by Karen Swan
She bent forwards, trying to see her friend’s face through the sheet of butter-blonde hair.
‘No-non-non,’ she said, jumping up and rubbing her on the shoulder. ‘You must not sleep yet.’
‘Why not?’ Cassie moaned, her voice already thick with slumber.
‘Up. Come on. Up! I have just the thing. It will cure you of jet lag and give you a kick-start to Paris life. Come. The hammam is what you need. Come.’
It didn’t take long to get there. The cab stopped in the deuxième district, in an anonymous courtyard with a few Vespas parked badly on one side, and some giant box-hedge balls in large lead planters flanking a black door. There was no sign or plaque to indicate what they’d come to – or for.
Anouk rapped twice softly on the door, and after a few moments a dark-haired, olive-skinned woman – Moroccan possibly? – opened it. She smiled in recognition at Anouk and stepped back for them to enter.
Inside, everything was a soothing off-white colour, with dark wooden arched doors and matching architraves, and the temperature was set at a coddling warmth. Cassie unzipped her jacket, feeling suddenly like a rough-tough biker chick dressed all in black and buckles in this mellow room. Anouk was wearing dark teal wide-cut trousers and a pale pink shirt, with a chunky rope of amethysts around her neck.
‘Wow, if I was asked to design a womb, it would probably look a lot like this,’ Cassie whispered as the woman led them through to a changing area where she gave them each a locker, a pair of flip-flops, some disposable knickers, a robe and a towel.
Cassie held the paper knickers up after the woman had left the room. ‘Tell me that’s just a joke,’ she said nervously.
Anouk smiled and shook her head, stripping down quickly to a lemon-yellow bra embroidered with tiny black polka dots and a matching thong. Cassie looked on anxiously. Last time Anouk had seen her in her underwear, she’d nearly had a stroke – what Kelly referred to as ‘knickergate’ – and for all the leaps forward she’d made in New York with her outer wardrobe, to be honest, nothing much had changed on the underpinnings front.
She quickly peered inside her T-shirt to see what she’d pulled on before leaving for the airport. Hmmm. Grey jersey Gap bra and pink and red striped Calvin Klein hipsters she’d bought in the sale. She blew out through her cheeks as she pulled her shirt over her head. It could be worse.
Or maybe not.
‘Mon Dieu, she has taught you nothing!’ Anouk said, wrapping the robe around her crossly.
‘Who? Kelly?’ Cassie asked, hopping about on one foot as she tried to get the knickers on without Anouk catching sight of the ‘extreme waxing’ situation. She had a gut feeling the Brazilian wax would cause yet more consternation.
‘Yes. What was she thinking? I mean – why are you wearing lipstick when you haven’t even got your lingerie sorted?’
Cassie smooshed her mouth to the side, trying to work out the connection between lipstick and lingerie. ‘You’ve lost me.’
Anouk sighed. ‘It’s all about priorities, Cassie. Why on earth would you want a man to kiss you on the mouth if you can’t then take him to bed?’
There was a baffled pause. ‘I don’t understand. Why couldn’t I then take him to bed?’ Cassie asked, bewildered.
‘Wearing that? Those knickers and that bra? Surely you wouldn’t want a man to see you like that.’ It wasn’t a question.
Cassie bit her lip, abashed. Luke had liked it – he’d called it ‘sporty’.
The woman came back through again, and ushered them into a lounge where mint tea and almonds were served up on wenge tables. Anouk smiled as they sat opposite each other on the white chairs taking dainty sips. All around them, little niches were carved out of the walls at random heights and intervals, and were filled with flickering votives and baskets of sandalwood.
‘Luckily, I know the best place to go for getting you sorted. Rosa Beaulieu. She’s a client of mine.’ She thought for a moment. ‘She’s pretty expensive, but I have a necklace that she always admires when I see her. I could see if she would barter a week’s set of lingerie for it?’
‘Great,’ Cassie said feebly, feeling slightly beaten up by the dressing-down in the dressing room.
‘Hey, don’t be cross with me, Cass,’ Anouk said quietly. ‘I cannot help it if I get frustrated sometimes. I just want to help you make the most of yourself, that is all.’
‘I know. I’m just tired.’
‘Of course you are. And that is why we are here. We have four hours of relaxation ahead of us.’
‘Four hours?’ Cassie thought of what Kelly could achieve in four hours, and yet she was going to spend it in paper knickers . . .
‘Four hours. It cannot be rushed,’ Anouk said, stretching her arms above her head. ‘That’s what I was trying to explain to you just now – you cannot paper over the cracks with brash make-up or trendy clothes. Over here, chérie, beauty starts from the inside.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cassie looked down at her coffee, wondering whether her spoon would actually stand up on its own in the thick, strong liquid. ‘This makes me miss my grass,’ she said, craving a light cup of the camomile tea which had become her waking victual. It had been during the girls’ shopping weekend in November, when Suzy had tripped and planted her hand in the middle of the grass – promptly releasing the telltale scent – that they had finally discovered that she was growing a camomile lawn and not just your common garden variety.
‘You make it sound like a pet,’ Anouk quipped. She was reading Le Monde. It looked like it had been ironed.
‘It almost was, I guess. I had to look after it – make sure it was getting enough sun but not too much, move it away from the window during frosts, water it—’
‘Walk it, groom it, give it vitamin supplements, tell it you loved it . . .’ Anouk teased.
‘You’re just jealous because you don’t know what it is to have a lawn of one’s own.’
Anouk chuckled, deeply amused. Their spirits were restored again since they’d both slept well. In fact, Cassie couldn’t remember ever having slept better. She wasn’t sure exactly what had done it – the eucalyptus-infused steam room, the all-over exfoliation lying on a heated granite table (surprisingly comfortable), the nourishing hair mask, the anti-ageing honey facial or perhaps the full body-wrap made from brewer’s yeast. Either way, she’d practically levitated over the bed last night, and no trace of jet lag remained this morning.
Cassie took a sip of her espresso and felt the hit immediately. ‘You know, I never drank coffee before eleven in New York.’
Anouk, wearing a thin taupe cashmere robe, raised her eyebrows but didn’t look up. ‘Vraiment? How did you get going for the day, then?’
‘A run, usually.’
Anouk grimaced. ‘How brutal.’
‘Yeah,’ Cassie said, stirring the coffee. ‘What do you do for exercise over here?’
Anouk shrugged. ‘I walk. Cycle sometimes.’
‘I can’t imagine you on a bike, Nooks. What is it – mountain or racer? No! Don’t tell me, you’ve got a BMX.’
Anouk looked up, turning the paper over. ‘Actually, it’s a chopper,’ she said with a straight face, making Cassie keel over with laughter.
‘Aaah, that’s a powerful image!’ she sighed, wiping her eyes, when she’d eventually recovered. She tore open her croissant with her fingers and covered it with butter and jam, scarcely able to believe carbs were back on the menu, although she noticed Anouk hadn’t had one. She did hope she was going to be able to eat normally here. She’d lost six pounds living in New York and she didn’t want to lose any more.
She wondered what else would change with her location. It had been so strange waking up in her new room this morning, the sounds of the neighbours’ voices bouncing around the courtyard in a language she hadn’t used for so long – although a gap year as a chalet girl at Anouk’s parents’ place in Méribel meant she was pretty much fluent. It would take a while to get her ear back in, thou
gh.
She took another bite of croissant and looked out of the window. It was Monday and the rumble of cars on the bridges suggested the city was emerging from its holiday cocoon.
‘So, what’s the plan for today?’
‘Well,’ Anouk said, folding the paper and putting it down on the table. ‘We are having lunch with my dear friend Florence later, but I am afraid I shall have to go to the studio this afternoon. I have an important client coming over to pick up some pieces that I’ve done for her holiday in St Barts, and she’s flying out tonight so I cannot put it off. But first we shall have some fun.’
‘Fun?’ Cassie put down the croissant. ‘That’s not a word you use.’
‘Non?’ Anouk gave a casual shrug.
Cassie looked at her suspiciously. ‘Define “fun”.’
There was a pause. Anouk quickly looked backed at the paper. ‘Hair with Jean at ten, endermologie at eleven-thirty.’
‘Enderwhat?’ She considered for a moment. ‘Isn’t that the study of insects?’
Anouk chuckled again.
‘And what’s wrong with my hair?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Anouk said, her eyes flicking over it as if she’d just seen it move. ‘I’ve just asked him for a few tweaks, that is all – to help you become a Parisienne. That is what you want, sûrement? You don’t want to look like a tourist.’ She said the word with the same disdain Luke had reserved for ‘blogger’.
‘Well, no . . .’ Cassie said, her hand flying up to the glossy mane that Bas had lovingly blown-out for her on her last day in Manhattan.
‘So don’t worry, chérie. There is nothing to be concerned about. Everything will be terribly subtle. Paris is nothing, Cassie, if not subtle.’
‘This is not my definition of subtle, Nooks!’ Cassie hissed, trying to catch sight of herself in parked-car windows. ‘I mean, at least my poor mother would have had a chance of recognizing me before. But this?’
Anouk stared at her, appraising the new look. ‘It suits you,’ she said finally. ‘That blonde was far too harsh. And look, you’ve got dark eyebrows and lashes. You can take it,’ she nodded.
‘But I liked my hair the way it was.’
‘Kelly had turned you into an American girl. You would have been a constant kidnap threat.’ She winked at Cassie, just as the lights turned green and the pedestrians flooded across the road. ‘These colours – what did he use in the end?’ she asked, striding out.
‘Caramel and chestnut,’ Cassie said sullenly. ‘No. No. It was hazelnut.’ Like that made a difference. It was still dark brown. She couldn’t stop stroking her hair. It was an inverted bob now – saved from Charleston pastiche only by the way it broke into twists at the front – and her neck felt cold.
‘Yes, well, those colours typify absolument the difference between New York and Paris. There it is about fashion. Here, it is about style. Subtlety, elegance, chic.’ She tugged Cassie’s arm. ‘Quick, this way. We are late.’
She turned a sharp left down the rue Saint-Jacques and along a street where the average age dropped sharply to twenty-one.
‘The Sorbonne is just over there,’ Anouk smiled, clocking Cassie’s even more frantic hair-soothing as cliques of girls in tight jeans and ethnic scarves sloped by.
‘You still haven’t explained what this enderthingy is,’ Cassie said, trying to keep up.
‘It’s probably best if I don’t,’ Anouk said, stopping suddenly at a glass door and pressing the entry buzzer.
‘What on earth does that mean?’ Cassie cried in alarm.
‘Listen. Would I ever steer you wrong?’ Anouk asked, stepping in and leaving Cassie with no choice but to follow her.
Ten minutes later, the answer was a clear ‘yes’. Cassie was wearing a white sheer bodystocking that rolled from her neck down to her wrists and ankles, and a woman in a white coat, who looked like she should be giving her either a facial or ECT, was brandishing a machine with rollers on it.
‘So just run me through that again,’ Cassie said, hands on hips, momentarily forgetting that she looked like a blanched sausage. ‘You want to put that thing up and down my body and it will roller up my fat bits—’
‘And break down the fatty deposits, yes,’ the woman sighed.
Cassie looked at Anouk, who was sitting on the bed, swinging her legs. ‘But you were telling me only yesterday how skinny I was.’
‘And you are. But this is fantastique for getting rid of peau d’orange.’
‘But I don’t have cellulite . . . do I?’ She twisted round to get a better look at her bottom. Again, she was wearing paper knickers.
‘And also it’s great for making sure it never starts.’ Anouk shrugged happily. ‘I swear by it. But never tell Suzy or Kelly, okay? There are some secrets that cannot leave Paris.’
‘But she’s basically going to be hoovering me,’ Cassie said imploringly.
‘Cassie, trust me,’ Anouk said, tapping her watch and reminding her they had lunch plans. ‘Inside out, remember? Beauty is the foundation for happiness and self-esteem. In Paris, this is just what women do.’
New York felt a long way away. She felt separated from it not just by the 3,500 miles between the two cities, but by time, too. New York was about the moment, the Zeitgeist, the cutting edge. Here – Cassie looked round the formal restaurant with its sky-frescoed cupola and seventeenth-century tapestries on the walls – all homage to the riches of the past. Classical statues that looked like they’d been pinched from the Louvre were spot-lit in the corners, the marble floors were as polished as mirrors, and giant ten-foot urns were spilling over with lavish floral displays as rich in scent as in colour. This hotel, one of the city’s landmarks, could have looked like this two, even three hundred years ago; the only difference would be the hair, clothes and shoes of the people populating it – pompadour wigs and buckled shoes instead of the Chanel quilted pumps and helmet blow-dries that were out in force today.
Cassie offered up a silent prayer of thanks for having had the good sense to put on her all-camel Michael Kors outfit – skinny polo and wool A-line skirt with shearling-lined boots. This morning, absolutely everyone in the room was wearing navy, grey or chocolate brown. There was no black to be seen anywhere. Having said that, when she’d pulled the clothes on, she’d still been a long-haired butter-blonde. Now she was a bobbed brunette and the ‘match your clothes to your hair’ look that had seemed so chic earlier now just look washed out, which was more than could be said for her thighs, which were still red and tingling from the endermologie session.
‘So, it is your first time to Paris?’ Florence asked, her English as flawless as her face. She was the marketing director for Dior, and Cassie had been able to tell just by looking at her that she was a fashion thoroughbred. Her dark hair was a shimmy of cocoa lowlights, her cheekbones were as sharp as if they’d been filed, and several of Anouk’s signature oversized cocktail rings clunked on her elegant hands.
‘Yes, I can scarcely believe it myself,’ Cassie smiled, slapping herself on the forehead as though it was something she’d just forgotten to get round to. ‘It seems so gauche, somehow, to have got to this age and not made it here before now.’
‘Well, you were busy with other things,’ Anouk said tenderly. ‘Anyway, Cassie’s just spent the past four months living in New York, and she’s moving to London in the summer, so she’s making up for lost time.’ She put her hand over Cassie’s. ‘You shall be quite the international jet-setter by then.’
‘Maybe.’
‘And what are you going to do with your days here?’ Florence asked, delicately spearing an asparagus tip.
‘Well, I’m not sure yet. It’s all slightly tricky job-wise. My trip’s too short for a permanent job, but I’ve never done temping before. I don’t think I’d be qualified enough to go on an agency’s books.’
‘Well, maybe you could spend it trying to talk Anouk into coming on board with us,’ Florence smiled. ‘We’ve been trying to strong-arm her into working exclus
ively for us for years, but she won’t listen. I have recurring nightmares that I’m going to lose her to someone else.’
‘That won’t happen,’ Anouk replied, sipping her Beaujolais Nouveau. ‘I like my independence. It suits me to work for myself and come and go as I please.’
‘Talk some sense into her,’ Florence said, leaning towards Cassie. ‘You are old friends, after all. I am sure she would listen to what you have to say.’
Cassie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I’d be absolutely the last person Anouk would listen to. I’m utterly clueless about all the things she holds dear.’
‘Oh,’ Florence said, sitting back, clearly shocked.
There was a prolonged, embarrassed silence. Anouk stared openly at Cassie, who was in turn staring openly at the tablecloth. She hadn’t meant it to come out as such a rebuke to the bonds of their friendship.
‘Well, I hate to contradict you, Cassie,’ Anouk said, after a moment, ‘but you are my very first port of call on lots of matters. For one thing, I would give anything to be able to cook like you. I can still ruin a saucepan just boiling water. You are the only person I would want around me in a crisis. And as for your loyalty and bravery, well . . .’ She looked at Florence. ‘Did you know she scored the winning goal in the lacrosse finals against our most avowed enemies with two broken fingers – and didn’t utter a word about it until after the trophies had been handed out!’
Florence’s eyes widened, probably more at the incongruous image of Anouk playing lacrosse than Cassie playing it with broken fingers.
‘And none of that even comes close to the pride I feel in seeing how she’s carried on with such dignity in the past four months. I know I couldn’t do it.’
There was another silence, just as stunned, but for different reasons this time. Cassie’s eyes were shining with tears.
