‘Voilà!’ he says, as if I’ve done something very good, and beams at me.
I check my watch. We’re meeting Rosie and the others in half an hour. ‘Thanks for that, Xavier. You should go and get ready now. I’ll do the washing up.’
It only takes him ten minutes to shower and get dressed. When he comes back downstairs, wearing a clean sweater and jeans, his hair is still damp and he has that yummy, fresh, soapy smell again.
He frowns at me. ‘Veecks, why did you not tell me I ’ad zee chocolah on my, ’ow you say, cheen?’
I laugh. ‘Sorry.’
‘No problem.’ His eyes twinkle, mischievously. ‘By zee way, you also have zee chocolah. Zare.’ He points to the corner of my mouth, licks his finger and, before I’m aware what’s happening, he’s rubbing the side of my mouth clean. My stomach lurches so hard it must be audible. This is not something I would ever dream of doing to someone I’d just met. It’s so . . . familiar. And yet, in a weird way, so lovely too.
‘Zare,’ he says, looking distinctly pleased with himself. ‘All gone.’
As are all the thoughts in my head.
amden Market is like any other shopping street to me and to my friends, Rosie and Sky. We come here almost every weekend and could now find our way through the maze of stalls with our eyes closed. But to someone who’s never been here before, especially a tourist, Camden Market is a place of wonder – a sort of alternative theme park. I love seeing it through a stranger’s eyes, as they take it all in: the weirdly dressed people, the smells emanating from the food outlets, the music, bright colours and general mayhem. I’m excited to see what Xavier will make of it.
We’ve arranged to meet Rosie and Manon and Sky by the bridge at the Lock in half an hour. Xavier wants to buy some London souvenirs for his family, so on the way I take him to one of those tacky tourist shops on Camden High Street that sell everything you never dreamed you needed (and don’t), all adorned with pictures of red telephone boxes, red buses or the London skyline. He chooses a London bus keyring for his dad and a set of fridge magnets for his mum. The red paint is already flaking off the keyring.
‘Now I am a real Camden guy,’ he says, putting his Union Jack emblazoned plastic bag into his rucksack. He looks so happy that I don’t want to disillusion him by telling him that nobody who actually lives in London would buy any of these things . . . not in a million years.
‘Yes, I’m sure your family will love them.’
‘London is just as I imagined. Except no fog. About zis, I am disappointed.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The weather, it is cold but sunny. Since I arrive, no rain, no fog. I want to see London fog. Like in zee movies. Like in Sherlock ’olmes.’
I giggle. ‘That was in Victorian times. It isn’t foggy in London any more, not that I’ve noticed.’
He pouts, for comic effect. ‘No fog? Bof.’
‘Bof?’
‘Oui, bof! Eez difficult to translate. Like, erm, nevair mind, I don’t care, in a way. But not. Just bof!’
‘Ah, you mean like . . . meh?’
‘Meh?’
‘Yes, meh.’ I laugh. This is a ridiculous conversation. ‘And, er, bof. I think we’re lost in translation. Come on, the others will be waiting.’
Camden Lock is so busy today that it’s hard to find my friends. And part of me hopes that I won’t, because it would be great to show Xavier my favourite areas of the market without having to please anybody else. Eventually, we spot them loitering by a stall that sells handmade silver jewellery. Manon drops the bracelet she’s handling and makes a beeline for Xavier, virtually pushing me out of the way to greet him. She gives him three – not two – kisses on his cheek and then starts chattering away in French so fast that I can’t make out a single word. I stand there like an English spare part for a minute, then decide to leave them to it and go over to join Rosie and Sky. As we embrace, I can’t help noticing that Rosie is wearing a green polka-dot silk scarf, which I’ve never seen before, tied in a complicated knot.
‘New scarf?’
Rosie grins, proudly. ‘It’s Manon’s. She lent it to me and showed me loads of ways to tie it. Do you like it?’
‘Yes, it suits you.’
‘I might look for something similar in the market. Something vintage, maybe, to go with my other jacket.’
‘Good idea. So how is Manon? Are you getting on OK?’
‘Manon’s really cool, thank God,’ says Rosie. ‘We had a real laugh, last night, trying on each other’s clothes and stuff. I think she’s going to fit right in.’
‘Yeah, she seems nice,’ says Sky. ‘I chatted to her on the way up here.’
‘That’s good,’ I say, conscious that Manon hasn’t been very friendly to me so far, at least. ‘Maybe I’ll talk to her later and get to know her a little better.’
Rosie smiles. ‘You should. She’s going to be in our class at school too, so we’ll be spending loads of time with her.’
‘Great,’ I say. It doesn’t come out as enthusiastically as it should have done. ‘How’s her English?’
‘Really good. Miles better than my French.’
‘Yeah, Xavier’s is too. It’s embarrassing. Why are they so much better than us?’
‘I guess they hear English all the time, in films and music, so it’s easier to pick it up. We only do French at school.’
‘Good point. Don’t you love their accent though?’
‘Yeah. It’s super cute.’
I tell Sky and Rosie about the ‘fish and sheep’ and they laugh. Maybe not as hard as I would like, but perhaps you had to be there.
‘Sounds like you’re having fun with Xavier,’ says Sky, with a knowing smile. ‘And he is just as fit as Rosie said. So . . . are you going to introduce me then? Don’t worry, I know you’ve got first option.’
‘Ha ha. Course. Sorry, I forgot you haven’t met him yet. Come on.’
I take her arm and steer her over to Xavier and Manon. They’re still talking at a million miles an hour, with no apparent gaps between their sentences or breaths between their words. I’m about to interrupt when Xavier spots me, stops speaking, and turns to me and grins, like he’s really pleased I’m there. Manon seems nonplussed.
‘Xavier, this is Sky,’ I say. ‘Sky, this is Xavier. I think you’ve already met Manon.’
‘Enchanté,’ he says, kissing Sky. ‘Your name eez Sky? Like le ciel?’
Sky laughs and shoots me a bemused glance. ‘If you say so.’
‘Sky can’t speak any French at all,’ I explain, thankful I understand what he’s just said. Lucky I was paying attention in the weather vocabulary lesson a few years back. ‘Yes, like the sky. Her mum is a sort of hippy.’
‘Cool,’ says Xavier.
Sky shakes her head. ‘Not really. It’s a pain in the . . . really annoying most of the time.’
Rosie sidles over. ‘Come on, guys. We really should look around the market, if we’re going to.’
And that’s exactly what we do, for the next hour or so. We check out T-shirt stalls and poster stalls, stalls selling incense and perfumes, home-made cakes, candles and jewellery, and cavernous spaces where you can buy musical instruments, second-hand clothes and furniture. We take each other’s photos standing by the giant bronze horse statues in the Stables Market, drink orange juice freshly squeezed in front of us, and try on dresses in a vintage boutique (all except for Xavier, obviously). Rosie has an Indian head massage, which makes her giggle, and frizzes her hair, and Manon buys a tan leather handbag. I tell her I like it and she says, ‘Of course,’ which I think is a bit rude. Maybe it’s a language thing.
Now Sky is suggesting we might like to stop to have an ice cream.
‘Good plan,’ I say. It’s not strictly ice-cream weather (about ten degrees too cold), but I know why Sky has come up with this idea. We’re standing just a few metres from the entrance to the weirdest ice-cream parlour in Camden. In London. Or, in the world, probably. It’s called The Chin Chi
n Laboratorists (I have no idea why) and it’s like a cross between a GCSE science lab and an ice-cream shop. The staff wear white lab coats and safety goggles and they use test tubes and beakers filled with colourful solutions. They make the ice cream right in front of you, using liquid nitrogen, producing huge clouds of white gas. Don’t ask me how, but it creates the creamiest ice cream. And even though there are only a few flavours to choose from each day, they’re the most imaginative flavours you could dream up: birthday cake, mango and pepper, hot cross buns and Earl Grey tea or basil choc chip. There are tons of yummy toppings too. It’s all very Willy Wonka. You can even play on swings outside. I wonder what our French guests will make of it.
Sky gathers everyone together. ‘Ice cream?’ she says, to no one in particular.
Rosie nods, enthusiastically, as do I. But Manon scrunches up her nose and pouts, in exactly the way Xavier does when he’s not sure about something. When he makes that face, it’s cute; I think it makes her look arrogant. ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘Eez too cold. And I eat too much already. Coffee, instead, maybe?’
‘Xavier? What about you?’ I say, disregarding her. (Well, she’s been practically ignoring me all day.) I already know how much Xavier likes his food; I don’t think he’ll take much persuading. ‘This isn’t normal ice cream. It’s like nothing you’ve seen or tasted before. You’ve got to try it.’
‘Yes . . . OK,’ he says. ‘Eez cold, but I try.’
I lead him into the ice cream parlour, with the others following close behind. His eyes light up as he takes in the spectacle and grow even wider as the ice cream maker – or chemist – creates his chocolate ice cream in front of him, explaining each step of the process. He’s almost too excited to choose a topping, so I pick sugar-coated frogs’ legs (not real) for him (as a little joke). Rosie has chocolate too, with a sea-salted caramel topping, while Sky and I decide to be adventurous and try the blueberry muffin flavour. It’s insanely tasty.
Manon looks on, grumpily, taking delicate sips of her coffee as we enjoy our ice creams. I think she’s too proud to change her mind and have one. I wish she wasn’t here. I rarely dislike anybody, especially when I first meet them, but there’s something about her that grates on me. Still, I must try to hide my feelings. Rosie seems to like her a lot, and she’s going to be around for a few weeks. Maybe I just need to try harder.
No time like the present. ‘Hey, Manon,’ I say, brightly. ‘So what do you think of Camden Market?’
‘I like,’ she says, without looking up from her coffee. That’s it. Then she turns to Xavier and starts gabbling to him in French.
I glance over at Sky and raise my eyebrows. She smiles back at me, sweetly. So she hasn’t noticed how ‘off’ Manon is being with me? Surely I’m not imagining it? Or could there be another explanation? Could I be . . . jealous? It’s not a feeling I recognise. Or one that I like. And it’s irrational: Xavier isn’t my boyfriend, or anywhere near it. He’s just a guy who’s randomly staying in my house. We’re getting on really well, but I’ve known him for less than twenty-four hours. So why do I feel so anxious and annoyed every time he talks to Manon?
re you OK, Xavier?’ I can’t help noticing that he seems bored. Not in a rude, huffing and puffing way – he’s trotting around with us, patiently waiting while we try on clothes and jewellery – but I can tell that he’s not really enjoying himself any more. I don’t think boys get shopping, especially clothes shopping, not unless they need to buy something.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘No problem.’
‘It’s just . . . I mean, would you rather go somewhere else? I guess it must be a bit rubbish for you, hanging out with girls all day, looking at dresses and stuff. Even I get bored sometimes.’
He shrugs. ‘No, zees is not a problem. I have seesters. It’s nor-mal.’
‘But there must be something you’d like to see. Something you’d prefer to do? Isn’t there?’
He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s not sure whether I’m serious, then smiles. ‘Er, Veecks, do you know what it eez zat I would like very much to do?’
I don’t know, I think, gazing at his dimples. Kiss me?
Oh my goodness! Where did that come from? That crazy thought has popped into my mind from absolutely nowhere and, try as I might, I can’t get it out. I jerk my head, as though it will help to dislodge the idea and stop my cheeks from burning up. Of course that’s not what he’s going to say. As if! Here, in the middle of the market, with all our friends around us and, more to the point, when he doesn’t fancy me anyway? He’s more likely to say ‘rob a bank’.
‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’ I say, hesitantly. ‘Tell me . . .’ I wait, not daring to breathe, just in case a genie suddenly decides to leap out of a nearby fairy tale and grant my wish. As they do.
‘I’d like to go to zee ’ouse of zee singair, Amy Wine’ouse. She leeved in Camden, no?’
My fantasy genie evaporates. ‘Oh, OK, right, sure. Yes, she did.’ I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help but sound disappointed. I clear my throat. ‘OK, cool. I can show you where it is.’
He smiles. ‘Excellont. Zis is what I want to see most in all of Camden Town.’
‘Really? I’m surprised. So you’re a fan, then?’
‘Ah, oui. I love Amy Wine’ouse.’
‘Yeah? I didn’t know she was big in France. Me too. I’m a huge fan.’ This is the truth, although I can’t help thinking that I’d probably have said it anyway, just to please him. Which means I’m officially turning into the sort of girl I claim to hate. ‘Actually, I used to see her around Camden sometimes. She seemed nice, friendly.’
‘Wow! You knew Amy Wine’ouse!’ He glances around him, expectantly, as if he’s about to announce this exciting news to everybody else. Luckily, they’re all out of earshot.
‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘Kind of. Sort of. A bit. We weren’t exactly friends. Just neighbours. Distant neighbours. Anyway . . .’
He grins. ‘Then we go now? Eet’s OK? Eet’s far from ’ere?’
‘Not too far. Hold on. Let me tell my friends.’ I look around for the others. Sky is rifling through a box of vinyl, probably so she can buy something for her DJ half-sister. Rosie and Manon have ventured a little further into the stalls and appear to be showing each other some plaited leather belts. I hesitate. I should probably ask them if they want to join us. But Rosie won’t want to come, I’m sure of it. She’s already told me that she doesn’t see the point of hanging around outside a dead singer’s house when there’s a live rock star living right next door (the drummer from Fieldstar, to be precise, but that’s a whole other story). Not to mention that she’s been to visit about a hundred times already. I really don’t want her to bring Manon, who has still barely said a word to me. More to the point, I’m entitled to some alone time with Xavier, aren’t I?
I walk up behind Sky and playfully put my hands on her shoulders, making her jump. ‘Only me,’ I tell her. ‘Listen, Xavier’s had enough. You know. So I’m going to take him home. Is that OK with you?’
‘Sure,’ says Sky. ‘There’s a few things I want to check out, so I won’t come back with you now, if that’s OK. We’ll catch up later, yeah?’
‘Course. Um, Rosie and Manon look busy. I don’t want to interrupt them. Will you tell them for me?’
‘No worries.’ She hugs me and flashes me a coy little smile. ‘Have fun with Xavier.’
‘We’re just going home,’ I say, flushing. Can she tell how I feel about him? Is it that obvious? ‘We’ll probably end up sitting talking to Mum and Dad or something. Boring. Anyhow, see you later.’
I turn away before she can say anything else and walk back over to Xavier.
He smiles. ‘Your friends? Don’t they come also?’
‘Er, nobody else really fancies it,’ I say, leaving out the part that I didn’t give them a choice. If anyone objects later, I can always say we thought of the Amy Winehouse idea on the way home and took a detour.
‘No problem.’
It’s probably wishful thinking, but he doesn’t seem the slightest bit unhappy about this.
We head back up the high street and take a shortcut through Sainsbury’s on to Camden Road. Well, it’s meant to be a shortcut, except Xavier seems fascinated by the prospect of checking out an English supermarket, and asks if we can wander the aisles for a few minutes. I agree, to humour him, although frankly it seems a bit weird. Who goes food shopping for fun? Especially a boy. And who prefers Sainsbury’s to Camden Market? He says he wants to see what food you can buy in England, whether it’s the same as in French supermarkets, and whether (I’m guessing, because he’s too polite to say it) English food is as rubbish as French people think. So I follow him around, letting him peer into the freezer cabinets and pick up and replace things from the shelves until he’s satisfied.
‘Zee food ’ere. Eez the same, almost,’ he declares, appearing disappointed. ‘One can even buy zee baguettes and zee Camembert.’
‘Course,’ I say. ‘It’s England, not a third-world country. We have everything. We don’t live on fish and chips and roast beef. No frogs’ legs or snails here, though, I’m afraid.’ I’m aware I sound a bit miffed. Xavier doesn’t know how much time I spend trudging around here, buying stuff for Mum, when I’d rather be doing something else. It’s not my favourite place. I force a smile. ‘Come on, I thought you wanted to see Amy’s house.’
‘But yes,’ he says. ‘Of course. Let us go. But one day, we come back and buy zee food and I’ll cook for you and your family, a proper French dinair. If it pleases you.’
‘I would like that,’ I say, surprised. ‘You cook? Seriously?’
‘Oui, my mother, she teaches me.’
He doesn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed by this. He even seems proud. I don’t know any boys who cook. Not one. The boys I know think the only food worth eating comes out of polystyrene cartons with a logo stamped on them. Cooking is for girls and wusses. But Xavier is most definitely not a wuss.