The Boy from France (7 page)

‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’ I say, hesitantly. ‘Tell me . . .’ I wait, not daring to breathe, just in case a genie suddenly decides to leap out of a nearby fairy
tale and grant my wish. As they do.

‘I’d like to go to zee ’ouse of zee singair, Amy Wine’ouse. She leeved in Camden, no?’

My fantasy genie evaporates. ‘Oh, OK, right, sure. Yes, she did.’ I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help but sound disappointed. I clear my throat. ‘OK, cool. I can
show you where it is.’

He smiles. ‘Excellont. Zis is what I want to see most in all of Camden Town.’

‘Really? I’m surprised. So you’re a fan, then?’

‘Ah,
oui
. I love Amy Wine’ouse.’

‘Yeah? I didn’t know she was big in France. Me too. I’m a huge fan.’ This is the truth, although I can’t help thinking that I’d probably have said it anyway,
just to please him. Which means I’m officially turning into the sort of girl I claim to hate. ‘Actually, I used to see her around Camden sometimes. She seemed nice, friendly.’

‘Wow! You knew Amy Wine’ouse!’ He glances around him, expectantly, as if he’s about to announce this exciting news to everybody else. Luckily, they’re all out of
earshot.

‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘Kind of. Sort of. A bit. We weren’t exactly friends. Just neighbours. Distant neighbours. Anyway . . .’

He grins. ‘Then we go now? Eet’s OK? Eet’s far from ’ere?’

‘Not too far. Hold on. Let me tell my friends.’ I look around for the others. Sky is rifling through a box of vinyl, probably so she can buy something for her DJ half-sister. Rosie
and Manon have ventured a little further into the stalls and appear to be showing each other some plaited leather belts. I hesitate. I should probably ask them if they want to join us. But Rosie
won’t want to come, I’m sure of it. She’s already told me that she doesn’t see the point of hanging around outside a dead singer’s house when there’s a live rock
star living right next door (the drummer from Fieldstar, to be precise, but that’s a whole other story). Not to mention that she’s been to visit about a hundred times already. I really
don’t want her to bring Manon, who has still barely said a word to me. More to the point, I’m entitled to some alone time with Xavier, aren’t I?

I walk up behind Sky and playfully put my hands on her shoulders, making her jump. ‘Only me,’ I tell her. ‘Listen, Xavier’s had enough. You know. So I’m going to
take him home. Is that OK with you?’

‘Sure,’ says Sky. ‘There’s a few things I want to check out, so I won’t come back with you now, if that’s OK. We’ll catch up later, yeah?’

‘Course. Um, Rosie and Manon look busy. I don’t want to interrupt them. Will you tell them for me?’

‘No worries.’ She hugs me and flashes me a coy little smile. ‘Have fun with Xavier.’

‘We’re just going home,’ I say, flushing. Can she tell how I feel about him? Is it that obvious? ‘We’ll probably end up sitting talking to Mum and Dad or something.
Boring. Anyhow, see you later.’

I turn away before she can say anything else and walk back over to Xavier.

He smiles. ‘Your friends? Don’t they come also?’

‘Er, nobody else really fancies it,’ I say, leaving out the part that I didn’t give them a choice. If anyone objects later, I can always say we thought of the Amy Winehouse
idea on the way home and took a detour.

‘No problem.’

It’s probably wishful thinking, but he doesn’t seem the slightest bit unhappy about this.

We head back up the high street and take a shortcut through Sainsbury’s on to Camden Road. Well, it’s meant to be a shortcut, except Xavier seems fascinated by the prospect of
checking out an English supermarket, and asks if we can wander the aisles for a few minutes. I agree, to humour him, although frankly it seems a bit weird. Who goes food shopping for fun?
Especially a boy. And who prefers Sainsbury’s to Camden Market? He says he wants to see what food you can buy in England, whether it’s the same as in French supermarkets, and whether
(I’m guessing, because he’s too polite to say it) English food is as rubbish as French people think. So I follow him around, letting him peer into the freezer cabinets and pick up and
replace things from the shelves until he’s satisfied.

‘Zee food ’ere. Eez the same, almost,’ he declares, appearing disappointed. ‘One can even buy zee baguettes and zee Camembert.’

‘Course,’ I say. ‘It’s England, not a third-world country. We have everything. We don’t live on fish and chips and roast beef. No frogs’ legs or snails here,
though, I’m afraid.’ I’m aware I sound a bit miffed. Xavier doesn’t know how much time I spend trudging around here, buying stuff for Mum, when I’d rather be doing
something else. It’s not my favourite place. I force a smile. ‘Come on, I thought you wanted to see Amy’s house.’

‘But yes,’ he says. ‘Of course. Let us go. But one day, we come back and buy zee food and I’ll cook for you and your family, a proper French dinair. If it pleases
you.’

‘I would like that,’ I say, surprised. ‘You cook? Seriously?’

‘
Oui
, my mother, she teaches me.’

He doesn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed by this. He even seems proud. I don’t know any boys who cook. Not one. The boys I know think the only food worth eating comes out of
polystyrene cartons with a logo stamped on them. Cooking is for girls and wusses. But Xavier is most definitely not a wuss.

‘Do all boys cook in France? Everyone here just goes to McDonald’s or KFC.’

‘No, I don’t sink so. My friends, they prefer McDonald also. I like too, sometimes. But I enjoy to cook.’

‘Cool.’ I blush. I think he might just be the perfect boy. ‘Well, Amy’s house is about ten minutes up Camden Road, just off it, in a posh little square.’

‘A leetle scware?’ He looks perplexed. Maybe they don’t have squares in France, or maybe he can’t pronounce it.

‘Yeah, like a street with a green bit in the middle . . . Never mind. You’ll see.’

We stroll up Camden Road, chatting about his sisters; he has two, both older than him, one of whom has left home already and is training as a teacher in Paris. I tell him they sound cool and he
makes that raised eyebrow, half-frown, half-pout expression again, which makes him look so very French. I don’t tell him that I’ve always wanted a sister, someone to chat to and share
things with, especially when things get hard with Mum. Even a brother would do. Being an only child sucks sometimes. Maybe that’s why I’m so close to Rosie and Sky; I guess I think of
them as my surrogate sisters.

‘So what else do you like doing in Nice, apart from going to the beach?’ I ask.

‘I play volleyball and football.’

‘Yeah? Are you any good?’

‘Not bad. I am in zee school team.’

‘Cool. I used to play football too, when I was younger. I play netball now – I’m top scorer in my year, actually.’

‘Ah,
oui
? Netball?’

‘You don’t have it? It’s like basketball, I guess, except you don’t bounce the ball.’

He stops and looks me up and down, then grins. ‘But you are not so tall.’

I redden. I’m a perfectly average height, I just feel awkward when he stares at me. ‘You don’t have to be for netball.’

‘Ah,
oui
?’

‘Wee.’ It’s practically the first French word I’ve said since he arrived and I feel ridiculously self-conscious about my accent. I know the whole point of the exchange is
to improve my French speaking but Xavier is so good at English, and his accent is so appealing when he speaks it, that there isn’t much incentive to try.

He smiles. ‘Ah,
tu parles Français
!’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I can speak a tiny bit of French but your English is tons better. And my accent is awful.’

‘No! Eez cute axont. I love zee axont
Anglais
.’

‘Really?’ I’ve never really considered that French people might like English accents as much as we like French ones. It’s hard to imagine that my North London vowels can
sound sexy to anyone.

He nods and I blush for what must be the millionth time today. ‘Come on,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘We’re nearly there. We just need to cross the road.’

Before I can stop him, he has stepped off the kerb. A motorbike zooms past, missing him by a nose. On instinct, I grab his jacket and drag him back to safety. ‘Xavier, what are you
thinking? Don’t they teach you the Green Cross Code in France?’

‘
Mon dieu!
’ he says, appearing visibly shaken. ‘My God! I sink I was looking zee wrong way. I forget – you Engleesh drive on zee left.’

‘Er, yes, we do. It’s kind of an important thing to remember. God, Xavier, please don’t do that again. Apart from anything else, can you imagine how much trouble I’ll be
in if I get you run over?’

He laughs. ‘No worries. I am
Français
. I cannot be hurt by zee English cars.’

‘It wasn’t a car, it was a motorbike. Quite a cool one, actually.’

‘Ah,
oui
. You like zee motorbikes?’

‘God, yes. I’m not allowed to ride one yet, obviously. But I’ve always wanted a motorbike and as soon as I’m old enough, I’m going to get one. Or a scooter, at
least.’

He seems impressed, like boys always are. But this is one guy whom I really don’t want seeing me as ‘one of the lads’. Well done, Vix, I tell myself, you’ve done it
again.

Or maybe not . . .

‘My cousin, he has a scooter. He lets me ride it sometimes, not on zee roads. Maybe if you come to Nice I can give you a ride, on zee back.’

Is he inviting me to Nice? That means he likes me and wants to stay in touch. Or maybe I’m reading too much into a throwaway comment . . . ‘Cool,’ I say, turning away, so he
can’t see blush one million and one. ‘Come on. It’s safe to cross now.’

We walk a short way further up Camden Road and then turn right into a little road, which leads into Camden Square. ‘This is it,’ I say, stopping to allow him to take it in. I think
he’ll probably be disappointed: it’s just a square of large, expensive townhouses, with some greenery in the middle. Just another Camden street. A pretty street but, in the end, only a
street. There’s nothing much to see any more. For weeks, months, after she died, the place was like a shrine, with hordes of fans pouring through, singing and crying together and leaving
photographs and mementos. But the tributes to Amy – the bottles, bouquets, photos, candles and notes – have long since been removed, leaving just the street sign covered in her
fans’ scrawlings and some RIP messages carved into the trees. It doesn’t stop people coming though; tourists are always stopping me in Camden Road to ask the way to Amy’s house.
When I give them directions, they look at me with respect, as if I’m privileged to be a real Camdener.

Xavier gazes around. He’s quiet, mournful, like somebody in church. ‘Which eez zee ’ouse of Amy?’ he asks, eventually.

‘It’s at the end,’ I say, pointing to the far corner. ‘You can’t get right up to it, but I’ll take you as far as we can go.’

I lead him across the square until we’re a respectful distance from the house. ‘It’s that one,’ I say, looking up. He looks up too, at the tall Edwardian villa, and nods.
He doesn’t say anything. I guess, like everybody else who comes to visit, he’s imagining what it was like to live and die in there.

We stand in silence for a minute or two and then he takes my hand and gives me a little hug. ‘Sank you, Veecks,’ he says, into my collar. ‘For taking me to zees
place.’

I hug him back, my heart pounding wildly, my nose pressed into his neck. As I breathe in his scent, I think that I’d be happy staying like this all day – hell, for the rest of my
life if I could. And then the moment is gone and I start to feel awkward and self-conscious. I can’t tell if he’s simply feeling emotional, and just wants to hug someone, and I’m
the only person around, or if he really does want to hug
me
. Realising that I’m enjoying the hug a little too much, and that it probably doesn’t mean what I want it to mean, I
pull away.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go home. We can play some Amy tracks later if you like.’

um hasn’t always been ill, although I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t. She told me that it
all started just after I was born. One day, when I was tiny – about a month old – her left eye went all blurry, and she couldn’t see properly for about a week. She thought it was
just because she was so tired from getting up in the night to feed me. It made sense. I was a bit of a nightmare as a baby, everyone says – always crying, never sleeping. Her eye got better
all by itself and then, a couple of months later, she woke up one morning, tried to get out of bed, and discovered that her legs simply wouldn’t work. She says they felt like wads of cotton
wool crumpling beneath her. She ended up falling on to the carpet and lying there, helpless, until Dad came back from the shops and heard her calling out. I was in my cot at the end of the bed and
I was screaming and screaming because I was hungry and needed my nappy changing, but there was nothing she could do. It must have been really scary for her.