Mum blushes, just like I did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her blush before. Xavier’s French charm has instantly won her over, too.
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ she says. ‘Please call me Barbara. I hope you had a good journey and that you’ll have a wonderful time staying here with us. I know Victoria will look after you. Now please come into the living room and sit down. I’ll go and make some tea.’
She waits for us to pass, so that Xavier won’t see her picking up her stick, then goes slowly into the kitchen. Dad follows close behind, to help her.
‘Victoria? Like zee Queen Victoria?’ says Xavier to me, as we enter the living room. ‘I am incorrect? Your name, he ees not Veecks?’
‘Vix is really a nickname, a shortening,’ I explain, as we sit down on the sofa. ‘Only my mum calls me Victoria.’
‘Ah. Me too, eef you like, I can call you Victoria?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ I say. ‘I hate it. Even most of my teachers call me Vix now.’
‘Ah, oui?’
‘Oui. Actually, I thought you were called Ex-avier when I first saw your name. How dumb is that! Now I know your name is pronounced just like xylophone.’ As soon as I’ve said it, I feel like an idiot.
‘Zye le Fone? Who is zees? A friend?’
‘No, no. Xylophone, the instrument. You know, the one with keys that you hit with sticks.’
‘Ah! Gzee-lophone!’
I laugh. ‘I do love your accent. It makes everything sound better, somehow.’
He looks crestfallen. ‘I have zee axont? I believe I speak zee good Engleesh, wiv zee good axont. You can tell I am Français? It is obveeowse?’
‘Yes.’ I giggle. ‘You do have an accent. But don’t worry about it – it’s cute, very charming. Most people love a French accent, honestly – especially girls.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah, bon?’
I look down at the floor, bashfully. I wish I hadn’t mentioned other girls. ‘Yes. And I shouldn’t laugh, not when your English is so much better than my French.’
‘I am sure you speak good Français.’
‘Nah, I’m rubbish. I’m supposed to practise with you.’
‘OK.’ He smiles. ‘You will learn me better Anglais – wiv zee better axont – and I will learn you Français.’
‘Deal.’
Dad’s standing at the door, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. I don’t think we’ve ever had tea from a teapot, in proper china cups with saucers, before. Usually we have teabags in chipped mugs, with water poured straight from the kettle. What are my parents thinking?
‘Have you ever had English tea, Xavier?’ says Dad. ‘I suppose you’re more used to coffee. I used to get a wonderful cup of coffee in a café in the Left Bank. Proper coffee. I remember it well.’
‘Mais oui, of course. We have tea also.’
Dad sets the tray down on a table. ‘Good, good. Shall I be mother?’
I cringe. Xavier appears confused again. I shrug at him and roll my eyes. I think the ‘my parents are aliens from another planet’ expression translates internationally.
Mum shuffles in with her stick and lowers herself into the armchair. She looks exhausted. I’m sure Xavier must have clocked the stick by now, but he’s far too polite to say anything.
‘Sank you, Barbara, for your ’ospitalitee,’ he says. ‘I like very much your ’ome.’
She grins at him. ‘It’s our pleasure to have you.’
We drink our tea and eat our biscuits and smile at each other a lot, awkwardly. Mum asks Xavier about his journey and Dad talks about his time in Paris. Xavier tries to appear interested, but it turns out that he’s only been there once, on a school trip, so he doesn’t have much to say about it. I wish Mum and Dad would leave us alone – I’m not used to getting to know someone new in front of my parents; I’m nervous enough as it is.
‘So,’ says Dad, finally, ‘I thought we’d get a takeaway tonight. Save cooking, and it would be nice for Xavier too.’
‘Eengleesh food?’ says Xavier. ‘Cool. I want to try very much.’
‘Ah, well, I was actually going to suggest an Indian – which is sort of English food now, you know – or a Chinese.’ Dad laughs. ‘But we can have something properly English if you prefer. Um, how about fish and chips?’
‘Ah bon, feesh and sheep?’ says Xavier. ‘It sounds strange, but I weel try.’
I giggle. ‘Not sheep, chips! Fries! Like frites. And we can have mushy peas too, if you like,’ I say.
‘Mooshy pizz? Why not!’
Mum turns her nose up at that idea. ‘Poor Xavier,’ she says. ‘He’s come all the way from France, which has the best food in the world, and on his first night we’re giving him mushy peas! He’s going to think everything they say about British cuisine is true.’
But she’s overruled.
Dad goes to fetch the fish and chips from Pang’s on Kentish Town Road, which is half a Chinese takeaway and half a fish and chip shop. I’ve tried fish and chips from several different places in Camden and I like Pang’s the best. Dad always enjoys chatting to Mr Pang and, because he likes our family, he always gives us the freshest fish and the newest batch of chips. The portions are enormous. While Dad’s gone, I show Xavier around the house, pointing out the kitchen and the bathroom, and checking he has everything he needs. He seems happy with his room, even though it’s very bare and a bit girly, with flouncy curtains and a floral bedspread. I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.
We hear the front door open. ‘Fish and chips!’ calls Dad, from downstairs. ‘Come and get it!’
‘Come on,’ I say to Xavier. He holds the bedroom door open for me and lets me through first. None of the English boys I know would ever do that.
We eat at the kitchen table. I prefer to eat fish and chips straight out the wrapping, but Mum insists on plates. Xavier watches curiously as I drench my chips in vinegar, then does the same. He tries a chip. ‘Mmm,’ he says. Next he takes a forkful of his fish. ‘Mmm,’ he says again. ‘Feesh and sheep eez gude!’ he declares. He tries the peas, tentatively. They’re luminous green and very runny, which must be a little off-putting. He pushes them around his plate with his fork.
‘And how do you like your mushy peas?’ I say.
He makes a funny expression, a sort of furrowed-eyebrow, pouty sneer, which makes him look particularly French. ‘Um, they are gude also, I sink.’
I laugh. ‘They’re an acquired taste. You don’t have to eat them, honestly. Don’t worry.’
He polishes off the lot anyway. And when he notices that I’ve left some of my chips, he helps himself to those too.
‘That’s what I like to see,’ says Dad. ‘A hearty appetite!
Throughout the meal my phone has been beeping constantly. I don’t need to look at it to know that I’ll have messages from Sky and Rosie, wanting to know how things are going with Xavier. Mum asks me to turn my phone off but, instead, I put it on silent and, when nobody’s looking, check it quickly under the table.
Rosie says Xavier is v hot! x reads Sky’s first text.
How ru getting on? x reads Rosie’s.
A few minutes later: Wot r u doing? Tl me! Sx
And then: Vix txt me! Rx
Vix! Gt back 2 me!!! Sx
I say I’m going to the loo and quickly text them back, telling them things are going well and that I’ll talk to them properly later, when I’m alone. I wonder how Rosie is getting on with Manon.
After dinner, I do the washing up and Xavier offers to help, probably because he doesn’t want to sit making polite conversation with my parents and hearing more about Dad’s amazing year in France (which happened aeons before Xavier was born). Then I ask if it’s OK for us to go upstairs to my room. Some parents have rules about having boys in your bedroom; mine don’t because I’ve never had a boyfriend. They say it’s fine.
Xavier walks around my room, studying my posters and the photos of my friends, which I’ve made into a framed montage and put up by the bed. He a
sks me who everybody is, and how I know them all. He appears genuinely interested. I have to repeat myself a couple of times, explain a few phrases, but his English really is pretty good.
Then I ask him all about his life. Like most people in Nice, he lives in an apartment, not a house, with his mum, dad and two sisters. It’s about five minutes from the port in Nice and only ten minutes from the beach. He and his friends seem to spend much of their time there – after school, at weekends, at beach parties in the summer. It’s an outdoor life, filled with swimming and cycling and skateboarding, playing football, camping in the woods, enjoying barbecues and campfires. No wonder he looks so tanned and healthy. And fit. But I’m not thinking about that. We’re just talking, getting to know each other, making friends. To tell the truth, I feel quite jealous of his lifestyle and I wonder if he’s going to find Camden boring, especially now it’s getting colder, and picnicking on Primrose Hill or hanging out in Regent’s Park are probably out. I’ve never questioned it before, but my life is mostly lived indoors: sitting in coffee shops, lounging around at friends’ houses, chatting in my bedroom. And, while he seems to hang out with equal numbers of boys and girls, almost all of my friends are girls: Rosie, Sky and a few assorted girls from school, or those I know through my family. My only real male friend is Max, Rosie’s ex, and he doesn’t live in London.
I try to make my life sound more exciting, though. I tell him about the market, about local gigs I’ve been to, the art collective on my street where – according to rumour – the artist Winksy is said to live, and the fact that I know the drummer from supergroup, Fieldstar, who lives a few doors down. I make out that my life is one big, celebrity-filled party when, really, I go to school, see my mates and help look after my mum. Somehow, I feel like I need to show off to him when, usually, I’m happy just being myself. I don’t know why. It’s stupid.
But it works; he seems impressed. ‘You are so lucky to leeve in Camden Town,’ he says. ‘I have always dreamed to veesit her. We can go to see it all, soon?’
‘Sure, we can go to the market tomorrow, if you like. With Rosie, who you met earlier, and Sky, the one I showed you in the pictures. She’s dying to meet you.’
‘Cool. I hear so much about zis place.’
‘And Manon, she’ll come too. So you’ll have someone French to talk to.’
‘Ah, OK,’ he says, not very enthusiastically. Maybe he doesn’t want to hang around with other French people. ‘Bon. And your boyfriend, he comes too?’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ I say. I pause. ‘Not at the moment, anyway.’
He smiles. ‘Ah, bon?’
‘Yeah. What about you? Er, do you have a girlfriend?’ I’m almost certain he’s going to say yes. Some lucky French girl must have snapped him up.
‘Non. How you say? No one special at zis time.’
‘Oh,’ I say, trying not to sound too pleased. As if he’d be interested in me. ‘Well, maybe you’ll meet someone here. One of my friends, perhaps.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Anyway, it’s late. You must be knackered. I should let you get some sleep.’
‘Nackaired?’
I giggle. ‘Tired. Exhausted. Like a horse that’s not fit for anything any more and gets sent to the . . . never mind.’
‘I am like zee horse?’
‘No, no. It just means really tired. It’s kind of slang.’ Talking to someone who doesn’t speak English as their first language is difficult; it’s really making me think about the words I use every day and never question.
‘Ah bon. Yes, I am vairee tired. I sleep and tomorrow we go to zee market, oui?’
‘Oui!’
‘Sank you, Veecks. A demain.’
I think that means until tomorrow. I smile. ‘Yeah, see you tomorrow. Let me know if you need anything. Goodnight Xavier.’
‘Bonne nuit. Gude night.’ He leans over to kiss me again. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to kiss him back, so I blow little kisses into the air. He doesn’t smell quite so fresh any more, after the fish and chips – more like vinegar, now – but I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.
I leave Xavier to get ready for bed and go into my bedroom, so I can log in online and tell Rosie and Sky all about him. I realise I’m smiling, that I feel warm and tingly inside, a little hyper, even. Maybe they put something in the mushy peas, because I really can’t think why.
wake in a bouncy mood. It’s another sunny day – perfect for a visit to the market. I leap out of bed and then, as quickly as I can, take a shower, get dressed and drag a brush through my hair. I wouldn’t normally do all that – not before breakfast on a Sunday – but I know I wouldn’t feel comfortable wandering around in my dressing gown in front of Xavier. I think he’s still asleep (at least there doesn’t seem to be any light or sound from his room) so I go downstairs to talk to Mum and Dad. Mum is sitting in the armchair, apparently reading the paper, but it doesn’t look like she’s able to concentrate. She looks up at me and smiles.
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘I slept great, thanks. Did you?’
‘Not too bad. A bit restless.’ She grimaces. Something must hurt, somewhere. It could be anywhere on her body – her face, her arms, her legs. She’s told me the pain is a bit like having lots of tiny electric shocks, which sounds horrible. Normal painkillers can’t touch it, so the doctor has given her these heavy-duty pills, which she doesn’t like taking because they make her feel woozy and down.
‘Are you in pain, Mum?’ I say. ‘Can I get you anything? A hot water bottle, maybe?’
‘I’ll be OK.’ She smiles, bravely. ‘It’s not too bad. Anyway, I’d rather feel something than nothing. My legs are almost completely numb now. I trod on a pin yesterday; it went right through my shoe and I didn’t notice!’
‘Ouch.’ I screw up my face. I don’t know what else to say. Last month, she picked up a pan from the hob and badly burned her hand because she couldn’t feel how hot the handle was. It really makes me worry. ‘I’m going to make a cup of tea. Want one?’
‘No, thanks. Is Xavier up yet? Dad’s been to Sainsbury’s and bought croissants for him.’
‘Cool. No, Xavier’s still asleep, I think. Did he get the chocolate ones?’
‘You’ll have to have a look in the kitchen. Dad’s doing some work in the garage, I think.’ She puts the paper down on the coffee table. It’s crumpled, as if she’s been gripping it too long in the same place. Maybe she found it hard to turn the page. ‘Xavier seems very nice, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ I say, my cheeks pinkening. Why does that happen every time I think about him? ‘I hope it’s going to be all right for you, having him here for a whole month.’
‘He doesn’t seem like he’s going to be any trouble,’ says Mum. She appears relieved, as if she feared he might have been. ‘He seems well brought-up, mature for his age.’
‘Yes, I guess he is. I’m going to take him to the market today, with Sky and Rosie. What are you going to do?’
‘Well . . .’ She pauses. ‘I thought I might run a marathon and then go to my tap-dancing class, if the ice rink is closed.’
‘Great,’ I say, playing along. We both know that she’ll be spending the day at home, in the living room. But Mum always says that if you can’t laugh about your problems, you’d lose it completely and might as well give up altogether. She says black humour is the best medicine. ‘That’s a bit lazy, though. You might want to add in a cycle ride, to Brighton, maybe.’
‘After lunch,’ she says. ‘And tonight I’m going ballroom dancing.’
‘Make sure you wear your six-inch heels.’
‘Naturally.’
I can hear movement upstairs. Xavier must be awake. I clamber up from the sofa and check out my reflection in the living-room mirror; I look OK, I think. Now I can hear him coming down the stairs. I lean against the bookshelf, holding my breath.
There’s a knock on the door. ‘Allo? Veecks?’ I open it. Xavier looks sleepy, his eyes still half c
losed and his hair sticking out in all directions. It’s cute. I have this urge to ruffle it. Oh my God! What is wrong with me?
I compose myself. ‘Morning, Xavier. Did you sleep OK? Would you like some tea and croissants?’
‘Wunderfool. Sanks.’
‘Come on then,’ I say, leaving Mum and gesturing to Xavier to follow me into the kitchen. ‘I love croissants, don’t you? I guess they’re not much of a novelty for you, though. Don’t you have croissants for breakfast every day?’
‘Non, I have zee cereal or baguette wiz zee, how you say? Confiture, er, jam. We have zee croissants on Sundays, wiz hot chocolah.’
‘Really? With hot chocolate? Mmm, that sounds good. Do you want me to make some of that instead?’
‘Oui, if you ’ave some. I would like very much.’
I reach into the cupboard and pull out the jar of cocoa. Xavier watches me, rubbing his eyes, as I boil up the milk and add the sugar and cocoa powder. Soon, we each have a mug of thick, steaming hot chocolate. It smells so good I can taste it before I even try it. ‘Sit down,’ I say, handing him the bag of croissants. ‘Have as many as you like.’
‘Merci, Veecks.’ He tears off a chunk of croissant and dunks it into his hot chocolate, swirling it around to pick up as much of the rich, sweet liquid as he can. Then he puts the whole lot in his mouth at once, swallows and licks his lips. There’s still a big blob of chocolate on his chin, but I don’t like to tell him.
‘C’est magnifique!’ he says. I think that means he likes it. ‘Now you try.’
‘OK . . .’ He watches, grinning, as I break off a small piece of my croissant and tentatively dip it into my mug. I taste it. It’s delicious. ‘Mmm, that’s yummy!’ This is one French custom I’m definitely going to adopt. Even though I dread to think how many calories there are in it. And yet, none of the French kids I saw at the station was fat.
‘Oui!’ he says. ‘Miam miam!’ I guess that means yummy. ‘Now you must ’ave some more. Don’t be so delicate.’
When we’ve finished our hot chocolate, Xavier picks up the last croissant and breaks it in two. ‘We share,’ he says. He uses his half to wipe his mug clean of any last chocolate traces. So, because it’s only polite, I do the same.
The Boy from France Page 3