Bon Voyage, Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  I said, “I’ve seen my mother.”

  They pretended to be interested but were preoccupied with their own mother. Didier said that she’d been “implacable” when he’d met up with her this morning. Pascale started crying. She isn’t wearing any makeup today so she looks much younger—more my age. “When is she coming home?” she said. “She’d hate all the changes Valerie’s making. She wouldn’t stand for it.”

  Didier and Philippe exchanged glances.

  Valerie wafted out, holding a wrought iron lantern in the shape of a urn in her hand. She was wearing a floaty, white, embroidered caftan over a pair of linen pants. Her hair was in a bun. She placed the lantern in the middle of the garden table and stood back a pace. “There!” she said. “Much better.”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Time for church soon,” she said. “And then home for a nice fish supper. Pascale—I’ve put a rather chic bedspread on your bed. It’s made by a group of artisans in the Atlas mountains. Brightens up your room a bit; but honestly, it is very dark in there. Like a tomb.”

  Pascale got up and went back into the house.

  There was a silence and then Valerie, who was still standing, said, “Right. I’ll go in and get ready. Didier—long pants for church, please. Philippe—don’t forget to wash your hands.”

  After she’d gone, Didier said, “You don’t appreciate what you’ve got until it’s gone.”

  The garden, 8 p.m.

  Back from Mass.

  I’m in the garden on my own. Do you know who I wish I could speak to this minute? William. Just as a friend, of course.

  We all headed out of the house to church. I was wearing my new top and pants, which I’d retrieved from the laundry basket. There was a hot chocolate stain on the top that I had to dab with some toilet paper and the pants badly needed ironing. I’ll have to wash them before the party tomorrow.

  When we got to the church door, Philippe whispered something to Valerie and turned as if he was about to escape, but she yanked him by the collar and pushed him into the vestry ahead of her.

  It was pretty busy. We sat in a pew in a row near the back. A stream of people in their best clothes—I recognized the woman from the bakery and Veronique from the driving school—greeted us on their way in. Julie and her FE family were already sitting on the other side of the church and I managed to catch her eye and we grinned at each other and waved.

  Monsieur Blanc sat on the end and spent the whole time craning and half standing up to see better.

  The service began—lots of Latin; lots of droning; everyone bowing their heads, crossing themselves, standing, kneeling, counting beads, chanting. We had stood up to sing and had just settled down again when I realized that behind the pillar, about fifteen rows ahead of us, was the woman from the shoe store and next to her, a jacket I recognized: Madame Blanc. I nudged Didier, who was sitting next to me, and he half stood to see and then Monsieur Blanc caught on and had to be restrained by Valerie, who was sitting next to him, from getting up and barging to the front of the church.

  During the next hymn he pulled his jacket from her grasp and slipped into a row two ahead of us. And as we sat down, he nipped into the row in front of that. I had such an urge to giggle, I had to bring the hymn sheet right up close to my face. The priest must have told everyone to pray because the congregation got to its knees—except for Monsieur Blanc, who was continuing to move, surreptitiously, pew by pew, up the church.

  Then it was time for Communion. Most people stood and started lining up. Monsieur Blanc joined the stream leaving his pew and went straight for the pew where Madame Blanc had been sitting. Valerie tried to make me, but I didn’t go up for Communion. I stayed where I was. Monsieur Blanc, ten rows ahead, did too. I saw Madame Blanc leaving the rail, hands clasped. She saw her husband and walked up the church away from him until she reached my pew, the pew where he’d started off. Then she kneeled down and prayed.

  He stood up, but by this time everyone was returning to their seats and by the time he got back to us, the pew was full. Pascale was kneeling by her mother, whispering to her. Philippe and Didier were sitting near them so that Valerie had had to reenter the pew on the other side, next to me.

  Monsieur Blanc stood there, large and bearded, like a supplicant. But then the priest started up again and he squeezed into the pew in front. The woman next to him tutted and waggled her hat like an angry duck.

  He bowed his head—he seemed to be writing something. Then as the priest was giving us his final blessing, he turned and thrust his hymn sheet into his wife’s hand.

  She didn’t look at him but folded the paper and put it in her pocket. And then she kissed her children, stood up, and disappeared out through the church door.

  We all looked for her afterward, but she’d gone.

  Philippe went out to meet some friends after dinner. No one had the heart to stop him. I felt depressed after he’d gone. I thought he might have taken me and Pascale with him, but he didn’t offer. Still, he said he’d come to Mimi’s party tomorrow. And then I’ll have him to myself.

  I asked Valerie if I could call Julie and she said I could, as long as I was quick.

  “God, that went on,” Julie said when she came on the line. She’s Church of England, which means she never goes to church at home. “I thought I was going to die of boredom.”

  “Think of the sanctity of your soul,” I said.

  “It was the aching in my butt I was more worried about.”

  I told her about picking up Mother and Mr. Spence and she said I was a conniving genius.

  “Bit of PDA, though,” I said. “Not so sure about it.”

  “Con, she’s happy. Give her that.”

  She was right. I told her I was touched seeing them together, but also repelled if that makes sense. “Sort of,” she said.

  The bathroom, 9 p.m.

  “Darling, I haven’t seen you for AGES. This week has been, like, mad.”

  It was Delilah on the phone. Only it didn’t sound like Delilah. It sounded like Mimi.

  “We’ve been, like, having the most wonderful time—formidable. That means wonderful in French—”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Carol and Bob—Mimi’s parents—they are très, très cool. Nice was just …formidable. Mimi’s friend from Benenden, Sacha, is here—she’s like, well, cool. We’ve only got Eva, their housekeeper, to look after us and she’s, like, a pushover. Mimi’s slipped her a hundred euros and she’s made herself scarce. Now, we are seeing you tomorrow, aren’t we, babe? Can’t wait.”

  “Delilah?” I said. “This is me, Constance. Your next-door neighbor. You can talk normally if you like.”

  “Hel-lo? I am talking normally.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re like a chameleon. You talk all

  regular when you’re with me, or William. And now you’re talking like a trust fund princess.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are so. But anyway, yes, I am coming. Pascale and her brother are coming, too, if that’s all right.”

  “Super.” She said this with a French accent. “Listen, you couldn’t do me a favor, could you? You couldn’t call William for me? I’m trying to get him to come over—I really want to show him off; Mimi doesn’t believe he exists—and he’s been all down in the mouth, stick in the mud, if you know what I mean. Won’t come. But if you called and pleaded he might.”

  “Why would me pleading make a difference?” I tried not to sound pleased.

  “It’s just that you could tell him how much I’m missing him, how I’m moping about without him …objective witness and all.”

  I told her I might, but only if she stopped the Mimi act. She told me to go over there early tomorrow to get changed.

  The bedroom, 9:30 p.m.

  Felt nervous calling William. I wouldn’t have done it just to please Delilah, but I did so feel like talking to him.

  He was his same old self—a bit gruff at first, as if he 0had a mouth full of ma
rbles. He called me back to save on the Blancs’ bill (I was getting dirty looks from Valerie) and by then he’d taken the phone upstairs. His dad had had the day off from work and had been in the pub since lunchtime. There seemed to be a fight going on with his mom downstairs—I could hear swearing and crashing until William slammed his bedroom door shut on them.

  He said, “My brother said I can go and live with him and his girlfriend next year.”

  “Maybe that would be good,” I said.

  William breaks my heart sometimes. Here I am in Paris, mooning after Philippe and worrying about the expansion of my hips and William’s back where he always is, dealing with all that shit.

  “I have a proposition,” I said. “Come to Paris tomorrow. Come to Mimi’s party. It’s twenty-nine quid on the bus.”

  “Nah,” he said.

  “William, please.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you owe it to the Paris youth to show them the length and width of your jeans. They all wear slightly too short stovepipes here. You need to introduce them to a whole new world of pants.”

  He laughed, but didn’t say anything.

  “Go on. Please come. I promised Delilah I’d get you to.”

  “Oh, that’s it, is it? You’re doing Delilah’s business. I know she wants me to come because she’s been texting me all week.”

  “I want you to come,” I said, and I meant it. But it didn’t make any difference.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  New vocab: un bronzage artificiel (a fake tan)

  SATURDAY, APRIL 12

  RER, 11 a.m.

  Major developments:

  1) Monsieur Blanc has discovered that MadameBlanc is living with Michel from the auto-école. He went to get the baguettes this morning and the woman behind the counter told him everything as she was handing him his change. He went straight there. The driving school was closed and, though he leaned on the bell of the apartment upstairs for fifteen minutes, nobody came down to let him in. He’s in a heap in the garden now, with Valerie in attendance.

  2) Pascale has finished with Eric. He turned up this morning, revving his engine in the street. He wanted them both to go off somewhere for the day but she told him she couldn’t leave her father and he said, “Make a choice,” and she did. Afterward she cried for half an hour in the kitchen. Valerie, who had just nailed a decorative leatherwork frieze to the wall above the oven and was in the process of rearranging the silverware drawer, told her Eric wasn’t good enough for her anyway. She’d never liked him much. Pascale stormed upstairs, screaming, “Who do you think you are? You’re not my mom.”

  3) Didier has written to his mother detailing the changes Valerie has made to the house. He has described the leatherwork frieze in some detail.

  I’ve left all this behind, though. I’m off to Paris to meet Mimi, a friend of hers called Sacha, and Delilah, and to get ready for the party. It’s strange to think of Mother being a few miles away and yet not seeing her today—though I’ll see them both tomorrow. I hope she and Mr. Spence are having fun. I wonder what they’re doing. Oh God, I wish I hadn’t let myself wonder that.

  I’ve brought my new clothes in a shopping bag and my PJs because I’m staying the night. I wish I could have thought of a way to make Pascale promise not to steal anything. I’m sure she won’t. I think it was just a phase. She’s spending the afternoon with her father and coming up with her brothers later.

  Note I said “brothers.” I sat next to Didier while he was writing to his mother and afterward he turned to me and said, “This party tonight. Philippe and Pascale are coming. May I come, too?”

  I went really red. It’s awful that I hadn’t thought to invite him. I muttered something about how I’d assumed it wasn’t his bag but of course he was welcome.

  I feel in my bones that tonight is going to be MOMENTOUS. Philippe is going to forget the domestic turmoil that has worried him so this week. He is going to see me for the fourteen-year-old girl I am rather than his little sister’s little friend. Delilah says she’ll lend me makeup. I’ve got the killer clothes from last weekend. I know he’s been cool all week, but he’s had a lot on his mind. I have hope. I keep remembering that look he gave me when I rubbed his ankle in the street. It’s got to mean something. Hasn’t it?

  Here’s Châtelet. Wish me luck.

  Mimi’s bedroom, 3 p.m.

  Hilarious afternoon so far. Quick update before the evening—or rather, la soirée de Mimi—begins.

  Mimi and Sacha, her friend “from Benenden,” were out when I got to the apartment. Delilah had the place to herself and was celebrating by listening to some music very loudly. It was some old CD of Mimi’s dad’s called Santana and the song was called “She’s Not There.” We got overexcited and started jumping all over the room, during the chorus, screaming, “She’s not there!” at the top of our voices. Then we looked through the photo albums, which were all beautiful pale pink or aquamarine suede (tried not to get them mucky with our fingers). In one book there were photographs of Mimi as a baby, tightly curled in a Moses basket, or in a spotted bikini under a sunshade on a sun-kissed beach. In later books she and her thin, tanned mother (who looks like Mimi with extra wrinkles) are posing by a sparkling turquoise pool, or in skiing gear against a snow-bound mountain. “That’s the life of an only child for you,” I said.

  “It’s not what my life’s like,” Delilah replied angrily.

  “Not far off.”

  “Just because you’re an only child doesn’t mean you’re spoiled. And anyway, Mimi’s dad is miles richer than Daddy.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You just can. He’s less, I don’t know, stressed.”

  I had told her about my conversation with William but she hadn’t seemed as pissed off as I’d thought. She’d said, “Loser,” but affectionately.

  Now I surveyed the apartment, in all its whiteness. “God, Del, do you think the party’s going to be okay? Do you remember the mess after yours?”

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. “Julie’s going to sleep over too, so there’s lots of us to help clear up.”

  “Oh is she?” I said, suppressing a deeply unattractive spasm of jealousy.

  Mimi and Sacha got back before I could worry anymore. They had been out to buy wine, beer, and olives and stuff.

  “Yummy, nibbles,” Delilah said as they unpacked them in the kitchen.

  Sacha looked at her over her shoulder. “Crudités, babe,” she corrected.

  Sacha is tall and long limbed, with defiantly streaked black-and-blonde hair. She has a stud in her tongue and holes in the knees of her jeans. When she took off her sunglasses, her eyes were the most surprising deep blue. (Colored contacts, according to D.) She says “Yeah cool” all the time, and “Yeah, chill, chill.”

  She looked at me for the first hour or so as if I was something she’d got stuck to the bottom of her shoes. But I wore her down with my friendliness (I was tempted to be snooty too, but decided life was too long). I asked her lots of questions about life: people always like that. Mimi, who was wearing a pretty sundress and cowboy boots, is being much friendlier than the last time we were here. She has to be nice to me because she’s spent a night on my floor.

  It’s turned into summer since last weekend. The other three girls already had light tans from their few days in the south. Along with the crudités, Mimi had bought some fake tan in a bottle. She had also bought a loofah and a bottle of coconut exfoliant to rub off everyone’s dead skin cells.

  Mother’s always saying that the problem with cosmetic surgery is if you’re the only person who hasn’t had Botox or a face-lift you look like an old crone in comparison. The same law applies to fake tan. By the time Mimi, Sacha, and Delilah had sanded and anointed and were down to their underwear—sitting, arms and legs apart, on towels—in Delilah’s bedroom, I had begun to look like a slab of whale blubber.

  “I’m fine,” I said when Sacha started badgering me.

  “Pale b
ut interessant.”

  “You’re certainly pale,” she said.

  We were all the best of friends by then and started rolling around laughing.

  “Don’t. Don’t,” squeaked Mimi. “I’ll fart.”

  Then she farted—it was hysterical coming from her, uptight as she is—and we really started laughing then. You know the sort of laughter when it hurts?

  “What a fart!” Delilah said. “Poo-ey.”

  And that set us off again.

  So—I’m tanned too now. I’m sitting drying in my underwear with the others. And it’s quite good. The only drawbacks are streaky knees and ankles, hands that look as if we’ve rubbed them in nicotine. Oh, and I smell like a diesel engine. Apart from that: très sexy.

  (Quick aside. Can you tell a person’s personality from their choice of panties? If so:

  1) MIMI. A tiny white thong, decorated along the top with expensive-looking pink daisies. “What pretty panties,” I said. And she said, “Broderie anglaise.” I’ve looked it up in thedictionary. It basically means “lace.”“English lace.” But in French. That seems to sum up Mimi. Pretty, girly, neat, and involved in some slight Anglo-Franco confusion.

  2) SACHA. A pair of snug boy’s-style white boxer shorts, low slung, with GIRL BOXER (or possibly BOXER GIRL) written eight times along the waistband (though it’s more of a hipband). Like their owner, trendy, fit, sexy in an I-don’t-care way.

  3) DELILAH. Oh Delilah. Her panties are bikini-style, black lace, and diaphanous. They do up with bows at the side. Embroidered in red at the front is a cartoon-style cat with a big grin. That’s my girl. Never afraid to be too obvious. Half sex kitten, half Disney.

  Clearly, I am not going to include myself in this list as my panties—M&S finest, once white, now gray, possibly slightly on the over-large size—have already been the cause of much hilarity. Delilah told the others that my mother worked for a fancy underwear shop—By Appointment to the Queen, I added—and that made them giggle all the more. I don’t care. I like making people laugh. And I like being comfortable. And anyway, even if I do hook up with Philippe tonight, he’s not going to get that close to notice. End of aside.)