Christmas at Tiffany's (28 page)

‘
Non!
What – for fun? Or for exercise?’

‘In Kelly’s case, both. She even does it in heels.’

‘I am even more amazed you are here, then. I do not know how you survived,’ she said, shaking her head and dropping the bags outside a door on the top floor. ‘
Alors
, we are here.’

As with Kelly’s apartment, what went on in the communal areas had no bearing on her friends’ living quarters. In New York, the difference had been scale, but here it was taste. It was like walking into a spread for
Elle Deco
. The walls were lilac with over-scaled modern art canvases hanging on them, and the parquet floors were hidden beneath enormous vibrant rugs. A forest-green Roche-Bobois corner sofa ran the entire length of two walls and a purple fibre-glass moulded table sat in the middle, with stacks of art books piled high. In one corner, a glass-topped Ligne Roset table and eight chairs sat in front of the windows, overlooking the river where tourists sailed by snapping pictures of her neighbours, Notre Dame and Sainte-Chapelle.

Cassie wandered through in silence as Anouk unbuttoned her coat. The kitchen was long and narrow, galley-style, with a window and Juliet balcony at the far end, and the units were matt grey, with no handles, but push-release doors and white Corian worktops. With something approaching euphoria, she clocked the kettle.

The apartment had two bedrooms – that was a relief to note, too. Kelly’s truckle bed had quickly lost its nostalgic ‘sleepovers’ appeal, and once they’d started dating Brett and Luke . . . well, it meant one of them always had to stay out.

‘Anouk, this place is amazing!’ she exclaimed, turning back and joining her friend at the windows. Paris was still sleeping off its hangover, even though it was nearly two p.m. The roads over on the other side of the river, the Left Bank, were quiet, with just the occasional scooter zipping past, stray lovers walking hand in hand over the bridges and limp tourists flopping back in their seats on the city tour buses. ‘Tch, you smoke too much, Nooks,’ she tutted, spying another cigarette in her hand.

Anouk shrugged. ‘It helps me think.’

‘What do you need to think about?’ Cassie asked, slipping off her jacket to reveal the black ‘I heart NY’ T-shirt Bas had given her for Christmas, her black Bebe biker trousers and buckled ankle boots.

Anouk turned to look at her. ‘You,’ she smiled.

Cassie was surprised. ‘Me? Why?’

‘How to make you happy here. The job to give you, the people to make you laugh.’

‘I hope that’s not code for “set you up with”, Cassie warned.

‘No. Not if you don’t want,’ Anouk smiled, giving a little shrug. ‘Although I do know—’

‘Nooks!’

‘Fine.’ She looked her up and down. ‘You’ve really lost a lot of weight.’

‘I know,’ Cassie sighed. ‘Hopefully you’ll be doing something about that? Tarte Tatin for breakfast,
chocolat chaud
before bed . . .’

Anouk giggled at the preposterousness of the suggestions. ‘Don’t count on it. Although you will be going straight back to wine. All those pink cocktails . . .’ She gave a little shudder.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Cassie said. ‘I never did acquire a taste for them.’

She went and stretched out on one of the sofas. The jet lag was catching up with her. ‘This is okay, isn’t it?’ she asked, worrying that she was making the place look untidy.

‘Sure.’ Anouk came and joined her, concertinaing herself into tiny folds on the adjoining sofa. ‘Suzy has asked for us to Skype her tonight. She’s worried about you. I think she couldn’t quite believe that you were going to make it, either. And Kelly texted me four times to check whether you had arrived yet. Ay-ay-ay.’ She waved a little hand dismissively. There was silence. ‘Cassie?’

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.’

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, though.

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.’

‘Ender
what
?’ 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’.