The Boy from France (10 page)

I don’t want to tell him I’ve never had a boyfriend, even though he’s probably guessed.

I wrap up the conversation after that because I’m not sure what else to say, and Xavier will be back soon, and if I don’t do some homework I will get into serious trouble at school
tomorrow. But I can’t stop thinking about what Max said. Be myself? That’s easy. But it doesn’t help at all. I’ve always been myself and nothing has ever happened
‘naturally’ before, not with anyone. Maybe ‘being myself’ is the problem. Maybe I’m destined to be single for ever.

hen I first started helping to look after Mum, I used to think of myself as a sort of Cinderella (without the Ugly
Sisters or the rags). If I was doing a chore I really hated – cleaning the bathroom, say – I’d shut my eyes as tightly as I could and will a Fairy Godmother to appear. With a wave
of her magic wand, she’d not only make all the cleaning products disappear, she’d also make Mum better – and not just until midnight. Then she’d whisk me off in a Formula
One racing car (horses and carriages are far too clunky) to a fabulous theme park, where all my friends would be waiting. At the time, I was far too young to appreciate boys, so there was never a
Prince Charming figure in my fantasy. But if there had been, I’m sure he’d have been a lot like Xavier. So maybe all those years of wishing did work after all . . .

‘Veecks?’ A sleepy-looking Xavier jolts me out of my daydreams. I was hoping to have finished cleaning the bathroom before he emerged from his bedroom. I don’t want him to know
that when’s Dad’s away I get up a full half-hour before him every day, or that this morning I’ve already helped Mum out of bed, got her dressed, taken her downstairs and made her
coffee. He rubs his eyes. ‘Vot are you doing?’

It must be fairly obvious. I have a cloth in one hand and a can of Mr Muscle in the other. I resist the temptation to say something sarcastic like ‘I’m baking a cake’ because
I’ve learned that sarcasm doesn’t translate very well, and that, by the time I’ve explained that I’m joking, it won’t seem remotely clever or funny any more.
‘I’m cleaning.’

‘Yes, but why? Why before school?’

‘Because the bath is dirty. And because Mum asked me to. I was supposed to do it last night but didn’t have time. It’s no big deal.’

‘Ah, OK. Your muzzer, she eez OK? She does not work, no?’

I guess he’s wondering why she can’t clean the bathroom herself.

‘No, she doesn’t work at the moment . . .’ I leave the statement hanging. Mum used to be a teacher. She was medically retired a few years ago. She’ll never be able to go
back, but Xavier doesn’t need to know that.

‘She eez sick?’

It’s the question I’ve been dreading. I take a deep breath. I could still change my mind and tell him the truth. And maybe I would, if he didn’t look so concerned and
sympathetic. The last thing I want from him is his pity.

‘She hurt her legs. Um, in an accident. It just means she can’t walk properly or do stuff around the house for a while.’ I smile. ‘I really don’t mind helping
out.’

I’m not sure if he believes me – although I suppose there’s no reason why he shouldn’t – but, thankfully, he doesn’t ask for any more details. ‘She will
get bettair soon,’ he says, in a comforting tone. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I tingle, all the way down to my fingertips.

‘Sure she will.’

‘So I ’elp you now?’

I look at him, incredulous. ‘Seriously?’

‘Why not? I can clean also.’

‘No, you’re a guest. It wouldn’t be right. Anyway, you need to get ready for school.’

‘
Bof.
Wiz two eet eez quickair.’

‘OK, then. That would be great. Thanks.’ Before he can change his mind, I find him another cloth and hand him the can of cleaning fluid, pointing him in the direction of the sink. He
sets to work, humming some of the
Grease
yogurt lyrics we made up as he goes along. ‘Ya da wada wada, you da wada wada, ooh ooh oh.’

I join in on the ‘ooh ooh oohs’ and we both giggle.

Max should be proud of me. I am totally ‘being myself’ – I can’t think of any activity less glamorous or pretentious than cleaning. And cleaning with Xavier is (almost)
fun. Come to think of it, doing pretty much anything with Xavier would be fun or, certainly, more bearable. I should ask him if he’ll come to the dentist with me and help me with my maths
coursework.

‘Zair,’ he says, when he’s finished. His effort has been a bit slapdash and he’s forgotten to wipe around the taps, but who cares? ‘All fineeshed.’

I smile at him in the (slightly smeary) bathroom cabinet mirror and he grins back at me. Funny how things turn out. I’d always imagined my Fairy Godmother to be a slightly plump,
middle-aged woman with a perm, a pink tutu and a magic wand, not a fit French boy with wavy hair, dark-wash jeans and a can of Mr Muscle. Perhaps Xavier is my Prince Charming and Fairy Godmother
rolled into one. Although he can’t make Mum better. Nobody can do that, not even the brain scientists.

I leave him to take a shower while I go into my bedroom to finish getting ready for school. We meet downstairs, in the kitchen. Mum is at the table, where I left her, looking at her laptop. She
makes small talk with us while we eat our cereal, and then, before I can stop him, Xavier comes out with, ‘I am very sorry to ’ear of your accidont,
Madame
.’

Whoops! When I told him my little white lie, I didn’t expect him to say anything to Mum. That was stupid of me. I should have warned him not to mention it, said that she was touchy about
it. I don’t want Mum to think I’m ashamed of her illness.

Mum raises her eyebrows at me. Her expression reads, ‘We’ll discuss this later.’

I glance back at her, innocently, and will her not to correct Xavier.

‘Thank you, Xavier,’ she says. ‘That’s very kind of you. Actually, while you’re both here, I wanted to ask you something. My friend Jane has just emailed.
She’s got a spare ticket for the theatre tonight and wonders if I’d like to go with her. She said she could pick me up at six and take me for a bite to eat first. Would you mind if I
wasn’t here tonight? Could you manage on your own? It’ll only be for a few hours.’

I try not to look too happy. Do I mind having to spend the evening alone with Xavier? Hardly. Do I mind having the house to ourselves for a few hours? Hell no!

‘Sure, Mum, that’s fine with me. It’ll be so good for you to get out. Um, that’s if it’s OK with you, Xavier?’

He looks puzzled. Perhaps Mum was talking too fast. Sometimes I forget that his English isn’t perfect and he can’t always keep up.

‘My mum is going out tonight, so we’ll have to stay alone here. Is that OK?’

He grins. ‘
Mais oui
, of course. Perhaps I can cook something
Français
, as I promised?’

‘Cool,’ I say. ‘That would be perfect. There you go, Mum. All sorted. Go out and have a good time. We’ll be fine.’

Mum is hesitant. ‘Perhaps I should clear it with the school. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to leave Xavier unsupervised.’

‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t bother with that. Like you said, it’s only for a few hours. And you know we’re both very responsible. Well, you know I am, anyway.’

She nods. ‘OK, then.’ Although neither of us dares to say it, we’re both aware that, these days, I’m usually the one who looks after her, and not the other way
around.

I smile. ‘I promise we won’t have any wild parties or set fire to the kitchen.’

Today, with no Dad around to give us a lift, we’re meeting Rosie and Manon at the end of the street, so that we can all walk to school together. (Xavier now feels confident enough in
Camden to make the last part of the journey on his own.) It’s the first time Rosie has seen me with him since our little chat, a couple of days ago, and I feel very self-conscious. As we head
towards her, I know she’s watching how I act with him, reading my body language and trying to work out what’s going on between us. I’m giving nothing away; I don’t want
another lecture. I try to behave as coolly as I can, walking fast and looking straight ahead until I’m close enough to make eye contact with her. Then I smile my broadest smile, greet her and
Manon, and start chatting about the test we’ve got today. I even let Manon monopolise Xavier all the way to school, pretending that it doesn’t bother me.

Xavier leaves us at the school gates.

‘See you laytair, Veecks,’ he says, as he kisses me goodbye (he kisses the others too). I maintain my composure, giving him a shy smile only when I’m sure the others
can’t see.

He’s just begun to walk away when Rosie calls him back. ‘I forgot to say, do you want to come out for coffee with us after school? I’ve said I’d take Manon and a couple
of her friends to Tupelo Honey. You should both come too. And I’m going to text Sky to see if she fancies it.’

I don’t know what to say. I try to catch Xavier’s eye to see his reaction but he just grins at me, enigmatically. Maybe he doesn’t understand. After what Rosie said the other
day, I certainly don’t want to make a big thing about having time alone with Xavier tonight, or to tell her that he’s cooking for me. Never mind, I suppose we can always have coffee
with the others and then go home and have dinner later.

I’m just about to say, ‘OK, that would be nice,’ when Xavier answers instead.

‘We cannot come tonight, sorry,’ he says, with the type of assurance that nobody would dare to question. ‘I promise to make dinair for Veecks’s muzzair. Anuzzer night,
per’aps.’

So he’s fibbed! And I didn’t even ask him to. Either he doesn’t want to go out with the others or he really does want to spend time alone with me. God, I hope it’s the
latter. I seriously cannot wait until tonight.

osie comes to find me at breaktime. I’m really glad to see that she’s on her own for once, without
Manon, because I am absolutely dying to tell her about everything that happened after Mum went out last night. I need to get it off my chest and I could do with her perspective. By the time I got
to bed it was too late to text her or Sky. And there was no time before school this morning. Not being able to talk about it is driving me a little bit bonkers.