‘Sorry?’ I blurt. ‘I don’t speak French. Je ne comprends pas!’
A wizened old woman is at my side, her face tanned and leathery, dark eyes glinting. ‘Engleesh?’ she asks. ‘Engleesh boy?’
‘Australian,’ I say.
‘Ah, of course. Your fortune? You wish to know your fortune? I can see, I can tell. I have the sight.’
I take in the woman’s crimson dress, her black fringed shawl embroidered with roses. Her greying hair is scraped up into a makeshift bun and her ears are studded with gold. She looks like a caricature of an old-time fortune teller.
‘No, I’m good, thanks,’ I say, but she isn’t listening. Her hand grips my elbow harder, trying to steer me across the cobblestones.
‘You have many questions, no?’ she persists. ‘About the future? I see this in your eyes, Australian boy. I can help!’
She lets go of my elbow, dark eyes challenging me.
Behind her I see a doorway with a curtain draped across it, a painted sign advertising fortune telling propped against the step. I have many questions about the future – it is true. The flute music wraps itself round me like a spell, and the little girl in the green dress dances over and leans against the old woman, wide eyed. They’re waiting to see if I want my fortune told. Do I?
One thing my gap-year travels have taught me is that when adventure appears right in front of you, you’d be crazy not to go with it.
‘I don’t have much money,’ I say, a last half-hearted protest as I fish a five-euro note out of my pocket. ‘Is this enough?’
‘Mais oui! Of course!’
I follow the old woman and the child to the curtained doorway, stepping into a dark room smelling of incense and furniture polish. On every surface shadowy statues from several different religions huddle together with ornate candlesticks and crystal balls, beaten-brass singing bowls and bundles of dried herbs. The old woman indicates a couple of wooden chairs pooled in sunlight from the doorway, and I sit down.
The eerie flute music drifts in through the open door as the old woman perches beside me, her face serious now. She looks at my palm, frowns at my face and then sits back, nodding.
‘I can sense many questions, many dilemmas, Australian boy,’ she says. ‘Fate has brought you here today.’
‘Yes?’ I prompt.
‘You are at a crossroads. Lost. Wandering.’
I bite my lip. ‘That’s right,’ I agree. ‘Lost. Wandering.’
She looks at my palm again, her fingertip tracing the lines etched there like a claw. A shiver slides down my spine and my heart begins to thump.
‘I can see what you must do,’ the elderly woman declares. ‘You must walk a different path now. The route you have planned out will not take you to your destination …’
I swallow, leaning forward, almost afraid now of what I might hear.
A silence falls between us, invisible but heavy enough to touch. I know instinctively that what the old woman says could change my life forever.
‘So?’ I prompt again.
The old woman sighs.
‘You must expect the unexpected,’ she says, eyes narrowed wisely. ‘Something is coming to an end, but something new will take its place. Your next big challenge is just around the corner.’
I blink.
Whatever I expected, it wasn’t this. A handful of clichés and platitudes? My shoulders slump.
‘This makes sense to you?’ the old woman checks.
‘Um … yes … no … maybe?’ I falter. ‘Is there any more?’
She stands up, shrugs. ‘No more,’ she says. ‘This is what I see. I hope it answers your questions, Australian boy.’
She is ushering me back towards the door again, as keen to be rid of me now as she was to lure me in a few moments ago.
‘I’m not sure it’s totally clear …’ I say.
‘The meaning lies within yourself,’ she replies briskly. ‘I can see the truth, but it is for you to work out what that truth means. You have the answers already. You will see.’
I find myself outside again in the cobbled alleyway. ‘But … hang on … I have lots of questions, like you said before. Can I …?’
‘If you have the questions, you have the answers,’ the old woman replies. ‘If you want to talk about your future, look for the girl with stars in her hair. She can help you to decide it all.’
The curtain drops abruptly and I am left alone, feeling more confused than ever.
The sky has clouded over and the alleyway is no longer bathed in golden light, like something from another time, another place. It’s just a dirty Parisian side street with sweet packets littering the pavements and a couple of skinny cats slinking around in the shadows.
All the mystery has seeped away.
The child in the green dress is sitting on the doorstep of the fortune teller’s house, drinking Coke from a can and playing on some kind of smartphone. The flute music has stopped; the only sound now is the distant hum of traffic, and when I look up to the shuttered window there is no sign that anyone was ever there at all.
5
It doesn’t matter how streetwise I think I am, how much of a seasoned traveller … I have clearly just fallen for the biggest scam in the book. I must be seriously gullible to have spent five euros on such a rubbishy prediction … at least I didn’t part with more.
Expect the unexpected? Something is coming to an end but something new will take its place? The next big challenge is just around the corner? The predictions couldn’t be more cheesy. They probably fit half the population of the western hemisphere, and of course the only thing around the corner from the cobbled alleyway is the busy riverside street.
What an idiot I am.
I start walking again, heading across the Pont Saint-Michel to the Île de la Cité, and as I cross the river the feelings of embarrassment drop away and I’m laughing, shrugging off my own stupidity.
Already I am planning the jokey email I will write to Honey, describing my disastrous visit to the fortune teller, turning it into a story, an adventure. I’ve catalogued everything about the last few weeks in emails to Honey, everything except the loneliness anyway.
I went off radar for a fortnight earlier this summer, when I was on my way to Tanglewood. There was some mad TV crew filming a reality TV series about Honey’s family, and they paid for my train fares across Europe and an overnight stay in a posh hotel in Exeter just so I could turn up at the Chocolate Festival the Tanberry-Costellos were holding and feature in some big reunion. The boy from Australia finally reunited with his British girlfriend after eighteen months apart … It was TV gold.
It meant I got to save money and see Honey a few weeks earlier than planned, so I didn’t complain, but the catch was that the TV company wanted me to stop emailing and texting so I didn’t accidentally give the game away. It all worked out really well, except that Honey will never let me forget that I went all silent on her. I’ve made up for it since with a whole slew of texts and emails of course.
I lean on the parapet of the bridge and flick through my texts. There were loads from yesterday, a whole text conversation while I was waiting at Madrid station, letting Honey know I was on my way to Paris at last. I told her the hostel I’d chosen, my plans for the first few days, my ideas of heading off to Denmark, Norway, Sweden and Finland next before flying back to Tanglewood to spend Christmas with her.
Her mum and stepdad made it clear I’d be very welcome, but still … It’s months until Christmas. I’m not sure I can stick it out till then.
Off to take some pictures beside Notre Dame, thinking of you, I text to Honey now. What are you up to?
&n
bsp; There’s no reply. She will still be in school, painting self-portraits or taking a drama class or studying American literature for A-level English. I head off to capture the best and coolest images of Notre Dame, to lose myself and shake free of the uncomfortable fortune-telling experience.
Later, I find an internet cafe back on the Left Bank and order coffee and a baguette while I upload my photos and write a new blog post about the magic of Paris. I check my emails, but there’s nothing new from Honey. Maybe she’s busy with homework or is doing something with her sisters.
We Skype when we can, maybe once a week or so, depending on where I am and whether I can get access to an internet cafe at the right time of day. We plan the Skype talks and set a time by text. Suddenly, even though nothing has been arranged, I want to talk to Honey, hear her voice, see her face. I want to tell her properly about my strange encounter earlier.
I click open the Skype icon and enter my details, then ring through to the Tanglewood computer; the whole family use the same Skype log-in. After a couple of rings, the call is answered and a couple of faces appear on screen – Skye and Coco.
‘Hey!’ Coco greets me. ‘How’s it going, Ash? Where are you now? Spain, was it? Or France?’
‘Paris,’ I say.
‘Cool,’ Skye says. ‘Honey’s out, I’m afraid. She won’t be back till late. I think it was some kind of …’
‘Study group,’ Coco chips in.
‘School trip,’ Skye blurts at the same time. ‘To see a play. Shakespeare or something.’
‘That’s what I meant.’ Coco nods. ‘A sort of study-group school trip. Right?’
‘Right,’ Skye agrees.
I frown. The sisters are looking a little uncomfortable, a little awkward … I get the feeling they are not telling the whole truth.
‘OK,’ I say, brushing the thought aside. ‘Well, no worries. Just tell her I called …’
‘We will!’ Coco says. ‘As soon as she gets home. Definitely! Not a problem! Summer’s not here either … She’s started at Rochelle Academy, and she’s loving it. It’s very weird without her. Would you like to say hello to Humbug?’
There’s chaos while Coco attempts the task of lifting her pet sheep up towards the screen. Fred the dog gets involved and then Charlotte leans in, waving and wishing me luck, and Paddy appears in the background telling me about a new truffle flavour he has created that seems to involve baked apples, blackberries and cream.
It’s probably my imagination, but something about the whole thing feels a little off, a little forced. The general mayhem is typical Tanglewood stuff, but today I get the feeling that everyone is just too bright, too chatty, trying too hard.
I’m about to say goodbye and hang up the call when Cherry sits down next to the computer, grinning and asking if Paris is as cool as everyone says.
‘Cooler,’ I promise. ‘Weirder too. But cool, definitely.’
‘I can imagine!’ she sighs. ‘Honey will be so hacked off to have missed you. I’ll tell her you called!’
I bite my lip.
‘Where did you say she was again?’ I ask.
‘Um … it was an art trip, I think,’ Cherry says. ‘Some exhibition in London. She’ll be back tomorrow, apparently …’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Well, I’d better go now. Nice to talk to you … Tell Honey I’ll call again soon …’
‘Of course,’ Cherry says. ‘Bye, Ash! Have a brilliant time!’
I cut the call, shut down the computer and walk out of the internet cafe with a sick, twisted feeling inside, wondering why Honey’s family have suddenly started lying to me.
6
When the crazy old woman from earlier told me to expect the unexpected, and that something was coming to an end, did she mean my relationship with Honey?
I am not stupid. I know all too well that long-distance relationships suck, and that a fiery, impulsive girl like Honey must find them especially hard. What if she has had enough, got tired of a boyfriend who is never around? There must be loads of boys at her sixth form who would love to take my place.
Honey has told me herself that she doesn’t have a good track record when it comes to picking boys. She went through a very rough patch after her dad left and her mum married again; she rebelled every which way she could. What if her old hell-raising ways aren’t over after all? If she’s out with some boy-band-lookalike bloke with a six-pack and a motorbike? If she’s forgotten about me?
It would explain why her family were so jumpy, so over keen with the bright chat just now. It would explain why she wouldn’t even consider coming travelling with me. It would explain a lot.
Can a leopard ever change its spots?
I fell in love with a rebel and a troublemaker and tried to tame her … What if she didn’t want to be tamed? Honey has turned her whole life round since the months she spent in Australia … Just when it seemed like her life had spun so far off course it couldn’t be hauled back again she decided to take control. She enrolled in sixth form (at a different school from the one that had expelled her) and started studying for A levels, and her grades so far have been amazing. I can’t take credit for any of that … Honey is a strong and determined character. She’s changed things all by herself.
But maybe I’m just not a part of the future she has planned out.
Dusk is falling and the streets are bright with fairy lights and street lamps. There’s a warm yellow glow inside the cafes I pass as people gather to talk, eat, fall in love. Paris is the prettiest city in the world after dark, the loneliest when you are on your own.
I catch sight of my reflection in a cafe window, a small slightly built Asian boy with a taste for travel and a way with words. Back home in Sydney, there were a few girls who thought I was good-looking, but I wasn’t interested in any of them. I just wanted Honey.
Now I can’t help wondering why a girl like that – a girl who could have anyone she wanted – would bother with a boy like me.
I thought we had bonded so tight that nothing could come between us, two kids whose dads had both left them, two kids looking for something to believe in, something to trust, and finding only each other. Maybe I was wrong.
I turn the corner and walk into the hostel courtyard.
I need a hot shower and a good night’s sleep, and a new plan for tomorrow. A new plan for everything, perhaps.
It’s the same receptionist on duty from this morning – Teresita, the Italian student with the tawny hair and the big smile. Right now, I can’t find one to match it. I hand in my bag-check ticket and she takes it and goes to the office to find my rucksack, sliding it across the counter to me along with a room key card.
‘Oh … and I have this for you as well,’ she says, handing me a postcard of a Parisian starry night.
‘Huh? I don’t see how …’
I turn the postcard over. Just two words are written on the back, in the lively, sloping handwriting I know so well.
Turn around …
I look at Teresita and she looks back at me, grinning. ‘Go on, then!’ she prompts.
So I turn round. Standing just behind me is a girl with tousled blonde hair, a huge rucksack and a beautiful face that shines with glee.
‘Honey!’
She drops her rucksack and I drop mine, and the two of us hurl our arms round each other, hugging and laughing and hugging again as if we will never let go.
7
In the end I check my rucksack in again and Honey ditches hers too, and we head out into the Paris night together.
‘I can’t believe you’re here!’ I say. ‘I tried to Skype you earlier, and everyone was acting really weird. I can see why
now. They were covering for you!’
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ she says simply. ‘I wanted us to see Paris together, like you said!’
We walk along the riverside beneath the twinkling fairy lights, hand in hand. I point out the quirky English bookshop I discovered earlier and hand over the novel I bought for her, then tell her about the cobbled alleyway I found that felt like stepping back in time.
‘It was somewhere near here,’ I explain. ‘The kind of place you might never find even if you knew exactly where to look … It was like a piece of magic, Honey, honestly! Flute music and a little girl in a green dress swirling around on the cobbles, and a crazy old lady who reckoned she could tell fortunes …’
Honey laughs. ‘Trust you, Ash!’ she says. ‘You find adventure and magic everywhere you go! I’ve missed you so, so much. I absolutely love your emails – they make every place you visit come alive!’
‘I sent you an email about the alleyway,’ I tell her. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t read it yet?’
‘I left my phone on the kitchen table at Tanglewood,’ Honey confesses. ‘Typical, huh? Did anything else happen?’
‘Never mind,’ I say with a grin. ‘You can read the whole story when you get back. The email tells it better than I could!’
She shrugs. ‘You’re good, Ash – too good. Those emails showed me just how much I was missing out on!’
‘I think it’s what I want to do,’ I say. It’s the first time I’ve ever said this out loud, but the minute it’s out there I know it’s true. ‘I think I’ve picked the wrong uni course. I don’t want to be an academic, poring over thick books and writing scholarly essays on obscure philosophical questions. I want to be a journalist, travelling the world as a reporter, making the world come to life.’
‘Journalism?’ Honey questions. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah … I think so. I’ve loved the thrill of moving from place to place, but not just for the sake of exploring – part of the thrill has been taking photos and making it all come to life on my blog and in my emails. Does that make sense? I’ve loved it!’
Life is Sweet Page 21
