A man in a neat business suit sat down at the table. He stirred his coffee in slow motion and laid a serviette on his lap. He took a tiny bite out of a heart-shaped pastry. My heart was pounding again. I couldn’t turn up on André Courrèges’ doorstep with nothing to show him! For the last nine months, since I’d left high school in fact, everything had been leading up to that moment. How could I have been so stupid?
I didn’t know what to do. I needed someone to talk things over with. It’s hard to work out what to do when you’re alone, and I’d been alone ever since Colleen had left. I didn’t want to share the bed-sit with a stranger, so I’d stayed there by myself, even though it was expensive. Back in Adelaide, I’d had loads of friends. I was the popular girl with the most fashionable clothes. In London I’d been so focussed on my career, I hadn’t really made any friends.
I tried, but I couldn’t stop the tears. The girl in the wedding dress stared at me instead of the wall, but her expression didn’t change. The man in the suit was more concerned.
“Etes-vous malade?”
I couldn’t translate the way I was feeling into French. So I nodded. He ordered a cognac for me and one for himself. I drank it like medicine—in one gulp. The room started to spin, so I rested my head on my arms.
When I looked up again, daylight was filtering through the grimy windows. The girl in the wedding dress and the man in the suit were gone. There was a serviette on the table with bon chance written on it. A woman with her hair wrapped in a bright yellow scarf and a cigarette in her mouth was sweeping the floor. The all-night bar had transformed into a sedate cafe selling coffee and gateaux.
The room was nearly empty, apart from a few neatly dressed, early-morning travellers. It looked like a normal waiting room. The cleaning lady refilled the sugar bowl and wiped the table. She was about to brush the serviette into a rubbish bag, but I picked it up and put it in my suitcase pocket. I needed all the luck I could get.
I looked at myself in the mirror in the ladies toilet. My eyes were swollen, my mascara was smudged, my hair was a tangled mess. I had a wash and changed into my grey velvet hot pants and green pigskin boots. I got out my hair dryer and straightened my hair, turning it under slightly where it hit my shoulders. I cleaned my furry teeth and re-applied my mascara. Now I looked more like me. My make-up highlighted my hazel eyes but wasn’t too heavy, my maroon tights perfectly matched the swirls in my paisley blouse and my over-the-knee, high-heeled boots looked great. My clothes needed an iron, and I had my travel iron in my case, but there was no place to iron anything in the ladies.
I gave myself a pep talk. It was Friday. It was early. I had plenty of time to find the American girls and a London taxi with pink and white curtains would be easy to track down. Everyone would remember it. And then I still had Saturday. My return ticket on the hovercraft was for Monday morning.
I took the Metro in the direction of the Bois du Boulogne, got off at the last stop and walked the rest of the way. There was no sign of the London taxi at the camping ground, but a German boy had seen it. The girls had left early to go to the Louvre, he said, but I thought he must have got it wrong, because Louvre didn’t begin with a V.
“They just want to look at one thing,” the German boy said with a smile. “Venus de Milo. Then they go to Versailles.”
Everything took too long—walking back to the Metro, finding the right line, the right platform. My feet were killing me and I wished I’d left my suitcase in a locker. It was only small, but it was heavy.
I couldn’t see the London taxi parked anywhere near the Louvre. I thought there’d be less chance of missing Veronica and Vanessa if I waited outside. The morning disappeared. There was no sign of the girls. They must have made a flying visit to the Louvre, had a quick look at the Venus de Milo and then headed off to Versailles. I borrowed a guidebook from a couple from Leeds who were with a tour group, so I could work out how to get to Versailles. It was only fifteen miles outside Paris.
On the bus to Versailles, I thought about what I’d lost. I remembered my Rainbow Collection, all curved bands of coloured fabric sewn together with a matching hand-painted umbrella, and my see-through evening dress made of fine chiffon and worn over silk shorts and midriff top.
It wasn’t just the fact that there were five year’s worth of hard work and inspiration in that folder. I could redraw the designs. It would take a while, but I could do it. I just couldn’t go back to London and face the Konundrum girls.
I’d had no intention of telling them why I was going to Paris, but it slipped out one day when I wasn’t on my guard. They sneered. They rolled their eyes and called me Mary Quant. If they found out I’d lost my design folio before I got to see André, they’d never let me forget it. I had to find my folio, even if it meant I arrived back a day or two late. I’d tell Serena I’d picked up a tummy upset from eating French food.
There was no sign of Gertrude at Versailles, but the man at the car park entrance remembered the talkative American girls and le taxi du Londres. He was a black man and he didn’t wince at my bad French.
“ Elles sont allés à Lyons,” he said. “Ou peut-être Vichy.”
I knew exactly where they’d be going.
Five
A One-sided Argument
The réceptionniste at the Youth Hostel in Vichy wasn’t helpful. Many American girls stayed there, she said, and she couldn’t remember them all. There was no camping ground in the town, so I’d run out of leads.
It had taken me all day to find the bus station, and to travel to Vichy on a bus full of sweaty high-school basketball players. I was tired and ready to give up, so I booked into the hostel. I wasn’t a YHA member, so it wasn’t as cheap as I thought it would be. There were no sheets on the bunks. You had to use a sleep-sheet, which is like a sleeping bag made out of a bed sheet. I didn’t have one so I had to buy one.
There were only three people in the common room—a German girl who was cooking something German, and two boys.
A kettle was boiling away on the stove.
“Are there any tea bags?” I asked.
They ignored me.
“I suppose you have to bring your own.”
One of the boys was reading a book called The Dice Man. He gave me a look over the top of it, as if I were a complete idiot. I sank into a lumpy brown armchair.
The other boy was studying a map spread out on his knees. He took pity on me, fished a crumpled tea bag out of his rucksack and dangled it in front of me. I accepted it gratefully.
His face was pale and pudgy. His straight black hair hung in strings almost to his shoulders and looked like it hadn’t been washed in a while. He had a crooked fringe (which he’d obviously cut himself) and dark-framed National Health glasses.
“I’m ready to go home,” he said to the other boy. “I’ve run out of things to read.”
I’d thought he looked English, but he had a lovely Welsh accent.
“I’m not going to Florence,” he continued, even though his friend was ignoring him. “We’d have to go over the Alps. You know I can’t stand heights. Do you know how high the Alps are?”
I love the way the Welsh emphasise every other word when they speak. It makes them sound enthusiastic about everything, even when they’re complaining.
I was dunking my donated tea bag, so I felt obliged to look interested. I shook my head.
“Fifteen thousand feet.”
Still no response from the other boy.
“That’s ... two-and-a-half miles. Up. Only things with wings should be at that altitude.”
Since I was the only person listening to him, I thought I should introduce myself.
“I’m Jackie,” I said.
“Alun. One A and a U.”
He was wearing the sort of wide-bottomed trousers called loon pants that were fashionable in London. His were bright green and too tight. A roll of pale fat was visible between the pants and his shrunken cheesecloth shirt, which had tea stains down the front.
“Got any books to swap, Jackie?” Alun asked.
I had two books, both by Georgette Heyer.
“I meant to bring a Georgette Heyer and a guidebook to Paris,” I explained. Not that he’d asked. “I was tossing up which Heyer to bring and narrowed it down to These Old Shades and Arabella. I chose Arabella, then at the last minute I changed my mind. When I got on the train to Dover, I realised I’d brought both Heyers and left the guidebook on the table.”
“I’m a Literature student,” Alun said, looking at my books like they were mouldy sandwiches.
“Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”
He sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to read this again.”
He picked up a grubby book with the cover falling off. Its title was Twrch Trwyth.
“How on earth do you pronounce that?” I said. “There aren’t any vowels!”
He read out the name, but I still couldn’t tell you how to pronounce it.
“It’s a story about King Arthur, written in medieval Welsh. It’s the oldest Arthurian story in the world. When I get back to university, I’m going to write a thesis about it.”
I took that to mean he didn’t want to read my books.
“I’ve never been abroad before,” Alun said. “ He promised me we could go to look at some medieval villages in Provence, but now we’re here, he says he wants to go to Italy to see Pink Floyd.”
The other boy still didn’t look up from his book.
Alun was quite happy carrying on a conversation all by himself. I didn’t need to say anything.
“We don’t have to go all that way to see Pink Floyd. We can see them in England and we wouldn’t have to put up with all those ... you know ... Italians.”
He glared at the other boy. “There’s a rumour going around that Pink Floyd are doing a concert under the dome in Florence Cathedral. It’s for this film they’re making. They’re trying to keep it a secret, see.”
Alun leaned towards me.
“He’s sulking, because he didn’t pull either of those American girls.” Alun smiled revealing perfect teeth. “Spoiled his batting average.”
“Which American girls?” The conversation had suddenly become interesting.
“The Vestal Virginians. We got a lift with them and they took a real fancy to him because his name begins with a V.”
“Veronica and Vanessa?” I asked.
Alun nodded.
“I’ve been trying to find them! Are they staying here?”
Alun glanced at the other boy. “They were supposed to be staying here tonight, but they left this afternoon without a word.” He jerked his head towards the other boy. “That’s why he’s so bummed.”
“Sugar!” I’d missed the girls again.
The boy whose name began with a V turned a page of his book. He was good-looking in a sullen British way. He had a suntan and blue eyes and brown hair that had been cut by a professional. He was wearing jeans and a pink grandpa shirt that, on him, looked stylish.
“I don’t have a head for heights,” Alun explained. “Never did.”
I thought we’d finished the conversation about the Alps ten minutes ago, but obviously Alun still had more to say on the subject.
“When I was eight my dad made me walk up Cadair Idris. I didn’t get anywhere near the top. When I looked over the edge and saw how high we were, I went all dizzy and felt sick. I was sick. On my sister Maggie’s shoes. I was terrified. It’s only the ninth highest mountain in Wales, barely half a mile high.”
I nodded politely. “Did the girls say where they were going next?”
“Verona.”
The common room was starting to fill up with other travellers—Italians and Germans, and others who I thought were Swiss. They’d been off hiking or seeing the sights of Vichy (whatever they are) and now they were preparing a communal meal of spaghetti with a sauce made from a mountain of tomatoes. They didn’t invite Alun and the other boy to join them. They didn’t invite me either. I was starving.
“I wish we’d gone home for the holidays,” Alun said with a sigh. “I could have been eating Mum’s braised chops.” He looked at the other boy. “You could have been playing strip poker with my sisters.”
“So I guess you guys don’t have any food?” I asked Alun.
He shook his head. “No, but I’d kill for some fish and chips.”
I went to the fridge. There were some things pushed to the back—four eggs in a carton and a lump of hard cheese. I pulled them out.
“Does this stuff belong to anyone?”
No one answered, so I took that as a no. I put the eggs in a bowl of water to see if they were fresh. (If they float they’ve gone off. Millie taught me that. No one has a fridge in England.) They didn’t float. I picked up a tomato that had rolled off the table and rummaged through the cupboards where I found a tin of mushrooms and a packet of pumpernickel that looked abandoned.
I made an omelette with the eggs, the cheese and a dash of someone else’s milk. I toasted the pumpernickel, sliced the tomato with my Swiss Army knife and cooked it in a pan with the mushrooms. I felt self-conscious eating other people’s food, so I divided it into three.
“Nice one,” Alun said when I handed him a plate of food.
The boy whose name began with a V didn’t say anything, but took the third plate. There was no room at the table, so we ate with our plates on our laps.
Over another cup of tea and some dusty chocolate that Alun had found in the bottom of his rucksack, he kept up his one-sided argument.
“I don’t see why we can’t go somewhere flat like Holland or a lovely beach.”
They’d only been away from England for three days, but Alun was already homesick.
“You’re Australian, are you, Jackie?” He recognised my accent.
“I’m from Adelaide.”
“Adelaide? You’re a long way from home.”
“Not really. Home’s in London at the moment.”
“So you’re touring around are you?”
“Not really. I’m trying to catch up with Veronica and Vanessa. I left something important in their car.”
Alun didn’t ask me what it was.
I borrowed his map to see how far it was to Italy. I pictured the smirking faces of the Konundrum girls when I told them what had happened. I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“Is there a train or a bus to Verona?” I asked.
“I dunno. We’re hitching.”
He was searching a shelf of abandoned books, still looking for something to read. He came back with a tatty board-game box.
“Do you want a game of Monopoly, Adelaide?” Alun said.
I guess he knew there was no point in asking his friend.
“Sure,” I said, though I was ready for bed.
His face fell when he opened out the board. “It’s in French,” he said. “I’m hopeless with modern languages.”
“I’m sure we’ll be able to get by,” I said. “I’ll be the thimble, what do you want to be?”
Six
The Mobile Motor Show
I felt like death warmed up the next morning. I’d been looking forward to a good night’s sleep, but there was no blanket on my bunk. The front desk had closed by the time I went to bed, so all I had was my sleep-sheet. I’d thought I was so tired I could sleep through anything, but those quiet and serious Swiss girls were passing around a bottle of cherry brandy. The hostel rules were lights out by ten-thirty, but the Swiss girls’ whispering and giggling soon turned into loud talking and laughter. I bet it was one of them who took my blanket.
I hadn’t had a shower for nine months. There are no showers in England, just baths with meters that you have to feed with shillings to get hot water. Just then, I would have willingly paid five pounds for a hot shower, but there wasn’t one. I needed to wash my hair but my shampoo had leaked inside my suitcase. I had to make do with a lukewarm bath, washing my hair under the tap. There were about eight abandoned shampoo bottles in the bathroom, each with h
alf an inch in the bottom. I poured all those dregs into one bottle. The mixture was a nasty brown colour but it did the job. I felt better once my hair was clean.
I’d packed for a long weekend in Paris. I had three outfits designed to impress André Courrèges—two pairs of hot pants, the grey velvet ones and a chocolate brown corduroy pair with matching vest; and my split skirt. To wear with them I had my two blouses, a long purple cardigan and a green singlet in case it got hot. I decided to wear the grey hot pants again with the paisley blouse, the cardigan and my boots.
I was just about to leave for the bus station when Alun emerged from the boys’ dorm.
“Morning, Adelaide,” he said cheerfully. “Sleep well?”
I hadn’t. When the Swiss girls had finally gone quiet, someone else came into the dormitory in the dark. There was the sound of a sleeping bag unzipping and rustling. Then heavy breathing and low moaning, which turned into grunting and then rapid panting. I was shocked. They’d looked like such nice girls. I tried to shut out the noise by stuffing my undies (clean ones) in my ears, but I couldn’t get to sleep. I didn’t tell Alun that.
“So you’re off to Provence?” I said. I’d beaten him at French Monopoly, so I felt like I had to be sociable.
“No,” Alun said. “We’re going to Florence.”
The other boy came out of the dorm. He was wearing a clean T-shirt and putting his book in the front pocket of his rucksack.
“It’s that book, see,” Alun said. “It’s about a man who makes all his decisions by throwing dice. After you went to bed last night, he threw the dice to decide where we were going. The dice said we were going to Florence.”
The other boy had a little triumphant smile on his face.
“I’m off to the bus station,” I said.
“You could hitch with us as far as the turnoff to Florence,” Alun said. “Hitching’s quicker and cheaper than the bus.”