The most popular look with the French women in the village I live in is an easy one to copy. Take an old pair of slippers, preferably weather-beaten and worn as you have spent years walking to the bakery in them, a totally shapeless grey dress and a dirty old pinafore. For accessories you shun the Chanel bag and instead opt for the broom or the duster. So inelegant and unglamorous are the French women around me in the south of France that when it came to researching my book into the truth behind French style I had to go to Paris. And not just any part of Paris.

My interviews were invariably either in the first arrondissement where former supermodels like Inès de la Fressange hang out, or Saint-Germain, which since the beginning of the 20th century has been the chicest area in the city. Of course the women in these areas are stunning. Here you will find your classic perfectly groomed Parisian. She will be wearing designer clothes, beautifully pressed, her designer shoes and handbag will be matching, her Hermès scarf will be in harmony with the rest of the outfit; there is not a colour, a hair or a top of a finger-nail out of place. It is a great look, and one we would all love to have. This is the look I set out to copy. But it is not a look achieved with great ease. A lot of the French women I spoke to for the book seem to spend most of their time preening, exfoliating, going to the hairdressers, buying sexy underwear and having their eyebrows plucked.

Frankly it’s lucky they don’t eat more than a salad leaf a day; when on earth would they have the time to tuck into a great big lunch and a bottle of wine? They may look great, but at what price? Is this a woman you would want to go for a drink with? They rarely drink more than one glass of wine in an evening, hardly much of a drinking partner. Would you want to go to bed with them? They’re so perfect you’d be terrified of messing their hair up, or even worse getting carried away and ripping their underwear which probably cost more than your average bloke earns in a month. These women are the queens of style, there is no denying it. But like all queens they are difficult to live with.

So what is the alternative? Normal French women? When I started to research Two Lipsticks and a Lover I was acutely aware of the fact that I would be criticised for making it too Paris-focused. But to be perfectly honest, who wants to read about a lot of old trouts wandering around in slippers? The pinafore look was not one I thought a lot of British women would want to emulate.

I started to look at the younger generation outside Paris. But, with a few exceptions, I found they have about as much taste and style as Blackpool pier. All too often their hair is dyed an extremely strange colour, somewhere between aubergine and carrot. Not a good look. I mean there’s nothing wrong with dying your hair, but surely the point is to make it look better than it did before? They wear the most extraordinary clothes that look like something Dolly Parton might have made her stage debut in: all studs and denim, truly choice. Some of the colour schemes they go for should be banned by Nicolas Sarkozy. And a lot of them are overweight. The ones that aren’t invariably smoke. This is the French woman’s most powerful diet tool. A fag in the hand is worth at least two pieces of bread and a slab of Brie. As long as they can puff away uninterrupted they are happy to miss out on food.

Of course I have read the famous book about French women not getting fat. And yes, on average I would say they are thinner than British women. But McDonald’s in France is its most successful franchise in Europe. French women are catching on to fast food. I discovered there is no limit to its infiltration when I decided to visit the editorial offices of an extremely well-known fashion magazine. I am not going to reveal the magazine’s name in order to protect its reputation. Let’s just say it’s the French word for she.

I had a meeting with two senior writers on the magazine to discuss matters at the heart of the French beauty debate. These are women in the know, if anyone could tell me what’s going on, they could.

Of course I agonised about what to wear and how to lose three kilos before the meeting. I opted for black and no breakfast. I was a bag of nerves as I was shown up to the editorial office by a security guard. There were two women waiting for me. Both of them were overweight. One of them was carrying a bag of pretzels and the other was clutching a coke. Not even a diet coke.

“So as you see,” smiled the pretzel eater. “We don’t get fat.”

“Would you like a coke?” said the other.

I stood in stunned silence. How come these women hadn’t been fired? If they aren’t thin and stylish, what hope is there for the rest of the population?

The truth is that French women are not so blooming perfect. Of course there are some that are, and wouldn’t we just love to be like them? Catherine Deneuve versus Sharon Osborne is a total no-brainer. Although Shazza might be more of a laugh on a night out. Vanessa Feltz versus Vanessa Paradis? Ask Johnny Depp.

But the myth that French women don’t get fat, or ugly, or have bad taste is just that; a myth. There are practical things you can do to look more like the perfect Parisian icon. I have adopted some of their habits. I wear matching underwear and exfoliate along with the best of them. But most French women wouldn’t know an exfoliating brush if it hit them on the head. This non-fat, ultra-chic race is confined to certain quarters of Paris. There may be the odd one lurking in the classier districts of Montpellier, Toulouse and Bordeaux as well. However, head into the countryside and you will find that French women are not so very different to any other women. They eat too much, they wear tasteless clothes and they go out without washing their hair.

Of course French women see us Brits as a bit of a joke when it comes to style. One of the chic Parisians I interviewed said she envied my ability to look “eccentric”. Funny that, I was trying to look my most chic and Parisian. I almost hit her over the head with my designer bag, which of course I later realised wasn’t matching my shoes (pretty bloody eccentric, eh?).

I think as I grow older I will take my lead from the women in the village and go for the worn-out slipper and pinafore look. It may not be the sexiest image around, but at least I will blend in with the rest of them. And I can always wear my matching underwear underneath.