The Boy from France

  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 t
hat 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.

  He nods. ‘Merci. I am happy that I met you too, Veecks. Please say goodbye and sank you again to your parents.’

  So that’s all I’m getting – he’s happy that he met me. I was right not to say anything more. ‘Of course I will. They’re really sorry they couldn’t come to the station to see you off.’

  ‘Sank you.’

  We’re distracted by movement and noise behind us. The French exchange coordinator is gathering all the French students together, taking a register to make sure everyone is accounted for. She motions to Xavier to come over. She looks impatient.

  ‘I sink that I must go now,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  He sighs and clutches my hand. ‘Goodbye, Veecks.’

  ‘Goodbye, Xavier.’

  There’s no time for a proper kiss now and, anyway, everybody is watching us, pointing to their watches, waiting for him. So it’s going to end with a quick peck on both my cheeks. The way it all began. The kiss at the party really was the very last one. If only I could have one more, just one more . . .

  ‘Au revoir.’ He lets go of my hand and gives me a smile. I smile back, as bravely as I can, even though I want to cry. And then he picks up his rucksack, swings it on to his shoulder and walks away to join his his French friends. I stare at his back, watching his rucksack bob along until he’s disappeared into the group, and then turn away, unsure what to do with myself. I feel lost, hopeless and very alone. Maybe I’ll grab a coffee or look around the station shops – anything to distract myself, to avoid going home. I start to walk away, slowly, aimlessly.

  ‘Veecks! Wait!’

  There’s a hand on my shoulder. It can’t be? Can it?

  ‘Xavier? I . . . I . . .’ Somehow, impossibly, he is by my side again. ‘I thought I would never . . . that you’d gone!’ I’m so surprised and confused that I realise my feet are still walking.

  He runs in front of me, grinning. ‘Stop! We ’ave only two minutes. Come!’ He grabs my arm and manoeuvres me to the side of the information desk, where we’re out of sight. ‘I ’ave somesing for you.’ He presses a piece of paper into my palm and closes my hand over it. ‘Eet ees my email address. If you steel want. And my telephone numbair.’

  ‘Seriously? You want me to contact you? I thought at the party you said . . .’

  ‘Oui. Eef you steel want. Eet won’t be easy, but, eef possible I want to try. I realise I care about you very much, Veecks. And I will mees you. A lot.’

  I’m so happy I can barely breath. ‘Wow! Me too. I wanted to tell you before but I didn’t think you felt the same. I . . .’

  ‘Shush,’ he says, putting his index finger on my lips. ‘Or zair will be no time for zees . . .

  Before I can say ‘For what?’ his mouth is on mine and he is kissing me so hard, so deeply that I feel dizzy.

  Just as I start to understand what’s happening, to enjoy it and kiss him back, he pulls away. Just one more kiss, I think again. Just one more . . .

  ‘And now I must really go!’ he says. ‘Goodbye! Au revoir! A bientôt! Email me!’ And then he’s off, running towards the platform, as fast as he can, weaving his way through the crowds. For one brief moment, as he walks through the ticket barrier, he turns around and gives me a little wave. I wave back, but he doesn’t see me.

  My boy from France has gone.

  I stand rooted to the spot for a few minutes, unable to decipher my emotions. Did that really just happen, or did I imagine it? It must have done, I can still feel the imprint of his lips. He does care about me and want to keep in touch – that’s amazing. But he’s not h
ere any more. I am both happier and more sad than I’ve ever felt before. It’s hard to believe that it’s only been a month since I stood here with Dad, waiting for my unknown French exchange, expecting nothing at all. So much has happened. So much has changed. I’ve changed.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t want to go back to my house and I don’t feel like going to the hospital to see Mum right now, but I can’t stand here for ever, holding back the tears, trying to look normal.

  ‘Vix!’ Rosie rushes up to me, from nowhere, out of breath. She has Sky with her. The two of them hug me. ‘Thank God you’re still here. Are you OK? We thought you’d need cheering up. So we came down to the station to find you. It took us a while and we were worried you might have gone already.’

  ‘That’s really nice of you both,’ I say. I’ve never felt so relieved to see anybody in my life. ‘I feel a bit . . . upset.’ My voice cracks.

  ‘Of course you do, hon,’ says Sky. ‘But it’s going to be fine, I promise. Come on, let’s get a coffee and you can tell us all about it. Then we’ll get the bus back to Camden and go shopping or something.’

  ‘Thanks, I’d like that.’

  Rosie links her arm through my right arm, and Sky takes the left. I feel stronger and safer already. As we move off, I take one last look behind me, at the empty platform, at the spot where Xavier stood just a few minutes ago, and I wonder when I’ll see him again. Then I turn my head forwards, towards Camden, to the future, and I think – I know – that, somehow, everything is going to be all right.

  hank you to my agent Catherine Pellegrino and to the team at Piccadilly press: Brenda Gardner, Anne Clark, Melissa Hyder, Andrea Reece, Margot Edwards, Vivien Tesseras, Geoff Barlow, Lea Garton, Simon Davis and Geoffrey Lill.

  It’s been a year of drama, trauma and huge changes in my life, and a year that I wouldn’t have survived without the incredible support and love of my family and friends, notably my parents, Michael and Vivien Freeman, Judy Corre, Claire Fry, Nicola Rossi, Jax Donnellan, Diane Messidoro, Karen John-Pierre, Rachel Baird, Nishi Shah, Miriam Herman, Gabbie Lecoat, Anna Smith, Colin Richardson, Vicki Prais and Jo Cotterill.