Free Finding Monsieur Right (2010) by Muriel Zagha Page A

of half-miaow that sounded approving but, Daisy now knew from previous experiences, probably wasn't. Come to think of it, that sound had been Agathe's response whenever Daisy held up one of her finds in the course of their shopping trip.
    'Don't you like Smarties?' Daisy said, thinking that jelly babies might do the trick instead.
    'I used to, when I was a very small girl,' said Agathe, turning to open a cupboard. 'No ... I was thinking more of something ... like that.' She unwrapped an edible gold leaf and dropped it cunningly on top of the cake, so that the whole thing suddenly looked like a work of art.
    'Oh, Agathe! That looks so stunning!'
    'Well, it's very simple. It's the sort of thing I like to make for my guests. But of course for you it is different. You are English.'
    And there had been other occasions. Many others, in fact ... But that was exactly why it was so great to be friends with Agathe! She didn't mean to sound critical: she was just so French. It was a mutually enriching cultural exchange.
    'Well, I'm really pleased with the things I bought. And I can't wait to wear them,' Daisy concluded happily.
    'What do you want to do now?' Agathe was also very good at moving on from difficult topics of conversation. 'We could go to the Paris-Plage.'
    'What's that?'
    'A beach on the banks of the Seine.'
    'Really? Does it have sand?'
    'Of course, and also palm trees. It is very agreeable. We could go and drop these things off in my flat and I will lend you a bikini.'
    About an hour later Agathe and Daisy sat in blue canvas deckchairs under blue canvas parasols, gazing at the shimmering river through their sunglasses. All along the quai , potted palm trees alternated with chic blue banners that looked like sails. Daisy marvelled at the energy the French invested in the pursuit of pleasure. It must have taken ages to put all this together and it would be gone in a few weeks. They had thought of everything . There were cafes and grass patches where you could have a picnic. Over there you could play boules on a boulodrome . And there was even a siesta area, where people lay serenely like basking seals. It was surreal. One minute you were walking through ordinary Paris streets full of urban people going about their business, the next you found yourself transported to Saint-Tropez. The place was thronged with stylish beach bunnies in Dior swimwear and redolent of coconut sun oil. But actually, thought Daisy, it was better than Saint-Tropez: it was Paris-on-the-Sea. Looking around, you knew exactly where you were. You could see the Louvre and the Ile Saint-Louis. There were graffiti artists at work under the bridge, and skateboarders at play. On the Pont Saint-Louis a group of musicians wearing striped jerseys were playing 1930s accordion music. Daisy's musical-comedy fantasy was shaping up again.
    Then Agathe's mobile phone rang, playing a short burst of dramatic music which she had told Daisy was Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries'.
    ' Allo ? ... Pres du petit cafe. Et vous etes ou? Ah oui! Look, Daisy, over there!'
    Agathe began to wave. A group of familiar-looking people were making their way towards the spot where she and Daisy were sitting. Daisy recognised Agathe's friend Claire (the haughty, dark-haired girl who'd hosted that first party) with her teenage sister Amelie, looking painfully diffident in a baggy dress that had clearly been selected in an attempt to cover up her puppy fat. Behind them came Isabelle's boyfriend Clothaire and, closing the ranks, Bertrand, Stanislas and Octave.
    ' Salut ,' said Claire, briefly kissing Daisy and giving her the once-over. 'Isn't that your bikini from Princesse Tam-Tam, Agathe?'
    'Yes, it is,' Daisy replied. 'We suddenly decided to come here and Agathe let me borrow it. It's pretty, isn't it?'
    Claire continued to look at Agathe. 'It is just that it looks so different on Daisy.'
    'Ah, but Daisy is much more ...' Stanislas paused, thinking hard. 'She is pulpeuse .'
    'What's " pulpeuse