‘Oh, yes?’ Mum says. ‘She’s coming next week, isn’t she?’ She sighs. ‘We’ll have to get the spare room sorted.’
We both know that by ‘we’ she means ‘me’.
‘Yes. Except she’s a he: Xavier. I hope that’s OK. I’ve got a letter with all the details.’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know it could be a boy.’
‘Me neither. Miss Long sprang it on us this morning. Apparently there’s been some administrative cock-up.
Too many boys and not enough takers at the boys’ school, and not enough girls for us.’
‘Well, it’ll be nice to have a boy around the place for a change. Someone for your dad to talk about football to, and practise his French with. Where’s he from?’
‘From Nice. Wherever that is.’
‘Ah.’ She smiles. ‘We went to Nice once on holiday, when you were a toddler. I don’t suppose you remember.’
‘No! I didn’t realise I’d been there. I only remember Paris.’
Mum looks wistful. We haven’t been on holiday for a couple of years, not since she starting getting worse. ‘It’s right in the South, near Italy. A bit like Brighton, in a way, with a long promenade and a stony beach. But there are palm trees and the sea is a beautiful blue, and it’s lovely and hot and sunny there. I’m sure I must have some photos somewhere.’ She moves as if to get out of her chair, but then remembers she can’t do that as easily as she used to and grips on to the table to right herself again. Her stick is propped up against the wall, just out of reach. We both glance at it, but say nothing.
‘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?
Me: Saturday afternoon. Dad’s coming with me to pick him up at St Pancras.
Sky: Party at yours, then, Saturday night?
Me: Ha. Ha. I don’t think so!
Sky: Nah, you probably want to keep him all to yourself.
Me: He might be tired. But I promise you’ll meet him soon enough. On Sunday, probably. We can all go to the market. Unless they have some group activity arranged.
Sky: It’s not fair! I want a French exchange student. I wish I went to your school.
Me: You’re not even doing French GCSE!
Sky: Well, I would have done if I’d known I could meet French boys!
Me: Sky, you’re unbelievable. Anyway, after Rich, I thought you were off boys.
Sky: That was ages ago . . . French ones must be better. So, obviously you’ve got first dibs . . . But if you don’t like him, can you save him for me?
Me: I might do. Hey, but he might already have a girlfriend. Ever thought of that?
Sky: Bummer. Still, he might like a bit of a holiday romance. What happens in Camden stays in Camden. Or something. Or he might have some friends . . .
Me: Yeah, well . . . We’ll see, OK?
Sky: OK. Cool. I wonder what music he’s into? Katie’s DJing again in a couple of weeks.
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.
Me: The French music I’ve heard is pretty rank. He probably likes accordions.
Sky: No!!! Hey – maybe he actually plays an accordion!
Me: LOL! Then your mum will love him!
Sky: Too true. Although she’s only into weird Indian music at the moment.
Me: Heh. Lucky you.
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’ posi
tion.
‘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.
‘Allo,’ says Xavier. ‘You are Veeck’s farser? You speak good Français.’ I wonder if he’s going to kiss Dad too, the way I’ve seen the French boys kissing each other, but he doesn’t. They shake hands.
‘Yes,’ says Dad, looking pleased with himself. ‘Call me John. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Xavier. Let me take your bags.’
‘No, no, eez OK. I can carry my own. Sanks.’ He picks up his enormous duffle bag and sweeps it over his shoulder, as if it’s no heavier than a jacket. Dad shrugs. I know he likes to feel useful.
‘Right, then,’ he says. ‘Let’s find the others and head home.’ He waves Rosie’s dad over. Rosie and Manon follow close behind. Rosie grins at me. I catch her looking Xavier up and down and smiling, approvingly.
‘Hey, Vix,’ she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. She turns to Manon. ‘This is Manon. Manon, Vix.’
‘Allo,’ says Manon. She looks me up and down, the same way Rosie did to Xavier. It makes me feel uncomfortable. ‘I stay ’ere wiz Rosie.’
‘Hello. This is Xavier. He’s staying with me.’
Xavier smiles at me and nods at Manon. ‘Allo.’
‘Do you two know each other?’ asks Rosie.
‘Mais oui,’ says Manon. She leans over to kiss Xavier. ‘I know eem a leetle. We go to zee same school in Nice.’
‘She eez a very big school,’ says Xavier. ‘Many students.’
We all stand around, awkwardly, for a few moments, smiling at each other.
‘Right,’ says Dad. ‘Let’s go to the bus stop. It’s just outside.’ He notices that Manon has two wheelie suitcases and offers to take one of them. It’s pink and only has a short handle, so he has to bend his knees as he walks. He looks ridiculous.
‘We take zee bus now?’ says Manon. She seems a little put out. I don’t blame her. I guess she’s probably tired, after travelling all day.
‘Yes, it goes to the end of our street,’ Rosie says. ‘It’s not far. Just five minutes up the road.’
‘Ah, all of us go togezzer? You leeve wiz Veecks?’
Rosie laughs. ‘Kind of. But no, not in the same house, we’re just a few doors down from each other. We’ve been neighbours – and best friends – since we were little.’ She grins at me.
‘Ah, OK. Excellent.’ Manon glances at Xavier. She seems happy. Xavier, not so much. But perhaps I’m only imagining that.
While we wait for the bus, Rosie chats to me, leaving Xavier and Manon to talk in French. They chatter away ridiculously fast and I can’t make out anything they’re saying, apart from ‘oui’ and ‘non’ and ‘merci’. I wonder if they’re talking about me or about Rosie.
Rosie leans in towards me. ‘I told you he’d be hot,’ she whispers. ‘And he’s hotter than even I expected. Sky is going to be crazy jealous!’
&nbs
p; I realise I’m beaming, in spite of myself. It’s ridiculous: Xavier and I have barely said two words to each other yet – I know nothing about him. We might not get on. He could be boring. He might even be a French serial killer, for all I know. To tell the truth, I kind of wish he wasn’t so good-looking. Every time he smiles at me I go blank. It’s the whole accent thing too – it’s so cute. ‘He is very good-looking,’ I concede. ‘I’m sure I’ll get over it, though. Once I get to know him.’
‘Heh,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m one hundred per cent sure you won’t!’
um is waiting for us by the front door when we arrive home. She acts as if she’s heard us coming and has only just got here, but I know that she’ll really have been standing here for a while. She has arranged herself in position, her body balanced against the wall so she can stand without falling, her stick tucked away, just out of sight. Whenever she meets someone new she’s embarrassed about her stick, which is silly – and I’ve told her – but I guess I’d feel the same. I don’t know if anybody’s mentioned to Xavier that she’s disabled; maybe that’s what Dad was chatting to the exchange programme organisers about. I haven’t said anything, and I won’t, not unless he asks and I absolutely have to. I know quite a lot about her illness now – too much – because I’ve been reading about it on the web. I know she’s probably going to get worse, but I’m trying not to think about that.
‘Hello, Xavier,’ says Mum, brightly, as we come in. You’d think she didn’t have a worry in the world. Dad takes Xavier’s bags straight upstairs. I’ve made the spare room up for him, as comfortably as I can. I’ve even put up an old French poster, which I found tucked away behind the bookshelf, to make him feel at home. I hope he likes it.
‘Allo, Madame,’ says Xavier. He leans right over to kiss her, which is good, because it means she doesn’t need to take her arm away from the wall and risk losing her balance. ‘Enchanté!’
The Boy from France Page 2