by Melody James
I look down at my own jeans and white shirt and feel a flash of guilt. Have we let Savannah down? Seeing Paris spread out like a gingerbread city – roofs gleaming in the sunshine, windows flashing, parks spread like green blankets between the bustling streets – I wish I’d packed more romantic clothes. I suddenly feel like I owe it to Paris to return its beauty.
‘I’ll leave you girls to it.’ Sam’s voice cuts into my thoughts. He’s heading for the door. ‘I promised Cindy I’d help move her bed. Apparently, it’s in a draught.’
I remind myself that I’m not in Paris for romance – not for me anyway. I’m here to write an article that’s so good Cindy has to publish it.
Jessica interrupts. And while you’re writing tourist tripe, Star-ling, I can concentrate on making my horoscopes come true. If darling Barbara keeps blossoming, it’ll be as easy as mixing a Martini; with Paris whispering sweet nothings in his ear, how will David possibly resist plucking such a pretty flower?
I imagine them dining by candlelight, heady on the mouth-watering aromas wafting from the kitchen. David reaches out and touches Barbara’s silky cheek. Her eyes shine as she returns his affectionate gaze. An old waiter quietly spoons soup into their dishes, trying not to break the spell that enfolds them, his Gallic heart touched by the sight of young love budding.
Then a shadow crosses my sunny dream world. Is Jessica Jupiter reaching for stars beyond her grasp? Barbara’s eyelashes might be curled, but she’s still the girl who wrote Love vs. Homework: Ten Reasons Why Coursework Beats Dating. And David’s still more geek than chic; will he ever look up from his smartphone long enough to notice that Barbara’s turned into a super-babe? I shake the thoughts away and stare out over Paris. This is the city of love; what could possibly go wrong?
While I’m fretting over Barbara’s love life, a mattress creaks behind me. Savannah has plumped down on one of the beds. ‘We’re actually here!’
Sal’s fidgeting in the doorway. ‘Are you coming to unpack?’ she asks Savannah.
‘I just need to debrief,’ Savannah tells her. ‘I’ll be there in a second.’
‘Don’t complain if I’ve used all the hangers.’ Sally shrugs and wanders out.
‘Don’t worry,’ Savannah trills after her. ‘I’ve brought my own.’
Treacle flops onto the other bed. ‘This is going to be the best adventure ever.’
I drag my gaze from the window and scooch onto the bed, beside Treacle. ‘What’s first on the itinerary?’ I unfold the printout Madame handed out on the coach.
Saturday
Noon: Arrival
12.30: Settling in
1 pm: Lunch
I suddenly realize I’m starving. ‘I wonder where we’ll eat.’ The hotel doesn’t look like the dining room would serve anything but salmonella.
Savannah smoothes down her cream pussybow blouse. ‘How can you possibly think about eating?’
Treacle sits up. ‘We had breakfast at 5am.’
‘You’ve had a sandwich since then.’ Savannah frowns. ‘You’re really going to cut into our shopping time if you insist on eating every time you get hungry.’
‘But the French are famous for their food,’ I object. ‘It’s our duty to taste the local cuisine.’
Treacle’s eyes suddenly glint mischievously. ‘Talking of cuisine, did you get a taste of Rupert on the coach?’
‘I got more than a taste,’ I say bitterly. ‘He wouldn’t shut up!’
‘You didn’t like him?’ Savannah looks worried.
‘He nearly bored me to death,’ I growl. ‘He turns everything into a joke. And not even funny ones.’
Treacle crosses her legs. ‘Perhaps he was just nervous about the journey.’
Savannah nods. ‘Maybe, now he’s in Paris, he’ll be more interesting.’
My eyes bulge with frustration. When will Savannah and Treacle get the message that I have a serious Rupert allergy?
There’s a knock on the door. ‘Hello?’ Barbara’s head pops into view. ‘Madame Papillon wants everyone to gather in the lobby.’ She steps inside. ‘We’re going out to lunch.’
‘Wow.’ Savannah looks Barbara up and down. She’s changed into a pink jacket with a heart-shaped neckline that frames a cleavage I never knew she owned. ‘Nice outfit.’ The pink is lighting up Barbara’s complexion, like rosy sunshine on a peach.
‘Food!’ Treacle leaps to her feet.
Savannah dives past Barbara. ‘I must check my makeup!’
I forget Rupert. We’re going out! Into Paris!
Treacle barges past Barbara and heads for the stairs. Jeff is on her heels. I follow, racing down the stairs. I bounce off the walls at every corner, while Savannah and Sally clip-clop behind in death-defying heels.
The lobby’s half-filled with students by the time I get there. I slide in beside Treacle and Jeff and catch my breath.
Madame Papillon is smoothing her black bobbed hair with one hand, while ushering students with the other. ‘I want you all in groups of six.’ She steers Savannah and Sally towards Treacle and me. ‘You go in that group.’ She points Barbara towards the door where Cindy’s standing with Sam. ‘You join them.’ Will appears on the stairs behind Ryan. Madame Papillon beckons them. ‘You two can go with LJ and Bethany.’
Will frowns and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Ryan shrugs and shuffles after him.
‘Is everyone in a group?’ Madame Papillon’s counting heads. ‘David Senior, you go with Sam’s group.’ She splits David from his twin. I press back a smile. David will be having lunch with Barbara.
I should be with them. The thought hits me like lightning. I need to be there to make sure their first date goes smoothly. But Treacle’s holding onto my arm.
I whisper in her ear. ‘Would you mind if I join Cindy’s group?’
Treacle stares at me, startled. ‘Why?’
I search for an excuse and spot Ryan looking lost beside Bethany and LJ. ‘If I go with Cindy, then Ryan and Sal can join you and Sav.’
Treacle tips her head. ‘I guess.’ She sounds unconvinced.
‘You’ll have Jeff and Sav’s got Marcus,’ I press.
Treacle’s eyes widen with worry. ‘But it won’t be the same without you.’
I look sadly at Ryan. ‘You can’t leave Ryan to eat with Year Tens,’ I plead. ‘He hardly knows how to use a knife and fork. They’ll crucify him.’
Treacle hesitates. ‘I’m used to Cindy and Sam,’ I urge. ‘I’ll be OK.’
Treacle glances at Ryan and sighs. ‘I guess you’re right.’ She beckons him over and he hurries towards her, his face bright with relief.
‘We’ll meet up after lunch,’ I promise Treacle and hurry across the lobby. ‘Can I join your group, Cindy?’
Cindy stares at me suspiciously as I skid to a halt in front of her.
Sam smiles. ‘That would be great.’ He scans the lobby. ‘But our group’s still one short.’
Cindy tucks her hair behind her ear. ‘I’m sure we can still eat with just five at the table,’ she snaps. She looks past me as Barbara takes my arm.
‘I’m so glad you’re coming with us, Gem!’ She’s glowing, her make-up still perfect, her hair restyled into a neat chignon that makes her look très sophisticated. I slide a look at David to see if he’s ogling, but he’s flipping through a guidebook. He’s probably looking for Batman’s hideout.
Madame Papillon clears her throat. ‘I want each group to find a café or restaurant and have lunch.’ She looks around the blinking faces. ‘You all have your phrase books, I hope?’ Nods and murmurs ripple round the crowd.
Then I spot Rupert. He’s got his hand up. ‘I’m not in a group, Miss,’ he says.
‘Oh, dear.’ Madame Papillon’s dark eyes sweep the room. ‘Cindy!’ She looks at the Ice Queen with delight. ‘Your group’s got room for one more. Splendide!’
She waves Rupert towards us. He spots me and smiles. ‘It seems like we’re destined to spend the day together,’ he says, as he stops beside
me.
‘Yeah,’ I answer unenthusiastically. I notice his nose is still swollen, but there’s no sign of blood.
Sam moves aside to give him room, glancing down as Rupert takes my elbow and starts steering me out of the hotel.
I shake him off. ‘I can manage.’ I push through the door into the alley.
I hear Madame Papillon calling behind us. ‘Don’t forget, we’re meeting up at two thirty in the Louvre!’
Outside, I instinctively head for the bright boulevard, but Sam signals me the other way. He’s striding deeper down the winding alley.
‘Where on earth are we going?’ Cindy follows him, picking her way along the litter-strewn cobbles like she’s negotiating hot coals.
Barbara gazes up at the windows above. A thin strip of sky shows overhead. ‘This is so romantic.’ Her gaze flashes towards David, but David’s eyes are firmly fixed on his guidebook.
He glances up at Sam. ‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘There’s a cool café this way,’ Sam tells him. ‘It’s not exactly chic, but it’s got a good rep.’ He leads us round a corner where three streets meet and takes the one on the left. The narrow road is crowded with badly parked cars. Every fender and door is dented. It’s like a dodgem graveyard.
We pass shops selling bread, cakes, meat, fish and vegetables. The smells make me hungrier than ever. People saunter along the pavements, moving with relaxed ease, looking like they belong. Paris feels strange and I feel strange in it, but the feeling is exciting and I want to see more. The men look effortlessly casual, but their trainers are spotless. The women are elegant, well-groomed and understated and, just as Savannah predicted, their skin glows below the merest hint of make-up.
‘Here.’ Sam stops outside a scruffy-looking tapas bar. Through the windows I can see young people crowding the tables, laughing and eating. They look happy. I want to go in and feel the vibe, but Cindy turns up her nose.
‘Tapas? In Paris? Really?’ She walks on without waiting for an answer. ‘Let’s find somewhere more suitable.’
I wonder what can be more suitable for six teens than a cool-looking tapas bar, but Cindy’s marching towards a restaurant that looks like a movie set. With more metal and glass than the smart hotel, it looks expensive. Well-dressed couples are pushing in and out of the front door.
Cindy stops outside. ‘This will be perfect.’
Sam raises an eyebrow. ‘It looks like a hang-out for businessmen.’
‘It looks like a proper French restaurant,’ Cindy insists. Before anyone can argue she sweeps through the door.
We shamble after her and I hide behind Sam while she accosts a waiter and starts asking for a table. ‘Une table pour six, s’il vous plaît.’
Barbara’s wide-eyed. ‘I hope I have enough euros,’ she says anxiously.
Rupert stands beside her. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispers. ‘I have an emergency credit card.’ Barbara looks relieved.
Sam glances at me mischievously. ‘Perhaps they’ll object to your jeans and throw us out.’
I laugh. ‘If only!’ But the waiter is waving us towards a table next to a wide, spotless window.
Rupert is pulling out a chair for me before I’ve even decided where to sit. ‘Let me help you off with your coat.’ Like an overeager butler, he’s dragging my jacket from my shoulders. My hands get caught in the cuffs and I’m tangled in my sleeves, while Rupert heaves me around by my collar.
Sam grins. ‘Smooth.’
Other diners are starting to stare. I fight a blush.
‘I’m guessing you didn’t train with Houdini, Gem,’ Sam teases, as I try to wriggle my way out of my jacket.
‘Who-dini?’ Barbara gently moves Rupert aside, takes one end of my sleeve and helps me slide my hand out.
David sits down. ‘He was an escapologist,’ he explains.
‘Don’t they study insects?’ Cindy asks.
‘That’s an entymolo—’ Sam’s about to correct her, but sees her smile. The Ice Queen is actually joking.
I didn’t know she could. Paris must be magical! I pop free from my jacket. It’s going to be fine. If Paris can thaw out the Ice Queen, David and Barbara are bound to fall in love, just like Jessica predicted.
I decide to give the stars a helping hand. ‘Why don’t you sit here, Barbara?’ I lean over and move the chair beside David’s. ‘You’ll get a good view out of the window.’
‘Sam, you sit beside me.’ Cindy pats a chair.
As I sit down, Rupert parks himself next to me.
All around us, diners are talking in French. It feels weird. Imagine living your whole life in a totally different language.
‘These people actually think in French.’ The words slip out of my mouth before I can file them in the Thoughts Only section of my brain.
‘They dream in French too.’ Sam passes me a menu.
Blushing, I look at the long list of dishes, searching for words I recognize. Salade. I’m relieved. Salade de Canard.
Duck salad. I decide I can handle duck. A quick glance at the entrées persuades me it’s the safest option. What on earth is Truite Sautée Sauce Amère? It could be anything.
David’s perusing the menu warily, as though sniffing a corpse. ‘I think I’ll have the Cuisses de Grenouille.’
Rupert looks up sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course,’ David says decisively. I guess he’s so relieved to have made a choice he’s not going back on it now. ‘What are you having, Gemma?’
‘Salade de Canard.’
Rupert doesn’t miss a beat. ‘You must be quackers.’ My heart sinks. He’s slipped into comedy mode again.
Sam slaps his menu shut. ‘Croque-monsieur for me.’
‘Ham and cheese toastie?’ Cindy nods. ‘Good idea.’
‘And a croc for me too,’ Rupert agrees. ‘Let’s just hope they don’t bring us alligators.’
Cindy ignores him. ‘What about you, Barbara?’
Barbara is frowning her way through the lunch list. Then she sits back and thrusts out her chest resolutely. ‘I think I’ll have a croque-madame.’ The neckline on her pink jacket stretches dangerously. David, Rupert and Sam swivel her way like compass needles finding north. ‘It sounds tasty.’ She’s sweetly oblivious to the effect her cleavage is having on the boys.
Cindy, her makeover artist, gives a satisfied smile. I don’t begrudge the Ice Queen her moment of triumph. Turning Babs to Babe suits my plan perfectly. David’s brow is sweating.
A waiter heads towards us, brandishing two bright green bottles of sparkling water. A notepad is tucked into his apron. He fills our glasses one by one, and then swings the second bottle onto the table with the grace of a gymnast. As he flicks open his notepad and poises his pen on the fresh white paper, I feel a sudden prickle of nerves. I’m going to have to speak French. To a French person.
I’m relieved when Cindy takes charge. ‘Puissions-nous avoir . . .’ She orders for each of us in turn.
Sam drums his fingers softly on the table as she goes round us one at a time, pointing and instructing the waiter as though ordering for children.
The waiter hesitates when she reaches David. ‘Des Cuisses de Grenouille?’ he echoes nervously.
Cindy doesn’t falter. ‘Oui.’ The waiter raises an eyebrow and scribbles on his pad.
I lean towards David. ‘What are Cuisses de Grenouille?’
‘Lamb chops,’ he tells me.
Sam leans forward. ‘Are you sure—’
Rupert cuts in. ‘Twenty-four hours ago, we were sitting in the school canteen; now we’re ordering lunch in a French restaurant.’ He leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. ‘Which reminds me of a joke.’
I pick up my napkin and start to chew on it.
‘An Englishman, a Frenchman and an American are walking on a beach. They come across a lantern and a genie pops out . . .’
There’s no way this joke can end well. ‘Excuse me.’ I stand up. ‘Just popping to th
e loo.’ I slide away between the tables, looking for toilet signs, relieved when I spot the universal sign for Ladies.
Inside, I stop in front of a mirror. The Paris air has tamed my curls. And my skin is glowing. My freckles actually look like they belong to me. Usually, it’s like aliens have colonized my face. I look fresh and natural, like the women I’ve seen on the streets. Suddenly I feel at home. I don’t need mascara. Or lipstick. I wash my hands, run my fingers through my hair to neaten it a little and then straighten my crisp white shirt, ready to face Rupert’s jokes.
I hear him as soon as I near the table.
‘What do you call a Frenchman wearing sandals?’
Cindy sighs. ‘I don’t know, Rupert.’
‘Philippe Phillop.’ Rupert spots me and leaps to his feet, but I’m determined to sit down before he has a chance to play my gentleman-in-waiting. I slide in between my seat and the table and sit down.
The world opens up beneath me.
Rupert was quicker than me. With a crash, I sit straight on the floor. Hoots of laughter rip round the table and I look up through my mass of curls. Rupert’s standing above me, holding my chair. He must have whipped it away as I started to sit.
‘I’m so sorry! I was just moving it for you to sit down.’
He drops the chair. It crushes my hand. Wincing, I snatch my fingers to safety, but Rupert’s dragging me to my feet by my elbow. I crack my shoulder against the table on the way up, making the glasses rock. Everyone grabs their water before there’s a flood.
‘Sorry.’ Rupert’s using his favourite word.
I shake him off, grab my chair and sit down. The moment of quiet confidence I’d felt in front of the mirror has gone. Instead, rage and humiliation are making my freckles flare.
Rupert sits down, looking abashed. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have much luck with chairs.’
‘We don’t have much luck, full stop,’ I hiss, between gritted teeth.
Barbara leans towards me across the table. ‘Are you OK, Gem?’
David is owl-eyed behind his glasses. ‘You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?’
For a moment the lovebirds are united in sympathy for me, and my heart lifts. They are made for each other.
