Oh no, I keep forgetting. I must call Mother to tell her the great news about mes grands-parents.
Downstairs, 7 p.m.
I’ve called Mother. I wish I hadn’t.
Mr. Spence—I mean John—answered. He said he’d been decorating my room. “I hope you like shocking pink,” he said. “I’ve always seen you as a shocking pink sort of girl.”
I am trying to like him—just because I think he’s a twerp with horrible hairy knees doesn’t necessarily make him an unsuitable boyfriend for Mother—but this was too much.
“PINK! I’m not a PINK person. How could you think I was a PINK person? I mean, PINK is for sparkly little girls—like Marie. Or for spoiled princesses like Delilah. PINK! I mean, how could you? What sort of a person would paint another person’s bedroom PINK without asking first? I mean, didn’t Mother …?”
“I’m only joking,” he said in a small voice. “We went for an off-white, Hint of Macaroon.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll get Bernadette.”
Mother sounded v excited to speak to me. “Oh Constance, ma petite …I am so sorry we have been missing each other every time we call. How is Paris? Are you having a lovely, lovely, lovely time?”
I told her I was. I told her about meeting up with Delilah and Julie, how I’d been to Fontainebleau, how nice the Blancs were (couldn’t say anything else as they were in the room). And then I said, “And …you’ll never guess but I’ve met my grandparents. I, er, bumped into my grandmother and today I went there for tea.”
My voice went high when I said “tea.” I was trying so hard to sound a) casual, b) happy. Mother didn’t say anything so I chattered on, filling up the silence.
“Their apartment is lovely—they’ve moved obviously since you last saw them. It’s quite small, but full of furniture—and in a very chic arrondissement. They were so pleased to meet me. They can’t wait to meet Cyril and Marie. And …you, of course.”
She still didn’t say anything.
“The only odd thing is that they never got your letter saying I was coming….”
“Okay . . .”
“Which Grand-mère says is bizarre because the French mail system is very good, but then I told her all about how letters in England are always getting lost or taking forever to get somewhere and . . .”
“Constance. I didn’t send a letter.”
“What do you mean? You said you would.”
“I know I said, petite. But I did not. I tried to write, but …It’s been a long time. And it has been so painful for me. When your father died, I had no mother’s breast to cry upon. I …I …They are no longer my parents in my heart.”
“But you are still their child. Their only child. They are longing to see you. They say they’ve tried to get in touch with you, but that you always rebuff them, but that now so much time has passed that surely . . .”
“Constance. That’s enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Constance, I don’t want to talk about it. I am glad that you have seen them. I couldn’t stop you from doing that. But that’s enough now. This phone call is costing les Blancs a lot of money, so we will say good-bye. A big kiss from everyone here. Okay?”
I hung up feeling small and rebuked. And now I’m really confused. How can somebody be that angry for so many years? When Julie and I have arguments, they might last a week, but it gets boring not being friends. You keep thinking of things you want to tell them and then you remember that you can’t. You carry a sort of lump around in your chest, and you can’t concentrate on anything else, almost like when you’re desperate for a pee. Imagine being desperate for a pee for fifteen years.
The bedroom, 7:45 p.m.
I’m lying on my bed, waiting for Pascale to finish getting ready to go out. I finished ages ago. I’ve put on my new pants and top. I can’t curl up like I normally would for fear of crumpling my new items. I feel a bit weird. I can’t stop thinking about Mother…. Oh forget it. I’m going to put her reaction to the back of my mind. Tonight I’m not Connie Pickles. I’m Constance de Bellechasse.
The bedroom, 8 p.m.
Pascale, who is looking magnificent tonight like an angry crow, says I look chic, but . . .
“What?”
Apparently I need makeup. I didn’t bring any so I’m using hers. Will avoid the black lipstick on grounds of taste. Also I don’t want to handle stolen goods. On the other hand, all her makeup has probably been stolen somewhere along the way, so maybe I don’t have much choice.
Chapter Thirteen
New vocab: un coup de foudre (love at first sight)
SATURDAY, APRIL 5 CONTINUED—
or rather SUNDAY, APRIL 6
Under the covers, 4 a.m.
Very, very, very late. Or rather early. Far too late. Or far too early. I can’t go to sleep from excitement.
The most amazing thing has happened. OH I can hardly write a word. I’m all wobbly inside.
Not Connie Pickles or Constance de Bellechasse but Madame Blanc.
I’ve just laughed out loud. I must be careful not to wake the others. (Pascale is in her bed; Julie, Delilah, Virginie, and Mimi are in sleeping bags on the floor.) I want to go through every single moment of last night.
So—where was I? Pascale helped me put on some makeup (mascara, sparkly silver eyeshadow, blusher, and plum lipstick) and then we went downstairs to the kitchen.
We were going to go to the party with Philippe but there was no sign of him. Madame Blanc said he’d gone out. For a moment a light seemed to go out inside me, but Didier, who was reading the paper at the table, said he’d take us in the car.
He drove us to Champigny, to a weirdly empty apartment a couple of streets away from Julie’s. Eric was already there and he whisked P back out the front door the moment we arrived. Didier seemed to know Etienne, whose apartment it was (I think he, Etienne, and Eric had been in the same class at school). I thought he was just dropping us off, but he came in. I was quite glad, as the only people I recognized were those girls who laughed at me in the bar the night of the François lunge. Oh and oh hell, with them was Stephanie, the crying girl, only she didn’t seem to be crying at just that moment. She was a laughing girl. I smiled across the living room and mouthed, “Ça va?” but she turned away and said something to one of the others and then they all started cackling again. All I can say is, I hope she never goes on an English Exchange and gets laughed at like that.
“You okay?” Didier was still at my elbow. “You ignore those idiots; they are silly little girls,” he said.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Julie and Virginie will be here in a minute. Don’t feel you have to stay to look after me.” To be honest, although I was grateful for his concern, I was a bit embarrassed standing next to him. I wondered if he, or his V-neck sweater or the squareness of his glasses, wasn’t the reason the girls were laughing.
“I want to.” He gave me a funny look. (He is the king of funny looks.) Then he smiled. “Your hair, it’s very good,” he said. “You are a very pretty girl.”
God! Compliments! A whole new world! Luckily I didn’t have to respond because Julie walked in. First her. Then Virginie. Then Delilah and Mimi.
Delilah and Mimi?
“Delilah! What are you doing here?”
“Julie invited me. Your hair! It’s amazing!”
“Wow. Yes, it’s great!” Julie hugged me as if nothing was wrong. “Delilah called to see what we were doing and I told her to come along. It’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is,” I said stiffly. I felt horribly put out. I hadn’t wanted Delilah to come and now that she was here I felt embarrassed at what she might be thinking.
She didn’t seem to be upset. “Where did you get it done?” she was saying. “You look like a film star!”
“It’s a long story. Hi, Virginie, Mimi.”
“Those clothes! Are they Agnès b.? They are, aren’t they?” Julie was twisting me around to look at the label at the back of
my pants. “And your top! Low cut. Saucy geezer. And all that makeup. Where did you get all this stuff?”
Delilah stood back. “Connie, you look amazing.”
Mimi said, “Est-ce qu’on a fait des petits achats?” or something. But everyone ignored her.
“Hello, I am Didier, the brother of Pascale.”
Oh lordie, I hadn’t really wanted to get into all that, but I had to introduce Didier to everyone. Julie mouthed, “The brother?” when he was talking to Mimi and I mouthed, “The other one,” back.
I was still feeling odd about Julie having invited Delilah—it means they spoke on the phone without my permission! But I didn’t have time to think about it much more. I couldn’t sulk, what with ME being the center of attention.
Later, Pascale and Eric returned to the party—Eric smeared with so much black lipstick it looked as if he’d been checking his bike oil with his head. And then they did some crazy dancing—like le rock only with extra head-banging. Virginie met someone she knew—one of the laughing girls—and went off into another room. Mimi and Didier struck up some long, earnest conversation in French, only occasionally saying something comprehensible like “Tony Blair” or “Jean-Claude Van Damme.” And Julie and Delilah and I sat in a corner and I told them in detail about a) my hair, the rise and fall of, b) my visit to my grandparents, shopping trip thereof, and c) my conversation with Mother, shock, horror, etc.
“You mean she wasn’t pleased?” Delilah looked appalled. (Parents usually do what she expects of them.)
“Not. At. All.”
Julie said, “Maybe it was just the shock.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But I don’t think she’s going to be dashing across the channel to meet them herself, which is what I was hoping.”
“Can’t you get her over on false pretenses?” I could see I’d caught Julie’s interest with this. One thing you can say about Julie: she likes a challenge.
“Like what?”
“I’ll put my mind to it.”
The apartment was filling up all this time. It had got hot and airless. I was suddenly desperate for water. I told the others I was going to the kitchen and began battling my way through the people in the hallway. I hadn’t got far when I heard my name called and turned around to find myself face-to-face—nose-to-nose, it was so squashed—with François.
“Ahhh,” he said, half closing his eyes and breathing alcohol all over me. “Constance.” He swayed and put his arm around my neck. “Constance.” He started nuzzling me even though I was trying to push him away. Sweat was dripping off his nose.
“Get off!” I squealed, and tried to get past him, but I couldn’t move. I tried to turn back, but as I swiveled I jogged his arm and the bottle of beer he was holding in his spare hand spilled over the boy in a red scarf next to him. He turned around and started shouting. I was trying to say sorry. François was still trying to kiss me. And then suddenly a strangulated squeal rang in my ears and there was the crying girl, who only a few moments ago had been laughing, crying her eyes out again and hitting me with her fists at the same time.
I came to Paris to experience the world, to increase my understanding of other cultures, to broaden my horizons, but honestly.
And then—de de de dededa (sound of thundering hooves)—Didier came to my rescue. He pushed François into the kitchen; mopped down the jeans of the boy in the red scarf; pulled the crying girl, who had sunk to the floor, to her feet; and disappeared with her out the front door. Delilah and Julie were watching from a safe distance, hooting with laughter. “What are you like?” Julie cried. “What’s happened to you? Ever since you arrived in Paris you’ve become a walking disaster.”
“It’s like you’re creating havoc everywhere you go,” said Delilah, doubled up.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to get us out of trouble,” continued Julie, wiping her eyes.
“I know,” I said, beginning to laugh myself. “Let’s get out of here before François comes after me. I’ll just tell Pascale we’ll make our own way home.”
We collected Mimi and Virginie and snuck out to the street—the CG was huddled next to Didier on the garden wall. He gave us a look, which might have been an appeal, but which I ignored. (I feel a bit guilty now.) It was only about 9:30 p.m. and the rest of us decided to have a hot chocolate in the cafe near the station.
We were almost there when we bumped into Philippe with a bunch of friends.
I said, “Philippe! Salut! ”
The girls stopped so suddenly, they sort of piled into each other like in a cartoon.
Philippe smiled vaguely, and then did a double take.
“Connie!” he said.
I introduced him to M and V, D and J; told him what we were doing; and, to all our amazement (well, I know I was amazed and the others stood there with their mouths catching flies so I think they were too), he waved good-bye to his friends and came to the cafe with us.
What happened next has never happened to me before. I’m usually the one reading my book in the corner. I’m never the one at the center of the circle, the one everyone else looks at when they’re talking. I didn’t notice immediately and, when I did, I didn’t feel embarrassed, but excited and show-offy—like Marie when she’s doing her ballet in front of the neighbors. I started waving my arms around when I spoke and throwing back my head to laugh. And Philippe, the whole time, sat next to me, really close, with his leg touching mine, giving me sips of his beer, teasing me about how shy I’d been when he first met me and how red I went when anyone asked me a question and how English I was. Julie and Delilah laughed along with him, even though they’re no less English than I am. In fact, they’re more English because I’m half French. For once I didn’t remind anyone. I liked feeling exotic and kooky and …oh, I just liked, LOVED Philippe talking to me.
When we got up to go, he was still next to me and when we walked to the RER, he walked alongside me. And when we got on the train, he sat down opposite me and put out his long, slim legs so the others had to sit on the seats behind. And …and …I was nattering, about how the RER differed from the trains you find on the Network SouthEast—when he leaned across and put his finger to my lips. And then …and then, dear reader, he kissed me.
It was only one stop, and the kiss didn’t take up most of it. It wasn’t wet, like that boy at the summer disco, or breathy like with William, or plunging like with François; it was just velvety. Soft and velvety. He tasted of beer and coffee. He smelled sweet and floral like someone else’s soap.
(Kiss no. 4: 10/10)
Afterward, I covered my mouth with my hand. The others didn’t seem to have noticed. Philippe made a sort of tutting noise and laughed. (Why did he do that? Who was he tutting? Me? Or him? Or maybe it wasn’t a tutting. Maybe it was humming.)
When we got to La Varenne, he jumped to his feet and got out of the train boisterously, swinging from the rail and barging through the door. He made us all run down the road to the house. I was a bit disappointed. I thought he’d want to linger behind and kiss me again. But he didn’t.
Only one other thing. Before we girls went up to bed (Madame Blanc was very nice in a silent way and sorted the others out with sleeping bags), he passed me on his way into the bathroom and winked.
It was a wink that made my stomach turn somersaults. It was a wink that curled up my toes. It was a wink that sent wild horses careering through my heart.
It was a very nice wink.
He wouldn’t wink if he didn’t like me, would he?
Bed, 4:30 a.m.
Just realized I haven’t thought about William for fifty-six hours.
Chapter Fourteen
New vocab: faire la gueule (to make an animal’s mouth—or to ignore someone)
SAME DAY
6 p.m.
Ifeel skittish and on edge. I don’t know whether to read my book or watch TV. I don’t really want to watch TV (a game show modeled on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?) but I can’t concentrate on my book because Monsieu
r Blanc has the volume on v loud. He’s not watching either—he’s reading the papers—but he’d grump if I turned it down. I could go upstairs but I don’t want to in case …well, in case Philippe comes back.
So that’s why I’m writing in here.
It’s been a really boring day. I’ve seen Philippe for about three seconds of it. He came into the kitchen when I was making breakfast—after the others had slunk off home—and he winked at me! He wouldn’t wink at me unless he cared, would he?
We went to church this morning—very long and in LATIN! Philippe didn’t go, but the rest of us had to. I sat next to Didier and managed to whisper, “Thank you for rescuing me from the Crying Girl.”
He said it was his pleasure. “Where did you go after that?” he said, looking a bit hurt.
Lunch was potatoes, chicken, and green beans—not together but separately, in that order. Afterward, when Monsieur Blanc was mowing the grass—going up and down in neat, grumpy rows—Madame Blanc put on her jacket, said something about seeing the priest, and went out. She looked shifty, I thought: pink around the eyes. I wonder if she had some extra confessions to make. And if so, what. She has been even quieter over the last few days than usual. I haven’t even seen her talking to Didier. And when Monsieur Blanc shouted at her this morning for not having bought a fresh baguette in time for breakfast, her face had a closed, shuttered look to it. I wonder if she’s ill. Maybe she has a terrible, incurable disease she is keeping from the family and that was why she was visiting the pipe-smoking doctor and that is why he kissed her. In sympathy. Oh poor Madame Blanc. I don’t think I can bear to think about it.
This afternoon Pascale suggested that we go to some shopping mall farther out of Paris. I didn’t want to go out in case Philippe came home. In the end she and Eric went bowling and I just hung around the house, eating my way through a bag of madeleines (yummy little sweet cakes) we’d bought in the boulangerie after church, playing the occasional game of cards with Didier and trying not to be noticed by Monsieur B.
Bon Voyage, Connie Pickles Page 7