“Now,” he said, “let ton-ton Sami work.”
“Oh no,” I said. “Do not make me look like a dog’s dinner. The fact that I’m letting him come pick me up is the worst. If I’m all painted up like a trollop…”
“Oh, scared little English girl,” said Sami, “I am doing none of these things. I am simply ensuring that you feel and look your best. I just want you to enjoy yourself.”
“Everyone does,” I said gloomily. “It makes it very difficult.”
He pulled out a beautiful red gypsy blouse.
“From the attic scene,” he said. “Do you have a red bra?”
I did, but I hadn’t brought it. Or worn it in months, I realized. It was a good one too.
“Well, pink will do,” he said. “Better, in fact. More sluttish. Now, have you got hair?”
I had shaved my legs in the bathroom and wished Cath was there—she’d wax me on the cheap at home. Also once I’d shaved them, I’d realized how hideously pale they were. In Kidinsborough, I’d have gone and had a fake tan, but they didn’t seem to do that here; I hadn’t seen anywhere advertising it. All the French girls had this perfect olive skin anyway that didn’t need anything. Another wave of fear gripped me. Oh God. What if he recoiled in horror at my patchy white bits?
“I think I need a drink,” I said to Sami.
“Non,” he said, to my surprise. “Do not. You will not enjoy so much.”
“Well, I won’t enjoy it at all if I can’t buck up the courage.”
His huge black eyes softened.
“Darling,” he said. “Darling. It is only pleasure. Happiness. Like with chocolate, yes? It is not there to make you feel guilty, or sad, or ashamed. It is there to enjoy. Think of me. The whole world tried to make me ashamed. It could not.”
I looked at him. He was wearing a bright purple boa around his neck and his familiar bright blue eye shadow. It had never occurred to me before to think that Sami might be brave. I’d only ever thought he was off his head. But now I saw it.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. I put on the red blouse. It was lovely. Matched with cropped jeans, so I didn’t look too overdone (and could get on the back of the scooter), it looked pretty and fresh and unworried.
“I would add a scarf but…” His mouth made a moue.
“Scarves make me feel like a politician,” I said.
“It’s true,” he said. “English girls cannot wear a scarf. Except for your queen. She is magnifique.”
He took out a large, slightly grubby-looking makeup box, sat me down, and went to work, putting on my makeup with one hand and jumping up every second to finish the cigarette he’d left smoldering on the balcony.
“You’re going to make me smell all smoky,” I complained.
“Little is more sexy to a French man,” he grinned at me.
Finally I was ready, and he let me have a look in the mirror. I smiled, happily, in surprise. He’d swept my untidy hair to the side and fastened it with a large old-fashioned silver clip so that instead of being its usual cloudy mess, it looked like a chic ’20s style. He’d kept my face very simple, except for my lips, which he’d filled in the exact same red as the blouse.
“Cor,” I said, “that’s a bit full-on.”
“It’s gorge,” said Sami absentmindedly. “He’ll want to kiss it all off immediately.”
I stood up.
“Now,” said Sami. “Shoes. I don’t know why you wear those sandals all the time anyway.”
I didn’t say anything.
“What have you got?”
“Converse, heels.”
“Hmm. Go on.”
“I’ve got ballet slippers.”
“Let’s see.”
I brought them out for inspection.
They were some of the prettiest things I’d ever bought. I’d found them just before the accident. They were navy blue and flat with a little bow in a paler blue ribbon and a striped inner lining and weren’t at all the kind of thing you ever saw in Kidinsborough, where everyone wore heels out at all hours, or trainers. I didn’t even know what I would wear them for; they’d be useless for clubbing or the pub—they’d get ruined and everyone else would be talking four inches above me. And they weren’t a lot of use for walking in, and one splash of rain and they’d be totally done for. And I couldn’t wear them to work or to a music festival.
But they were so pretty and so precious, and the woman who sold them to me had put them in a cloth bag before she put them in a box, and wrapped them up in striped tissue paper and stuck it down with a lovely vintage sticker, and I’d taken them home and put them in my old MFI cupboard and thought about the imaginary garden party I’d be invited to one day.
Then I’d had my accident and that was that; I’d never worn them—they didn’t give my foot enough protection and could even slip off.
Sami glanced over them.
“Yes. Them,” he said. “They’re cute. We’ll roll up the bottom of your jeans a bit, make you look like a 1950s starlet on the Croisette.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I’ll just go put them on,” I said.
“Can’t you put them on here?” said Sami.
It occurred to me that getting in some practice at showing a man my foot—as I had with Thierry—might not be the worst thing ever. So I sighed, then sat down and took off my slipper.
Sami didn’t notice at first. Then his eyes went wide.
“Wow,” he said.
“I know,” I said. Would I ever get used to it, the precise diagonal line cutting across where two of my toes used to be, the livid red stubs. “I know, it’s hideous.”
“Darling,” said Sami, patting me on the shoulder. “My girl.”
“He’s going to throw up,” I said.
“Nonsense, he’ll barely notice,” said Sami, casting another worried glance at my foot. “As long as he’s not one of those fetishists. Well, as long as he’s not a foot fetishist. If he’s an amputee fetishist, you’re in luck…oh, darling, don’t cry.”
I couldn’t help it. I was feeling so wound up and emotional, and this was all I needed to set me off.