Au Pair

by Fiona McGregor

  – So you’re the girl, he said to me in English. Hallo. You’re nice. You’re good. They have talked to me about you.

  Nice? Good? What a surprise.

  – C’est ma jeune fille. Mme Durebex beamed with pride.

  I felt like a real bargain.

  Before they left they brought the Dutchman and his girlfriend down to the study. Mme Durebex pointed to Laurent lounging on the cushions, his hand down his pants.

  – Tenez, this is my son. Look, he’s my son! Come and say something, Laurent. Come and say something to Katia, she doesn’t speak a word of French. Say something in English, go ori.

  Laurent stood up. Mme Durebex watched him anxiously. He spoke in a monotone.

  – Euh, hallo, how are you? I am very well, thank you. My name is Laurent. I am eight years old.

  – Bravo! they all said, and Mme Durebex clapped.

  Laurent sat stiffly on the cushions. When the audience exited he jumped up and jerked himself around the room.

  – Just like a robot, he said.

  In the early hours the front doorbell rang. I stumbled out in a long T-shirt that I had nicked from Dad’s drawer years ago. On it was written: I USED TO BE A MASOCHIST, NOW I JUST PLAY GOLF.

  Claudine and Mme Durebex came in smelling of a nightclub. They had been out on the town again, with one husband gone and the other sick in bed, as good as gone. Mme Durebex called me her chérie and apologised for waking me.

  – But Françoise told me you never slept, Shona, so I thought you could let us in.

  She hung her coat between the anaemic water-colours and studied my face.

  – Is it true, Shona? Is it true you never sleep?

  New Year’s Eve

  We stood at the kitchen window, champagne glasses in hand, waiting for the descente aux flambeaux. The beans were on the stove and the tables were laid. There were two tables. As well as the large one where the adults would sit, a smaller one had been set up for the children. Françoise and I would sit at the latter; Sasha’s teenage children would sit at the former.

  Everybody was dressed up, everybody was tipsy. It was New Year’s Eve and there had been drinks at the chalet. The ski instructors had left to join the descent, and other guests had gone to their own families for dinner. It was only Sasha, recently divorced, and his children, who would stay and eat with us.

  Sasha was a barrel-chested, black-haired man who had just arrived from Nice. He exuded warmth and Paco Rabanne. His laugh was rich and dark, like the rum truffles I’d discovered in the top drawer of the liquor cabinet. I’d eaten two a day since Christmas. There was only one left and I knew I’d be going through withdrawals tomorrow night. I followed Sasha’s laughter up the stairs.

  Sasha refilled everyone’s glasses and picked at the cheese platter. M. Durebex had overseen the cheese arrangement at noon. There was a straw mat laid over the silver platter, and a spread of seven cheeses: a hard mature cheese, a soft bland one, a cream cheese, two goat cheeses, half a camembert, and a blue cheese. The camembert had begun to ooze across the straw.

  – Oh please, Sasha, sighed Mme Durebex. You know how Monsieur hates the cheese to be eaten before dinner. Can’t you eat the caviar?

  She poked the tomme de savoie around so the cuts would be hidden. Her hair, restreaked that afternoon and twisted into a chignon, was already coming loose. Sasha brushed it away and kissed her ear. A blush spread across her face.

  – Monsieur this, Monsieur that. Stop worrying, Mireille!

  Sasha cut the tomme on the other side, the visible side.

  – I hate caviar, he said.

  Monsieur could be heard in the living-room, worrying over the logs that were smoking on the fire. Laurent squeezed around us, demanding to be lifted to the window, demanding to be put down again as the mountain opposite remained dark, no flares in sight.

  The phone rang. Obeying Mme Durebex’ look, I went to get it.

  Somebody, in very bad French, from a long way away, asked if they could speak to Siobhan, me. It was Tom. He told me he’d tried to ring on Christmas day, and now he had a second chance because there was a family breakfast. The voice of someone on the other side of the world, in a different climate, at a different time of day, never failed to take my breath away. I grinned stupidly at the floor. Tom’s voice was so nasal it tickled my ear.

  – I got some money from Dad. You know that doubling thing? Well, I just borrowed some money at the last minute, pretended it was mine, and he doubled it.

  Tom laughed. He laughed like a donkey. Hee-haw, in and out the laugh scraped. I was horrified.

  – You didn’t! He offered me that, too. How could you?

  – What’s wrong with you? he scoffed. Bloody purist.

  – Ça commence!

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece as Mme Durebex rushed past me into the living-room.

  – Victor! Hurry! It’s started!

  I shifted the phone so I could see too. Slowly, a glittering line moved across the top of the mountain. Tom’s voice went low and conniving.

  – Look, Siobhan, I used to be like that, never accepting money from Dad, thinking it was hypocritical or materialistic or something. Then I just figured it was fair enough, seeing as he’s withheld so many other things.

  I watched the line of flares lengthen and I listened to my brother. Everything he said made perfect sense.

  – You should do it, he urged, adding facetiously, think of it as compensation money.

  – The pay-off?

  – Yep.

  He put Nora on. She was hungover.

  – Whose crazy idea was it to have a family breakfast on New Year’s Day anyhow? I asked.

  – The Parents. You know how they like to punish us.

  Now the line stretched the whole way across the mountain. The kitchen was hushed, watching it. The first flare dropped and turned, and in a low voice I described what was happening to Nora – the parallel lines of yellow flame forming, the ends approaching then moving away from one another. She oohed and aahed, she told me how jealous she was, how she wished she were here, wished she were still away. The line snaked on down the mountain.

  – Hey Siobhan, Nora said. How do French women hold their liquor?

  Puzzled, I looked at Claudine and Mme Durebex shrieking and clinging to one another after a couple of glasses of champagne.

  – Not very well, I said.

  – No. By the ears.

  A familiar but foreign voice came on. It was Caroline. Her voice was brittle and she had a slight American accent.

  – Your accent’s funny, Caroline.

  – So’s yours, Siobhan.

  – Runs in the family.

  – Yairs yairs, she intoned, adding, it’s good, isn’t it, being away? Getting away from the family?

  I switched the phone to my other ear. Had I heard properly? Caroline, that far-off sister, affected by the same things as me. Of course she was. Of course I wasn’t alone.

  – It’s a bit like out of the frying-pan into the fire, Caroline, I said. You should see this family.

  – Guess what, she said. I’m moving back to Sydney.

  – Why?

  I suddenly felt alone again.

  – Because I feel like it, you jerk, she laughed. I’m sick of being away.

  She had a nice laugh; her brittle tone fragmented. I watched the golden line curl down the black snow-covered mountain. The phone in Sydney was being passed around. I pictured them going from the kitchen to the hall and back again, morning sun through the window behind them. Then a male voice was speaking rapidly into the phone, asking me about Le Pen, saying how racist the French must be; wasn’t Le Pen as bad as Hitler, didn’t he get a lot of votes?

  – Yes, David, I said impatiently. Tell me about Sydney. Is it hot? Sunny?

  Vibrant, glamorous images were flashing through my mind. I picked a cheese crumb off the phone. Or was it snot? I flicked it away.

  – It’s revolting, David said. Really polluted. You can’t even see th
e city, and the bush on the foreshore’s dying. Now, don’t take this personally, Siobhan, but I think you better stay away, okay? It’s getting a bit crowded here.

  – Don’t tell me you’re moving back too.

  – Canberra.

  – Yuk.

  – Good for work. Oh, Dad wants us to hurry, too expensive. Here’s Paul.

  Paul’s voice was soft after David’s.

  – Now listen, Siobhan, he said. I know you’ll, think I’m patronising, but just remember it’s not the end of the world breaking up with Matthew. You’re young, you know, things keep chang—

  – Matthew’s in London, I interrupted him. Drunk!

  I was trying to be funny, but immediately I said this I heard myself as I imagined he would: bitter, defensive.

  – Lucky guy, Paul laughed.

  A flare detached itself from the curl hugging the mountain. It lay to one side, still burning.

  – An instructor has fallen! Laurent called. Oh no! What if it’s Renaud?

  – He’s just dropped a flare, said Sasha, putting an arm around Laurent. He can still ski from the light of the one in front.

  – Happy New Year, Siobhan! came the voice of my father. Not too cold there, I hope?

  I spoke to Dad, ignoring the curious, slightly irritated face Mme Durebex was showing me. She whispered something to Laurent. He told her I was speaking to my father. I wondered what else he’d understood of my conversation. I wondered about that Christmas one with Matthew.

  I hoped Laurent had understood everything.

  Mme Durebex smiled at me.

  – You can come home any time, Siobhan, Dad was saying. It’s not an endurance test, you know.

  Mme Durebex picked up Laurent. She held him in front of her, talking softly into his ear. I was surprised by this display of affection.

  – Think about it, my girl, Dad said.

  Then it was the voice of my mother, thanking me for a letter.

  – I must say Siobhan, that family you work for – what’s their name again? Dubok?

  – Durebex.

  – Oh! she groaned. They sound so vulgar.

  She asked me what my new year’s resolution was.

  – I hadn’t thought. I’ve still got about an hour.

  – It’s already the new year for us.

  She said something else but there was a block in the line, as though someone had clamped their hands over my ears.

  – What did you say, Mum?

  – I said, We’re ahead.

  – I know.

  The flares were descending below the level of the window-sill. The last of them trickled down, gold liquid poured into coiled piping. Then they were gone. Everybody went into the dining-room. Alone in the kitchen, I said to Mum, I think my resolution is just to stay in Paris for a while. And to enjoy it.

  – I just hope it’s all worthwhile for you, Siobhan.

  – What’s your resolution? She put on that Elliott irony.

  – Oh, to stop worrying about my children, I suppose.

  – Guess I’d better stop worrying about my parents, then.

  – Oh?

  When I went into the dining-room the first course had begun. Everybody had been waiting too long to eat to be enthusiastic about it. The children fought; the adults slouched. Mme Durebex addressed her guests drunkenly.

  – Did you know that two people were killed in an avalanche this morning?

  – No!

  – That was at Avoriaz, grumbled M. Durebex.

  – Excuse me, Victor, but the people who died at Avoriaz were cross-country skiers who died of exposure. On the mountain, behind Princesse Noire, two people were found this morning, buried under snow.

  – I won’t have my son skiing out there! cried Claudine.

  – Oh Claudine, said Sasha. You can’t protect your child from everything.

  – Je m’en fiche d’Hugues, she laughed. It’s me I’m worried about. I don’t want to have a heart attack!

  – How’s your family? Françoise asked me.

  – Good, I nodded. They all seem good.

  Laurent’s shrill voice dominated the children’s table. He threw it down our end, his eyes shining at Sasha’s youngest daughter, a girl with full lips and hair the colour of toffee that fell past her shoulders. He insulted Hugues, criticised the smoked salmon, belched lustily. The adults’ table was subdued after Mme Durebex’ story of the deaths on the mountain.

  – Hé, Mathieu! Laurent called to Sasha’s son, seated at the adults’ table. You poor thing! No luck tonight, eh? No, you’re very unlucky.

  Mathieu put down his vodka and turned around.

  – Why?

  The feeble conversation at that table stopped. Seeing he had everyone’s attention, Laurent grinned impishly.

  – Because you’re sitting right next to my mother, he said. And she’s got really bad breath. You’re going to be knocked flat as soon as she breathes! You’re going to DIE of asphyxiation!

  Mme Durebex’ dinner-party smile collapsed. Her hand went to her mouth, too late to save it. There were coughs of embarrassment and laughter. Laurent was already pointing at me.

  – And look at Shona! Before, she never ate a thing. NOW look at her! She eats everything. Even meat. She’s eating the pâté. Yuk yuk yuk!

  All eyes turned to me. I put the last piece of pâté back on my plate. Françoise and Laurent had declared it disgusting. Un foie malade, they’d said, throwing it in the bin. They were right. It was disgusting. I didn’t know why I was eating it.

  – Hé, Laurent, I called down the table.

  – Quoi? he sneered back.

  I switched to English.

  – You only say yuk once. If you say it three times you just sound like a duck quacking.

  He twisted his face into a gargoyle. The tongue protruded and blared a huge raspberry. From his mother, Laur-ENT!

  I went into the kitchen to get the main course. The ski instructors had been blessed in their descent, because it was snowing now, and heavily. From the kitchen window it looked like a waterfall – a sheet of white coming down, thick and fast. I watched it, gulping champagne, one eye on the beans. Mme Durebex came in and I choked in my effort to drain the glass.

  I swayed back to the dining-room with the leg of lamb and the beans. We’d only just begun eating the lamb when Laurent grabbed the bowl of gateaux-secs from the sideboard. Soon the biscuits were everywhere, and the main course ignored.

  When the cheese platter reached the table, the camembert had flowed through the straw mat, its skin collapsed into the cavity.

  – Oh! cried Sasha. The poor camembert! You see, Mireille? You see what happens when you neglect the cheese?

  Laurent, the eructating wonder, after half a dozen gateaux-secs and a large glass of milk, commenced a rhapsody of burps. His mother reddened.

  – Laurent, I’m going to put you to bed!

  My speech was slurring, I was forgetting words. At midnight bonbons were passed and pulled. My note said I would have good luck this year. I guessed everyone else’s said the same. We went around the room kissing one another on the cheek and I noticed Françoise had disappeared. She’d said this midnight was no more special to her than any other, and she was leaving early in the morning.

  I sat in the corner of the couch, writing a note to Françoise, watching the New Year’s Eve party. Things had been more lively a week ago at lunchtime. The air felt sour with the sort of desperation that boredom induces. Everybody drank and drank and attempted conversation.

  New Year’s Eve, a time of hope. People will always hope things can change overnight, just like that.

  The Fall

  Françoise came and woke me to say goodbye. Sleepily, we exchanged presents. Suchard chocolates from me to her, Lindt chocolates from her to me. Through my window, I watched her stride off through the deep snow, spotlit. Then the outside light went off. I could hear Laurent whimpering in the corridor.

  It was still dark outside. When the chalet was quie
t again I got up. I had breakfast alone and made myself a sandwich. Needing to cover my tracks, I left a note arranging a rendezvous with Mme Durebex later in the morning. I scribbled a hasty goodbye to Claudine and Hugues, who were leaving that afternoon.

  I went down to the cable car station and with the last of my money I bought a day ticket.

  It was sinister going up the mountain so early, heading for thick cloud, no one on the ski slopes and the cabins behind me all empty, suspended alone in that capsule with my head full of reproaches from Mme Durebex for not having asked her permission to go skiing.

  But she left my thoughts when I got out at the top. I clicked into my skis, zipped up my parka, and pulled the balaclava down over my face. I fitted the goggles. I fastened my sleeves over gloves that were greasy with leather conditioner, and looped the pole straps around my wrists. Then I took off.

  I skied through thick undammed snow on the black runs. I skied with almost no visibility, feeling my legs become supple and absorb the bumps. I turned and jumped, I crouched around moguls and arrowed between trees, dark shapes in the fog. My body loosened and I felt freedom. I felt my fear ebb, and strength flow through my limbs. I got the cable car back up, and crossed to the other mountain. I knew the path I would take – there was only one run open. I was conscious of nothing but the ground moving beneath me, and snow whistling through the air.

  I went down. I came back up, down again and up, slave to the ski slopes.

  Then I saw Laurent beside the lemon-yellow of Mme Durebex. They were with Sasha and Mathieu. I skied down to them and stopped with a twist of my heels, sending a spray of snow centimetres short of where they stood. This was a blameless insult that worked better than I had intended. It was some minutes before Mme Durebex acknowledged me.

  – Are you coming with us, Shona? she asked.

  – Nooon, whined Laurent. Not with her!

  – What’s wrong with you, Laurent? she said in the gentle tone I only ever heard her use in public.

  The clouds had descended and now covered the entire mountain. We did the Black Princess, the run I had avoided all morning because it was the most difficult. I took off immediately. The visibility was so bad I couldn’t tell how close behind me the others were. But that didn’t matter.