Chapter Ten
New vocab: J’ai changée mon look. (I have had a makeover.)
FRIDAY, APRIL 4
P’s bedroom, 5 p.m.
Since lunch I have eaten: 1) two hunks of baguette with butter and apricot jam; 2) one chocolate éclair (bit disappointing; it had custard inside, not cream); 3) three small cookies in the shape of a heart called palmiers; 4) two triangles of La Vache qui rit.
Can you tell I’m bored? Apparently we’re still grounded. Didier is around today—listening to classical music in his room—so Madame Blanc’s pretending to be strict. When Pascale shrieked, “But you let us out yesterday,” she looked panicked. “Shhh,” she said, her brown eyes hooded, and went back to her dusting. Philippe is coming back from his school trip tonight and she wants it to be extra clean. I’ve never met anyone so sad.
I thought Mother might call me back yesterday evening, but she didn’t.
I feel annoyed about Julie and Delilah becoming friends. There, I’ve said it. Does this mean I’m a horrible person? I always used to moan about what a pain it was that they don’t get along. I used to have to adjudicate between them like bickering siblings. Julie thinks Delilah is fancy and stuck-up, being at private school and all that. Delilah covers the fact that she’s scared of Julie with a sort of breathy arrogance. But now they’re all chummy and I feel left out. What does that say about me? Not a lot.
And I’m fed up with Madame Bovary. She’s got a little girl called Berthe, whom she ignores, and I know her husband is boorish, but why doesn’t she just leave him? Mother had the guts to leave Jack—though that was different because he kept having affairs.
And I’m fat. I’ve done nothing but eat cake since I got here. I’ve got two—no, three—gynormous zits the size of Versailles on my nose. They were smaller—more like Notre-Dame—but I’ve just spent half an hour squeezing them. (Why is squeezing zits so satisfying? It’s almost as satisfying as searching Marie’s scalp for nits.) When you see me, they’re the first thing you notice. Also, I don’t know what to do about my hair. It’s long and straight like a nun’s veil. (Only not black and white obviously, but mousy.) Pascale has just said I should cut it. In fact she’s just said she should cut it. Ha, ha. Naturally I took one look at her punk-Goth-black-spike- car-crash of a hairstyle and said, “No way, baby, no way.”
I’m not that bored.
Bathroom, 5:30 p.m.
Oh God.
Bedroom, 5:35 p.m.
We’re not talking car crash. We’re talking highway pileup involving several jackknifed vans and an articulated truck.
Pascale says it’ll be fine if I dye it mahogany. As if I’d let her dye it mahogany.
Bathroom, 5:40 p.m.
Oh God, God, God.
Bedroom, 6:10 p.m.
I can never go out—I can never leave this room—again.
Bedroom, 6:12 p.m.
Pascale looked out of the window, squealed, and bounded out of the room. I can hear loudly overlapping voices and shrieks of laughter downstairs. There’s a male voice I don’t recognize. Philippe must be home. Tough. I’m staying here. I have no interest in meeting him. I know I’m going to hate him.
Bedroom, midnight
What can I say?
I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. My mouth is as dry as a stone. I keep fiddling with my mouth, twisting my lips and biting them.
I realize why this house has been so quiet. It’s because when Philippe’s not in it, everything is suspended, like a DVD on pause. Pascale has laughed all evening. Madame Blanc took off her apron for the first time and even Monsieur Blanc made jokes, tried to kiss his wife, and wrestled with his children. Philippe’s a wind that blows everyone’s dark clouds away. Didier was quieter than usual, but he’s quiet anyway, so it doesn’t count.
I had to go down eventually. Monsieur Blanc called up to me and then Pascale came running up the stairs and said I had to go down.
When I edged into the room, Madame Blanc gasped.
“What’s that?” Didier said.
“My hair,” I said.
Philippe stepped forward. He took my hand, bent down, and kissed it. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
He’s tall, though not as tall as Didier but taller than, say, William, who’s a midget in comparison. He’s got hair the color of chestnuts, and lizard green eyes and a silver stud in one ear.
Monsieur Blanc said, “Pascale! What is the meaning of this?”
She hid behind Philippe. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was an accident.”
Philippe started laughing. “What is it, petite chatte?” he said, tickling her.
“It’s my hair,” I said.
He looked at me seriously. “Yes,” he said. “I can see.
A certain resemblance to a purple chicken, no?”
“No,” I said.
But everyone was laughing and the crisis passed. (For Pascale at least. I still had purple hair.)
Supper was thin slices of lamb with small, round green beans. Philippe regaled us with lots of stories about the Dordogne—the rivers, the caves, the force-fed geese. We were on the cheese course when he turned to Pascale and said, “And what have you been up to here? No mischief, I hope.”
Madame Blanc scraped her chair back. It made a noise like someone clearing their throat.
Monsieur Blanc told Philippe about the shoplifting.
Philippe rolled his eyes at Pascale, but there was a grin waiting to happen at the corners of his mouth and she giggled. Didier said something curt, to which Philippe sat up very straight and made a face like someone in trouble with a teacher. And again everyone laughed.
After supper he said he was going down to the bar in the main street. Pascale, darting a look at her father, said she was grounded and couldn’t. “Oh let her,” said Philippe. “Papa, be kind, be nice, remember being young.” And Monsieur Blanc just shrugged and said it was okay as long as Philippe promised to bring us home.
At the bar there were loads of people he knew. But I didn’t feel left out like I did last Saturday at the party. Eric was there and he and Philippe had a game of pool. Pascale and I sat on the edge of a table, swinging our legs and drinking Coke (no more Pernod for me, thanks very much). When Philippe stretched out his arms to hit the ball, his T-shirt rode up so you could see the bars of muscles on his stomach. It gave me a feeling inside that I don’t know how to describe, like warm sand slipping through your fingers, or a wind reaching through your sleeves to ruffle the hairs on your arm.
He knew everyone. I watched him moving around the room, joking with those girls by the door, play-punching that group of boys by the bar. When he came back to us, it felt like a privilege.
That was before he started teasing me. He can be SO OBNOXIOUS. I was wearing my green coat and he put it on and paraded around on tiptoe to pretend he was in high heels. He said I looked like a Belgian rock star. I said I thought he thought I looked like a purple chicken. He said, “That also.” I looked like both—a purple Belgian chicken rock star. He put some money in the jukebox and made us all dance. He and Pascale did something called le rock, in which he swung her under his arms and over. “Your turn,” he said to me. I couldn’t do it, but it didn’t stop him—he spun me around and around until I felt dizzy.
But then some older girls and boys arrived and he horsed around with them. When he came over to us, he said, “I’m off, my children. See you tomorrow.”
Pascale made a face. “You promised Papa to take us home,” she said.
He chucked her under the chin and in the end she just laughed.
He and the group he’d been talking to began leaving and suddenly the bar was quiet again. Pascale and I decided to go home. I’m glad we left when we did because I saw François and the crying girl crossing the street, heading for the bar.
Pascale and I walked back. When we got home, Madame and Monsieur Blanc were in bed. Didier was the only one up, reading L’immoraliste by Gide on the leather sofa in the living room. He was angry tha
t Philippe hadn’t bought us home. Philippe had promised, he said. Honestly, as if we needed looking after.
Mother called when I was out. Bother: too late to call her back now.
Chapter Eleven
New vocab: mon petit chou (my little cabbage)
SATURDAY, APRIL 5
The kitchen, 8 a.m.
Everyone’s still asleep, but I’m wide awake so I’ve come downstairs. One strange thing—the front door’s unlocked and Madame Blanc’s coat isn’t here. She’s probably gone to stock up on household cleaners.
I can see my reflection in the range hood. My hair looks much worse now it’s mussed. One side is longer than the other. I look like a cat that’s got caught in the rain. I’m seeing my grandparents this afternoon for tea—and I can’t go looking like this. They’ll disown me before they’ve properly owned me. I’ve still got twenty-three euros. I’ve left the others a note and I’m going out to do something about it.
Métamorphose, 9 a.m.
They say they can fit me in. They’ve sat me down in a corner to wait. I’ve flicked through some magazines and I’ve found a picture of a beautiful girl with v short hair. “Comme ça,” I said. Of course it’s the girl I want to look like—forget the hair—but we’ll see.
I must do something about my image. These magazines are full of girls looking elegant and poised. I’m just a mess. I used not to care, but I don’t want to look like a purple Belgian chicken rock star for the rest of my life.
Here goes. They’re ready for me now.
Métamorphose, 9:30 a.m.
I’m in a chair right by the window, waiting for a tint to do its business, and who do you think just crossed the road and rang a bell on the door between Mephisto, the shoe store, and the pharmacie? Madame Blanc. The door opened and she went in and it closed behind her. I can’t think what she’s doing there. She had a bag saying CASINO so she’d obviously bought some groceries. Maybe she goes shopping for some homebound old lady who lives there.
Poor Madame Blanc. She is the saddest woman I’ve ever met. She has No Life. It’s all cleaning and tidying and cooking for her bully of a husband, or shopping for old ladies. I will never be like that when I’m grown-up. I’m going to have a job, no not a job, a career, no not a career, a vocation (not quite sure what yet), and will be answerable to no one. My husband will do my cleaning and cooking; I might shout at him if I come home from a busy day at the office doing my job, or rather my vocation, to find he’s thrown away an important newspaper. But I won’t because we’ll love each other so much. I expect he’ll be handsome and French and be called something like Philippe …Oh stop it, Connie.
Métamorphose, 10:15 a.m.
Something intriguing has just happened.
Madame Blanc has just exited through the same door. Not alone. And not with a poor old lady either. With a tall, gray-haired man smoking a pipe. They stood on the pavement talking. Perhaps he’s her doctor, I thought. Or her osteopath. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.
And then he held his pipe away from his mouth and kissed her.
I don’t mean on the cheek in a French I’ve-only-just-met-you-but-I’m-courteous sort of way. On the lips. Although …I don’t know. French people are more demonstrative than us. Maybe it’s how an osteopath—who does tend to be quite intimate with a person’s body (their backs anyway)—says good-bye.
Got to go—time for rinse and cut. More reflections on the extremely morally serious matter later.
Métamorphose, 10:30 a.m.
Does Madame Blanc have a bad back? Or is Madame Blanc having an affair?
Back at the house, 12 p.m.
Everyone looked stunned when I walked in. They were all in the kitchen or dining room drinking coffee, arguing in a low, level manner when they saw me. I didn’t notice Madame Blanc flinch when I told them where I’d been. She did look at me very carefully, but then they all were, getting me to turn around so they could see my hair from the back, oohing and aahing in a very satisfying manner. Didier said I looked gamine, which I think means “boyish.” Philippe said, “Très chic, mon petit chou.” Apparently, petit chou means “little cabbage”— are we talking brussels sprout here? Pascale looks almost put out by all the attention I’m getting.
I’m going upstairs to look at myself in the mirror (haven’t dared yet) and then search my suitcase for something suitable to wear for tea with my grandparents.
Madame Blanc is re-ensconced at the kitchen sink. She is standing in the same way as usual. Her back doesn’t look any straighter. She looks just as glum.
I had a quick look at the door opposite the hairdresser’s. There were several plaques with names on them. One of them said DR. R. B. MONTAIGNE. Could be a medical doctor. Then again, could be someone with a doctorate in medieval history.
Chapter Twelve
New vocab: Quelle taille? (What size?); grosse comme un elephant (as big as a horse)
SAME DAY
Bedroom, 6 p.m.
Meant to take this diary with me but forgot. Need to write quickly as Pascale, who is out, will be back any minute.
Lovely afternoon. Lovely, lovely afternoon.
Grand-mère—as she’s asked me to call her—is the kindest person I’ve ever met. Grand-père is gruff but I think he’s just shy. He’s had a really hard life. His father was killed in the war and his mother died of cancer when he was a teenager. Bernadette—my mother—was his only child and I think it broke his heart when she ran off. Grand-mère says they shouldn’t have been so angry with her—they realize that now—but that she had been so young and they were worried about her. They thought if they told her she was disinherited it would make her see sense. It didn’t …but by then it was too late.
My grandfather stood up and left the room when Grand-mère said this. “He’s a very proud man,” she continued. “It was very hard for him. For both of us.”
We were a little bit awkward with each other. I didn’t feel, as I’d hoped I might, that I’d known them forever. I suppose life isn’t like it is in books. I was trying so hard to be nice and grown-up so they’d like me. I was worried they might be disappointed. Grand-mère made a comment about Pascale early on—something like, was she really the sort of person I should be mixing with? I don’t think she should have said that. She liked my haircut very much, but when she complimented me on it I felt her sort of look over my Oxfam summer dress as if she was mentally holding it up with tweezers. (It was the best thing in my suitcase.) Mother once told me her mother was a snob and I suppose I felt she was right. When you’re angry with someone it’s hard to see beyond faults like that. But when you’re not, you just have to accept them.
We talked about the fact that Mother’s letter to them had gone missing. Grand-mère said letters didn’t normally go missing. But I explained how bad the British mail was.
We had tea and cakes at the apartment. The cakes were on a special tiered dish and were all different. Grand-mère said they came from “the best pâtisserie in Paris.” My favorite was a little strawberry tart with creamy custard under the berries. You know how you sometimes want to leave the pastry? Well, the pastry here was so sweet it was almost the best bit. I also liked the baby éclair (though I wish I’d had chocolate, not coffee) and the mille-feuille, which means “a thousand leaves” and probably had about a thousand calories. (I am becoming cake obsessed.)
When it was almost time to go, my grandmother suggested she walk me to the métro and on the way she stopped outside a stylish dress shop and made me go in with her. She went up to the sales clerk and they both looked me up and down for a bit. The clerk readjusted the fabric of the floral Oxfam dress (the best thing in my suitcase) around my middle and held my chin so as to study my face in the light. She flicked through the racks and pulled out a pair of brown pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt in a sort of plum. They pushed me into the fitting room and made me try them on. All I could think at first was, Oh no, not brown!, which I realize was v ungrateful of me. Then all I could think was,
Oh no, too tight. In fact, I thought that several times because she kept having to bring me larger sizes (I’m obviously deceptive. I don’t always look it, but really I’m as big as a horse.) Finally I was standing in the middle of the shop in a pair of pants that fit and the plum top that I thought was too tight (big boobs—yikes) but that they announced was perfect.
There was a smile on my grandmother’s face that touched me. She gave me a kiss on the forehead and I felt my eyes fill with tears. She said she’d missed a lot of birthdays and Christmases and this was the least she could do.
Do you see what I mean? She might be a snob, but she’s also the kindest person in the world.
Bedroom, 6:45 p.m.
Pascale has just got home. She looks ruffled, as if she’d been kissing on the back of a motorcycle. Probably because she’s been kissing on the back of a motorcycle. She’d told Madame Blanc that she was meeting Stephanie, aka the crying girl, but I bet she hooked up with Eric. Her hair looks squashed, as if it’s been under a helmet.
We’re going out tonight. Apparently there’s a party at some friend of Eric’s we can go to. I’ve called Julie and she’s coming with Virginie. I’m not going to ask Delilah. I know it’s mean of me, but I want Julie to myself for once. Hopefully D won’t find out.
François and the CG will be there, but I’ll hide. He’s stopped phoning at last and I haven’t seen him hovering outside the house for a few days so I think he’s got the message. I think I’ll wear my new clothes.
Bon Voyage, Connie Pickles Page 6
