d picked up some cards with the hotel address on from the desk in reception in case I got separated from Tod and wasn’t able to make myself understood in a cab. I fish for one in my pocket and then hand it to Yves.
His eyes lock with mine. ‘Until later.’
‘Later,’ I say and then my heart goes all fluttery and I know that I’m going to panic for the rest of the day.
Tod and I spend all afternoon going to catwalk shows. One is for clothes by a designer called Isabel Green, the others are for accessories – hats, shoes – and one show is entirely devoted to handbags. I come away both inspired and terrified by the competition. These people seriously look like they know what they’re doing. They don’t look like they live handto-mouth in a flat above a shop in a small, middle-England market town. They look like they have bijou apartments overlooking Montmartre or somewhere fabulously ritzy, if that isn’t.
Later, Tod and I grab a passable boeuf bourguignon and a glass of red wine from the
prix fixe
menu at a little brasserie near the hotel. If Tod was ever to be on
Mastermind
, I’m thinking his specialist subject could be Rather Romantic Restaurants of the World.
‘Have you enjoyed your day?’ he asks ‘Amazing.’ I try to stifle a yawn. I feel as if I’ve been awake for days.
‘Grab an early night,’ he instructs. ‘Tomorrow will be just as busy.’
‘I said I’d meet with Yves Simoneaux at the hotel. He’s going to update me on his progress.’
‘Want me to stay with you?’
I know that Tod really wants to go back to the evening show of someone he worked with years ago that’s close by.
‘No, no. I’ll be fine. You go off to the show.’
‘Are you sure?’ I nod.
‘Just be careful,’ Tod says. ‘Remember you’re an innocent abroad. Literally.’
‘He seems OK,’ I reassure him, but I wonder if there’s some underlying jealousy there. Secretly – or perhaps not so secretly – I think Tod likes to be the expert in my life. ‘I’ll fill you in tomorrow.’
‘Let’s meet for breakfast at eight sharp,’ he says. ‘The first show is at ten.’ He pays the bill and stands to leave. ‘Sure you’re OK?’
‘Fine. Really.’ When he leaves, to prove that I
am
OK, I order another glass of wine and stay in the bistro, drinking in the atmosphere and trying not to feel too self-conscious.
At eight o’clock, I make my way back to the hotel across the street. ‘Has anyone called for me?’
‘
Non, madam
,’ the receptionist tells me.
‘I’m expecting a Mr Yves Simoneaux.’
She shrugs her disinterest, so I take the open, wrought-iron and very rickety lift up to the third floor and let myself into my room. I wonder if everything in Paris is stylish as even on a budget, this has a certain charm.
The room is small, but has large French windows and a Juliet balcony, which looks out on to the bustling street below. The bed is big and the room is decorated in white with lime-green and lemon soft furnishings. In one corner is a wooden stepladder painted white in a designer-distressed way, which displays plants and pretty glass bottles. The original, claw-footed bath looks very appealing. But I daren’t dive in, as I’d like to, because I don’t know what time Yves will be arriving and I don’t want him catching me in the nuddy – or whatever the French equivalent is.
Instead, I decide to give Olly a buzz again. As the phone rings, I’m thinking grumpily that my bill for calls home will amount to more than the entire cost of the trip. I’m even more disgruntled when Jenny answers my home phone with a chirpy, ‘Hiya.’
‘Hi, Jen,’ I say. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Everything’s lovely,’ she replies.
‘This is costing a fortune,’ I remind her and myself. ‘Can you put Olly on, please?’
‘He’s just popped out for a takeaway for us,’ she says. ‘He won’t be long.’
A takeaway? I can feel my eyes narrowing. Why should that make me jealous? Because we have them on high-days and holidays when I’m at home, that’s why. But I guess I can hardly complain when I’m sitting in a chic Parisian hotel, running up a phone bill the size of the national debt.
‘Petal, then,’ I try. ‘Can I say good night to her?’
‘In bed,’ Jenny tells me. ‘She was worn out, poor love.’
‘But she is OK?’
‘Don’t worry yourself,’ Jen assures me. ‘Olly and I are managing just fine.’
There’s something in her tone that niggles me.
‘Can you let Olly know that I’ll call tomorrow?’
‘Will do,’ she says brightly and then, before I know it, she hangs up.
I sit and stare blankly at the phone. I imagine her sitting on
my
sofa, in
my
living room, with
my
husband, eating takeaway off
my
plates while
my
child sleeps in the next room and I don’t like what I’m picturing at all.
After the phone call, I can’t settle. I try to tell myself that my stomach is churning because I’ve eaten too much but, if I’m truthful, it’s other emotions that are making my tummy swirl. I trust Olly, of course I do. He would never do anything to hurt me. Or Petal. I’m sure of it. Absolutely sure. But I feel as if I’m handing him over on a plate to another woman and I’m not happy about that at all. Someone else is sliding into my life while I’m away and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I mooch around the room and try the television, but I can’t find anything on that’s not in French. Funny that. I check my watch. Nine o’clock. Where is Yves?
Kicking off my shoes, I plump up the pillows and lie back on the bed. To distract myself, I pick up my pad and start to sketch. Perhaps I could do some Parisian-based designs and, as soon as I start, my head is buzzing with ideas. I rough out a fifties-illustrated poodle design, a bag shaped like the Eiffel Tower and one that would have a typical Parisian flower shop frontage with a corsage on the corner. Might as well use my current surroundings to inspire my creativity.
While I’m lost in my work, I hear a knock and it takes me a while to realise that it’s at my door. When I check my watch, it’s nearly midnight and any hope of an early night has long gone. I jump up, thinking that it must be Tod coming back from his show, but when I throw open the door, Yves Simoneaux is standing there.
‘Hey,’ he murmurs.
He’s changed from when I saw him earlier today and is wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. His trademark white shirt is open at the neck. In his hand is a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He looks as if he may have been drinking already. ‘I am late. I am sorry.’
‘It
is
a bit late now,’ I say and try to sound reproving. I’d like to hear what Yves has to say about the business, but it’s a bit of a cheek turning up at this hour. I need my bed much more than I need champagne.
But he’s past me and into the room before I can say otherwise.
The champagne cork is popped and the glasses full and I still haven’t spoken. Yves hands me a glass. Reluctantly, I take it.
‘My day has been very good,’ he says. ‘I have had many meetings about you.’
‘Good.’ I start to relax. It must be a very busy time for Yves and yet he’s still made time to come and see me – a mere beginner, wet behind the ears. I must remember that, despite the lateness of the hour.
Yves sits on the bed. His presence seems to take up more of the room than it should. The air in the room is stifling and I throw open the French windows and let in the breeze and the sounds of the night from the street.
He flicks through my sketch pad. ‘These are good.’ I shrug. ‘I was just toying with a few ideas.’
‘Come,’ he says, ‘sit with me.’
I notice a slight slur in his voice.
Yves pats the bed next to him and, suddenly, I feel tired and alone and I don’t want to be drinking champagne in a strange bedroom with a strange man.
‘You know,’ I say. ‘It’s very,
very
late. I think you should simply bring me up to speed with what you’ve done to get me started in France and we’ll call it a night.’
Yves does not look impressed by this idea. ‘These things, they take time.’ He spreads his hands. ‘You are not a person who is known.’
I thought it was his job to
make
me known.
‘Have you managed to get me in any outlets, any boutiques? Anything at all?’
‘It will happen, Nell,’ he says. ‘Be patient.’
My patience is actually running quite thin. Tod would know what to do. He’d know if this man is just spinning me a line. But then, I think I’ve realised that myself. It isn’t my fabulous charisma that’s attracting all this attention. It seems that being a woman in business has you marked down as fair game. Well, not this one.
‘In the meantime, we can have some fun, maybe.’
‘Fun?’ I laugh out loud and he looks taken aback. ‘I don’t want fun, Yves. I want a business. I want orders in Paris and Milan. So many of them that we can hardly cope. I want you to do your job. If you’re not doing that, then I need to find another agent.’
‘Come on, baby,’ he says, smarmy smile on his face.
‘Loosen up.’
Baby
? Did he really just have the gall to call me baby? I lean on the balcony rail and breathe in the coolness to try to calm me down. When I feel steadier, I turn to him, ‘I’d like you to leave now.’
His face darkens. ‘I do not think that you mean that.’
I march to the door and open it. ‘I assure you, I do. Please leave now.
At that, he stands up and knocks back his champagne. ‘I am sorry that this is the way you feel, Nell. You make a big mistake.’
Then I panic that I’ve been too hasty. Perhaps he’s just drunk and doesn’t really realise what he’s saying. Maybe he is a good agent. I don’t know. I have nothing to compare him to. What if another agent won’t take me on? What if this is my only chance of breaking into France? ‘I’m sorry, Yves. It’s late. We’ll speak again. Let’s meet up tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow, I am busy.’
I think this is it. I have to accept that Yves and I are going to part company. I had such high hopes, but it seems that my handbags won’t be gracing the arms of the ladies of France after all.
‘I will wish you good night,’ Yves says crisply, ‘and good luck for your future.’ Without further ado, he leaves.
I lean against the door and sigh to myself. If it wasn’t so late, I’d go and knock on Tod’s room and tell him what happened. Instead, I slump into the one armchair and go over our last conversation in my mind again. I come to the decision that he really was out of order. It wasn’t me.
As Yves has left his champagne behind, I pour myself another glass, even though I don’t want it. I sit and sip it but, minutes after I do, my eyes start to grow heavy and I abandon it. What a waste. Still, tomorrow is another day and I’ll have to see if I can repair the damage done. Perhaps Tod will know another agent I can approach.
Hauling myself out of the chair, I strip off my shirt. My head feels all swimmy and my limbs have suddenly gone heavy.
Then, through the haze, I notice that my sketch pad isn’t on the bed any more. I force myself to stay awake and scour the floor. I look under the bed. I lift the pillows and check there. It’s definitely missing. Then it strikes me. This has happened before. Didn’t some of my designs go walk about when Yves came to my shop?
But, dizziness washes over me and sleep overwhelms me and it’s too late for me to do anything about it.