Chapter Six
Friday dawned with a steel-grey sky, and yet when Poppy stood on the balcony of her tiny apartment sipping coffee, gazing at the rooftops, the wide boulevards, and the church spires piercing the clouds, the view was just as mesmerising as it was when it was bathed in golden sunshine. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stand there staring at the scenery all day, so she hopped in the shower, taking a little extra time to style her hair as she was meeting Jamie’s friend Stéphane when she finished work.
She had no idea what Stéphane had planned for them, but at least she felt comfortable about spending the evening with him knowing that Jamie had made all the arrangements in advance – unlike her Sunday morning “date” with Fabien. She grabbed her satchel and jacket, slapped her navy-blue fedora on her head, then skipped down the stairs, smiling when she was greeted in the lobby by a concerto of high-pitched barking.
‘Bonjour, Hélène.’
‘Ah, bonjour, Poppy. ?a va?’
‘Oui, ?a va bien, merci.’
After performing the cheek-kissing ritual, Poppy bent down to greet Gigi who was ensconced like a conquering queen in her canine carriage awaiting her early morning promenade around the picturesque cobbled streets of Le Marais. It took all of Poppy’s resolve to prevent herself from giggling when she realised that the little dog was sporting a rather chic Breton-striped onesie with a jaunty red neckerchief and matching bow.
‘I’m glad I bumped into you, Poppy. I wanted to invite you to my class this evening, if you’re free, that is,’ said Hélène, pulling open the carved front door and stepping out into the street beyond. That day’s outfit comprised a beautifully tailored double-breasted jacket in a sunflower-yellow colour with orange stitching around the lapel, collar and cuffs, as well as leather elbow patches that co-ordinated with her shiny knee-high boots. She carried a cream handbag, with the instantly recognisable YSL logo, hooked over her arm and had completed the eclectic ensemble with a leopard-print newsboy hat that Poppy coveted for her expanding collection.
‘Is it pyrographie again?’
‘No, it’s Friday, which means it’s flamenco.’
‘You’re learning to dance the flamenco?’
‘Yes, it’s great fun – although hip-hop is at the top of my list at the moment – and there are some very handsome men in the class who I’m sure would be only too willing to show you the moves.’ Hélène smiled, making her meaning obvious.
Poppy blushed at the openly provocative comment, and she was more than relieved that she had an excuse to avoid not only her certain humiliation on the dancefloor, but also being subjected to Hélène and her friend Odette’s matchmaking exploits, albeit done with the best of intentions. She was now certain that her landlady was on a mission to ensure she experienced a romantic interlude while she was visiting the undisputed City of Love, and she wondered if she had spoken to Holly and Rachel.
‘I’m sorry, Hélène, unfortunately I can’t make it tonight. I have a… I’m meeting up with one of my brother’s friends who has kindly offered to introduce me to the sights of Paris.’
She paused, unsure whether she should also mention that she’d had a second offer of the “Parisian Grand Tour”, too. She saw that Hélène was eyeing her with curiosity, so she threw caution to the wind and gave her a brief synopsis of the mix-up that had occurred at Bistro Fabien on Tuesday night.
‘So, you have two French beaux serenading you? Bravo, Poppy! Now you are really going to discover what Paris is all about. I want you to promise me that you’ll divulge every detail.’ Hélène wriggled her sculpted eyebrows suggestively. ‘Especially the intimate ones. Did you know that French men are the world’s best lovers?’
‘Oh no, that’s not what…’
Hélène roared with laughter, delighted by the reaction she’d elicited, before placing her hand gently on Poppy’s arm and meeting her eyes. ‘Love is what makes the world go round, mon chérie. Where would we be without it? Look around you. Don’t you see l’amour everywhere you look? Oh, I don’t just mean those caught up in the whirlwind of romantic love, I mean people enjoying a coffee and a chat with their friends or having a picnic with their family or taking their beloved pet for a stroll around the park, or the joy we experience when we treat ourselves to a bouquet of flowers that will fill our lives with colour and fragrance.’
Hélène pointed to étienne’s florist shop at the end of Rue Saint-André.
‘Actually, I’m not sure I’m going to go out with Fabien,’ said Poppy. Now that she’d had time to think about his offer – which she had accepted after consuming several glasses of Merlot and Cognac – with the benefit of hindsight she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to explore the nooks and crannies of an unfamiliar capital city with someone who was, after all, a complete stranger. ‘I don’t know him, and to be honest, he’s not really my type.’
‘You have a type?’
‘Well, I…’
‘How’s that worked out for you so far?’
Poppy groaned inwardly, then carried on. ‘It’s not just that. I’m also really embarrassed about what happened at the bistro. It was like I was so desperate for company that I had to foist myself on a bunch of people I’d never met before. I should have been more… assertive when he mistook me for one of the tour group. He must think I’m a complete fool!’
‘Why should he think that?’
‘And I’m already doing a tour with Stéphane.’
‘No two tours are the same, just as no two men are the same. When are you meeting Fabien?’
‘On Sunday morning.’
‘Oh, that’s disappointing.’
‘Why?’
‘It means you won’t be able to join me and Odette at sumo wrestling.’
Poppy spluttered. ‘You’re doing sumo wrestling!?’
‘Non, non, non. We’ll be sitting in the audience, although maybe I could ask if…’
‘No!’
They stopped in front at étienne’s to admire a magnificent display of peach and ivory roses, and when the man himself spotted Hélène through the window he dashed out to greet her with the requisite cheek kisses. Hélène introduced him to Poppy, then made a swift getaway, leaving Poppy to converse with him in halting French. She smiled nervously at the guy with hair the colour of butterscotch and startling blue eyes who was dressed as though he was about to head to an award ceremony for the best-dressed florist in Paris.
Thankfully, before her meagre French ran out completely and she was left with asking étienne how old he was or which was his favourite colour, Camille arrived carrying a huge white confectionary box. Her Patisserie Madeleine apron did little to disguise that day’s eye-poppingly bizarre attire; a neon-pink mini-dress paired with black-and-white-checkerboard ankle boots with a zebra-print fur cuff, and ivory knitted tights. Once again, Poppy was reminded that she needed to seriously up her sartorial game if she didn’t want to look like she’d arrived from the land that fashion had forgot.
‘Voilà!’
Camille flicked open the lid to show étienne the contents.
‘Ah, merci, Camille, ils ont l’air magnifiques.’
étienne took the box from Camille, paused for a moment, clearly on the verge of saying something else, then spun on his heels and disappeared into the emporium of floral excellence like a frightened rabbit. Maybe her French was worse than she thought.
‘Is all that patisserie for étienne?’
Camille laughed. ‘No, it’s for his customers.’
‘At the florist shop?’
‘Yes, the purchase of flowers, or anything of merit really, is not just a clinical exchange of goods or services for cold, hard cash. It’s a social ballet, a chance for two human beings who may or may not have met before to interact, to communicate, to express interest, to compliment, to enquire. Isn’t that what life is about? People connecting with each other?’
Poppy hadn’t thought about her chosen career like that before, and while she served a steady flow of customers with beignets, brioche and Baba au rhum, she found herself agreeing whole-heartedly with what Camille had said. She made a mental note to make sure she remembered her advice when she opened her English Garden Café; that service and friendly interaction was equally as important as the calibre of the food and beverages she intended to serve. She wanted a visit to her café to be an experience people would talk about long after it was over.
‘Are you ready for your date with Stéphane tonight?’ Camille asked as they walked towards Patisserie Madeleine.
‘It’s not a date, Camille,’ she said with exaggerated patience, which Camille ignored. ‘He’s agreed to show me the sights as a favour to my brother, that’s all.’
‘Will it just be the two of you?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then it’s definitely a date. Does he live or work nearby?’
‘Actually, he works at the bookshop down the street.’
‘Does he?’
This snippet of information piqued Camille’s interest even more than before, and Poppy wished she had been a little more vague about his identity. She wouldn’t put it past her new friend to abandon the lavender macaron she was currently eating so she could dash over to LibrairieJuliette on the other side of Rue Saint-André. She seemed eager to perform an advance reconnoitre of the premises for any eligible single males, so that she could report back on the likelihood of romance.
‘So, what are you going to wear?’
‘I haven’t really thought about it.’
Camille stared at her as though she’d grown horns.
‘You haven’t really thought about it?’
‘To be honest, I didn’t bring a wide selection of outfits with me to Paris,’ she said, not wanting to explain to Camille that none of her clothes matched up to what the Parisians viewed as regular daywear, and that she had not yet had the opportunity to go shopping for a more on-trend wardrobe.
‘Well, I know just how to rectify that.’
Poppy watched Camille disappear into the kitchen and she wondered what could possibly be in there that could solve her sartorial dilemma. A re-designed chef’s jacket with appliqué vegetables? A tunic dress made from tea towels and knitted dishcloths? Fortunately, she didn’t have time to think too much about it because a brigade of customers chose that moment to descend on the patisserie and all her concentration was taken up with serving them with the correct order.
She had only been in Paris for six days, but her language skills were improving every day. The French she had studied at school was coming back to her in leaps and bounds, and she had learned a great deal from listening to Camille and Alain – when he came to help them out in the shop during the breakfast and lunchtime rush – as they chatted to the customers while fulfilling their orders. She loved how expressive hand gestures formed an important part of the interaction between vendor and purchaser, and she tried to emulate them, feeling more and more Parisian as time went on.
‘Okay, that’s sorted.’
She looked at Camille in confusion, more relieved than she cared to admit that she was still wearing her neon-pink mini dress and black-and-white-checked ankle boots, and not proffering them as a possible outfit for Poppy’s meeting with Stéphane.
‘What is?’
‘Olivier has agreed to let us finish early, so I’m taking you to Maison de Pierre.’
‘Oh, no, Camille, I can’t possibly afford—’
‘Don’t worry, it’s just for inspiration. We scour the racks to see what’s trending this month, then we search our armoires for something we can re-imagine. See these boots? They started out as a pair of boring black boots until I painted on the white squares and added the faux fur cuffs around the top. And this dress? I picked it up at a friperie for ten euros, cut off the sleeves and a few centimetres from the hemline, and voilà! It’s cute, don’t you think? Come on, let’s go before Olivier changes his mind.’
Poppy didn’t have to be told twice. She whipped off her apron, snatched up her denim jacket and “boring” black leather satchel, and followed Camille out onto Rue Saint-André, a mixture of curiosity and trepidation churning through her veins. She had hoped that her first foray into French fashion would be at a local boutique or department store where she could at least contemplate the possibility of purchasing an item, however small and insignificant. Nevertheless, she had to admit that she was more than a little excited about experiencing real Parisian couture with Camille by her side, knowing that she would never have had the chutzpah to set foot in Maison de Pierre by herself.
Without even pausing to glance in the window, Camille pushed open the door of the boutique and Poppy knew immediately that she was in a very special place. The ambiance was serene, almost reverent, with a light floral fragrance floating through the air. The clothes were displayed on mannequins or specially designed glass shelving units, every item treated as though it was a work of art in its own right and paired with carefully curated accessories that would wow even the most sartorially astute client.
She watched Camille seek out the glamorous sales assistant whose elegant chignon and blemish-free makeup were fashion-shoot ready. The woman wore a figure-hugging, off-the-shoulder scarlet dress enhanced by an intricate gold broach that Poppy suspected was worth more than her car. As she had no hope of understanding their rapid-fire conversation, she decided to take the opportunity to browse the store in peace, knowing that what she liked and what Camille liked were two completely different sides of the fashion coin.
She couldn’t help smiling when the first item she spotted was the fern-green woollen dress that she’d drooled over the day she’d arrived in Paris. She tentatively reached out to feel the fabric, aware that she was touching quality. She glanced down at her one pair of ankle-grazer trousers and her sensible ballet flats – chosen for comfort because she was on her feet all day at the patisserie – and cringed, feeling completely out of place in that emporium of elegance and wishing she could leave without Camille thinking she was a complete idiot.
‘Do you like it?’ asked Camille, joining her.
‘I love it.’
‘I think it’ll look great on you. Why don’t you try it on?’
Poppy lowered her voice. ‘Have you seen the price?’
Before Camille could reply, a loud, authoritative voice reverberated from the rear of the store and when Poppy saw the expression on Camille’s face, she knew straight away that it was the eponymous Pierre Bardoit. Despite her discomfort at being in a shop where there was nothing she could afford, she had to smile at the excitement in Camille’s eyes, but her smile melted when she realised that Pierre was heading towards them.
Even if Camille’s reaction hadn’t given his identity away, Poppy would have known who he was simply by the exquisitely cut plum-coloured suit he was wearing, with an open-necked shirt featuring an orange-and-white geometric pattern and matching pocket handkerchief. His pointed-toe shoes were also orange and polished to a high shine, and his mane of ebony hair was neatly combed back from his wrinkle-free forehead, his dark eyes laser-sharp as he took in their attire in one flick of his lashes. His cologne was so potent, Poppy struggled to prevent herself from coughing.
‘Camille, chérie, it’s good to see you.’
‘You, too, Pierre,’ said Camille, two red dots appearing in her cheeks. ‘This is my friend and colleague, Poppy Phillipson. She’s over from the UK to help Olivier while he’s in plaster.’
‘Mmm, I see,’ Pierre murmured, as he swept his eyes over Poppy’s outfit, his eyes twinkling as he raised her hand to his lips. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Poppy. Are you considering this dress? If so, you have exquisite taste.’
‘Oh no, I… we were just…’
‘Poppy’s going on a date tonight,’ said Camille, helpfully.
‘Une sortie romantique, eh?’ Pierre’s eyes shone with interest.
‘No, it’s not une sortie romantique, it’s just a friend of my brother’s who’s agreed to show me around Paris.’
‘Is he French?’
‘Yes, he’s—’
‘It’s Stéphane from the bookshop!’ exclaimed Camille.
Poppy gave Camille what she hoped was a fiercely disapproving glare, and her heart sank when she saw that this snippet of information had caused Pierre’s lips to twitch with mischief.
‘Perfect! Then you must look your best, no?’
‘It’s a sightseeing tour, and maybe dinner afterwards, so I don’t think…’
But Pierre wasn’t listening. After skimming her dimensions, he issued a torrent of French – which Poppy couldn’t fail to notice included the word “Cinderella” – to his super-stylish assistant, and to her credit she didn’t roll her eyes or grimace at the task he’d given her. She walked to a rack at the rear of the shop, selected three dresses, and handed them over to Pierre with a smile.
‘This one, I think,’ said Pierre, thrusting a short black dress created from a sheer pleated fabric towards Poppy. ‘Please, try it on.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t…’
‘These items are from last season’s stock, but they are still superbe!’ Pierre huffed, misunderstanding Poppy’s reticence for dismay at having to wear something that wasn’t à la mode.
‘No, I didn’t mean…’
‘Try it on, Poppy,’ said Camille softly, pointing to the row of dressing rooms on their right. ‘We don’t want to upset the Pierre Bardoit, do we?’
Poppy certainly didn’t want to do that, so she took the flimsy dress from Pierre and scampered off into the nearest changing room, which she was unsurprised to find was like something she might find at the Palace of Versailles, with flamboyant gilt mirrors and sparkling chandeliers. She stripped off her ordinary clothes and stepped into the dress, her heart pounding with alarm when she realised that it was completely see-through – in all the wrong places!
‘Poppy? Come, show us!’ Camille called.
While she recognised the impeccable design and tailoring that had gone into creating the dress, she had no intention of parading around Maison de Pierre with her underwear on show, but she also didn’t want to offend Pierre. With apprehension swirling through her veins, she peeked out from the changing room door, relieved to see that both Pierre and his assistant were busy dealing with another customer.
‘Camille, do you think I could try it with a slip?’ she asked in French.
‘Un slip?’ said Camille, more loudly that Poppy would have preferred.
Unfortunately, her friend’s spluttered declaration caught the ears of Pierre. He immediately excused himself from his customer and headed to the changing room, his eyes wide with consternation.
‘What’s going on?’
To Poppy’s horror, Camille started to giggle, then descend into fits of laughter.
‘Poppy has asked to try her dress on with un slip!’
Pierre stared at Poppy for a beat, then joined Camille in her hilarity.
‘Er, did I say something wrong?’ asked Poppy, heat pulsating in her cheeks.
‘Poppy, un slip is a pair of men’s underpants.’
‘Oh, I…’
She stared at Camille and Pierre who were both wiping tears from beneath their eyes, completely forgetting that she was now standing in the store in the transparent dress. She felt exposed, uncomfortable, and she regretted agreeing to visit Maison de Pierre with Camille. Fashion had never been her thing and this experience proved that nothing had changed. She couldn’t wait to get out of there.
‘Sorry, Poppy, I…’ began Camille, when she saw Poppy’s discomfort, but Pierre stepped forward to scrutinise her appearance, his amusement vanished, his handsome, bronzed, face serious.
‘Poppy, cherie, you have a good eye. This outfit does not enhance your beautiful figure, but I know which dress will look magnificent on you. Attend!’
To Poppy’s surprise, she watched Pierre head straight to the fern-green woollen dress she had adored, remove it from the mannequin, and transport it as though it were the Crown Jewels back to where she was waiting.
‘This dress is perfect for your tour of Paris.’
She glanced at Camille and saw her nod her approval. She took the dress from Pierre and returned to the dressing room, and when she slid into the dress, it fit her like a glove. It was the ideal garment for an evening strolling the streets of the City of Light, not too formal, not to casual, and thankfully not see-through. She smoothed her palms over her hips to where the hem skimmed her knees, and performed a twirl in front of the mirror, until she realised that there was no way she could contemplate investing in such a piece of haute couture, even if she wanted to… and she wanted to, she really did.
‘Poppy?’
With a sigh, she headed back into the store and struck her best “model-esque” pose.
‘Ah, tu es très belle!’ Camille exclaimed.
‘Merci, mais je ne peux pas—’
‘C’est vrai, chèrie, tu es… éblouissante!’ Pierre threw his hands in the air with delight. ‘I’m sorry I laughed at you, Poppy. To make up for my unforgiveable rudeness, you may borrow this dress for your evening with the gorgeous Stéphane from the bookstore on the proviso that when you return it, you will provide Camille and I with a full debrief on your date.’
Poppy was so stunned by Pierre’s offer that she forgot to remind him that it wasn’t a date, and before her brain had chance to reconnect to its modem, Pierre had taken her silence to mean agreement, and flounced off to greet a group of Japanese tourists who were drooling over Maison de Pierre’s shoes section.
When his assistant handed her a glossy white carrier bag with her coveted dress inside, even though it was only a loan, she felt like she had stumbled into a dream.
‘Did you have fun?’ asked Camille, her eyes shining.
‘I did. Thank you so much, Camille.’
‘De rein.’ Camille paused, then met Poppy’s gaze. ‘I know clothes aren’t really your thing, but Pierre is hosting his biannual catwalk show next week to launch his Spring/Summer collection. It’s always a fabulous evening with spectacular couture, lots of industry gossip and plenty of free-flowing Champagne. I have a spare ticket if you’d like to come along?’
‘Thank you, Camille, I’d love that.’
‘Great! Also, as part of Pierre’s mission to support and nurture the next generation of fashion designers, at the end of the Maison de Pierre catwalk show, he very generously turns the runway over to five up-and-coming designers who get to showcase one of their creations to an audience of magazine journalists, publicists, and other movers-and-shakers in the fashion industry. Don’t tell Pierre I said this, but that’s usually my favourite part of the whole event, and… well, it would be my absolute dream to be one of those five people one day.’
‘How are they selected?’
‘To make sure it’s completely fair, there’s a ballot.’
‘Why don’t you put your name forward?’
Camille stared at Poppy, her eyes wide, as though she had never considered the possibility before. She opened her mouth to say something, then paused, the cogs in her brain moving slowly, and it was the first time Poppy had seen Camille temporarily lost for words.
‘Do you have an outfit ready to show?’
‘Oh, I have several, but I’m not sure they’re quite up to the standard of Pierre Bardoit.’
‘But you wouldn’t be showing your designs alongside Pierre Bardoit, you’d be showing them alongside your fellow “up-and-coming” designers. Why don’t you at least put your name forward for the ballot? What do you have to lose?’
‘I’ll think about it. Now go home and get ready for your date!’