The Boy from France (3 page)

‘I’ll get them out for you later if you want. I’d like to see where he comes from,’ I say eventually.

‘I’d like that,’ she replies. ‘But you must do what you need to do first.’

I know she worries that I’m doing too much for her now. She keeps asking about my grades, to make sure they’re not slipping. I overheard her talking to Dad about how it was all
becoming too difficult for me and he said perhaps they needed to think about getting a proper carer in. She said she wasn’t ready for that. More worrying, they also discussed moving house. I
keep telling her I’m coping fine. I really, really, really don’t want to move. I like living on Paradise Avenue, so close to the centre of Camden Town. And I don’t know what
I’d do if Rosie and Sky weren’t up the road.

After I’ve washed up, I help Mum on to the sofa and fetch a book for her. Then I go to my bedroom and do my maths coursework and then some English, but my mind isn’t on it. Instead,
I surf the web, looking at pictures of Nice. It seems so exotic, with its beaches and outdoor cafés, so different from grey-skied, noisy, hectic Camden. I wonder what Xavier will think of my
area and my life and my friends. I wonder if he’s ever been to London before. I wonder if he’ll mind having to stay with a girl.

I turn on my instant messaging. Sky is online, waiting for me. She’s super excited about my news, which, of course, Rosie has already told her.

So
, she says,
you’re getting a French boy. When’s he

arriving?

Katie (aka Lady Luscious) is Sky’s long-lost sister, whom she ‘found’ at one of her long-lost Dad’s gigs. It’s a long story.

I’m distracted. I can hear Mum moving about downstairs. I look at my watch. It’s almost ten-thirty. She’ll be needing my help to get upstairs to bed. In that conversation I
wasn’t supposed to hear, Dad also talked about getting a stairlift installed, but that hasn’t happened yet. Mum said it would make her feel like an old granny.

Me:
Sorry, Sky. Better go. Speak tomorrow, OK?

Sky:
Sure. Night, babes! xxxx

I log off and go downstairs to see if Mum needs me. She’s leaning against the table, her stick in one hand. She looks shattered.

‘Did you get all your coursework done?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘No worries.’ I can finish my English tomorrow, during my free period. ‘Want a hand getting up to bed?’

‘Actually, I thought I might sleep down here tonight, on the sofa,’ she says, smiling a forced smile. ‘If you could just get some bedding out for me and bring me my toothbrush,
I’d be really grateful.’

‘If you’re sure. I don’t mind helping you up the stairs . . .’

‘No, I’ll be better off down here. My balance is hopeless tonight and I don’t want us both tumbling down the stairs. I’ll be fine for one night. Your dad will be home
tomorrow.’

‘OK, then.’ I don’t feel good about this. ‘If you’re really sure,’ I say again.

She nods and perfects her fake smile. I know she hates feeling like a burden. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t an only child, so I could talk about these things with someone else. Rosie and Sky
are always moaning about their mums. They don’t know how lucky they are.

I should have cancelled Xavier. I guess it’s too late now.

o,’ says Rosie, grinning excitedly. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

We’re standing outside my house, waiting for my dad, who is still loitering by the front door, talking to Rosie’s dad about some dull dad-type thing – inflation or investments
or house prices. Even Rosie’s dad looks bored. We’re all about to set off, on foot, to St Pancras station, where the exchange students are coming into London. It’s only a mile
away and there’s nowhere to park, so we’ll walk there and get the bus back. Dad can help carry Xavier’s suitcase. I’m feeling surprisingly nervous about meeting Xavier, and
suddenly worry not just about Mum, but about how I’ll entertain him for almost an entire month and whether we’ll have anything to talk about. If, that is, we can even manage to talk to
each other at all. Why didn’t I concentrate more in French class and learn my vocabulary properly? I hope he speaks English, or at least good Franglais (that’s a made-up language using
half-French, half-English words) because, if I have to speak to him in French, our conversations will consist solely of ‘Hello,’ ‘How are you?’ ‘What time is
it?’ and ‘Can you tell me the way to the post office?’

Rosie is much more excited about meeting my exchange student than she is about meeting her own. In all our conversations with Sky about their impending visit, I think Manon’s name has come
up precisely once. Sky and Rosie have it all arranged; apparently, we’re all going to be hanging out at my place with Xavier, whether Manon likes it or not. Poor Manon, she hasn’t even
arrived yet and she’s already been relegated to ‘tag along’ position.

‘Right,’ says Dad, fastening his coat. At last. ‘Shall we go, then? Are you girls ready?’

‘We’ve been ready for about an hour,’ says Rosie. She takes her compact out of her bag and applies another coat of lip-gloss. ‘Want some?’

I shake my head. I’ve already let her talk me into applying mascara and concealer and blusher – which I’d normally reserve for a party – because, ‘French girls
always look groomed.’ Anyone would think we’re expecting a delegation from Chanel, not some high school in Nice.

‘
Allons-y
,’ says Dad. That’s French for ‘Let’s go’. He’s already showing off his French. When he was a student he spent a year living in Paris
and, even though it was over twenty years ago, he still thinks of himself as a local.

I roll my eyes at Rosie and we set off up the road, arm in arm, a few paces behind our dads. It’s a cold but sunny day, as good as it gets at this time of year. I’m glad it’s
not grey and rainy; that would be depressing for someone who comes from a place hot enough for palm trees. I want Xavier’s first impression of Camden to be a good one.

St Pancras is left at the top of Royal College Street, just past the old church, with its impressive Victorian tombstones and little park. We’re late. We should have set off earlier, but
Rosie took ages to get ready and then our dads got caught up in conversation. We enter the station at the opposite side to where we’re meeting. I don’t mind walking through St Pancras;
I like stations, especially this one, with its shops and cafés and hundreds of people from all over the world milling about. There’s a buzz of excitement, a pervasive energy, and, even
though I’m not travelling anywhere, it’s infectious.

I can see them all now, a large group of teenagers and a few adults at the designated meeting point, outside the entrance to the mainline station. As we draw closer, I notice that the remaining
French kids are huddled together, waiting to be picked off, one by one, by their English hosts. The boys look clean and smart, with dark jeans, shirts and sweaters, and proper shoes – not
like any of the boys I know, who live in trainers and sweatshirts, their tatty jeans halfway down their backsides. The girls are trendier, with ballet pumps, fitted jackets and expertly tied
printed scarves. They have a healthy glow about them: tanned skin and glossy, long hair. Almost everybody – girl and boy – is carrying a backpack. Before any of them even open their
mouths, you can tell they’re tourists.

Dad goes to talk to the exchange programme organisers, while I wait, nervously, at the edge of the group. I watch as people pair off and the crowd depletes. There are lots of English kids I
don’t recognise – girls from other forms in my year, boys from the local boys’ school. I’m not sure where Rosie has gone. I think she said something about finding the loo.
She probably wanted to redo her make-up.

Soon there’s only one boy left amongst the group of girls. He’s tall and dark, and he’s wearing brown shoes and a brown leather jacket. He stares at me, hopefully, and, in
spite of myself, my tummy does a little flip. This must be Xavier. Just as Sky and Rosie predicted, he’s gorgeous. He has a square jaw, green eyes and thick, wavy, dark hair.

‘Veecks?’ he asks, as I approach.

I nod. ‘Um, yes. Hi. You must be Xavier.’ I’m trying to act cool, even though my legs feel wobbly. I look around for help from Rosie, but I still can’t see her. Dad is
deep in conversation with the exchange trip organisers.

Xavier grins. ‘Allo.’

‘Er, hello. Er,
bonjour
.’

I move to hold out my hand, and he takes it, but he doesn’t shake it. Instead, he leans over and kisses me on both cheeks, gently dropping my hand as he does so. He smells like washing
powder and hair gel. Mmm. My cheeks glow hot. I take a deep breath and step backwards, hoping he hasn’t noticed. ‘So, um, did you have a good journey?’

‘Yes, no problem, sank you.’

‘That’s good. Er . . .’ Someone rescue me, please; I can’t think of a single thing to say. I glance around again for Rosie, and spot her talking to a pretty blond girl,
who must be Manon. I try to catch her eye, to beckon them over, but she doesn’t see me. ‘So, er,’ I manage, finally, ‘have you been to London before?’

‘
Non
. Never. Eez first time. In the moment, I like very much.’

I laugh, nervously. He’s only seen the train station. ‘Cool. Well, we’ll go to my house and dump your stuff and then, if you fancy it, we can take a walk around Camden.
I’ll introduce you to my best friends. Rosie is over there, actually. Although you must be tired. After travelling all day. So maybe you just want to stay in?’ I’m rambling now.
Still, it’s better than saying nothing. ‘Anyway, see how you feel. How does that sound?’

‘Yes, eez good, sanks.’ He looks confused. I was probably talking too fast. He grins again and his eyes crinkle up at the corners, two long dimples appearing in his cheeks. I find
myself smiling too, a weird, lopsided smile. My lips are so dry that they’re sticking to my teeth. I wish I’d taken Rosie up on her offer of lip-gloss.

‘
Bonjour
Xavier,
et bienvenue à Londres!
’ says Dad, appearing at my side at last and welcoming Xavier in his best French. I hope he’s not going to keep
showing off for the entire month. That would be unbearable.