The Boy from France (12 page)

‘Good for you, Vix!’ She slaps me on the back, playfully.

‘I don’t think he could tell that I haven’t . . .’ I pause, remembering just in time that Sky doesn’t know I’ve never kissed anybody before, making what I did
even more extraordinary and brave. ‘ . . . that I don’t have much experience.’

‘Course he couldn’t, hon. And I’m sure he wouldn’t care, anyway. So was it good?’

‘God, yeah.’ I can’t help smiling at the memory. ‘It was amazing. Just perfect. He’s got such lovely lips. I think I could have done it for ever. Except then Mum
came home from the theatre with her friend and we had to jump apart and pretend we’d just been watching TV.’

‘Did she believe you?’

‘I don’t know. I think so. She hasn’t said anything, anyway.’

‘Hmmm,’ says Sky, unconvinced. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t have a problem with it, anyway.’

‘I don’t think so. I know Dad will definitely be pleased though, when I get to tell him we’re going out.’ I recount our conversation in the car. ‘He told me
something was going to happen and I said of course it wouldn’t. I still can’t quite believe it has.’

‘Ah, I’m so happy for you, hon,’ says Sky, giving me a little hug. ‘You totally deserve it.’

‘Thanks, Sky.’ I look down at the carpet. ‘I just wish everyone could be so happy for us. Rosie isn’t going to be. I meant to tell her but I couldn’t. She thinks
the sun shines out of Manon’s —’

‘Vix! No she doesn’t.’

‘She so does. Apparently, Manon has a claim on Xavier just because she knew him first and fancies him.’

‘Manon’s OK, really. Look at it from her point of view. If you fancied a guy for ages and then he went off to France and met someone else, right in front of you, you’d be
gutted too.’

‘I guess. When you put it that way. But I’ve tried with her, Sky, and she’s so hostile. If she’d been friendlier from the start, and I’d figured out how she felt
about Xavier, maybe I wouldn’t have done anything. Or at least I’d have known the score. What really gets me is that she’s – all of this – is coming between me and
Rosie, which is horrible.’

‘You’ll sort it out, hon, you always do,’ says Sky, no doubt referring to the last time Rosie and I had a disagreement, over the way she treated Max.

‘I know. But in the meantime . . .’

‘You want me to tell her for you?’

I nod, solemnly.

‘I’d rather you did it yourself, Vix. But I understand why you feel you can’t. OK, consider it done. But promise me you’ll talk to her soon.’

‘I promise.’

She hugs me again. ‘I am so super happy for you, Vix. I’m so glad you’re finally getting to have some fun. Except, now I’m the only one without a boyfriend!’

onday morning. It feels really awkward walking to school with Rosie today, even though we’ve done it
virtually every morning since we were eleven. Now I wish I’d texted her and told her I’d see her there instead, but old habits die hard. Even though I’ve had no confirmation, I
know Sky will now have told her that Xavier and I got together the other night, and I also know that she will be pissed off with me about that. Manon (who, of course, is with us) must know too.
Worse, Rosie will be hurt and annoyed that I didn’t feel able to tell her about it myself during our lunchtime chat. I do feel bad about that. It just seemed as if she was on Manon’s
side, not mine, and that stings.

We’ve barely spoken since then. I know I promised Sky that I’d talk to her, but it hasn’t happened yet. It’s not that we’ve fallen out, more like we’ve put
our friendship on hold until Manon is back across the Channel and out of the picture. How can we sort things out when Manon goes everywhere that Rosie goes – home, school, even our favourite
after-school cafés? Why can’t she just hang around with some of her French friends for a change? Why doesn’t Rosie ask her to?

On the plus side, not seeing Rosie meant that I got to spend almost the whole weekend alone with Xavier, which was amazing. On Saturday we went to the go-karting track, which I’ve been
dying to do for ages but never managed because nobody else has ever wanted to go with me. Sky is too scared and doesn’t like fast cars and Rosie thinks go-karting is boring (even though
she’s never tried it) and that the helmet will mess up her hair (she’s right, but so what?). I was much better at it than Xavier, but I let him win a couple of times, because I
didn’t want to show him up (or show off).

We spent all of Saturday night and most of last night snogging in my room until really late. I had no idea that kissing could be so varied and so exciting and so much fun, or that it was
possible to snog for hours without getting bored, or getting mouth cramp. It must be because Xavier is such a good kisser (I’m absolutely certain I’m right about this, even though I
don’t have anyone else to compare him with), and possibly because he’s French. They invented it, didn’t they? Snogging, I mean. Isn’t that why it’s called French
kissing? Xavier says they don’t call it French kissing in France – he thinks it’s hilarious that we do. He and his friends call it ‘tongue soup’ which is a bit gross.
Not surprisingly, I barely got any of my coursework done again this weekend. Never mind, I’m sure I can catch up soon. I overslept a little this morning, which meant that I didn’t have
time to do everything I was supposed to do for Mum. I’ve never done that before, and she said she didn’t mind; but I think she did, really. I’ll make it up to her when Xavier has
gone back. Oh God, that is something I do not want to think about. I’m going to pretend that it will never happen.

We walk along, side by side, so close that we’re almost, but not quite, touching. Occasionally, his elbow jostles against my forearm, or his fingertips brush against mine, and I feel
little sparks of pleasure shooting out into my tummy. I want to grab his hand and hold it properly; but I’m too shy, and I’m not sure if he wants to do the same, or whether that will
make Rosie and Manon even angrier. They’re marching several paces ahead of us, pretending we’re not there. Manon didn’t even bother to greet me today; she simply nodded and rolled
her eyes at me. Do you know what? I honestly don’t care. At least I don’t have to pretend I like her any more.

And now we’re at the school gates and it’s time to say goodbye. I wish Xavier could come in with me and spend the day in my classes; I’m not sure how I’m going to manage
without him until four p.m. I’m aware that sounds pathetic. Isn’t it weird how you can worry about missing someone you’d never even dreamed of meeting a few weeks ago?

‘See you later, Xavier. Have a good day,’ I say. I flash him a coy little smile. I expect him to wish me the same, to give me a quick peck on both cheeks, and then to turn and walk
away.

But he doesn’t. He says, ‘Goodbye, Veecks.’ And then he grabs my face in both his hands and kisses me. He kisses me properly, deeply, as if he really means it and wants
everyone to know that we’re together. The kiss takes me by surprise and, for a moment, I can’t relax into it. I know that people are watching, not just Rosie and Manon but girls in my
year too, girls like big mouth Lucy Reed, whose mum has just dropped her off outside the school gate. I close my eyes tight to shut them all out and let myself melt into the kiss. Soon, I
don’t care who can see us; I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care if the news is all around the school in a few hours. I only care about the kiss. For thirty gorgeous,
exquisite seconds, nothing else matters, nothing at all: not the fact that Manon clearly now hates me so much that she’d probably like to chop my head off with a guillotine, French Revolution
style; not the fact that Rosie is being weird with me; not even my Mum’s illness. I’m as happy as happy can be. I’m floating high above the world, weightless and absolutely free.
I’m on cloud . . . a cloud that’s way, way higher than nine. I must be on at least cloud one hundred. No, one hundred thousand. Or even higher: somewhere in the millions . . . How about
cloud five million, eight hundred thousand, nine hundred and fifty-seven? Yes, that’s my personal happiness cloud. I don’t ever want to come down from it.

Too soon, Xavier pulls away and the world roars back into focus. I had no idea so many people were standing around. It seems as if almost half the school has arrived in the last few seconds, and
Xavier and I are the main attraction. Looking into the faces of the crowd, I feel like I’ve accidentally just auditioned for a new type of reality TV show:
Britain’s Most Talented
Kisser
. Somebody is clapping, someone else calling out, ‘Get a room, guys!’ and Lucy Reed is holding her mobile up in the air; I think she might actually be filming us. My cheeks
are glowing hot and I’m not sure whether to feel proud of myself or deeply ashamed. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.

I try to catch Rosie’s eye; she looks shocked and disapproving. Manon has her arms folded, a look of disdain on her face. I’m sure I’m going to have to pay for what just
happened. I’m also aware that cloud five million, eight hundred thousand, nine hundred and fifty-seven is very, very high up. That means there’s a hell of a long way to fall.

y mum is getting worse, little by little. As much as she denies it, and as much as I try to pretend that
it’s not happening, the signs are obvious. Most days now, her walking is so unsteady that she can’t even manage two steps without her stick. She’s in so much pain that she’s
given in and started taking the strong painkillers she hates, and they’re making her woozy and dizzy and sick. She can’t sleep a wink at night, but she is so tired during the day that
she usually falls asleep in the afternoons in her armchair, like an old lady.

She says she loved going to the theatre last week with her friend, only it did her in; she doesn’t think she can attempt a trip out like that again for a long time. I think she might be
feeling depressed. I don’t blame her, anyone in her position would be. She’s on her own almost all the time, stuck in the house, unable to concentrate on anything for long. She’s
bored and lonely and miserable.

I feel bad for her, I really do; but the problem is, I don’t want to be the solution. I know it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want to spend all my spare time talking to Mum when
I’m at home. It’s already taking longer and longer to help her get dressed in the mornings and to get ready for bed in the evenings. Dad says he’s going to try to rearrange his
schedule so he can come home from work earlier and be around to help more, but it’s not enough. I can’t do everything myself in the meantime, especially when I’m trying to keep
the amount I do from Xavier. Now, when Dad’s not at home, I get up almost an hour earlier than Xavier and, at night, I pretend that I’m going to bed, then creep into Mum’s room to
help her. It’s crazy, but I’m sneaking around behind Mum and Dad’s backs to spend private time with Xavier, and sneaking around behind his back to help Mum get washed and dressed.
No wonder I feel stressed out most of the time.