Bon Voyage, Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  The beauty salon continues. The others say I’m not allowed to write in here anymore. We are to become ladies.

  Mimi’s bedroom, 7 p.m.

  Mimi is in the kitchen, scoffing her fourth pancake—“crêpe, babe”—with chocolate spread. Sacha is smoking a joint on the balcony. Delilah and I are in the bedroom, having a competition to see who can make louder burps.

  Just thought I’d keep you updated.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  New vocab: pris en flagrant délit (caught in the act)

  SUNDAY, APRIL 13

  Mimi’s kitchen, 1 a.m.

  It’s funny how sometimes you worry about the wrong things. I was so anxious about Mimi’s apartment. I thought there would be cigarette burns on the floorboards. I didn’t think about my fingers being burned. I was worried about Pascale coming in and stealing. I didn’t think Delilah would do the same.

  We were all getting on well at the beginning of the evening—Mimi, Sacha, Delilah, and me. I know we’re all different, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mimi’s fart was the beginning of the end as far as being sensible is concerned. We giggled and goofed about so much it was almost 8 p.m. when we got around to getting dressed.

  This, for me, was a sobering experience. Putting on my brown pants and plum, long-sleeved T-shirt didn’t take long, so I sat on Mimi’s bed and watched while the others finished. Mimi was wearing a red dress that wrapped around her, with a pair of round-toed, high-heeled shoes.

  Sacha wore her jeans, with a tight, apple green, cashmere cardigan and nothing but a pink bra underneath. You could see a lot of bra and a lot of flat brown tummy. Delilah took a long time choosing but finally chose a tiny white skirt, a thick black belt slung across her hips, and a sequined halter top. She brushed her thick brown hair until it was as shiny as the mane on a chestnut pony. Sometimes she slaps on too much makeup but this evening she was just wearing red lipstick. She looked gorg—they all did.

  “You all look amazing,” I said mournfully from the bed.

  “You do, too,” said Sacha unconvincingly.

  It was only a week since I’d felt like the belle of the ball, but it all went wrong tonight. The brown pants felt baggy and a bit grubby—Madame Blanc not being around meant they didn’t get washed. And the plum top looked dull. The problem was the sun—I was wintry, everyone else was summery. My short hair had lost its newness, too, and it dried in an odd, sticky-up way. I felt gangly and flat next to the three others in their bright, spangly colors. Even my tan felt, well, just brown.

  Looking back, I wonder if the problem was that I felt dull rather than that I was dull. Maybe beauty isn’t in the eye of the beholder but in the power of the giver. Delilah never doubts herself. She may not be the slimmest cracker on the cheese board, but it doesn’t dent her confidence. She thinks she’s beautiful and so she is. I suppose there’s a lesson in there somewhere.

  Anyway, the others couldn’t have been sweeter. Sacha even tried to lend me some strappy heels, but we all decided I looked like a transvestite in them so I took them off.

  We put on some music and poured ourselves drinks and waited.

  The first people to arrive were Thomas and Anne, a couple, who both looked about eighteen. Thomas was the son of some friends of Mimi’s parents. They went around kissing everybody on each cheek and then sat on the sofa holding hands and making polite conversation with Mimi, who perched on the edge of the coffee table.

  The next person to arrive was an older boy called Dave, who was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a bemused expression. He had long, thick brown hair, full of split ends, that looked as if he might keep bees in it. It took me a while to place his accent. When I said, “Where are you from?” he answered, “I am a citizen of the world,” though he later admitted he was from New Zealand. He’s been traveling since the March before last.

  I said, “How do you know Mimi?”

  He said, “I don’t.”

  It turns out she and Sacha had got talking to him when they’d been out shopping this morning and they’d invited him along.

  It got to be nine o’clock and no one else had turned up.

  I said to Delilah, when I got her on her own, “Who’s coming?”

  “You know, people.”

  “But who?”

  “Well . . .” She looked shifty. “Mimi is at school in England. She doesn’t have many friends here….”

  “Does she have any?”

  “Er . . .” She didn’t get to answer, because Thomas and Anne came out to kiss us both good-bye.

  “So then there were three,” I said.

  “And Dave. Don’t forget Dave.”

  We both laughed.

  We were on the balcony at this point. It was cool and dark, but you could still feel the warmth from the day in the bricks behind you. If you leaned back, you could see birds still wheeling high in the sky above us. You could hear the distant rumble of traffic. You smell the river.

  “How’s your week been?”

  I looked at Delilah in surprise. “Oh,” I said.

  “Has it been okay living with Pascale? Have you had a nice time?”

  It was such a rare honor to be asked a question by Delilah, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “How about those delicious brothers of hers?”

  “Funny you should say that …,” I began. “Because I really like Philippe and . . .”

  I was about to confide in her, to tell her about last week’s kiss and my hopes for tonight, but there were noises and voices in the apartment then. Lots of people had arrived all at once.

  We went back into the living room. Julie was there, in a funky dress over jeans. She was wearing bright red lipstick and a big smile. “You are so BROWN!” she was shrieking at all of us. “I’m so MAD. I’d have had a sunbath if I’d known. Con!” She saw me. “You too!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve let you down.”

  Coming into the room behind her were Pascale, Didier, and Philippe. All three looked subdued and embarrassed. Mimi was getting them drinks. Pascale was very pale. (Particularly when she stood next to Mimi.)

  “People!” I said. “At last!”

  Philippe grinned. “Where’s the party?” he said.

  “Out there—” I gestured to the balcony, where Dave and Sacha were talking.

  “Crudités, anyone?” Delilah appeared with a plate of olives.

  Philippe pretended to scoop up the whole lot. Delilah pretended to spank his bottom.

  Julie pulled me into the corner. “I’ve got to ask you. Tomorrow! Lunch! Are you all set up?”

  “Lunch? Tomorrow?” Delilah and Philippe were still playing about with the olives. She was trying to put pits down the back of his shirt. He had hold of her arm and she was squealing.

  “Your mother? Your grandparents? Get with it. You know, the reunion of the century?”

  “Oh that. Yes. Of course.”

  “I was wondering: are your grandparents going to be at the table when she comes in or will they arrive after she’s sat down?”

  “Julie, er …What do you think?”

  Philippe and Delilah had gone out onto the balcony.

  “Tricky. Personally I think it might be better if she was sitting down when they turned up…. Connie, what’s the matter?”

  “Oh. I’m just …Nothing.”

  “What does your grandmother think?”

  “About what?”

  “About who should get there first. You’re not concentrating, are you?”

  “Julie. It’s just …Do you think I’ve got a chance with Philippe?”

  She followed my eyes. “Oh.” She is such a good friend. She understood at once. “Yes I do. But not if Delilah gets there first. Go.”

  On the balcony, Sacha and Dave were smoking a joint and discussing world politics. Delilah and Philippe were discussing Delilah. “I come from quite a deprived background,” Delilah was saying. There was lipstick on the rim of her glass.

  Philippe smiled warm
ly when he saw me. “My little English girl,” he said (hope!) and put his arm around my shoulder (double hope!!). I tried not to stiffen. I tried to breathe normally.

  Delilah began telling us about the ballet classes she used to have when she was little. Her arms were raised in an arabesque. “First position. Second position. Third and fourth. And fifth position,” she was chanting, displaying her body in an array of beguiling positions. Philippe was laughing.

  I launched into a description of the fake-tanning process, complete with naked girls in underwear. I told Philippe my Theory of Underwear and he thought that was very funny. Delilah, who had heard it already, thought it was funny too. She took off her shoes and started inspecting the insides of her toes. “Look, white bits!” she said to me. She was leaning on Philippe for balance. From where I was standing, you could see her inner thighs, which weren’t white at all.

  Who knows which of us would have given in first. But Mimi stuck her head through the doorway and made us all come into the living room. She put us in teams and organized a game of charades. I was with Pascale, Didier, and Julie. My Bonjour Tristesse (a seminal book by Françoise Sagan, according to Mimi) won the day. Didier got my wave and handshake (“Bonjour” bit) immediately. Philippe, Delilah, Dave, Sacha, and Mimi struggled gamely with Macbeth but were hampered by the language barrier. Delilah did her best to act the whole thing—lots of stabbing and washing of hands—but they gave up. We were all laughing so much it didn’t matter.

  After that Sacha chose more music and she and Dave danced madly around the apartment. Mimi and Didier joined in, more sedately. The rest of us lounged about. I lounged next to Philippe. My leg touched his. We all drank quite a lot and I felt as if I was in a movie. Time didn’t seem to matter. The evening was stretching like Elastoplast.

  And then I realized that Pascale, who was curled up like a black cat on a chair opposite and who had been very quiet all evening, was crying.

  I got up and went to her. “What’s the matter?” I said, putting my arm around her. “What’s up? Is it your mother?”

  “No.”

  “Is it Eric?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I held her for a while. And then I got her a drink of water. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She nodded and we went through to Mimi’s bedroom and sat on the bed.

  It took a while before she could talk. “It’s everything,” she said. “Maman and …Eric. I wish he were here. I don’t know if I love him, but I miss him now. It’s been such a horrible week.”

  I immediately felt guilty. I haven’t been very thoughtful, have I?

  “Poor you,” I said. “It’s all so traumatic. But your parents love you; you know that, don’t you?”

  She was twisting Mimi’s nightdress—a little lacy number—in her fingers. “It’s my fault.” She was sobbing.

  “No it’s not.”

  “It is. I’ve been so bad. And they argue about me.”

  “It’s not what it’s about. I’m sure.

  “In my book, Madame Bovary . . .” I tried to tell her about Emma Bovary’s yearning for something else beyond the domestic sphere. Pascale was looking at me oddly and after a few minutes I realized literature isn’t always helpful.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I said.

  “I want to go home.”

  “Shall I get Didier?”

  “No, Philippe. Can you get Philippe?”

  So I left the bedroom and went back into the living room. Philippe wasn’t there. So I went out onto the balcony.

  I don’t want to remember it. I don’t want to remember the way they were sitting, like the star sign for Gemini. I don’t want to remember the way his eyes were closed, or the way she was running her pretty, plump hands through his hair.

  I stepped back into the living room. I could hear Mimi’s, Didier’s, and Julie’s voices in the kitchen. Sacha and Dave were on the sofa, playing backgammon with a beautiful handmade set that had sat on the shelf in the alcove. There was a space there now, and, with my back to them, I ran my fingers across the square of dust around where it had been. I picked up one of the photo albums Delilah and I had looked at earlier and opened it at random. I stared at a picture of Mimi and her immaculate mother drinking coffee in an Italian square. Some people have life on a plate. I remembered Delilah’s grumpiness earlier, her beef that Mimi’s parents are richer than hers, that Mimi has “a better deal” than she does. It struck me that it wouldn’t occur to me to be jealous, to launch some invidious chain of comparisons, because I’m not in the same league as either of them. This trip to Paris was my adventure. The only adventure I’d ever had. And Delilah had hijacked it. I know it wasn’t her fault that she’d taken William away from me. I hadn’t told her how I felt about him. It wasn’t her fault that she’d taken Philippe away from me either. I hadn’t told her about last week’s kiss. But why hadn’t I? Do I keep things from her because I’m scared she’s going to take them away from me? Then I had a worse thought. Had she guessed both times? Is that why she’d taken both of them? She’s a magpie. If it glistens, she has to have it. But do they only glisten because she sees them through my eyes?

  A big, wet tear dropped onto the aquamarine suede photo album. I watched it widen into a stain. Then I pulled myself together. Self-pity is not an attractive quality.

  I went into the kitchen. Julie was telling a story about some antic of Virginie’s little sister. Didier looked at me, with his head on one side, a kind dog with his soft brown eyes.

  “Ça va?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I wanted to go home badly. Really home, all the way to London. Homesickness and disappointment and self-contempt swirled together like a great vat of muesli in my stomach. “But Pascale needs you. She’s in the bedroom.”

  “Oh.” We went through together and I stood in the doorway while he talked to her. She said she wanted Eric to come and get her and Didier rang him from his mobile phone. “He’s coming,” he said when he’d hung up. “I couldn’t have stopped him if I’d tried.”

  Pascale giggled through her tears. She wanted to stay in Mimi’s bedroom until he got there. She wanted some time alone. Didier got up and left. I stood and looked at her for a few minutes.

  I said, “Could you put that back under the pillow where you found it?”

  “What?”

  “That nightie. Put it back.”

  Sheepishly, she pulled Mimi’s lacy thing out of her sleeve.

  “I’m watching you,” I said.

  At least she was feeling more herself.

  I followed Didier back into the kitchen.

  “Oh Didier!” Mimi had her head in the fridge. “We’ve run out of ice. Will you be a honey and run out and get some?”

  (I’ve written this, as per, in English, but I think it’s important for posterity to acknowledge that she spoke to him, as per, in French.)

  “But of course,” Didier replied. He turned to me. “Would you like some fresh air, Constance?”

  There was nothing I wanted more so I found my coat and, ignoring Julie’s troubled look, followed him out.

  “You’re a bit quiet,” he said as we descended the

  stairs. “Not enjoying the party?”

  “Yes.”

  “Though it’s not much of a party.”

  “No.”

  We’d reached the street. I looked up and he followed my eyes. You could just make out Delilah and Philippe making out on the balcony.

  Didier frowned. “Oh,” he said.

  I tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. “Everyone loves Philippe,” I said. “Isn’t that what you all say?” I hadn’t meant to sound bitter.

  “Oh Constance. Has my silly little brother taken your heart?”

  “No,” I said. Didier looked at me. “Yes,” I said.

  We walked across the bridge in silence. The Seine smelled dank and green, of sand and silt and turtles. We took a narrow road up toward Marais. The air felt warm, with a cool breeze coming
up from the river. After a while I felt Didier’s arm around my shoulder. It was awkward. My step was out of sync and I had to do a half skip every few paces to keep up. We passed some stores selling kebabs with lots of people milling outside. Didier went into one of them and came out with a bag of ice cubes. We set off back in the direction we’d come toward Mimi’s apartment.

  “Oh. There’s the Hôtel de Ville,” I said. “It looks lovely. I really wanted my mother to stay there but it’s too posh.”

  Didier laughed. “It’s not a hotel,” he said. “It’s the town hall. Has no one explained that?”

  “No.”

  “Or pointed out the sights?”

  “Not really.”

  “Let me show you some places. They won’t miss us.”

  Didier led me down to the Rue de Rivoli to the Musée du Louvre. He pointed out the glass Pyramide entrance; he told me about Napoleon building the Arc de Triomphe in homage to himself and his army. At the Place de la Concorde, we crossed the river and walked back. Paris felt grand and imperious. Traffic passed us at speed. After a while, he took my hand.

  We must have been gone an hour. When we reached the Pont Neuf, we sat on a bench and Didier talked about his worries about his mother—how glad he was that she had escaped from his father but how anxious he was about Pascale. I told him my plans for my mother and grandparents. A cold breeze swept across the river and I shivered. He put his arm around me. I leaned into him. I wondered what was happening back at the apartment, whether the others were worried about us. I felt bad about Julie—unless new people had arrived she wasn’t going to be having the most wonderful of times. She’s used to parties being, well, parties. I wondered whether the game of backgammon had finished, whether anyone had reloaded the CD player, whether Philippe and Delilah . . .

  “We’d better go back,” I said. “They’ll be wondering what’s happened to us.”

  Didier stood up reluctantly and we continued across the bridge, onto the island, and onto Mimi’s street.

  I was ahead of him, and he stopped behind me, still holding on to my hand. “Constance!” He sounded urgent.

  I turned.