Bon Voyage, Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  ITEM: A pair of silver earrings in the shape of dolphins.

  ITEM: A tube of Lancôme cherry lip gloss.

  ITEM: One unwashed white sports sock. (Actually, cancel that—it was probably there already.)

  Chapter Six

  New vocab: faire partie (to belong); les objets personnels (the personal belongings)

  TUESDAY, APRIL 1

  Bathroom, 8 a.m.

  Woke up vvv early feeling sick about the stash under Pascale’s bed and miserable about the fact that my grandparents haven’t got in contact. I cheered up when I got downstairs to find a postcard of a red bus from Mother and a fax from William waiting for me on the breakfast table.

  Mother’s postcard, posted the day I left, says: “Chérie—hope all is well and you are having a lovely, lovely, lovely time. We miss you, but are busy decorating your room for your return. A bientôt, Maman.” Then there are some xxx’s (kisses) and oooo’s (hugs)—in pink felt-tip marker—which must have been added by Marie.

  William’s fax, sent to the Blancs’ fax machine from the copy center at the end of our road, begins, “Hey, you,”which didn’t bode well. (He can be so uncouth. I can’t imagine Delilah putting up with that sort of talk for a minute.) It lists all the things he’s been doing—helping his brother clear out the garage, visiting his grandmother in her home in Epsom, having a few beers and watching Liverpool–AC Milan on the big-screen TV at the local pub …“until my dad came in.” (Most people’s fathers might have kicked them out if they’d found them drinking in the local pub. William’s would have been too drunk to notice. Poor William, I bet, will have slipped away embarrassed.)

  At the end he’s written, “Wonder if they sell chocolate buttons in Paris [he and I have a thing about chocolate buttons]. Wonder if they taste the same without me! Love, William.”

  It’s not what you’d call a love letter. Or even a love fax. But I’ve spent half an hour studying the last sentence. What does he mean, do they taste the same without him? Is he saying the ones he’s had don’t taste the same without me? Is it a way of saying I make a difference to his life, or his enjoyment of chocolate buttons at any rate? What does the exclamation mark mean? Am I overanalyzing? Should I now shut up?

  Dining table, 9 a.m.

  Didier, who keeps giving me the sort of look you might give a guinea pig whose cage needs cleaning out, has just suggested they take me to visit Fontainebleau, which is a château not far away. I said that would be lovely but maybe this afternoon (this morning I’ve got secret plans). Madame Blanc glanced up from the oven that she was in the middle of cleaning and said that would suit her better, too. Gives her a chance to sort out the house, she said. Poor woman.

  I’m going to go into town before Pascale gets up.

  Starbucks, Les Halles, 10 a.m.

  Just realized I’ve wasted twenty minutes of my time in Paris in an American capitalist conglomerate. Oh well, a mango Frappuccino’s a mango Frappuccino.

  I’m waiting for Delilah. I called her from a pay phone at the RER to tell her I had “the goods.” She’s agreed to meet me here and smuggle them back into Mimi’s bedroom.

  I’ve just struggled through another chapter of Madame Bovary. I don’t know whether you’re supposed to like her or hate her. She is married to an oaf, and she can be forgiven for looking for love elsewhere, but anyone who refers to “bells of evening” or “voices of nature”

  tends to lose my vote.

  Oh here’s Delilah.

  RER, 10:15 a.m.

  Mission accomplished. “You can’t bring Pascale to the apartment again,” said Delilah, who has been a sport.“I’m not going to keep on being your trafficker. They’re going to start suspecting me. It’s not fair.”

  “No. I know it’s not. Just this time. You’re a star.”

  I handed her the stuff wrapped in a plastic bag. She had to get back—Mimi and her parents were taking her for lunch somewhere fancy called Les Deux Magots (The Two Maggots? Surely not—I must have misheard), but I managed to ask her idly if she’d had any letters from home yet and she said, “No.”

  “I’ve only been here two days,” she added shortly.

  “Of course,” I said. But deep down, all I could think was, Hurray! William has faxed me! Hurray!

  Isn’t that awful? I’ve got to stop it, I really have.Delilah is my friend. I had my chance with William and I blew it. I promise I won’t do it again.

  (Oh God, sorry …just one more little one …hurray!)

  Dining table, 1 p.m.

  Pascale met me red-faced when I got back from Paris. She has obviously discovered what I have done—or undone. On the RER I rehearsed a lecture on “Why Stealing Is Wrong,” but I’ve decided not to give it. It’s her business. Just so long as she keeps out of mine.

  The crying girl is here for lunch. I’m going to make myself scarce.

  Pascale’s bedroom, 6 p.m.

  Back from Fontainebleau. Alive. Just.

  After lunch Didier, who passed his driver’s test two weeks ago, drove Pascale and me to Fontainebleau. Madame Blanc said she couldn’t come because she had a headache and took herself up to bed. There is something mysterious about that woman. The others had got into the car (a beaten-up, three-door Citroën) but I came upstairs because I’d forgotten my purse, and the door to her bedroom was wide open and she wasn’t in it. She wasn’t in the bathroom either. She must have gone out.

  The journey was hairy. Didier kept swerving into the middle of the road. Pascale and I screeched half in horror, half in delight, every time he turned a corner. It was better than Chessington. “Chessington?” he said. “What is this Chessington?”

  “It’s a racetrack,” I told him. “I’ll take you sometime.”

  We didn’t bother with the château—too pricey. Instead we bought a box of cupcakes from a shop and sat on our coats and ate the cupcakes in the gardens. The sun came out and it was so warm that I took off my sweater. I was wearing an old green T-shirt that seems to have shrunk recently and I felt self-conscious. I saw Didier look at me—and then he leaned across and tickled the inside of my elbow with a blade of grass. I laughed and it was okay.

  I don’t get Didier. Sometimes he looks down his nose like he’s about fifteen years older than me; other times he’s almost playful. I feel him staring and I don’t know whether he’s about to say something or whether he’s checking that I’m all right. Today I quite liked him. Or I did until he mentioned François.

  “Have you seen your little friend again?” he said. “Little friend”—I mean, that’s condescending.

  “No. Been too busy.” I decided not to be drawn in.

  “I hear he is quite smitten with the English girl.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said.

  “It’s true,” said Pascale.

  “Ahh,” Didier replied. “So he is in love. And this William, he misses you?”

  I glared at him. “Have you been reading my private faxes?”

  He put his hands up as if in surrender. “I am but the delivery boy.”

  The way he went on, anyone would think I was some femme fatale instead of the only girl in Woodvale who’s never had a boyfriend.

  He drove very fast all the way home. If he weren’t so grown-up, you’d think he was showing off.

  Living room, 7 p.m.

  Two phone calls to report.

  I called Delilah to check that everything was okay. She said it was fine. She’d put each item back and thinks suspicion has already been lifted. A few minutes ago, Mimi had found the earrings and said, “Oh they were here all the time!”

  I was about to hang up when she said, “Oh, and Con. Guess what? William just called me! I felt a bit worried earlier when you asked if I’d heard, so I texted him. He called me right back and everything’s fine. He’s so great. I mean, you know that, don’t you; he’s your friend. But I think I love him, you know? I think he’s The One. Before I started going out with him, I was all over the place. But now I feel grounded. Do
you know what I mean?”

  I said I did.

  If there was anything sad in my voice, she didn’t notice. “And he’s such a great kisser!” she added.

  I called Julie to cheer myself up. She sounded a bit better—Virginie’s got a secret wild side apparently—but said she thinks she’s just eaten horse.

  In bed, 10 p.m.

  A conversation with Pascale that has made me like her again.

  During supper Monsieur Blanc kept getting at her. He bellowed, in English, “So, I hope you are fluent now, Pascale, as you have Constance here to remind you of your tenses. I hope you are making the most of this opportunity to increase your vocab,” etc., etc. Everyone was nervous. Madame Blanc was scratching at a mark on the table, while Didier made overly appreciative noises about the food.

  Pascale stared at her father insolently and then pushed her plate away and stood up. “Sit down,” he said. “No,” she said. And then there was a big spat. I cleared the table quickly and then came up here to write to William. I was telling him everything—about Madame Blanc’s cleaning and Didier’s driving and Pascale’s stealing—when Pascale stormed into the room red-faced, swore a few times, sat on her bed, and burst into tears. I went over and put my arm around her shoulders.

  “He hates me,” she said, rubbing mascara into her cheeks. “I do everything wrong. He only likes my brother Philippe. Nothing any of the rest of us do is right.”

  “No, no,” I said soothingly.

  “It is. He thinks I am a delinquent.”

  It wasn’t the time to raise the shoplifting and the stealing. “I’m sure he doesn’t,” I said. “Parents are hard.”

  I tried to make her laugh by telling her all about Mother and some recent attempts of mine to matchmake her. “Of course she ended up with someone I’d never have chosen, our geeky landlord, Mr. Spence.”

  “‘Geeky’?” she said. “What does ‘geeky’ mean?”

  “Odd, unusual, a bit weird.”

  She looked at me hard. “Like you?” she said.

  And I must have been in a good mood because we both laughed.

  Later on I told her about William, about how much I liked him and how much Delilah, his girlfriend, liked him too. Pascale said, “You need to forget him. You need to meet someone else. You can’t lose a friend. You can’t lose two friends.”

  I nodded. When she was asleep I tore up the letter to William. I’ve got to stop thinking about him. I’m in Paris. It should be easy.

  Pascale’s okay. Really she is.

  Chapter Seven

  New vocab: un collier en argent (a silver necklace); les lunettes de soleil (sunglasses); un tampon (a tampon)

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2

  Pascale’s bedroom, 6 p.m.

  Icouldn’tcouldn’t sleep last night, thinking about my grandparents. I was joking to Julie the other day about how they were my entrée into French society, but it’s not about that. It’s not that I don’t love my half siblings or Jack, my stepfather, or Granny Enid, his mother, my step-grandmother. Because I do. I really do. I suppose I just wanted to meet a bit of family that was mine. My father was an orphan, so there’s nothing on that side—except for some uncle or other in New Zealand. I just realize I wanted to look into someone’s face and see something I recognized. And maybe to feel connected. Not just for my sake either. Mother puts a brave face on everything and I know she thinks of London as her home, but she can look a little lost sometimes—at school conferences or meeting parents of my friends. It must be good to be comfortable with your place in a family, to have somewhere you always feel at home.

  I woke up determined to sort it out. If they don’t want anything to do with me or Mother, fine. But I had to know.

  Pascale had told me she planned to sneak out to see Eric today. He works in a garage that fits exhaust pipes and Wednesday’s his day off. Perfect, I thought. But then first thing this morning he called to say he needed to get his Suzuki’s gasket fixed so she decided to come with me instead.

  The house was empty when we got up. Monsieur Blanc had gone off to work early; Madame Blanc was out—probably at the supermarket. Didier was doing some schoolwork at the dining-room table. He was wearing a black T-shirt that had seen more than its fair share of washes and a pair of stovepipe black jeans even I know aren’t the height of fashion.

  “Do you have plans today?” he said when he saw us putting on our jackets.

  “Eiffel Tower,” I said quickly.

  “Ah.” He stretched his arms into two Vs behind his head and then out straight. “Maybe I’ll come.”

  Pascale stopped in the doorway. She blew out through her teeth and jabbered something I didn’t get. He shrugged and turned back to his work. “Okay.”

  She rolled her eyes behind his back and did the blowing out thing again (I wish I could put it in exactly—it was so fantastically French).

  On the way to the RER she said Didier was an imbecile, but that Philippe—who’ll be back on the weekend—is fantastic. She nodded to herself. “Him,” she said, “you will love.” I am getting a bit bored of hearing about the wonders of Philippe (particularly as Monsieur Blanc seems to think he’s so great) but Pascale got a photograph out of her wallet and …well, he is handsome. If you like big eyebrows anyway.

  We got the métro, as before, to St-Germain. I’d been full of determination when we left the house but as we got close to the apartment building I felt it drain away. When I breathed out it was as if I was going to deflate and deflate and deflate. My internal cavities seemed to fuse together. I could hardly put one step in front of the other without falling over. What if they just closed the door in my face? What if they’d read my letter and found it rude and had decided they didn’t want to know me? What if . . .

  We stood outside the door—me feeling sick, Pascale whistling, so clearly not feeling sick.

  “I can’t do it,” I said.

  There was a cafe opposite that I hadn’t noticed before. I pulled her toward it and sat down at a table in the second row, facing the street. And that was when I realized something important. This was what I’d come for. I don’t mean the cafe, with its French plastic tables and its French wicker chairs, its French fan whirring, its French waiter with his big, wide, white French apron coming over with his big, wide, white French menu.

  None of this mattered. I could have been anywhere. I could have been in Bombay. Or Bolton. It wasn’t Paris I’d come to find, was it? I’d come to find my grandparents. I suppose I’ve known this all along, but it came as a shock.

  “Okay. I’m going to do it,” I said before the waiter could reach us. But at that minute, the elderly woman I’d seen the other day, the one with the neat gray hair, the one I was convinced was my grandmother, came out of the apartment building opposite. I didn’t stop to think. I pushed back my chair, jumped up, and ran out of the cafe.

  I stopped on the pavement. The woman had turned toward Boulevard St-Germain and was walking briskly and purposefully down the street away from me.

  “What are you doing?” Pascale had come out, too.

  “Shhh,” I said. “That’s her. Let’s go.”

  We followed about ten meters behind her. She was wearing a maroon skirt, with a pine green jacket and a patterned scarf in the same colors around her neck. She walked quickly, but occasionally she stopped to look in a shop window. She crossed Boulevard St-Germain and turned into a side street. We passed a toy shop and then a shop selling baby knits and for a moment I allowed myself to think how my life might have been if my mother hadn’t run away from home, how Sundays might have been spent with my grandparents, ambling around these streets—a little light shopping, a play in the park, steak frites for lunch….

  My grandmother had sped up and Pascale was beginning to dawdle, so I had to pull her along. We reached the river and crossed a bridge—a different one than the one we’d crossed the other day—and not far away on the other side was a department store. I didn’t realize at first. It was called La Samaritaine and
I thought it was some sort of charitable outfit, until we went in.

  We were in a large cosmetics hall. It felt airy and empty because there was no ceiling in the middle—just blue railings going up and up to floor after floor, like an enormous staircase.

  My grandmother looked at some Lancôme face creams, dabbing them on her hand and smelling them. She took the escalator to the first floor, where she tried on a black turtleneck sweater. She then took the elevator to the fifth floor, where she went into les toilettes (we hovered at a discreet distance). On the way out, she browsed in the books section before returning, via the escalator, to the ground floor. I began to worry that we might be rather obvious and wished Pascale wasn’t with me—that Goth black is so in your face.

  “Why don’t you talk to her?” she whispered. We were in the accessories section on the ground floor. My grandmother was on the other side of a display case, holding up a watch with a silver strap, peering at the face as if she couldn’t quite make out the numbers.

  “Because it’s not the right moment,” I hissed in return.

  I don’t know what the right moment would have looked like if I’d had it laid out in front of me. Golden? Maybe silver? Or white perhaps? But the air around it would have been calm and generous and warm. It may be that the right moment never existed. Or maybe I had left it behind in Boulevard St-Germain. It’s funny what a difference a few seconds can make. If I’d gone straight up to the apartment building and not gone into the cafe. If my grandmother had come out of the building earlier. If I’d run up fast behind her and introduced myself before she’d crossed the road. If Eric hadn’t needed a new gasket. If Didier had come, too. If a butterfly hadn’t beaten its wings a hundred years ago in Costa Rica …Any of these things might have prevented what happened next.

  “What does that mean, ‘the right moment’?” Pascale was up close to me when she said this—I’m sure of it, looking back. That was the right moment, or anyway the moment, as far as she was concerned. She was looking around nervously. I can’t quite remember, but I think she put her arm around me and that she peered into my face. I took this as concern. Misdirection more like.