The Boy from France (18 page)

We help ourselves to some drinks and crisps from the food tables, and catch up with a few of our friends. Nobody is dancing yet; it’s far too early and far too embarrassing to be the
first. The French kids seem to be hanging out with their French friends, and the English ones, likewise. As parties go, it feels a bit flat, a bit forced. I look around the hall and wonder how many
of these people will even remember their exchange students’ names in a few months, let alone keep in touch.

Sky nudges me. ‘Look!’ she whispers. ‘On the left. Oh. My. God.’

I turn around as subtly as I can, to see what she means. Walking into the room as if she’s on a catwalk is Manon. She’s wearing a full-length, one-shouldered evening gown, with
skyscraper heels and her hair in a chignon. Two of her friends follow behind, like bridesmaids.

‘Wow! What does she have on? She looks like she’s getting married or something. Or going to the Oscars.’

‘I think she looks like a toddler who has raided her mum’s dressing-up box,’ says Sky. ‘Where did she even get that dress?’

‘I know,’ says Rosie, smirking. ‘I did try to tell her it wasn’t
that
kind of party. OK, maybe not as hard as I could have, because frankly she deserves to look
a bit stupid, but I did mention that we would all be quite casual. She thought she knew better, as usual.’

Sky looks doubtful. ‘Own up, Rosie. I know you! Did you really try to talk her out of it or did you set her up?’

Rosie gives her a bashful smile. ‘OK, if I’m honest, I might just have told her how fabulous she looked when she tried on her outfit last night. But I didn’t make her choose it
or wear it. Does that make me a terrible person?’

‘No! I think it’s great,’ says Sky. ‘It means we sort of got our revenge on her after all, without even trying, or having to do anything really mean. She did it to
herself.’

We turn to look at Manon again. She’s scanning the room, an expression of growing bewilderment on her face. It seems to be dawning on her, that far from being the belle of the ball, she
sticks out like a great big, bright red, French thumb. Her haughty stance has vanished and now she’s looking decidedly uncomfortable, her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapping themselves
around her middle in a gesture of protection. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

Sky nudges me again. ‘Don’t turn around but Xavier is coming in.’ She grips my hand. ‘It’ll be fine. Just be brave.’

I ignore her and, unable to stop myself, spin around to look. My heart is beating so fast that I feel dizzy. Xavier is with a couple of French boys. It’s the first time I’ve seen him
properly for days, and he looks lovely, all smart and clean, his hair gelled back and his shoes polished. I’ve missed him so much. I wonder if he’s missed me too.

My heart sinks; he’s heading in Manon’s direction. I guess it really is over, then. She’s won. Rosie was wrong. They’ve probably been meeting up in secret over the past
week. I don’t think I can stay at this party all evening, watching the two of them together. It might kill me. I think I should . . .

But wait . . . maybe I’m mistaken. Xavier isn’t stopping at Manon’s side; he’s just nodded at her and said something inaudible, and now he’s walking straight past
her. I think he might be coming over towards me. Oh my gosh. He’s coming to talk to me. I turn to my friends for support, but Rosie and Sky have drifted away from my sides.

‘Veecks,’ he says, there before I’m prepared. He’s smiling, warm like he used to be.

‘Xavier,’ I reply, like an idiot.

‘’ow are you?’ Three kisses. ‘I am pleased to see you. ’ow eez your muzzer?’

‘She’s much better,’ I tell him. ‘Still in hospital and probably will be for a while, but doing much better.’

‘I am glad,’ he says.

‘Listen. I know I’ve said it before but I really am genuinely sorry about what happened. About not telling you how bad my mum was. About you having to find her and call the ambulance
all on your own. About you not being able to stay with my family any more. About everything.’

‘Eet eez OK. I am not angry now.’

‘Honestly?’

‘
Oui
.’

‘So you forgive me?’

‘But of course. I only wish you ’ad told me before.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I sort of screwed things up.’

He shrugs and smiles. ‘Even you, Veecks, you are only ’uman.’

I giggle. ‘I guess so.’

‘You look very beautiful tonight.’

That makes me blush and beam at the same time. ‘Really? Er, thank you. So do you. Handsome, I mean.’

‘
Merci
.’ He grins.

‘Um . . .’ I’m not feeling brave at all, but I need to say this: ‘I miss you.’

‘Me also,’ he says, in a sad, gentle voice. ‘I steel care about you, Veecks.’

Neither of us knows what to say then. We stand staring at each other, until we both feel too awkward to maintain eye contact and look down at the floor instead. I watch the coloured disco lights
bouncing in rhythmic patterns on the lino and will him to say something, or do something, because my mind has gone totally blank.

‘We should dance,’ he says eventually, taking both of my hands in his.

‘But there’s no one else on the dance floor yet. Everyone will stare at us.’

‘So? I care not. You do?’

I do, but I don’t tell him that. At least I know I’m an OK dancer so I won’t make too much of a fool of myself. I let him lead me on to the middle of the dance floor and try to
relax and let my body go with the beat. My ankle is still a little sore, but it doesn’t hurt to put weight on it any more. If I close my eyes, I can forget about everyone else. Soon I start
to enjoy myself. I open my eyes and Xavier grabs me and spins me around, laughing. It’s quite hard to keep up with him. He’s a little . . . clumsy. To tell the truth, I think he’s
got two left feet, which only makes me like him more. It wouldn’t do for Mr Perfect to be too perfect, would it? I notice, with relief, that other people are beginning to join us on the dance
floor. Rosie and Sky sidle up to me and take it in turns to dance with me. This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.

I don’t know how long we dance for but it must be a long time because I’m thirsty and my feet hurt and I really wish I’d ignored Rosie’s advice and put on my Converse
tonight. I’m about to suggest to Xavier that we get a drink and sit down when I hear a familiar riff. It can’t be . . . It is! It’s ‘You’re The One That I Want’
from
Grease
! This is not the sort of record Katie usually plays – it’s much too old and far too uncool. Rosie and Sky must have requested it for me. Remind me to kill them both
later.

Xavier and I look at each other and giggle. Naturally, we start singing along in our best yogurt. ‘Ya da wada wada. You da wada wada. Ooh ooh ooh, allai,’ before collapsing into
laughter.

‘Sank you,’ he says, giving me a big bear hug.

I have a sudden urge to mark this moment for ever. ‘Take a photo of us on your phone, Rosie, please,’ I beg.

‘Sure,’ she says, directing us into a pose. ‘Say cheese. Or should that be
fromage
?’

Once the flash has gone off, Xavier pulls me towards him and into a deep, passionate kiss – right there and then, in the middle of the dance floor. I wasn’t sure he’d ever kiss
me again, and it feels incredible. When we break off he holds me close, his heart beating as fast as mine. Over his shoulder, out of the corner of my eye, I can see Manon. She is dancing with her
friends, a sulky expression on her face. Her dress is so tight that she can barely move her legs. She’s clearly not having a good time at all. Shame. I close my eyes and blot Manon out,
allowing myself to melt into another kiss. And then another. And another. I forget about wanting a drink, or having sore feet, or even that I’m at a party with practically everybody I
know.

But then Katie’s voice interrupts the music to tell us that it’s time for the very last track of the night and that our parents and hosts will be waiting for us in the corridor by
the main school doors. It hits me that Xavier won’t be coming home with me tonight and that tomorrow he will be getting the train back to the airport, and flying back to Nice.

We kiss again. It is just as wonderful as all the others, just as sweet and soft. But there is something different about this kiss, something which only strikes me later, long after it has
ended, when I’m home and tucked up in bed. This kiss feels like the end of something.

Rosie taps me on the shoulder. ‘Sorry to, er, interrupt but your Dad’s here, Vix. And I reckon they’re going to put the hall lights back on in about thirty seconds.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, noticing for the first time that the music has stopped and there’s hardly anybody left in the room. ‘Tell him I’m coming. You’d better find
your friend, Xavier.’

He nods. ‘
Merci
for a wonderfool night, Veecks.’

I smile. ‘Thank you too.’ I take a deep breath. It’s now or never. ‘Will you keep in contact when you’re back in France? We could email or instant message. I could
give you my address.’

‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘I will try. Per’aps. But I am not so good at writing in
Anglais
. I prefer to talk. And the phone, eet eez difficult for me, and
expensive.’

He doesn’t ask for my address or offer me his. He’s letting me down gently, I think. Maybe that’s better than believing and hoping that we’ll stay in touch, and then
being disappointed when it fizzles out – feeling gutted when one day I send a message and he simply doesn’t reply. It still hurts, though.

I smile again, so he can’t tell how gutted I am. ‘I do understand. Listen, maybe you’d rather I didn’t – and I know you’re not staying at mine any more, but
would it be all right if I came to say goodbye at the station tomorrow?’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Yes, I would like zat.’

And, with that, the fluorescent lights flicker back on, and the magic evaporates.

come to St Pancras alone, by bus. Rosie hasn’t come to see Manon off; she made an excuse not to, so she
didn’t have to pretend she was sad to say goodbye. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ she said, earlier, when I asked her about it. She was as dramatic as ever. ‘I’m
going to ritually burn the scarves I bought as soon as she’s out of here. I can’t wait to see the back of her. And I hope I never, ever see her again, as long as I live.’
She’s not the only one; three cheers to that! I think Rosie’s dad – who is wise enough not to ask too many questions about the frosty atmosphere between his daughter and her
exchange – is bringing Manon by car. Honestly, I don’t care how she gets here, as long as she isn’t on my street when I arrive home.

We meet at the entrance to the station nearest the airport train. Xavier is standing alone, away from his group, waiting for me, and that makes me feel happy. He really does want to say goodbye.
He really does care, even if it did just turn out to be a holiday romance, after all. Even if I’ll probably never hear from him again.

He grins as I approach him and my stomach lurches. I’m going to miss that sensation, I realise, even though it’s weird and uncomfortable.

‘So, Veecks,’ he says, planting three tingly kisses on my cheeks. ‘So, zis eez goodbye.’ He says it in his French, matter-of-fact, ‘that’s life’ tone. I
know it doesn’t mean he isn’t sad, but I can’t help wishing he appeared more upset.

‘I guess it is,’ I say, hoping he hasn’t noticed my watery eyes. ‘It’s gone so fast.’

‘
Oui
, eet’s true. Too fast. I very much liked Camden, and London too.’

‘Good. I’m glad.’ I’m finding it really hard to know what to say or look directly at him. I’m worried that if I express how I feel, I might start bawling.

‘Maybe you’ll come to Nice sometime, to veesit.’

‘Sure, I’d like that. And maybe you’ll come back to London. To Camden Town. There’s so many places I never got to show you in the end. Mum should be better by then and
you can stay and . . .’ I tail off. ‘Anyway.’

‘I hope so. One day, per’aps.’

He glances at his watch and I realise I’m running out of time. If I don’t say something now, I never will. ‘I’ve really loved having you here, Xavier,’ I blurt out.
‘It’s been . . . I know it all went a bit weird at the end, but I couldn’t have asked for . . . a better French exchange student.’ Yes, I’ve chickened out. But how can
I tell him how special he is to me when he clearly doesn’t feel the same? He’ll think I’m an idiot. A pathetic idiot.