The Boy from France (13 page)

Today, I’ve come home from school, hoping to spend some time with Xavier, as well as everything else I need to do, and now Mum is telling me we hardly have any food in the house, so I need
to go to Sainsbury’s for her too. She was supposed to do an internet shop, but I have a suspicion that her hands have been playing up this week, making it hard to type on the keyboard. Or
maybe she’s just forgotten. Her memory has been a bit dodgy lately too, which is really scary.

‘Can’t we make do with whatever’s in the cupboard tonight?’ I ask.

She’s not in the mood for a discussion. ‘No. We need to eat properly and there’s nothing fresh. I’d like you to get some chicken and vegetables, and we need milk and eggs
too.’ She points to her handbag. ‘There’s some cash in my purse. Please could you take it and go to Sainsbury’s now.’

I turn away and make a face. ‘OK. Come on, then, Xavier,’ I say, taking the money from her bag and shoving the folded notes into my purse. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t
understood my conversation with Mum. We were going too fast for him. ‘We need to go shopping, get some stuff in for dinner,’ I explain. ‘If you don’t mind coming?’

‘Ah, OK,’ he says, getting up from the sofa. I hand him the coat he’s just taken off. I don’t say goodbye to Mum.

Xavier holds my hand as we walk along the street. ‘You appear sad,’ he says. ‘Eez it your muzzer? You worry about her broken legs?’

‘Something like that.’ I smile at him. He’s so sweet. For a moment I have second thoughts about not telling him the truth, then change my mind instantly. Even if I wanted to
come clean about the fact that Mum hasn’t had an accident but has a disease that’s getting worse, I still couldn’t do it. First, he’d be angry that I’d lied. Then
he’d start asking questions and then I’d have to explain everything. How can you tell your new boyfriend that sometimes your mum doesn’t make it to the loo in time? Both ends.
That she has to wear pads, like a nappy? It’s really embarrassing and gross and totally unromantic and, anyway, she’d hate it too if she thought I’d told anyone that.

So I don’t tell him. Instead, I stop walking, turn my body around to face him, and kiss him hard on the mouth. I’ve discovered that kissing can be a great distraction. He kisses me
back, just like I hope he will and soon I realise that I don’t feel angry or upset about Mum any more.

When I open my eyes, I notice that we’re standing by the steps that lead down to Regent’s Canal. It’s growing dark now, and I’m not supposed to walk along the canal at
night (or even during the day, without an adult), but I want a few minutes’ privacy with Xavier, and I figure I’ll be safe if he’s there. It feels naughty and exciting and a bit
dangerous, which is exactly what I need right now. ‘Come on,’ I say, taking his hand. ‘Let’s go down here.’

He looks puzzled. ‘Zee supermarket?’

‘We’ll go there in a bit. But you’ve never seen the canal, have you? Only the bit at Camden Lock. It runs for miles, all the way from Little Venice into the Thames, and you can
walk along all the way, past the back of the zoo, through the park, the back of King’s Cross. It’s cool.’

‘OK,’ he says, letting me lead him.

We walk along the canal for a while, hand in hand. There’s nobody dodgy around, just a few dog walkers and some cyclists heading home from work. I notice that the water looks cleaner and
more inviting at night, with the lamps from the towpath reflected in it; you can’t see the cans and food wrappers that people have thrown in.

‘I’d like to live on a barge,’ I say, as we pass somebody’s colourful houseboat. ‘Going up and down canals all day, being totally free. I’d love it.
Wouldn’t you?’

Xavier turns up his nose at my suggestion. ‘Rather a yacht.’ He grins. ‘Like zee ones in zee port in Nice.’

I laugh, picturing Xavier as a millionaire playboy and me in a glamorous bikini, sipping ice-cold drinks on the deck. ‘Yeah, a yacht would be cool too. I guess they go faster. And
it’s sunny and you can go way out to sea. Have you ever been on one?’

‘
Non
,’ he says. ‘Only a pedalo.’

I laugh. ‘Not quite the same.’

Xavier laughs too, then puts his hands around my waist and gently pushes me back towards the wall, so we’re out of the way of anyone passing by. He kisses me and, even though it’s
chilly and dark and we’re in the middle of Camden Town, I close my eyes and imagine we’re on a yacht together, basking in the sun, without a care in the world. Sailing away from it
all.

I don’t know how long we kiss for, but something, a bicycle bell perhaps, drags me back into the real world and makes me stop and check my watch. ‘We’d better get the
shopping,’ I say. ‘Come on. We’ll come back here another time and we’ll walk along to the back of London Zoo. You can see some of the animals for free that way. Maybe at the
weekend.’

We come up the stairs just by Sainsbury’s, on the other side of the road. I ask Xavier to grab a basket and then we weave around the store as quickly as we can, grabbing the things Mum has
asked for. I know where everything is so well that Xavier can barely keep up with me.

When we come into the house, Dad is home, much earlier than expected. At least, I think, with relief, I don’t have to cook tonight too. ‘Your mum wants to talk to you,’ he
says, raising an eyebrow. He gets up from the sofa. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He takes the bag of groceries from my hands, and heads for the kitchen.

‘Eef eet eez OK, I am going to take a shower before dinair,’ says Xavier.

‘Absolutely,’ says Mum, in a tone that signifies she wants him out of the way so she can tell me off. She waits until he’s disappeared up the stairs and then starts.
‘Where on earth have you been? The shops are only five minutes away. You’ve been gone for over an hour. I was starting to get worried.’

‘Yeah, sorry, we kind of lost track of time. It took a while to find everything.’

‘Don’t give me that. I wasn’t born yesterday. You’ve obviously been off somewhere with Xavier.’

I should just apologise and promise not to do it again, but the censorious tone of her voice is winding me up. ‘So what if I have? I got the shopping too. Can’t I have even a little
bit of time to myself after school?’

‘If you’d got the shopping first, and then asked, it would have been fine.’

‘Would it? Because then you’d have told me it was time to do my homework, or cook for you, or whatever. You don’t seem to want me to hang out with Xavier. Every time I’m
alone with him you call me to do something.’

‘That’s not true. But, if I’m being honest, I don’t really think you should be romantically involved with a boy who is staying in our house. I don’t feel
comfortable about it.’

I huff. ‘Dad doesn’t mind. He’s even pleased about it. You’re only saying that because you want all my time for yourself! You’re jealous.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Victoria. I’m thinking about you. He’s only here for a few weeks. I’m worried you’re getting too serious and you’re going to get
hurt when he leaves.’

She’s expressing my own fears and I don’t want to hear them. ‘I don’t believe you. The truth is, whatever you say, you’ve never wanted me to have a boyfriend, have
you? It would suit you if I were single for the rest of my life, so I can look after you, wouldn’t it?’

‘Victoria, you know that’s not true.’

‘It’s Vix, not Victoria!’ I scream. ‘You never listen to me. You don’t even know who I am. Well, I’m sick of not having a life. You stop me seeing my friends,
you don’t want me to have a boyfriend and you expect me to be your slave too. It’s not fair and I’ve had enough! If you don’t think I’m good enough then go and find
yourself another slave!’

Mum looks shocked and hurt and angry too. If she could get out of her chair without help I think she’d come right over and slap me. I stare at her, defiant. I know I’m being unkind
but I can’t help myself. I feel like a bottle of Coke that’s been wildly shaken up and then unscrewed. All the frustration and resentment I’ve been feeling for months and months
is frothing and bubbling and bursting out of me in an unstoppable stream.

‘And another thing: I didn’t ask to be an only child,’ I continue. ‘It’s not my fault you’re ill and it’s not my job to look after you. I just want to
be normal, like all my friends, like everyone else. Is that too much too ask? I’m sick of being Little Miss Perfect!’ I stop, exhausted, and suddenly self-conscious. I really hope
Xavier hasn’t heard any of this from upstairs. I must sound like a horrible spoilt brat. Embarrassed, angry and confused, I storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

‘Well done, Vix,’ says Dad, grabbing hold of my arm as I pass. He’s been standing in the hall, for I don’t know how long, listening. I stop dead in front of him and,
unexpectedly, he gives me a little clap. ‘Bravo! I’m proud of you.’

Eh? I stare at him, bemused, trying to work out why he appears to be smiling and yet he doesn’t sound at all sarcastic. He sounds calm, serious, genuine. His reaction is weird. It’s
freaking me out. He should at least be angry with me.

‘I mean it,’ he continues. ‘Good for you, Vix. You’ve been far too much of a goody two-shoes for far too long, putting up with a lot more than someone your age should,
never complaining. Now, thank God, you’re finally starting to act like a proper teenager, standing up for yourself and showing some spirit. I was beginning to think – to worry –
that it might never happen. So, well done. Now, I suggest you go and apologise to your mum, then go up to your room and calm down for a few minutes. I’ll smooth things over with her and sort
the dinner. OK?’

y sense of bravado doesn’t last for long. Something’s going on at school today. Wherever I go, I can
sense whispers, hear a low hum of words that I can’t quite make out. But I know they’re about me. And I know they’re not good. Girls chatter away until they notice I’m
standing close to them, and then, spontaneously, the conversation seems to dry up. Others will stare at me as I walk by, then turn away and giggle with their friends. I am not imagining this or
being paranoid; it’s really happening.

At first I wonder if it’s about the kiss Xavier gave me outside school; but it can’t be because that was last week’s news, last week’s gossip, and nobody’s
mentioned it for days. And, anyway, it was just a bit of fun, which nobody (except Rosie and Manon, of course) took seriously. This is something else, something bigger, something nastier. I have no
idea what it could be. It’s making me feel vulnerable, exposed, the way you do when you dream that you’re naked in public. Every time people stare, I find myself looking down my own
body to see if I’ve forgotten to put on my underwear, or have my skirt tucked into my knickers, or if I’m wearing odd socks. It doesn’t matter how many times I check and confirm
that I’m fully dressed and look fine, I still find myself doing it again.

This is truly horrible. What’s that saying Dad always quotes? Something some writer once said, like, ‘There’s only one thing worse than being talked about and that’s not
being talked about.’ It’s not true. I definitely preferred it when I was invisible, a nobody, with a boring life that didn’t interest anyone, except my close friends. Now it seems
that everyone knows who I am and they all have an opinion about me.

I try to act normally but everyone is being weird with me today, even my friends. They keep giving me sympathetic glances and, even though they’re being kind to me, they don’t seem
to want to chat or to hang out. They’re avoiding me. They must know what’s being said, and they must feel awkward about it. If I could I’d skive off school for the rest of the
afternoon and go home. But I can’t. That’s one of the (many) problems with having a sick mum. She’s always at home. If I turn up unexpectedly, she’ll want to know why. And
we’re not exactly on good terms after our row last night.

At lunchtime, I take myself off to the library. I’m not really hungry and at least it’s quiet there, and if anybody does stare I can bury my head in a book and pretend not to see
them. I find a heavy hardback about France on the non-fiction shelves and look up Nice in the index. I didn’t realise that it’s only been part of France for about a hundred and fifty
years; before that, it was part of Italy. I make a mental note to ask Xavier about it later, hoping he’ll be impressed by my interest. While I read, I sneak chunks of a cereal bar from my
bag, which is on my lap under the table, into my mouth, making sure the librarian isn’t looking.