The Boy
From
France
Praise for Hilary Freeman
‘Camden comes to life on the page in this engaging and fun story of friendship and celebrities . . . with characters so realistic you feel you might bump into them at Camden Town tube!’
Chicklish
‘The perfect choice for teenage girls (and their mums). Warm and witty, compelling and insightful.’
Sunday Express
‘The characters are believable and the narrative is pacy . . . a good read.’
School Librarian
‘A really good read . . . funny, yet realistic.’
Teen Titles
This book is dedicated to Mickaël Lorinquer,
my boy from France,
and to the memory of our beautiful daughter,
Elodie, who was born sleeping
on 26th September 2012
and who will always live in our hearts.
First published in Great Britain in 2013
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk
Text copyright © Hilary Freeman, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Hilary Freeman to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 84812 301 4 (paperback)
ISBN: 978 1 84812 302 1 (eBook)
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Cover design by Simon Davis
Cover illustrations by Susan Hellard
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Acknowledgement
turn into Paradise Avenue and glance at my watch. It’s ten o’clock already. I’ve taken longer than I should have. Stupid me. Xavier will probably be up and about by now and Mum will be wondering where I’ve got to. She only wanted her prescription picking up but I got distracted in Boots, tried on some new nail varnish shades and wondered if she would notice if I bought one of them and gave her less change than was due. Anyone else would have made a quick decision but instead I ummed and ahhed for ages, swatching the shades, waiting for them to dry, changing my mind about which colour I liked best, and at least two or three times taking a bottle from the stand, then replacing it again. I guess I wanted to treat myself for once, even though I knew I shouldn’t. The sales assistant said the bright pink colour looked good on me, and I got as far as queuing up to pay for it, but then I felt guilty and didn’t buy it after all. A waste of time. Stupid me.
It strikes me that something doesn’t look right. Doesn’t feel right. I must have walked up my street thousands of times since I was a little girl and, usually, I do it on autopilot, barely noticing the familiar buildings or the cars parked outside. And yet, today, I sense something new. The street isn’t as quiet as it should be at this hour. There are too many people about, people standing outside their homes, waiting for something, watching something. I quicken my pace, trying to see past them, past the cars, wondering if the police have finally come to raid the art collective and throw the squatters out. But I can’t see any police, or a police car, and as I pass the collective house it is as still and silent as I’d expect at this time on a Saturday, its windows blacked out as usual.
Now I can see that there’s an ambulance parked up at the other end of the street. My end of the street. That isn’t unusual. It’s probably one of the old ladies from the almshouses, either being picked up or taken back from hospital. They’re always falling over, or leaving their hobs on and setting off the fire alarm. But it doesn’t explain why there are so many people on the street watching.
Mrs Richards, one of my neighbours, is standing on her doorstep as I pass.
‘Hey, Mrs R, what’s going on?’ I ask, stopping for a moment. ‘Is it the almshouses again?’
‘I don’t think so, Victoria,’ she says, in a tone more excited than grave. ‘An ambulance came tearing down here with its siren on and lights flashing about ten minutes ago. Someone’s been hurt. That’s all I know.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, nodding. ‘How awful. I hope they’re OK.’
As I turn to walk on, somebody grabs hold of my shoulder from behind. I jump, instinctively grasping my bag to my side, and swing around, ready to defend myself.
It’s Xavier. My first feeling is one of relief – at least it isn’t him who’s hurt. Then I notice that his face is white. He mutters something in French and I can’t tell if he’s panicking or is angry with me.
‘Slow down,’ I say. ‘I don’t understand. Tell me in English.’
He grips my wrist, but not in a friendly way. His palm is moist and hot. ‘Where ’ave you been? I called but you did not come.’
‘I’m sorry, I was out. I had some chores to do. What’s happened? Are you OK?’
He nods, but he doesn’t seem OK. He looks scared.
A horrible realisation is beginning to dawn on me, but I don’t want to acknowledge it.
‘Come now,’ he says. ‘You must come now.’ He pulls me along, past the onlookers, steering me around the cars that are parked across the kerb. My heart is pounding. I feel sick.
Now I know for certain: it’s my house that’s at the centre of the drama. My front door is wide open. The person in the ambulance must be my mum.
s you all know, your French exchange students will be coming to stay next week,’ says Miss Long who is, ironically, about four foot nine and the shape of a beach ball. ‘And . . .’ She pauses for maximum effect. ‘. . . as you’ll no doubt be pleased to hear, the rumours are true: due to an administrative mix-up, this year, some of them will be boys.’
There’s a murmur of excitement across the classroom. I go to an all girls’ school, you see. We don’t have the chance to meet boys very often.
‘How many of them, Miss?’ asks Lucy Reed, who is probably the loudest, most confident and – when it comes to boys – most experienced girl in our year. ‘Who’s going to get one?’
Rosie widens her eyes at me. ‘She’s only interested because she’s been through every boy in London already,’ she whispers, a little unkindly.
‘Calm down, everyone. Shush!’ says Miss Long. ‘They’re boys, not sweets. I won’t be handing them out. There are five boys in total and they have already been allocated by the exchange programme organisers. You’ll find a letter with the details of your exchange student in your pigeon-hole by the end of the day. Remember, this visit is not about romance, it’s about improving your French.’
Half the class bursts into spontaneous giggles. I hear someone say, ‘I think my French is pretty good already, Miss.’
Miss Long remains stony-faced. ‘Improving your French language
skills,’ she clarifies. ‘So you can put any other ideas out of your heads right now.’
But, of course, the prospect of snogging fit French boys is all anyone can think – or talk – about for the rest of the day. Everyone except me, that is. I honestly don’t care if my French exchange student is a boy or a girl. I’m beginning to wish the exchange programme wasn’t happening. I know that Mum can’t really cope with putting someone up for a month right now, and she’s only agreed because she thinks it will be good for my GCSE grade, and because she doesn’t want me to feel left out.
My mum is sick, and it’s not the type of illness you get better from. She’s been ill for as long as I can remember but, lately, she’s been getting worse. She’s been in and out of hospital for treatments and now she can’t walk properly any more. She keeps falling over. When we go out, she often has to use a stick or a walking frame, which she hates. She also has problems with her eyesight and her hands and she gets incredibly tired. Last year, she had to give up work, which meant Dad had to increase his hours, so he isn’t around much. The upshot is, I have to do a lot more around the house than any of my friends. It’s up to me to do the food shopping and a lot of the cleaning and cooking too. Sometimes, I even have to help Mum to get dressed or to have a shower. (I haven’t told anyone that before, even Rosie and Sky, because it’s embarrassing.) Don’t get me wrong: I’m not complaining. I’m hardly a slave. It’s not Mum’s fault and I don’t mind helping her, but it’s hard to fit it all in with my coursework and seeing my friends. I already have to be super organised. How am I going to add in entertaining a French person too? And what if they don’t understand?
The exchange trip letters appear in our pigeon-holes sometime between lunch and the final period. I take mine out and open it cautiously, praying that whoever I’m getting is sweet and not too fussy and gets on with everybody. I’ve heard horror stories about exchange students who’ve stayed in their rooms, crying from homesickness for the entire month or, worse, who’ve taken an instant dislike to their host family and made their lives hell.
Rosie rushes over to me. ‘Who’ve you got, then? I’m getting someone called Manon, who is – worse luck – one hundred per cent definitely a girl.’
I study my piece of paper. ‘My exchange student is called Ex-avier Durand, and she’s fifteen and from Nice.’
Rosie peers at my sheet. She grins. ‘It’s pronounced neece, not nice. And it’s not ex-avier, it’s zav-ier, like xylophone!’ Her French has always been better than mine. ‘Vix – Xavier a boy’s name. You’ve got one of the boys!’ She’s so excited for me, you’d think I’d won the lottery. ‘You jammy cow!’
I shrug. ‘Oh, cool. I guess.’
Lucy has overheard and now she’s dashing over. She snatches my exchange trip letter out of Rosie’s hands. ‘I can’t believe it! Why did they give you one of the boys, Vix? You don’t even like boys.’
‘Yes she does,’ says Rosie, sticking up for me. ‘They probably didn’t give you a boy because they wanted to make sure he went home in one piece. Without teeth marks.’
Lucy rolls her eyes. ‘Whatever. God, what a waste. Sad for him that he’s going to have such a boring time. Hey, do you wanna swap? Nobody has to know . . .’
Rosie grabs back the letter. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry, Lucy, we’ll make sure he has the best time. And we’ll keep him out of your clutches.’ She smiles at me.
I smile back, as enthusiastically as I can. I do like boys, just not the ones I know, who are, in my opinion, a waste of space – immature idiots with bum fluff, no style and absolutely nothing to say. Rosie’s boyfriend Laurie is OK, but he’s a bit older, and Max, who came to stay on our street last summer, was lovely but he had a thing for Rosie and only wanted to be friends with me. Typically. Most of the boys I’ve met are more like Sky’s ex, Rich – they just muck you around and hurt you and then move on to the next girl. I can’t imagine that French boys are any different. Except they have French accents. And they eat weird things like frogs’ legs and snails and too much garlic, and frites instead of chips. At least French people are stylish. But, knowing my luck, I’ll get the only French boy who really does wear a beret and a stripy top and ride a bicycle, like French people do in stupid cartoons. He’ll probably bring a string of onions as a welcome gift.
I have been to France once, way back when I was a kid, but I can hardly remember anything about it, apart from seeing the Eiffel Tower and going shopping with Mum on the Champs-Elysées, when she could still walk without a stick. My French exchange student doesn’t come from Paris, I remind myself, he comes from Nice. I have no idea what that’s like. Actually, I have no idea where it is. France is a big country, much bigger than England. I guess I should look up Nice on the internet, so I can learn something about it before Xavier, or Ex-avier, or whatever he’s called, arrives. I want to be able to make him feel at home, maybe buy some local food for him, and it would be good to have something to talk about. I hope his English is better than my French . . .
‘What are you thinking about, Vix?’ says Rosie. ‘You’re a million miles away.’
‘Eh? Sorry. Nothing. Just wondering what Xavier will be like and stuff.’
She grins. ‘Ah, so you are a teensy bit excited that you’ve got a sexy French boy coming to stay. I knew it!’
I blush. ‘It’s not like that – you know it isn’t. Anyway, I bet you a million pounds he won’t be sexy. And if he is, he’ll like you, or Sky, not me. Like always. I just don’t want him to have a rubbish time, what with my mum and everything. And I’m worried it’ll be too much for her. She’s only just come out of hospital.’
Rosie puts her arm around me. ‘It’ll be all right, Vix. You’re worrying too much, thinking about all the what ifs before they’ve happened, like you always do. I’ve got a feeling he’s going to be drop dead gorgeous. And why shouldn’t he like you? You’re drop dead gorgeous too.’
rop dead gorgeous? Hardly. I don’t have any complexes about the way I look, not like Sky, who has a thing about her nose (although she’s a little better about it now), but I’m realistic – I’m not the type of girl who makes boys stop and stare. Boys like me, just not in that way.
I’ve never had a boyfriend. God, if I’m honest, I’ve never even kissed anyone. That information is top secret. Everybody thinks I have, and I’ve let them carry on thinking it – even Rosie and Sky, who believe they know all my secrets – because I’m almost fifteen and too embarrassed to admit that I haven’t.
They think it happened at a party, last year, while we were all playing a stupid Spin-the-Bottle/truth-dare type game. Somehow – don’t ask – I found myself having to get into a wardrobe with this guy, Robbie, from Sky’s school, and we were supposed to stay in there for five minutes and snog. But we didn’t. We were both too shy and we didn’t really fancy each other, and I’m fairly certain he’d never kissed anybody before, either. So we stared at each other awkwardly for a while and then, I guess because he was wearing a T-shirt with a racing car on it, we ended up having a conversation about cars instead. He was impressed how much I knew about them because girls aren’t supposed to be interested in that kind of thing, let alone be experts on the technical specifications of each Formula One circuit or car design. But I’ve always loved racing; I even played with cars instead of dolls when I was little. Rosie and Sky think my fascination with cars is weird and that it could partly explain why boys always want to be mates with me, and not my boyfriend. That, and the fact I think about things too much. Maybe they’re right. Anyway, Robbie and I came out of the cupboard at that party, looking sheepish and smoothing down our clothes, like you’re supposed to, and everybody thought we’d enjoyed five minutes of pashing, when we were really reviewing the previous week’s Top Gear.
Fourteen, going on fifteen, and never been kissed – what a cliché! I read advice pages online that say, ‘It’s fine never to have kissed anyone, however old you are . . . You’ll do it when you’re ready, when you
meet the right guy . . . Be patient . . .’ but none of it makes me feel any better. I feel like I’m the only girl in the world who hasn’t done it, the only person who hasn’t become a member of a club that I don’t even know if I want to join. How can I know if I’ll like it until I’ve done it? But if I do it just for the sake of doing it, with the wrong person, then I might not like it anyway. That would be pointless, wouldn’t it? So I wait. And I wait. And I wait, for it to happen, somehow. And in the meantime, I pretend that I’ve already done it and that I’m not too fussed about doing it again. It means that some people, like Lucy Reed, think I don’t like boys and others, like Sky and Rosie, think I’m just too choosy. Even my mum has started saying, ‘When are you going to get a boyfriend, Victoria?’ She refuses to call me Vix, however much I plead with her.
I was supposed to be going round to Rosie’s tonight, but Dad’s away on a business trip and Mum has had a bad day. Even though she hasn’t asked, I think she wants some company, so I told Rosie I’d come tomorrow instead. Mum gets lonely, stuck at home on her own all day, while everybody else is out at work. She doesn’t even like watching daytime TV, which would help. Since I came home from school, I’ve done the vacuuming and popped to Sainsbury’s to buy a few things, like toilet paper and pasta. Now we’re having dinner and then I’ll do some coursework. I should have time for an online chat with my friends before bed, if nothing else.
My cooking has got heaps better. I only used to be able to make beans on toast or omelette, so we ate a lot of microwave meals, but lately I’ve been watching MasterChef and finding recipes on the internet and I can rustle up a decent casserole or spaghetti bolognese or even a basic curry. Tonight we’re having fish pie. It’s a bit of an experiment and I’m not sure it’s worked, but we’re eating it anyway.
‘So how was school today?’ Mum asks, like she does every day. It’s more of a ritual than a conversation.
‘Fine.’ I tell her, like I do every day. ‘Same old, same old. You know . . .’ And then I remember. ‘Actually, I do have some news. About the exchange student.’