Mwah-Mwah

by Chloe Rayban

  Phillippe stubbed out his cigarette and climbed back into the car at that point. He glanced at Michel and me and gave us a sort of knowing smile. It made me go all warm inside, I don’t quite know why.

  It was pretty late by the time we reached Paris. We were all stiff and cramped from spending so long in the car and Phillippe looked grey with tiredness.

  At last we turned into a street I recognised. Phillippe drew to a stop outside the Poiriers’ apartment. Although we said we could manage our luggage, Phillippe and Michel insisted on carrying it up for us. I was glad actually. My skin felt prickly from lack of sleep. As we crammed into the lift, I was positively sagging at the knees. All I could think of was a hot shower and bed.

  Marie-Christine opened the door and after she’d kissed us all she hesitated, holding the door half-open. Phillippe said something about a coffee and she shook her head.

  She looked at him seriously.

  ‘Phillippe, il y a quelqu’un ici …’ I heard her say.

  I glanced beyond her and saw a slender blonde woman in the darkness. She was silhouetted in the doorway of the salon, standing quite still. Phillippe’s face went ashen pale and for a moment it was like one of those scenes in a film, when you know what’s happening, although not a word is spoken. We all stood there, caught as if in a freeze-frame, as one long glance passed between them.

  Michel broke the spell. He burst past his father with a cry of ‘Maman’.

  So this was Michel’s mother. She came forward into the light. You could see that she had been a model, she was still incredible-looking. She stood hugging Michel but her eyes remained on Phillippe. He moved forward slowly at first and then more confidently. And they simply stood there staring at each other. Still not a word had been spoken but her eyes said it all. Phillippe gently put his arms around her.

  I wanted to sink back into the shadows, disappear, dematerialise, not wanting to disturb this private moment. Quietly, I took my holdall and went to the room Matthilde and I had shared seemingly aeons ago. The scene behind me had dissolved into a blur of muffled words and tears. I didn’t think I could take much more French emotion that day.

  I closed the door, reached in my bag for my mobile and rang my mother.

  ‘Poppet, you all right? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m back at the Poiriers’ in Paris. And Michel’s mother is here!’

  ‘Giselle’s in Paris? I thought she was in the Dordogne.’

  Suddenly it all fell into place.

  ‘I think Marie-Christine must have gone to find her,’ I said slowly.

  ‘Thank god. Now maybe they can patch things up.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What was the argument about?’

  ‘About Michel. He wanted to drop out of school. And Giselle backed him up.’

  ‘His father and his grandfather went ballistic. That’s why he ran away.’

  ‘It was very stupid and immature of him.’

  ‘Yes I know but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Oh nothing.’ There wasn’t much point in trying to explain to Mum that in spite of the fact that Michel was both stupid and, I suppose, immature, I thought he was totally, totally irresistible.

  ‘I hope you’re not in the way. The only flight available was after lunch. I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the morning in Paris.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘It’ll be lovely to have you back.’

  ‘Ummm.’

  I woke late the following day, unable for a moment to remember where I was. I stared round the room and realised I was back in Paris at the Poiriers’. And then the dream I’d been having came back to me and I realised with a jolt that I’d been dreaming in French. French! Me? I lay there going back over the dream, trying to analyse it.

  I was with Michel and we were back at Les Rochers. He’d opened the door to the salon and it had been full of vintage film stars. There was some sort of party, and someone was playing that song from Casablanca on the piano. Matthilde came in dressed in a white dress, not the one she usually wore, but the one Marilyn Monroe had on in that famous photo of her over the hot-air vent. She asked, ‘Où est Michel?’ And I replied, ‘Il n’est pas ici. Il est à Cannes.’ And she’d flounced out saying, ‘Typique!’

  But Michel was there, he was leaning on the piano watching me. Nobody had noticed that water was flooding in through the open French windows. The water rose so fast it was like in Titanic. We clung on to the piano but Michel lost hold and I realised that I had to swim down to let the water out. I was swimming down and down, unable to see anything, groping in the murky water … When I woke up with a start.

  I looked over to see if Matthilde was still asleep and found her bed was empty. Her book was lying face down on top of it.

  I climbed out of bed and padded over to hers. What had she been reading all this time? Knowing her, it was bound to be something terribly grown-up and intellectual. I didn’t recognise the title or the author, but the publisher was pretty familiar – Mills and Boon! Who would have thought! The oh-so-sophisticated Matthilde was into romances!

  And then another thing occurred to me. I went back to my bed and peered underneath. The raspberry tart had gone. There was just the teeniest hint of an incriminating stain where it had been. Whoever had cleared it up, had made a really good job of it. Phew!

  Marie-Christine came tapping on the bedroom door. She was carrying a glass of juice for me.

  ‘Hannah, ma petite. You sleep so long. I did not want to wake you. I am sorry Matthilde has gone to school. And I have an important rendezvous. I feel very bad but I cannot accompany you to the airport. But I ask Michel if he will take you. He’s coming at ten to show you some sights first if that’s OK?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said, trying to hold my voice steady.

  OK?!!!!! I was going to have a whole morning of Michel all to myself! In Paris!!!

  That morning I discovered one fundamental thing about Paris. Paris doesn’t simply have sights – it has landmarks.

  Landmark Number 1)

  The Eiffel Tower. It was a bit scary in the lift and Michel slid his hand into mine and held it tight.

  Landmark Number 2)

  A stall underneath the Eiffel Tower – where Michel said I had to choose their naffest thing, to remember him by. I chose a snowstorm with a luminous Eiffel Tower in it. I shake it every night before I go to sleep.

  Landmark Number 3)

  A bateau-mouche – or third bench from the back on the starboard side, to be specific.

  Landmark Number 4)

  A snack bar on rue St André des Arts – where we bought hot dogs which was all we could afford and ate them sitting by the Seine.

  Landmark Number 5)

  A seat on the métro going out to Charles de Gaulle airport. A busker with an accordion was actually playing ‘La vie en rose’.

  Landmark Number 6)

  The departure gate at Charles de Gaulle airport – where I at last discovered whether that kiss was for real or not.

  We keep in touch. We text each other a lot actually. I’ll never forget the first text he sent me.

  rosbif – tu me manque terriblement.

  Which I had to look up in the dictionary. It means: ‘Roast Beef, I miss you terribly.’

  My Own Personal Private French Vocabulary

  A

  aimer – eh-may – to like or to love – why oh why can’t they have a different word for each?

  au revoir – oh revwar – goodbye (literally, until I see you again – I wish!)

  B

  bac – short for ‘baccalauréat’, the French equivalent of A levels

  à bientôt – a-bian-toe – see you soon (I wish even more)

  baguette – ba-get – long stick of yummy French bread – or can be a French-bread sandwich with addition of ham etc.

  bifteck (pronounced like it looks) – beef steak, one of the many words the French have pinched from the English

  boulangerie �
� boo-lonje-ree – baker’s – source of yummy baguettes

  bisou – beezoo – kiss – as in friendly kiss not snog

  C

  ça y est! – that’s it!

  cambrioleur – phew! – burglar

  chasse à cours – hunting with dogs and horses

  chasse à tir – hunting with guns

  cochon d’Inde – ko-shon-dand – guinea pig

  cheval – she-val – horse

  chevaux – shev-oh – horses – the French have to be awkward – you can’t simply add an ‘s’ to everything like we do

  Club Méditerranée – a really posey kind of holiday park by the sea where everyone looks better in a bikini than you do – and knows it

  concierge – kon-see-urge – fierce-looking lady who sits in a room at the entrance to an apartment block and spies on everyone going in or out

  D

  dauphin – dough-fan – dolphin – or heir to the French throne – don’t ask me why

  dérangé – day-ronge-ay – sounds like deranged but actually means ‘put out’ or ‘fed up’

  désolé – day-so-lay – sounds like desolated – but it only means ‘sorry’

  dis donc – dee-don – polite way to say ‘oh my god’

  dieu – dee-uh – god

  E

  escargot – es-car-go – snail or totally disgusting buttery garlicky first course

  étoile – ay-twall – star

  étoile filante – ay-twall fee-lon – falling star – sigh

  entrée – on-tray – first course – or hallway. Just to be confusing, we use the same word for main course in English

  F

  fraise – fraze – strawberry (sigh)

  G

  glace – glas – ice cream or looking-glass

  grenadine – yummy red syrup apparently made from pomegranate

  grenouille – gren-oo-wee – frog (or a rather rude way to describe a French person). Happens to be one of the most difficult words to pronounce in French

  H

  haute cuisine – posh food that always has one rather dodgy ingredient – like foie gras or lobster claws or truffles

  haute couture – clothes that are so exclusive only celebs are allowed to wear them

  J

  je suis ravie – NOT I am raving, as you’d expect – or ravished – but I’m delighted

  je vous en prie – not at all, or it’s a pleasure

  L

  lapin – rabbit – not to be confused with le pain – bread

  M

  malheureusement – mal-er–rurse-mon – unhappily or unfortunately

  messe – mass – as in church

  O

  où – where

  ou – or – how confusing can you get?

  P

  pain – bread – the best thing about France. NB le pain (m). NOT la pain!

  parler – to speak – as in the most useful phrase in the language – ‘Parlez vous anglais?’

  Parisien/Parisienne – inhabitant of Paris – or a person we lesser mortals have to look up to with awe and respect

  pas grave – nothing to do with graves – means doesn’t matter

  plein air – open air or free range

  présenter – to introduce

  pont – bridge

  pouce – thumb – ma pouce – term of affection – my little one – like Tom Thumb?

  Q

  quatre-vingt-dix-sept – ninety-seven – only the French could have come up with such a confusing way of counting!

  qu’est-ce qu’il se passe – keskisepass – convoluted way of saying such a simple thing as ‘What’s going on?’!

  quoi – kwa – what?

  quenelle – ke-nel – horribly flabby white sausageshaped yuck made of semolina

  R

  ravi/ravie – pronounced like gravy without the ‘g’ – means delighted rather than raving

  rocher – rock, pronounced as in Ferrero Rocher – yum

  rosbif – roast beef (or a rather rude way to describe an English person)

  S

  salut – hi there

  se manquer – to miss – sigh

  T

  tu or toi – you, singular. A kind of minefield invented by the French to test your politeness. Correct to use with people who are friends and younger than you. Positively rude to use with older or socially superior people. For people around the same age, class etc. there’s a hideous waiting game to see who uses it first.

  traiteur – sounds ominously like a traitor, but it’s actually a person who cooks things for a deli

  Tour Eiffel – Eiffel Tower – typically the French have to say it backwards

  tartine – yummy sandwich of French bread spread with butter, often with a lump of plain chocolate in it at teatime – but the ultimate experience is tartine aux fraises – spread with crushed strawberries and sugar!!!

  terminer – to finish – easy to remember by terminus, where buses end up

  tchin-tchin – French version of cheers

  V

  vélo – bike

  verveine – verbena – source of thin yellow tea that looks exactly like pee and probably tastes like it too

  voici – here is

  voilà – here is (don’t ask me when and why)

  vous – you (for adults or teachers or people you don’t know). V. important not to be confused with tu

  About the Author

  Chloë Rayban has written books for children of all ages, both under her pen name Chloë Rayban and her real name Carolyn Bear. Love in Cyberia was shortlisted for the Guardian Fiction Prize and the Carnegie Medal and her novel Virtual Sexual Reality was runner-up for the Guardian award. Formerly an advertising copywriter, she now writes full-time and lives in a manoir in France. She has two grown-up daughters.

  Other titles by Chloë Rayban from Bloomsbury

  Drama Queen

  Featuring Hollywood Bliss

  My Life Starring Mum

  Hollywood Bliss – My Life So Far

  This electronic edition published in August 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP

  Copyright © Carolyn Bear 2008

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

  A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4088 3492 3

  www.bloomsbury.com

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