Mwah-Mwah

by Chloe Rayban

  We shuffled into a pew and each of them knelt for a while praying. I sat feeling rather uncomfortable. Neither my father or mother go to church and I know Dad doesn’t approve of religion. I felt as if at any moment a finger would be pointed at me and I’d be singled out as a pagan impostor.

  I’d expected a proper Roman Catholic service to be rather grand, all in Latin with loads of incense. But the service was in French and the hymns sounded more like folk songs. Towards the end of the service people started getting up from their seats and lining up in front of the altar. I got up too but Madame de Lafitte asked in a whisper if I’d been confirmed, and when I shook my head she said that I should stay where I was.

  The church was even older than Les Rochers; Madame de Lafitte had told me it was twelfth century. Left alone in the pew, I had a chance to look round. The walls were covered with suffering saints and strange grimacing gargoyles, and in a niche there was a chipped and blackened statue of the Virgin Mary.

  The proper Catholics had lined up in the aisle waiting their turn to get to the altar. As each person arrived, they knelt before the priest and he bent down and placed something in their mouths and gave them a sip from a chalice. It brought back something I’d learnt at school about the body and blood of Christ. The bread was meant to be the body and the wine was the blood. Was it all just superstition? Somehow, way back, all the bible stories had got mixed in my mind with other stories, part real, part fiction – miracles and magic, angels and fairies, Saint Nicholas and Santa Claus. But superstition or not, all these people seemed to be taking it very seriously.

  Matthilde returned with her mouth tight shut and knelt down in the pew to pray. I watched her bended head. She belonged here. No doubt she’d been christened here and her parents Marie-Christine and Pierre must have got married here. I had some pretty selfrighteous thoughts about the scene in the café at that point. One day Matthilde would get married in this church, like all the rest of the family. I had a sudden vision of her in a bridal veil walking down the aisle on her father’s arm. And as she reached the end …

  No! With the tedious uncontrollable way imaginations have, mine had conjured up Michel standing there. Michel! But they were cousins, I reassured myself. Yet cousins got married all the time in France. French families were really close. Suddenly all the little signs and hints added up. Of course Matthilde and Michel would get married, everyone was expecting them to.

  I stared at Matthilde. She’d finished praying and was sitting up in her pew looking virtuous. I tried to picture her grown-up and married. I reckoned she’d turn out just like Marie-Christine, ready to run off with a handsome stranger the minute her husband’s back was turned.

  As the service came to an end, everyone linked hands in sing-along fashion. But I didn’t feel like joining in. The thought of Michel and Matthilde married had sent me to the depths of gloom.

  The gloom lifted somewhat when we got back to Les Rochers. The dining room table had been laid for a smart breakfast. In front of my place and Matthilde’s and Michel’s, there was a square box wrapped in glossy paper with a ribbon. Easter eggs – so the French had them after all.

  Madame de Lafitte and Matthilde disappeared into the kitchen and after a few minutes returned with a big tray of coffee and chocolate and hot milk, a basket of hot croissants and a load of hard-boiled eggs. I was starving by now and ready to dig in. But Michel was insisting for some reason that we should open our Easter eggs first.

  ‘Mais non,’ said Matthilde. ‘Après le petit déjeuner.’

  A bit of an argument broke out but Michel got his way. Matthilde rolled her eyes and undid the ribbon on her box. She took the top off and then let out a scream. ‘Edith!’

  Chaos broke out at that point as Matthilde threw her arms around Michel’s neck. Old Oncle Charles caught sight of Edith and in his short-sighted way assumed this was some rodent and started swatting at her with his table napkin. Edith made a dash for safety into the basket of croissants.

  Monsieur de Lafitte was utterly furious. He got to his feet demanding that the animal was removed from the table ‘tout de suite!’. After that Michel was back in the doghouse. Monsieur de Lafitte positively bristled every time he caught sight of him.

  But he was back in favour with Matthilde. She totally fawned over him. I watched guardedly for signs of interest on Michel’s part. But he treated Matthilde exactly the same as ever.

  Chapter Twelve

  During the days that followed, life seemed to fall into an easy pace. The good weather continued. Monsieur de Lafitte went back to Paris, which was a great relief. Meals were less stiff and formal and we had most of them outside. In the evening we ate on the terrace. The warm stones stored the heat of the day and in the evening they radiated it back. We never had weather as good as this in April back home.

  It was great to laze around in shorts and sandals with bare legs. The house had lost its cold damp feel which was replaced by a warm smell of mown grass and beeswax. Mown grass because Michel had been roped in to mowing the lawns for Monsieur de Lafitte as a penance. It wasn’t much of a penance really because the de Lafittes had a sit-on motor mower. It was an ancient thing that made a terrible noise but Michel had taken to it with a typical boy’s intensity, mowing endlessly back and forth as if his life depended on it.

  Matthilde was devoting herself to serious sunbathing sessions. Each morning she arranged herself on the best sunlounger with professional precision. She had to have her favourite bath sheet underneath, her tanning lotion and bottle of water to hand and an old wind-up timer from the kitchen to warn her to turn over every half hour. Once she was satisfied everything was in place, she would plug in her iPod, slip on her sunglasses, take up her book and stretch out. As the weather got hotter, Michel stripped to the waist and I couldn’t help noticing he was pretty nicely tanned already. Matthilde pretended not to take any interest. But I could see her sneaking the odd look at him from behind her book.

  I hadn’t brought any books with me but Madame de Lafitte had found me an old French primer which she said I should study to improve my French. It had inkblack illustrations of some family called the Bruns who seemed to be on a perpetual holiday with their dog. It had little bits of story which were followed by exercises where you had to fill in the missing words. Someone had done some of the exercises before me in childish pencil handwriting and got a lot of words wrong. It was a bit like doing crosswords and after a while it became quite obsessive. I’d never been that interested in learning French before, but all of a sudden it seemed to matter.

  One afternoon I was struggling with the complexities of a fishing incident, busy crossing out the words from the person before me and substituting mine, with my eyes growing sore from the brightness of the page, when I suddenly noticed I was alone. Matthilde must have gone inside for a drink or something. I took the opportunity to stretch out on her sunlounger and closed my eyes. It was heavenly just lying there soaking in the warmth of the sun. I’d reached the ultimate point of laziness. I peered through half-closed eyes and caught sight of Michel, looking really yummy as he mowed another long straight line down the lawn. I wished the holiday could last for ever.

  I must have fallen asleep because I woke after some time to find the sun had gone in. A chilly breeze had got up so I decided to go inside and change. Michel had promised to play boules with us later but he’d be ages yet, he still had the lawn on the other side of the house to mow. I gathered up my things and went back into the house wondering where Matthilde had got to.

  Once changed, I went to her room to find her. As I knocked on her door I heard a distinct sound of sobbing.

  ‘Matthilde,’ I said. ‘Can I come in?’

  She didn’t answer so I opened the door a slit. She was lying on her bed, her face was red from crying; she grabbed a handkerchief as I came in.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, closing the door behind me.

  I suddenly thought of Marie-Christine. Maybe she’d found out about her mother’s affair
or even worse – maybe her father had. No doubt it had all blown up into a typically French emotional drama.

  ‘Eez nothing,’ she said, blowing her nose.

  ‘Yes it is. You can tell me,’ I said. ‘I think I know already.’

  ‘ ’Ee ’as a girlfriend,’ she said with a snuffle.

  This threw me into total confusion. ‘Who?’

  ‘Michel!’

  It was my turn to be upset now. But I wasn’t going to let Matthilde see. Anyway I wanted proof.

  ‘How do you know?’ I demanded.

  She got up and checked through the window that Michel was still busy mowing.

  ‘I show you,’ she said, beckoning me to follow her.

  She led me up the winding turret staircase to the upper floor where Michel’s room was. She opened the door quietly. Inside was the usual scene of boy chaos: discarded socks and muddy trainers, CDs and film magazines all over the place and his guitar propped up on his unmade bed.

  ‘See,’ said Matthilde, pointing at the mirror. In the corner, slipped in between the mirror and the frame, was a photo of a blonde girl. It was an arty black and white shot. She was really pretty from what you could see, her hair was blowing across her face. In the corner it was signed ‘Caroline’ with a cross for a kiss.

  Caroline! That was what Charlie always called me. I stared at the photo, I supposed she did look a bit like me. I mean tons better looking and much older, but she was the same blonde fair-skinned type. She looked at least seventeen or eighteen.

  ‘Who is she?’ I whispered to Matthilde.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered back.

  Suddenly it all made sense. The way Michel kept disappearing like that; he had a girlfriend, a secret girlfriend, maybe someone his grandparents wouldn’t approve of.

  The two of us stared despondently at the picture of this older woman. Typical, I thought, boys of sixteen always went for older girls.

  Matthilde pulled at my sleeve. ‘We go,’ she said.

  I noticed that the lawnmower had stopped and a glance out of the window showed it abandoned at the end of the lawn. We heard footsteps in the house below. We got down the winding staircase just in time to miss Michel as he came up the main staircase two at a time.

  So Michel had a girlfriend. I locked myself in the bathroom while I recovered from this news. I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, feeling really young and stupid. Of course that kiss had been a mistake. What I’d built up into a great big thing in my mind was nothing. Or even worse, he’d probably thought I’d done it on purpose and was laughing at me. It was obvious that someone as gorgeous as Michel would go for an older girl. I felt utterly wretched. I vowed from now on not to take the least bit of notice of him. I’d had enough of being humiliated. There wasn’t long to go before the end of the holiday. It shouldn’t be too hard to stay out of his way.

  After I’d washed my face and dabbed some make-up on I went downstairs. Michel was outside setting out the boules ready for a game on the gravel. Matthilde was sitting on the fence swinging her legs watching him. She’d put some make-up on too, in fact quite a lot. She didn’t look a bit as if she’d been crying. In fact, she was making a big show of being her totally normal nonchalant self.

  ‘ ’Annah, come and play,’ Michel called out.

  ‘No, it’s OK. You two play. I’ve got my book,’ I called back, waving it at them. Matthilde shrugged and climbed down from the fence and Michel gave me a puzzled look.

  I settled down on the sunlounger and opened my book. The Bruns had their fishing lines in the water and the dog was stealing something from their picnic basket. Between lines of this riveting story, I could hear Michel and Matthilde alternately laughing and arguing over the score while the boules landed with a heavy thunk and chink on the gravel. I would’ve loved to join in actually but I went and helped Madame de Lafitte instead. I laid the table on the terrace before she even asked. The others arrived just as I was finishing. Matthilde raised her eyebrows and Michel made a sign in the air like a halo over his head to indicate how virtuous I was.

  I didn’t eat much at dinner. Madame de Lafitte was saying something about the weekend. It seemed there was going to be some sort of party in the barn. It was an annual affair with a barbecue and over a hundred people were invited. All the young people from round about would be coming.

  All the young people? My heart missed a beat and caught up with a sickening thud. I had a fleeting vision of this Caroline, the one from the photo, appearing through the crowd. If she was local, she was bound to be asked. And she must be local, otherwise how would Oncle Charles know about her?

  I glanced over at Matthilde. She hadn’t caught the significance of this and was asking her grandmother whether various friends had been remembered. I listened with half an ear as all the Sabines and Laurences and Thierrys and Antoines were listed. There was a big groan as Arnaud’s name came up. They were all French, I thought despondently. I’d get totally left out. I could picture myself now sitting there and watching while Caroline sat with her hair flopping into her eyes in that oh-so-seductive French way making up to Michel.

  Later that evening I was making my way crossly upstairs to my room when I met Michel coming down.

  ‘Rosbif?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes?’

  He cast a glance over the banisters to see if anyone was around. ‘You want watch another of Charlie’s movies tonight?’ he asked.

  For a moment I was tempted. But I knew I was only tormenting myself. Michel had a girlfriend. I should stay well clear.

  I shook my head. ‘Non, je suis trop fatiguée,’ I said with dignity.

  ‘Too tired?’ he asked. I mean he must’ve noticed I’d hardly budged from the sunlounger all day.

  ‘Oui,’ I said and continued on my way.

  I didn’t go straight to bed. I sat in a chair by the window. Madame de Lafitte’s primer was on the table. I only had a few pages to go before I finished it. I turned to the end, which had a picture of the Bruns’ dog stealing a string of sausages. All of a sudden it all looked childish and silly. What was the point of learning French anyway?

  I was just about to go to bed when I heard footsteps on the gravel below. There was a muffled laugh and I recognised Matthilde’s and then Michel’s voice. They continued on their way to the terrace and I heard the French windows click shut. Maybe Matthilde was going to be treated to one of Charlie’s movies tonight. This thought brought a wave of misery. Why oh why had I turned him down?

  But Michel had a girlfriend, I reminded myself. Knowing Matthilde, she wouldn’t care. She’d just consider her fair competition. The sound of her laugh came back to me. It had gained significance in the interval. Now it wasn’t just a laugh, it was a joke against me. In fact, it was evidence of everything that had been going on behind my back.

  I lay in bed that night having some deep philosophical thoughts about boys.

  1) You meet someone absolutely gorgeous and you’re in your seventh heaven.

  2) Only trouble is, every other girl thinks he’s gorgeous too.

  3) He starts giving you attention and you simply can’t believe it!

  4) You shouldn’t. He’s doing the same to all the other girls.

  5) With dignity you back off.

  6) Which gives the others the chance to move in!

  Ugggghhhhrrrr!

  Chapter Thirteen

  I slept badly that night, convinced as I was that Matthilde and Michel were having the time of their lives without me. I came downstairs preparing myself to face them, trying to put on a suitably dignified expression.

  Matthilde was at the breakfast table, Michel was nowhere to be seen. By the look of her, she’d slept as badly as I had. Or maybe she’d been up half the night – watching vintage movies.

  ‘Bonjour, ’Annah,’ she said between spoonfuls of yogurt.

  I grunted a kind of mumbled ‘hi’ and reached for a slice of bread.

  Matthilde licked her spoon and looked at me th
oughtfully. ‘You are not ’appy, no?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘I sink we go back to Paris,’ she said abruptly.

  I stopped chewing mid-mouthful and stared at Matthilde. Come to think of it, she didn’t look particularly pleased with herself. Maybe I’d been jumping to conclusions. A nasty little wave of relief passed through me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Maybe we should.’

  ‘J’appelle Maman,’ she said, reaching for her mobile.

  I watched as she dialled up the number.

  I heard her mother answer.

  ‘She eez in zee car – on the autoroute back to Paris,’ whispered Matthilde.

  I nodded. They continued talking back and forth for ages, too fast to make out what Matthilde was saying.

  ‘Eez OK. They should be back by eighteen hours,’ she said as she rang off.

  ‘They?’ My suspicions came back tenfold. ‘Who was she with?’

  Matthilde shrugged. ‘She no say.’

  ‘So can we go back?’

  ‘Oui. Demain,’ she replied.

  I finished my breakfast, trying to come to terms with this turn of events. Half of me was glad we were leaving. There wasn’t much point in staying. But clearly nothing had gone on last night between Michel and Matthilde. Perhaps there was still the tiniest chink of hope for me.

  I spent the day revisiting my favourite haunts. The orchard where I’d been pelted by tiny apples that first morning. The steps down to the moat where Michel and I had sat and I’d tried to teach him to say the ‘H’ of Hannah. The pantry where we’d made strawberry baguettes. The staircase we’d crept up in the dark, trying not to make the stairs creak. I paused at the little piece of parquet outside my bedroom door. A thrill of pleasure ran through my body as I remembered that moment. This was where Michel either had or hadn’t kissed me.