Paris Party

Mary and I were at the Cirque d’Hiver in Paris at the weekend, in the front row of the 150 year old purpose built theatre, so close to the ring that when the tiger stalked past we could have fed it a finger. I flinched at the sound of the lady tamer’s cracking whip, fearing for our eyes. ‘It’s nowhere near us ’, Mary said, and we grinned as the live orchestra played and the dancing girls came on in antique red silk hats and pink kid boots and not much else.

Just then a text message came through from my most Parisian Parisian friend Henri. There is a small party at the appartmt of tricky Corsican lawyer for Bret Easton Ellis. Want to come?

Yes please, I replied immediately but then I cursed my own stupidity. There was nothing in my suitcase for a proper grown up evening. When I considered the handsome collection of party dresses that hung in my wardrobe at home my heart really sank. All the Corsicans I’ve ever met have been so fastidious.

‘You could always buy something?’ my husband suggested very sweetly, but it was already five o’clock so instead I went to have my hair curled. I was feeling a little lacklustre and if your hair has bounce and verve it can be contagious. The hairdresser rolled up my hair with a round brush and blasted it with heat, telling me of his only visit to London which was as a child with his school when the Crown jewels had particularly impressed him. He called them, wistfully, Les Bijoux de la Reine. Just then another text came through.

There is a problem. We have been disinvited. I will try and work it out.

A little dejected I rejoined the family. No further news came. My hair looked better than ever but I tied it back and started Mary’s bed time routine.

I rifled through the suitcase for her nightgown and her 11 story books which I couldn't find. Then, suddenly, in a sort of secret zipped compartment at the front of the case I came across a neatly folded tissue wrapped old grey Rifat Ozbek dress I used to wear quite a bit ten years ago and had considered lost. It’s very plain, knee length, slim cut, square necked, with little short sleeves. I hung it up, just in case and was half way through reading Bread and Jam for Frances when my phone flashed a new message. Pick you up in ten mins. There was just time to hand over the book to Tom who was deep in The Critique of Pure Reason and put on my dress and shoes. I peered at myself in the mirror. It wasn’t bad. The dress looked surprisingly of -the-moment, a little like an informal version of Roland Mouret’s Galaxy Dress only more forgiving because of it’s very slightly A line cut.

Outside Henri was waiting on his scooter with a helmet for me in his hand. I winced as it crushed my new curls. The last time I was on a motorbike I threw up, with fear, going round Hyde Park Corner. ‘Could I possibly follow you in a taxi’ I did not say: even I have too much pride for that. I clambered on inelegantly in my 12 cm heels, closed my eyes and hoped for the best. It was when we were going round the roundabout at Republique that I noticed my dress had ridden up to my waist and I just couldn't pull it down. Why didn't you put on tights! I remonstrated. ( I hate tights, they make my legs feel like they’re in prison). I cast my eyes about me: I was getting some mighty funny looks, but there was nothing I could do. Deeply mortified I talked to myself sternly, ‘Look, you don't know any of these people and the one person you do know cant see you, so get over it.’ But then we passed a mirrored building and slowed in a small traffic queue. Even the backs of my knees blushed.

Finally we pulled up outside the La Perla shop in Boulevard St Germain and entered a grand eighteen century building nearby. Henri pointed out our host and a variety of other Characters. ‘He’s a huge cult writer,’ he said nodding towards an extremely handsome man in his seventies, garlanded by women, with an enormous cigar, and an oddly stylish limp. We were handed drinks by an elderly woman in a traditional black and white French maid’s outfit. ‘Have you read Brett’s new book?’ Henri asked her politely.

Her whole face shone suddenly, ‘I really think it’s his best’ she replied.

Then Bret himself arrived in time to catch someone dunk her sushi roll in soya sauce take a bite, then dunk again, ‘Hey, no double dipping!’ he called out. We chatted for a while. I told him the lady serving drinks thought Lunar Park was his best book and he raised his glass to her. ‘In England the people who like me are very very young, they don’t know any better, they haven't read anyone else, but in France older people like me and it means more.’

He complained about his hotel: there was no mini bar, no plasma, no ice. I fetched him a tumbler of ice which he drowned with white wine. We discussed how much the cheapest room at the Four Seasons Georges V would cost. 780 euros was my guess. Bret shrugged; ‘Tomorrow morning Oslo’ he sighed, philosophically. I looked round the flat which was pretty fancy. The gleaming parquet felt smooth against my thin soled shoes; French parquet is so much nicer than English, the blocks of wood are parallelograms rather than rectangles, so the pattern looks more generous, less fussy. Bret took a photo of me in front of a painting of Proust.

I chatted to some of the other guests in bad French in my emergency dress and my helmet hair. Every so often I would turn to Henri and ask him if a word such as mystere was masculine or feminine or what the word for peplum was. I met a Vietnamese fashion writer, a skin care manufacturer who was combining western technology with eastern medicine, an Irish talent scout and about fourteen male French novelists, who in French, rather appropriately, are termed romanciers. ‘Everyone’s being SO nice to me’ I said to Henri, ‘Why wouldn't they be?’ he gallantly replied. ‘By the way, good dress.’