Girl, 15: Flirting for England (6 page)

Jess waited for her mum’s response. She felt poised between a glorious world full of golden light, and a black abyss. It was possibly a bit like what happened after you died, with Mum playing God. Mum’s eyes flashed and for a split second Jess almost heard the distant rumble of an angry thunderbolt getting warmed up.

‘No!’ The thunderbolt whizzed past her right ear, slightly scorching her hair. ‘It’s out of the question! It’s a ridiculous idea!’

‘But you said you wanted Dad to take some responsibility – help out with Edouard!’

‘No! Stop it, Jess! It just won’t wash! Who’s going to pay for his train ticket, for a start? Have you any idea what it costs, going all the way down to St Ives by train?’

‘I’ll pay for it!’ said Jess. ‘I’ll use my savings money.’

‘No, you will not!’ said Mum, flames blazing from her nostrils. ‘I have to countersign for that account, so you can forget it. What? Fritter away your precious savings on a crazy wild goose chase like this? Edouard won’t want to go anyway. He won’t want to be separated from his French friends. He’ll want to spend some time with them over the weekend. They’ll probably have things organised for them.’

Jess’s heart sank. She felt herself slipping into the black abyss.

‘But Dad was so much looking forward to meeting Edouard,’ said Jess lamely.

‘If he’s so keen on meeting him, tell him to come up to town and take us all out to dinner or something,’ said Mum. ‘Now, that
would
be helpful.’

‘But Dad was so looking forward to seeing me!’ whined Jess.

‘He knows our address,’ said Mum with horrid, crisp sarcasm. ‘I’m going to have a bath.’ She went upstairs. Jess’s wonderful fantasy was over. Her heart was full of cinders.

She rang her dad, from the kitchen this time, so as not to be overheard by her mum in the bath.

‘Dad!’ she said quietly. ‘I’m gutted. Mum says it’s out of the question.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Dad. ‘I thought so.’ He didn’t sound quite as devastated as Jess had hoped. ‘Sorry, old bean.’

‘She says if you really want to help, come up to town and take us all out.’

‘Much as I’d love to do that, of course,’ said Dad hastily, as if he’d worked it out beforehand, ‘because the exhibition’s on for the whole fortnight of Edouard’s visit, it’s impossible . . . I have to be there, you see, all the time. It’s only a tiny little gallery.’

Dad’s glorious champagne-filled private view shrivelled, in Jess’s imagination, into a tiny feast in a shoebox involving three dormice and an acorn or two. She was too disappointed even to speak. There was a deep, dismal silence.

‘Cheer up,’ said Dad. ‘Talking to foreigners isn’t my strong point.’

‘That sounds more like a reason for you to be cheerful, not me,’ said Jess acidly. ‘OK, then, Dad. Love you. I’ll call again soon.’

She hung up before Dad even had time to reply. He could be so kind of deliberately, conveniently weak sometimes. Jess heaved such a huge sigh, she seemed to dislocate one of her ribs. After such a traumatic event, there was really only one thing which could cheer her up. She’d just have to pin Edouard’s photo up on her noticeboard and gaze at it all evening, while pigging out on Doritos and dips.

Next day there was a more gratifying scenario. She took the photo to school. A crowd gathered. Loads and loads of French exchange partners had now sent photos. Tom’s looked like a trout. Alice’s looked like a sniper. Henry’s looked like a gangster.

‘OK, here’s Edooooo-argh!’ announced Jess, holding up the photo.

‘Oh, he’s a babe!’

‘He’s adorable!’

‘He’s gorgeous!’

The girls would be all over him like a rash. Jess made rapid plans never to let her friends anywhere near him.

Then Jess sensed Fred standing behind her.

‘What do you think, Parsons?’ she asked, turning round. Fred grinned.

‘Now that’s what I call a love god,’ said Fred. ‘Has he received your photo yet? One can almost hear the sardonic French laughter. How are you going to deal with it? A paper bag over your head? A Hallowe’en mask? I think I have an old one in my garage. You’re welcome to borrow it if you think it’ll help.’

Jess pulled Fred’s hair extremely hard, and he pinched her earlobes with vicious panache. It was horrid of Fred to tease her on this most sensitive of subjects. He must know how terrified she was at the thought of Edouard looking at the photo of her, let alone her real, horrid, pasty face.

A couple of days later, there was another letter from Edouard. Or rather, it was a postcard, but contained in an envelope. The postcard was a picture of the French town hall, lit up at night. Dullsville, clearly. But Jess didn’t waste any time looking at the picture.

Dear Jess, I have receive you letter with photo,
it said in Edouard’s cute loopy writing.
You are very pritty. I am waiting to see you in England. I am counting the day. My mother send the respects to yours mother. See you on 21st, your friend Edouard. Bons Baisers. x

A kiss! A kiss! He’d put a shy little ‘x’ at the bottom of the card! And he’d said she was ‘very pritty’! He was clearly smitten! There was no sardonic French laughter at her hideousness, only a kiss!

Jess was somehow thrilled to bits, and yet, at the same time, scared to death. What was going to happen when they met face to face? When Edouard saw her real face, not the digitally-enhanced image? Oh well. She would soon find out.

Chapter 8

Edouard was due to arrive, rather excitingly, at midnight. Apparently it was an enormously long drive from France – hours and hours and hours. They would be shattered. All the English host families turned up in their cars, parked in the pitch-black school yard and waited. It was almost sinister.

‘It’s insane,’ grumbled Mum. ‘They’ll be totally exhausted. Why on earth couldn’t they come by plane?’

‘Well, don’t hassle me about it!’ said Jess. ‘Talk to Mrs Bailey. I’m sure she’ll be only too happy to explain.’

But where was Mrs Bailey? Where, indeed, was anybody? It was too dark to see, with only the headlights of cars occasionally silhouetting clumps of people talking.

‘I’m getting out,’ said Jess. ‘I’m going to look for Flora.’

Now the moment of truth had arrived, Jess felt sick with anxiety. But, on the other hand, the thought of meeting Edouard in person made her heart race. He had said she was ‘pritty’ and sent her a kiss! Jess had brought his postcard. It was in her pocket. By now it was very worn and dog-eared, but having it with her gave Jess a little bit of courage. It was proof that Edouard liked the way she looked. And, after all, he was, according to his photo, one of the fittest among the whole French gang.

Flora loomed out of the dark and grabbed Jess’s arm. Jess was glad it was dark. Once Edouard saw Flora in daylight, he would certainly lose interest in Jess.

‘I’m so scared!’ said Flora. ‘What if I don’t get on with her?’

‘Of course you’ll get on with her,’ said Jess. Marie-Louise looked sweet and friendly, and she had the tact not to be fabulously beautiful – what more could you want in a house guest?

Suddenly a large set of headlights swung in off the main road. The coach! Here it was! Flora and Jess clung to each other in excitement and dread.

‘Help!’ said Jess. ‘It’s the Norman Invasion all over again!’

They had done the Battle of Hastings in history and rooted for the English king, who was called (strangely) Harold Godwin. But Harold had received an arrow in his eye and William the Conqueror had conquered, big time.

‘Perhaps you’ll be conquered by Edouard,’ said Flora. ‘He will enslave you. I can see it all.’

‘I will not!’ retorted Jess. ‘If anything, he’s going to be my slave. Watch this space.’

The bus rolled up, stopped, and then did a stupid turning and reversing manoeuvre which seemed totally unnecessary. It only prolonged the agony and filled the whole area with carbon monoxide. Pale smudgy faces looked out of the bus’s dark windows, but it was impossible to see any details. It was impossible even to see what sex they were.

Eventually the bus driver parked, turned off the engine and opened the door. A French English teacher appeared. She seemed to be a woman, although it wasn’t totally certain, what with the darkness, her nerdy anorak and woolly hat. She climbed down and greeted Mrs Bailey, the English French teacher. They shook hands and kissed each other several times on each cheek. It took for ever. The French English teacher spoke in English to show off, and the English French teacher spoke in French to demonstrate that she, too, was a brilliant linguist. Everybody else just waited, wilted and yawned.

‘Right!’ Mrs Bailey climbed up the bus steps and called for attention. ‘As the French party get off the bus, I’ll call out the name of the English host. When you hear your name, please come forward and welcome your guest.’

A rather cute but tubby French boy was the first to appear. The French and English teachers coordinated their lists.

‘George Simpson!’ called Mrs Bailey.

‘Simpson’s is a porker, then,’ whispered Jess. ‘But I quite like him nonetheless.’

‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘Cuddly. Something for the winter months, probably.’

A small blonde girl appeared, wrapped in a terrible pale pink padded jacket.

‘
Nul points
for the clothes,’ said Jess. ‘She looks like a prawn.’

Flora started laughing hysterically.

‘It’s going to take all night!’ she said. ‘I’m asleep already.’

‘We’re all asleep,’ said Jess. ‘This is just a terrible nightmare.’
Come on, come on, Edouard
, she thought.

‘Er – Justine Barraclough!’ called Mrs Bailey. Justine fought her way through the crowd and took possession of the human prawn. A tall, dark, handsome boy appeared.

‘I bet that’s Edouard!’ hissed Flora. ‘He’s gorgeous!’

Jess’s heart started to race, and she got ready to claim her Prince Charming.

‘Jodie Gordon!’ called Mrs Bailey. Oh no! It wasn’t Edouard – it was Gerard! Gerard whose photo had looked a bit weird, with sticking-out ears and thin lips!

‘How amazing!’ whispered Flora. ‘He’s nothing like his photo!’

‘He should definitely sack his PR department!’ said Jess. ‘That photo did him absolutely no favours. He’s such a babe!’

Jodie barged forward and grabbed the gorgeous Gerard. He grinned and kissed her on both cheeks. Wow! Jess felt a thrill of excitement. That’s what Edouard was going to do to her, any minute now, when it was his turn.

Several other kids got off, and the crowd started to thin. Once an English host had claimed their guest, of course, they drove off home to a hot chocolate and bed. A short dark girl appeared, blinking in the swirling headlights of departing cars.

‘I think that’s Marie-Louise!’ said Flora. The teachers consulted their lists. Mrs Bailey looked up.

‘Flora Barclay!’ she called.

‘Bingo!’ said Jess.

Flora left her side and went forward. Jess watched as Marie-Louise kissed Flora on both cheeks, smiled and started talking straight away. She hoped Edouard would be confident like that. She waited. Her mum joined her.

‘With any luck,’ murmured Mum, ‘they’ll have left him behind at a service station.’

There was hardly anybody left now. Jess began to panic. How embarrassing to be the last! And nobody would be able to see the magnificent Edouard and envy her. A small, scruffy, nerdy boy appeared in the bus doorway, wearing glasses. A kind of young French version of Harry Potter, only without the magical charisma.
He must be the bus driver’s kid or something – come along for the ride,
thought Jess with a grin.