The best way to behave is to misbehave: Part Une

Posted by Isabel Dexter at 16:39 on 9 Aug 2009

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I fell. I fell in Dior. OK, so it wasn't actually in Dior, it was on the metro. And unlike Miss Carrie Bradshaw I wasn't wearing 4-inch Louboutin heels and carrying a Gucci clutch.  Nor was I taking time out from staying at the Plaza Athéné while my Russian artist boyfriend made up for not seeing me by filling my room with roses and buying me wedding-cake couture gowns. Oh no. I was wearing flat bejewelled sandals from Dune and carrying a bottle of vodka. I'd come straight from doing my make-up in Quick Burger (think McDonald's but with French branding, less salt and more dogs on thick rope leads) via my friend/future husband's apartment, where being English, slightly drunk and 'toujours discrete' (always discreet) I'd burst through the door, placed said vodka on the table and announced, "Allez les enfants, let's have shots!". And they say Brits don't do glamour...

It was only when my friend/future husband announced, "Isabel, I'd like to present my parents," in the midst of the hushed room that I realised my mistake. Suddenly calculated that I'd have to have a conversation in French using "vous" instead of "tu" and tried to formulate the "How was your evening at the theatre?" question without making any more grammatical or social gaffes. Forget the wedding-cake couture, at this stage I think we might just have to head for Vegas. Well, I've always wanted to elope in the style of Lydia in Pride and Prejudice... Surely the girlfriend won't mind, right?

Despite allegations to the contrary this weekend, I am not exactly a femme fatale. (I usually write these blogs wearing 70s running shorts, socks and a bobbly cashmere cardigan. The fashion police could have me done under the Trade Descriptions Act.) OK, so I have a penchant for showing lots of leg and flirting is practically my stock in trade but I can't help it, I'm just drawn that way. Le truc est (the thing is) if you're a single girl in Paris then you are automatically 'dangereuse'. "When you're a French girl and you meet another girl, she is straight away your enemy," one of my friends told me. "Then little by little you might get to trust her and then become friends." This explains the looks of incomprehension and suspicion that happen every time I smile at my neighbours or am genuinely pleased to meet a female friend of a friend. It's like Simone de Beauvoir never existed. I blame the boys. It's impossible to walk down the street without some guy, usually hand in hand with his girlfriend, checking you out. The other night a couple were kissing at the same time as the boy giving me The Look. No wonder French girls get so jealous, it must be like living in Closer. Or just being Jude Law's girl.

I grilled a guy friend about it over crepes. "But the French are so faithful to their fashion and beauty brands, and even to supermarkets - why not to their girl/boy friends?"
"We have a saying," he revealed. "Just because you're on a diet doesn't mean you can't look at the menu!"
"Yes," I laughed, "but you don't actually have to order from it!" . Side of English breakfast, anyone?

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