The Boy from France (19 page)

Authors: Hilary Freeman

BOOK: The Boy from France

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He nods. ‘
Merci
. I am happy that I met you too, Veecks. Please say goodbye and sank you again to your parents.’

So that’s all I’m getting – he’s happy that he met me. I was right not to say anything more. ‘Of course I will. They’re really sorry they couldn’t come
to the station to see you off.’

‘Sank you.’

We’re distracted by movement and noise behind us. The French exchange coordinator is gathering all the French students together, taking a register to make sure everyone is accounted for.
She motions to Xavier to come over. She looks impatient.

‘I sink that I must go now,’ he says.

‘Yeah, I know.’

He sighs and clutches my hand. ‘Goodbye, Veecks.’

‘Goodbye, Xavier.’

There’s no time for a proper kiss now and, anyway, everybody is watching us, pointing to their watches, waiting for him. So it’s going to end with a quick peck on both my cheeks. The
way it all began. The kiss at the party really was the very last one. If only I could have one more, just one more . . .

‘
Au revoir
.’ He lets go of my hand and gives me a smile. I smile back, as bravely as I can, even though I want to cry. And then he picks up his rucksack, swings it on to his
shoulder and walks away to join his his French friends. I stare at his back, watching his rucksack bob along until he’s disappeared into the group, and then turn away, unsure what to do with
myself. I feel lost, hopeless and very alone. Maybe I’ll grab a coffee or look around the station shops – anything to distract myself, to avoid going home. I start to walk away, slowly,
aimlessly.

‘Veecks! Wait!’

There’s a hand on my shoulder. It can’t be? Can it?

‘Xavier? I . . . I . . .’ Somehow, impossibly, he is by my side again. ‘I thought I would never . . . that you’d gone!’ I’m so surprised and confused that I
realise my feet are still walking.

He runs in front of me, grinning. ‘Stop! We ’ave only two minutes. Come!’ He grabs my arm and manoeuvres me to the side of the information desk, where we’re out of sight.
‘I ’ave somesing for you.’ He presses a piece of paper into my palm and closes my hand over it. ‘Eet ees my email address. If you steel want. And my telephone
numbair.’

‘Seriously? You want me to contact you? I thought at the party you said . . .’

‘
Oui.
Eef you steel want. Eet won’t be easy, but, eef possible I want to try. I realise I care about you very much, Veecks. And I will mees you. A lot.’

I’m so happy I can barely breath. ‘Wow! Me too. I wanted to tell you before but I didn’t think you felt the same. I . . .’

‘Shush,’ he says, putting his index finger on my lips. ‘Or zair will be no time for zees . . .

Before I can say ‘For what?’ his mouth is on mine and he is kissing me so hard, so deeply that I feel dizzy.

Just as I start to understand what’s happening, to enjoy it and kiss him back, he pulls away.
Just one more kiss,
I think again.
Just one more . . .

‘And now I must really go!’ he says. ‘Goodbye!
Au revoir! A bientôt!
Email me!’ And then he’s off, running towards the platform, as fast as he can,
weaving his way through the crowds. For one brief moment, as he walks through the ticket barrier, he turns around and gives me a little wave. I wave back, but he doesn’t see me.

My boy from France has gone.

I stand rooted to the spot for a few minutes, unable to decipher my emotions. Did that really just happen, or did I imagine it? It must have done, I can still feel the imprint of his lips. He
does care about me and want to keep in touch – that’s amazing. But he’s not here any more. I am both happier and more sad than I’ve ever felt before. It’s hard to
believe that it’s only been a month since I stood here with Dad, waiting for my unknown French exchange, expecting nothing at all. So much has happened. So much has changed. I’ve
changed.

I take a deep breath. I don’t want to go back to my house and I don’t feel like going to the hospital to see Mum right now, but I can’t stand here for ever, holding back the
tears, trying to look normal.

‘Vix!’ Rosie rushes up to me, from nowhere, out of breath. She has Sky with her. The two of them hug me. ‘Thank God you’re still here. Are you OK? We thought you’d
need cheering up. So we came down to the station to find you. It took us a while and we were worried you might have gone already.’

‘That’s really nice of you both,’ I say. I’ve never felt so relieved to see anybody in my life. ‘I feel a bit . . . upset.’ My voice cracks.

‘Of course you do, hon,’ says Sky. ‘But it’s going to be fine, I promise. Come on, let’s get a coffee and you can tell us all about it. Then we’ll get the bus
back to Camden and go shopping or something.’

‘Thanks, I’d like that.’

Rosie links her arm through my right arm, and Sky takes the left. I feel stronger and safer already. As we move off, I take one last look behind me, at the empty platform, at the spot where
Xavier stood just a few minutes ago, and I wonder when I’ll see him again. Then I turn my head forwards, towards Camden, to the future, and I think – I know – that, somehow,
everything is going to be all right.

hank you to my agent Catherine Pellegrino and to the team at Piccadilly press: Brenda Gardner, Anne Clark, Melissa
Hyder, Andrea Reece, Margot Edwards, Vivien Tesseras, Geoff Barlow, Lea Garton, Simon Davis and Geoffrey Lill.

It’s been a year of drama, trauma and huge changes in my life, and a year that I wouldn’t have survived without the incredible support and love of my family and friends, notably my
parents, Michael and Vivien Freeman, Judy Corre, Claire Fry, Nicola Rossi, Jax Donnellan, Diane Messidoro, Karen John-Pierre, Rachel Baird, Nishi Shah, Miriam Herman, Gabbie Lecoat, Anna Smith,
Colin Richardson, Vicki Prais and Jo Cotterill.

I’m sorry I can’t name everyone here – I really would need another book to do so. Thanks to Ella Garai-Ebner and Orli Vogt-Vincent for their enthusiasm and input.

And finally, a
grand merci beaucoup
and
gros bisous
to Mickaël Lorinquer.

piccadillypress.co.uk/teen

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