Bon Voyage, Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

I keep thinking, Would Philippe have gone out all day if he felt the same for me as I do for him?

  The living room, 7 p.m.

  Philippe has just flown into the house and flown out again. A group of his friends waited for him outside the front door. Before he flew off, he called, “Grand bisou,” to me and Pascale. I’ve looked it up in my dictionary. It means “big kiss.”

  Oh hope!

  The living room, still, 10 p.m.

  I’m feeling v tired. I don’t think I can stay up much longer. And it wouldn’t be cool if he discovered I’d been waiting for him. Maybe I don’t look very nice today. Perhaps I should have worn the lipstick and the clothes.

  A bad day. Oh woe.

  Chapter Fifteen

  New vocab: Il m’aime. Il ne m’aime pas. Il m’aime. Il ne m’aime pas. (He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. Etc.)

  MONDAY, APRIL 7

  10 a.m.

  I’ve spoken to Julie on the phone. We’re meeting for a hot chocolate in the bar in Champigny.

  RER platform, waiting for

  train back, 11:45 a.m.

  Julie can’t believe Philippe kissed me! I told her everything. In reliving the moment I almost got over my disappointment at the way he treated me yesterday.

  “But when?” she kept saying.

  “In the RER.”

  “But we were there too.”

  “You were behind us.”

  “But I’d have noticed.”

  “It was”—it pained me to admit it—“very quick.”

  “But he’s GORGEOUS.”

  “I know. I know.” Getting quieter and more resigned every time. “I know.”

  She asked if I’d told Delilah and when I said I hadn’t, she got out her mobile phone and began dialing her. “She’ll love it. She’ll love it,” she was saying. I had to wrest the phone from between her fingers and threaten to drop it into her hot choc.

  “I don’t want you telling Delilah,” I said. “She doesn’t have to know everything I do.”

  Julie raised her eyebrows. “What’s up?”

  “I didn’t know you even liked her.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “She can be so …selfish, can’t she, and spoiled?” I was being disloyal and bitchy.

  “I know. But—well—she’s different over here. She’s funny. But listen, back to Philippe—the, well, fit Philippe. What happened yesterday? Did he do it again? Has he been all over you ever since?”

  “NO.” I forgot Delilah and told Julie how he’d barely registered my existence since Saturday night. She thought he might be playing it cool. Or that maybe he hasn’t been feeling very well. Or that perhaps he is waiting for more of a cue from me.

  “Perhaps he’s shy,” she said.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yeah. Or . . .”

  “What?”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”

  I looked so stricken she laughed and said of course he did or he wouldn’t have kissed me in the first place. I went on about it for quite a lot more, but by the time I’d provided about fifteen different interpretations for the wink, I detected a slight glazing in the eye region and shut up.

  We moved on to other matters. She’s decided the Le Boeufs are not poisoning her, though she does wish Virginie was a bit more fun. She’s very keen on horses. “’Nuff said,” Julie added darkly.

  We talked a bit about Karl—she read out his texts (yawn) and then we got on to Mother and her parents. Julie got all efficient, just as she did when I was trying to find Mother a boyfriend last month, and started listing possible stratagems for bringing her to Paris.

  1) Fake illness. It would have to be serious, possibly life threatening, to guarantee her arrival. This would be a) hard to pull off convincingly and b) a little on the cruel side—mothers generally being quite liable to health-related panics.

  2) Organize some sort of competition/prize drawing in which Mother wins two tickets to Paris and a night in a hotel—reservations messengered to her door in a manner she can’t refuse.

  The problems with this are mainly finance related. Like, where we are going to get the money for the tickets. And the hotel. And the messenger.

  3) Enlist Mr. Spence.

  Now we’re talking. Mr. Spence, the old

  romantic, is definitely a hidden resource. As

  soon as I get back I’m going to tap him.

  12:30 p.m.

  Phone call to home as follows:

  MARIE, who answered: It’s Connie. It’s Connie.

  It’s Connie. Connie, guess what, I’m going to LEGOLAND this weekend. Daddy’s taking me. But he’s not taking Cyril because he threw his bacon sandwich on the floor when Granny Enid made it specially and then he kicked me and I didn’t do anything.

  CYRIL, in background: I am coming to LEGOLAND.

  And you started it. You’re not going to LEGO-LAND. And I hate bacon. I hate the white bits. They’re disgusting. They’re like worms.

  MARIE: You’re like worms.

  ME: Marie sweetie. Lovely to catch up and everything, but is Jack there?

  JACK: What do you want? Money?

  ME: Ha. Ha. No, can you look after Marie and Cyril all weekend?

  JACK: Yeah, no …I have just met this new girl, fabulous …works in telemarketing …v keen on fruit, thinking Saturday night . . .

  ME, warningly: Jack?

  JACK: Yes, Connie. I can look after Marie and Cyril all weekend.

  ME: Good. Can you get Mr. Spence down from my bedroom, please?

  MR. SPENCE, doubtful: Constance? How are you?

  ME: Just calling to check how the shocking pink is coming along.

  MR. SPENCE, anxious: Er …Hint of Macaroon, remember.

  ME: I know. Only joking. But listen. I’ve had a wonderful thought. Mother. French. Hasn’t been to Paris in fifteen years. Paris. City of love, of romance. Minibreaks. The perfect way to get to know your lover. The perfect escape. Easter. Coming up. Perfect timing. Marie and Cyril. Lovely kids. Lovely to escape from. Mr. Spence—John—what do you say?

  I think he got what I was getting at. He started laughing halfway through. “What do you want?” he said. “Money?”

  “No,” I shrieked indignantly. “I just want Mother to be happy. You to be happy.”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, and I’m a bit homesick. If I know she’s coming next weekend—and she won’t come unless dragged—then I’ll have something to look forward to.”

  He sounded convinced by this and then he started getting excited. He’s never been to Paris himself. Imagine that! A grown man and everything. “I’d love to go to Paris,” he said. “Notre-Dame. The Eiffel Tower. I bet it’s quite something, the Eiffel Tower. Is it?”

  “Er. I don’t exactly know. I haven’t exactly seen it. Yet.”

  “Oh.”

  I’m going to have to leave it in his paint-splattered hands for the moment. And now I can hear Philippe in the hall—oh yikes—so I’m going to stop writing in here, go downstairs, and hover, looking interesting.

  Under the bedclothes, 9 p.m.

  What have I done wrong? Philippe hardly looked at me all through supper. It’s as if nothing has happened. Is it that he’s embarrassed in front of his family? I wish I knew. I can’t bear it. I think my heart will break.

  Chapter Sixteen

  New vocab: the old rendez-vous va-va-voom (Ask Mr. Spence.)

  TUESDAY, APRIL 8

  The bedroom, 10 a.m.

  I wish I’d never embarked on this falling-in-love thing. It’s ridiculous. I should stick to books and stationery. Boys are just a waste of time and emotion, and heartbreak. First there was William, who ruined my life by kissing me and then going out with my next-door neighbor. And now there is Philippe, who ruined my life by kissing me and then IGNORING ME.

  Julie has just called “to check on proceedings.” She really meant Mother and Mr. Spence I’m sure. I filled her in quickly and then nattered on about Philippe. She’s v
ery wise, is Julie. She said that in her experience (quite extensive if we’re being honest), boys often lose interest if girls seem too eager.

  “Have you seemed too eager, Con?”

  “I suppose taking off my clothes and tiptoeing into his bedroom last night with a rose between my teeth might have been un peu de trop.”

  “Er, Con …?”

  “BUT I DIDN’T DO THAT. I went to bed and wept silently under the covers.”

  I don’t think Pascale knows anything is up. She’s going through an ignoring-me phase. I haven’t done anything to annoy her, as such. I guess she’s just fed up with me being here all the time.

  Didier is being nice to me, but then he always is. He’s a nice boy. Unlike his horrible brother.

  Philippe is so horrible.

  I wish he’d kiss me again.

  I went for a walk by myself earlier, down to the market, and I kept imagining what might happen if I bumped into him, how glad he would be to see me alone, how he would stroke my hair and say we had to be secretive, how he’d promised his father never to marry an English girl but now that he’d met me . . .

  Of course I didn’t bump into him. Though I did see Madame Blanc in the distance. She was going into the shoe store, carrying a large suitcase. What on earth is she up to now?

  The garden, 12 p.m.

  The sun has come out at last. We’re so delighted, we’re acting as if the queen—or as we’re in France, the president—has come to visit. Didier lugged the green plastic garden furniture from the garage at the side of the house onto the lawn. It’s a small, dark garden, edged on two sides by tall, dark, green trees. Madame Blanc made a jug of lemonade, which she carried outside on a tray. And Pascale put on a skirt! A denim one—it looks nice with her biker’s boots. I realize I’d never seen her legs. She has a sort of rash on the back of her calves. She saw me looking and said, “I hate my legs.”

  “They’re nice,” I said. “You’ve got good legs. You shouldn’t hide them all the time.”

  She went bright red and tried to pull down the skirt. “My father says I’m fat.”

  “You’re not fat!”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m fat.”

  “You’re not.”

  We both laughed.

  I’ve just found out what the rash is. She picks at her skin. She finds an ingrown hair and when she’s not thinking, she fiddles and pokes it until she makes the skin sore. She’s doing it now. That girl is a bundle of nerves.

  You’ll notice I haven’t mentioned Philippe. I haven’t seen him all day.

  The garden, 2 p.m.

  Philippe appeared for lunch. He sat next to me on the blanket and I tried to eat really neatly so I wouldn’t look gross. He didn’t say anything to me directly, but when he’d finished his sandwich, he leaned across and tickled my arm with a blade of grass.

  I felt a charge of electricity between us. I thought, He’s going to ask me out. But he jumped up and said he was going to the movies with some friends.

  Madame Blanc, who was clearing away the tray, said, “On a lovely day like this?”

  But Pascale jumped to her feet. “Take us. Take us,” she pleaded.

  I crossed my fingers and hoped.

  He just laughed. “You’re too young,” he said. Sob.

  The garden, 4 p.m.

  Delilah has just called. I haven’t spoken to her since Sunday.

  “Just to let you know, I’m off to the south of France,” she said. “Carol and Bob, Mimi’s mom and dad, have a yacht in Nice.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  “One of Mimi’s friends from school is joining us. Then the three of us are flying back—alone—and we’re going to spend the weekend in the apartment with only the Filipino housekeeper in charge. So—you know what that means.”

  “No.”

  “Pa-arty.”

  “Are you sure?” I said. “With all their lovely linen sofas and oak antiques?”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “Just like yours.” Delilah, home alone in London recently, threw a party. The next day her parents’ house looked like the bed of the Thames at low tide.

  “Exactly,” she said, missing any sarcasm altogether. “Julie’s coming.”

  “Oh is she?” I felt a stab of jealousy.

  “And I’ve been trying to persuade Will to come. I said I’d pay. Mom gave me extra cash for the holiday so I haven’t even touched this month’s allowance. But he’s such a meany. He said he’d feel out of place. I said, ‘Aren’t you desperate to see me?’ He said he could wait another six days. Do you think he still likes me?”

  “Of course he does,” I said flatly.

  “Anyway, better go. Pascale can come on the condition she doesn’t swipe anything and she brings her sexy brothers. Got to go. Love ya.”

  “Love ya,” I said back.

  After I’d hung up, I thought hard about Delilah. She didn’t ask me a single question in that phone call. If she had, I might have told her about Philippe, or she might have guessed, from my tone, that something was up. She was really nice and everything, but friendship with Delilah is quite one-sided. You can’t hate her for it. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I could.

  I’d just come back out to the garden and the phone rang again. This time it was Mr. Spence. He sounded as if he was on amphetamines. “We’re in business,” he hissed. “I haven’t told Marie and Cyril the details in case they let it slip. I haven’t told anyone. All Bernadette knows is that it’s a mystery tour. Having Jack on board helped. She tried to say she couldn’t leave Marie and Cyril but we overruled her. They had some trip to LEGOLAND planned anyway. He’s got a new girlfriend in telemarketing …enough of that. I’ve got a last-minute, three-day package from Thompson. We’re staying in the Best Western—four stars! Right by the Champs-Elysées. We are talking boats being pushed.” He gave a geeky laugh. “Anyway, we get there Friday night. I’m thinking we might meet up with you then, get acclimated, that sort of thing. Saturday leave us to it, and then Sunday, when we’re hunky and dory, you organize the old rendez-vous va-va-voom with the old parents.”

  “‘Va-va-voom’?” I said.

  “Constance. I’m excited. Give an old man a break.”

  He’s funny like that, Mr. Spence. Just when you have him down as a complete idiot, he surprises you with a shaft of self-knowledge.

  And give him his dues. He had a mission and he’s done it!

  The bedroom, 6 p.m.

  I’ve just called my grandmother to tell her about Mother’s arrival this weekend.

  She said, “Bernadette, coming here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “To Paris.”

  “Here? To Paris?”

  “YES!”

  There was a long silence in which I think I heard her crying. Then she said, “But that is fantastic, incredible. Will she stay with us? Will she come here straight from the train? Shall we pick her up at the Gare du Nord?”

  I had to tell her to hold her horses, that we still had a little way to go. “But don’t you worry,” I said. “Connie Pickles, aka Constance de Bellechasse, is on the case.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  New vocab: swear words une garce (a bitch); une salope (a tart), une vache (a cow)

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 9

  The bathroom, 8 p.m.

  I ’m hiding up here but I can’t stay long. This is the first chance I’ve had to write all day. There is nowhere to go in this house. Even though my home is always full of people at least I’ve got my own space, and the roof to climb onto if it’s not raining.

  Dreadful things have been happening here. Pascale has locked herself in her room. Philippe has stormed out into the night—well, the evening. And Didier and Monsieur Blanc are pacing up and down in the living room. We haven’t had any supper. The phone keeps ringing. The front door keeps banging. The police have been and gone. The Blanc grandparents
and Monsieur Blanc’s sister will be arriving at any minute. I wish I could make myself really, really small because then I could slip down the drain and stay there until it’s all over.

  Madame Blanc has left Monsieur Blanc.

  It began as an ordinary day. Pascale slept in until 11 a.m. and I read my book in the garden, sipping hot chocolate and hoping Philippe would come out and talk to me. (He didn’t.) Madame Blanc was busy in the kitchen—cooking up enormous pots of what turn out to be several family meals, now stacked in the freezer. I did offer to help, but she shook her head and flashed me a smile—like a light being switched on and off. I didn’t think much of it. She’s never very friendly to me. I used to think it was embarrassment at not being able to speak any English, but now I think maybe she never wanted me to be here. I’m just one more thing, like the enormous flat-screen television her husband has brought into the house against her wishes.

  At about 10:45 a.m., she started washing up. But she didn’t just wash the pans she’d been using. She washed every single plate in the cupboard, every saucepan on the shelf, every knife and fork in the drawer. Then she got out the vacuum cleaner—which woke Pascale and led to a lot of screaming, which Madame B. ignored—and vacuumed the house from top to toe. Then, still not speaking to anyone, she laid the table for lunch. A plate of cold meats, a baguette, and a dish of gerkins were left under tea towels on the sideboard. And then she put on her jacket, slung her handbag over her shoulder, and walked out of the front door. She didn’t say good-bye to anyone. And she didn’t look back.

  None of us really noticed that she wasn’t back for lunch. She often stays late at the supermarket. If Monsieur Blanc had been there it might have been different. But he’d left very early to furnish some hotel in Versailles. Nobody sat down properly anyway, just sort of picked when they felt hungry. I wasn’t even thinking about her. I was too busy watching Philippe, while checking that my tummy wasn’t hanging out over the waistband of my new pants, keeping tabs on the crumbs around my mouth and the salami fat between my teeth, making sure I was laughing at the right things, that I was paying enough attention to Philippe for my feelings to be obvious but not paying so much attention that they were too obvious. It was all quite hard work.