by Zelda French
“Where is Michael?”
François blinks. “Michael? Home, I suppose.”
“Lucie told me he was here.”
“Oh no, he didn’t come.” I let go of his shoulders; he looks slightly disappointed. “Everybody was supposed to come her to keep me company. I’m working during the holidays, hello! Yasmine did come. Sacha didn’t. Michael was supposed to come, but then he said he wouldn’t come if Lucie didn’t. Then Sacha said she wouldn’t come. Then Yasmine said, Fuck This, I’m leaving, and she left, about ten minutes ag—“
I silence François with a hand. “Why did Michael want to talk to Lucie?”
“I’m not supposed to say.”
“François!”
My hands slam onto his shoulders again. A flush creeps up to his ears.
“Fine! He wanted to check if you and her were still together. Or if there was hope. I told him there was hope, because you almost admitted to me you’re gay.”
“I am, gay.”
“Right, voilà, wasn’t complicated, just a tad too late.” François grimaces. “Yasmine said there wasn’t any hope, that you’re a basket case, and Michael is better off without you, and I don’t know why but Michael always listens to Yasmine more than he listens to me, and— oh, Sacha would like to know why Lucie hates her so much? She threatened to stuff her mailbox with one of Rufus’s poos, you know.”
I let out a groan of despair. “Lucie thought Sacha’s my mistress. But it’s Michael. I mean, it was.”
What a nightmare this all ended up to be! But still. If Michael is hoping there is hope between us, and I’m hoping he’s hoping there is hope between us, surely this means there is, actually, hope between us.
“It’s funny you should use that word, Mistress,“ François says, a lop-sided grin on his face. “The other day Michael said he doesn’t want to be your mistress.”
“Oh.” So much for hope. My shoulders sag; I slump into the nearest chair. “That’s what I got from the phone call.”
“Michael called you?” François sits opposite me, his eyes glowing with curiosity. “Yasmine said not to. After his shameful pacing outside your win—”
I put my finger on his lip. “Abby called. Abby called me.”
François gasps. “Abbie? His EX?”
“The very one.”
François looks both thoroughly shocked and exceedingly happy. So much drama never happens at Colette International. I’m sure he’ll have something worthwhile to write into his diary tonight.
“So that’s what happened!” He starts gesticulating, making my head spin. “Wait, I need to sit down.”
“You’re already sitting down.”
“Then I need a pick-me-up.” He starts fanning himself.
I look around the coffee place, scanning for anything that would qualify as a pick me up for an overly privileged white Parisian. “Do you want weed or something?”
“No!” François throws me an offended look. “I’ve seen the effects of weed on your brain. I don’t want to end up as slow as you.”
“Thanks,” I say, hurt. “That’s really nice.”
“Do you have any vodka?” He asks, still fanning himself. “This place doesn’t allow sale of alcohol.”
He winces when I shake my head; I wish I had brought Tony with me. Tony would have thought of bringing alcohol, just because dramatic moments are always made better with a bit of alcohol. It’s in all the good movies.
“All right, all right,” François says, looking slightly recovered. “Let me explain.”
“Please.”
Took you long enough.
“Abby’s crazy, you know. Michael told me. She’s really mad at him. You can’t trust her.”
So, this could be true? She called not to warn me, but to lie to me? Could this mean…
“Fine,” I say, throwing up my hands, trying hard not to let the spark of hope I’m feeling turn into a brasier. “Why is she mad at him?”
François shakes his head. “Oh, boy, it’s really not my story to tell.”
I lean forward, my jaw set. “Tell me and I’ll never make fun of you ever again.”
“OK,” he says, blinking.“Wait. You’re making fun of me?”
“No, never.” I gently pat his wrist, my cheeks burning. “I don’t know why I said that.”
François leans back in his chair, squinting suspiciously.
“I’m going to tell you, because I like Michael.” He pauses. “And, because he’s had such a hard time because of awe people, and I want him to be happy. Especially after…”
“Please, tell me, François,” I beg, checking at the old railway clock on the opposite wall. The afternoon is flowing past, and my spark of hope has already grown into a flame. “And fast.”
François settles comfortably in his chair. I’m in for quite a ride.
“Michael never had many friends,” he begins, his voice serious. “He was always the geek, the ugly duckling of class.”
I doubt it, but I’m not about to interrupt François. It would only cost me extra time.
“Then, over the course of a summer, he became all hot and pretty, like you know” —François gestures at his own head, miming the curls on Michael’s head— “and suddenly, everybody wanted a piece of him.”
I nod wisely. The power of Michael’s curls cannot and will not be underestimated in this room.
“Abby was very popular, a real queen bee. She took the new Michael under her wing. Suddenly he had many friends. His life transformed from one day to the other.”
Dear Michael, I, of all people, can absolutely relate to that.
“Michael and Abby started dating. Was Abby really interested or did she only want someone pretty? Who knows. But Michael thought he was in love. They stayed together for a long time. Then, this summer, Michael went with her family to Spain.”
“What happened with Michael?” I ask, worried that François would launch himself into lengthy descriptions of Spanish beaches.
François throws me a warning look.
“I’m getting there, hang on.”
I swear, he relishing watching me hang on to his every word.
“Michael met Abby’s older brother, Peter and PAF!”—I startle—“massive crush on him. And Peter too, of course, looked like he really liked Michael too, then they got back from the holidays and that’s when they started fooling around in secret…”
I listen hard, astonished. I wasn’t the first for Michael. I wasn’t even the first he was sneaking around with.
“Michael went to Abby’s for a party once and Peter was here. He kissed him! And it didn’t happen just once. Peter usually found Michael when he was drunk or high, and kissed him. Michael was going crazy for this guy, but he understood all the hush-hush around it of course. Being a boy, being Abby’s brother and all…”
I swallow a lump. “Then what happened?”
“Oh, what do you think?”
I bang my hand on the table. “I don’t fucking know François, that’s why I’m asking! What do you think? Honestly!”
François jerks away from me. “You are so moody! Such a bad temper. I don’t know why I ever thought I had a crush on you, seriously!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, patting his wrists in an effort to placate him. “Go on, take your time.”
“Thank you.” François waits an instant until I look collected enough for his taste, and resumes. “Well, Abby caught them of course, and Michael was relieved. He immediately broke up with Abby, certain Peter would naturally admit his feelings for him. But Peter was all like No no no, I was just experimenting, just having fun, don’t know this guy, he’s a weirdo, no homo! You know!” François nods in my direction.
Sure…
“Then Abby, who was legitimately hurt, went all out for this big finale. Classic queen bee. She told everybody at school how Michael seduced her brother when he was drunk, and took advantage, etc. So of course, everyone turned against Michael over the course of one weeke
nd, and Michael got really sick and didn’t want to leave his home, so his mum told him to just come with her to Paris. And that’s how he left everybody behind and followed his mother here.”
I’m just now recalling Michael telling me he only packed two suitcases. “He never said anything like that to me… He said his parents were having problems.”
“Oh yeah, they were.” François shrugs. “Definitely. But they fixed their problems. Talked it through.”
“This is so horrible.”
My stomach sinks at the thought of what Michael endured. And how I only added to his misery with my attitude.
“I am so horrible…”
And these words… Peter’s words to Michael, sound awfully similar to what Abby said Michael thought about him. Words I spit back in his face. Words he recognised instantly.
Oh, no. What have I done…
François is too busy inspecting his nails to notice my despair. “So Michael got completely gaslit, as you can see. He wasn’t even sure he was gay, you know. He was with Abby for two years, you can imagine they got around to get to know each other, if you know what I mean.”
“Please spare me the details.” I put my head in my hands.
“Anyway, he convinced himself he overreacted and a new start in a school where no one knew him would be ideal… But then he meets your fat face on the first day.”
I slam both hands on the table this time. “Why are you being so hostile!”
François holds my gaze, and then some. “You broke my friend’s heart!”
A stunned silence settles over us.
“You made him believe you liked him, and you made me believe you liked him, and then you acted all ashamed and secretive like Peter. What do you think? To say nothing of the mess he was in when you told him he ruined your life and he was nothing to you.”
He’s right, I did. I ruined it.
“I thought… I thought he didn’t care for me.”
“You’re a hopeless idiot.”François does not give two shits about calling me out, today. “That night Michael invited you out? He was planning to ask you to stay with him over the summer, in his home, in London. He was hoping you’d take a chance with a him, a boy, even if it was just for the summer.”
How could I have been so stupid? And how can I ever repair it before it’s too late?
“You’re right, François,” I say, my voice cracking. “I am an idiot. Who else but an idiot would believe Abby? Why was it so easy for her to persuade me Michael was lying to me?”
“Hang in there.” François’s expression softens. “Abby told you the truth, you know, except it was the other way around.”
“Damn her!” I’ve got no qualms hating her for what she’s done. “Why would she do something like that??”
François gets up and walks over to the coffee machines. “I may be able to help you with that. A month after Michael moved here, Abby regretted what she’s done. She attempted to mend the fence and get Michael back. She apologised and everything, but it was over, he said he just wanted to be friends. She didn’t want to be friends. She insisted and insisted. At some point he got enough and he told her he was gay and that he was with someone. How she found you is a mystery.” He pauses, his finger over the button on the machine. “Sometimes I think women are different, you know, they have special powers, like—”
“Witches?”
François stares at me, bewildered. “No, not like witches. You’re really weird, you know.”
“Forget it.” I get up and walk over to him. “So in essence, Abby was just trying to fuck things up between us…”
“She was.”
As I stare down at the menu over François’s shoulder, something occurs to me.
“Abby succeeded where you couldn’t. Don’t assume I’ve forgotten what you did.”
François pushes a cup of steaming coffee toward me with an apologetic grimace.
“I’m trying to help you now, I hope that will earn me some forgiveness.”
I accept the cup of coffee with a grunt.
“And I’m going away to Barcelona,” François adds in a small voice. “I’ll never bother you two again.”
Will Michael and I get back together? Will our ordeal ever ends? The black surface of the coffee reflects my harassed face.
“I have to tell him, François. I have to tell him I love him.”
“You better hurry then.” François slams a lid on my coffee cup. “Michael said he was going away for a while, with his parents.”
“What?” I clutch my chest. My heart skipped more than one beat. “Where?”
“Huh, I don’t know, Louis, I’m not his personal assistant.” François rolls his eyes. “Go to his place, and you’ll find out.”
My hands balled into fists, I stare into his face. “And you couldn’t tell me any of that before?”
“You didn’t ask.” He points at the clock behind me. “Now fuck off please. It’s my lunch break.”
François walks around the counter, seize my arm and throw me out of his shop without ceremony. Still, he manages to spare time to throw a contemptuous look at my bike.
“Couldn’t get a better ride?”
“You know, François...” I say, putting the helmet on, “you and Tony have more in common than you think.”
“Oh, please,” François says with a grimace. “Never say that again.”
This is how it is, then. Me and Michael. Sharing kisses in broad daylight, sharing a bed, even sharing a flat. Every of one these things could have been mine, if only I had trusted him, and trusted myself enough.
But it’s not too late. My heart thumping in my chest, clouds of butterflies swarming in my stomach, I fly toward Michael’s place like a crazed lover, avoid two accidents with buses and one with a motorcycle. François has cleared most of my doubts; the sweeping wind does the rest.
Abby was lying, Peter hurt Michael, Michael never hurt a fly, Michael is gay, Michael loves me.
I feel like screaming, crying, punching the air, fall onto my knees, all at the same time. But I don’t have time for that, despite what my French nature is inclined to. I skid to a halt in front of Michael’s building, sweating and panting, and almost run over an old lady the same age as Eugénie — but without the style. A man coming out of the building gives me an odd look. With a strangled word of thank, I climb the ancient staircase up to Michael’s flat, wheezing and clutching a stitch to my side.
An odd sight welcomes me atop the stairs. The front door is ajar, and a large vacuum cleaner is leaning against the wall. Both the soft splashing sound of water and the horrendous music of Celine Dion reach my delicate ears.
“Michael?” Exhausted from my race across town, I gently push the door open.
Inside the flat, which hasn’t changed a bit, a thin woman is going around at the speed of light, dusting with one hand, wiping with another. I walk over to the CD player by the TV and turn down the music. The woman freezes and turns around. We stare at each other, my own face probably just as stunned as hers.
“What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrow suspiciously.
“I’m a friend of Michael’s,” I say, wincing. “Is he home?”
She shakes her head. “There’s no one here. They’re gone.”
“Gone? Forever Gone?”
That’s clearly not possible. That wouldn’t happen to me. Not today, not ever, especially NOT. TODAY.
“How should I know?” The woman shrugs. “I only come here to clean. But I was asked to do a deep cleaning, you see, and it wasn’t in my schedule. I was told last minute—”
“Never mind that! Did they say where they were going?”
She gives me a look. “You’re very rude.”
I’m that close to start bawling like a newborn baby, too exhausted to care. It would really be better for both of us if she answers my questions rapidly.
“I really, really need to speak to… to the family. Please, please can you help me?”
The woman
puts her hands on her hips. “Why should I? You barge in here and you turn down my music, you demand answers, I owe you nothing. I was told to clean when it’s not even on my shift, but Rachel, my coworker, she called in sick—”
Desperate, I sink into the sofa. The woman lunges at me, seizing my sleeve.
“Stop! You can’t do that, I’ve just rearranged the cushions.” Grunting with the effort, she attempts to pull me off the sofa.
That’s it. My eyes fill up with tears. Bawling’s about to start. I press my hands against my face.
“He’s gone! He’s because of me!”
“What’s that?” The woman lets go of my jacket. “Well… I’m sure he’ll come back, you know.”
“You think?” I look up at her face, my eyes streaming.
She makes an embarrassed face. “Not here, no, that’s for sure. We only do deep cleaning when we lease the flat to somebody else.”
That’s it, then. Michael is gone. Gone. All of this because I’m always, always late.
“Come on, my boy…” The woman takes a seat next to me. “What put you in such a state?”
It’s hard to speak while my body’s being ransacked by sobs. “He left because he thought I didn’t love him! But I do, I love him!”
“Christ,” the woman mutters. “French People.”
“I heard that,” I say, sniffing.
She pats me on the back. “There, there. I’m really sorry, but you can’t stay here. I’m on a tight schedule and you’re weeping all over the linen.”
I’m still sobbing when she kicks me, face glistening with tears, out of Michael’s flat. A second later, Celine Dion resumes her powerful wailing.
All hope is lost.
In an act of despair, I try his mobile phone, but it goes straight to voicemail. Admitting defeat, begin my miserable descent of the stairs.
I hate Paris. I hate it. The most romantic city in the world, my ass. Tony’s bike bumps against my shins as I walk my way back home, and I can barely feel it. Tourists flocking to rue Mouffetard are annoying me. Kids having fun are annoying me. Young couples kissing, their arms intertwined, are annoying me. Pigeons conspiring around a discarded piece of baguette, are annoying m— No, actually, they’re fine.
Dear Michael, will I ever see your scrumptious face again? To make matters worse, and despite some repeated kicks, I cannot open my own front door, and I’m stuck outside, on a beautiful sunny day, the only dark cloud in view being the one over my head.