The Boy from France (6 page)

amden Market is like any other shopping street to me and to my friends, Rosie and Sky. We come here almost every
weekend and could now find our way through the maze of stalls with our eyes closed. But to someone who’s never been here before, especially a tourist, Camden Market is a place of wonder
– a sort of alternative theme park. I love seeing it through a stranger’s eyes, as they take it all in: the weirdly dressed people, the smells emanating from the food outlets, the
music, bright colours and general mayhem. I’m excited to see what Xavier will make of it.

We’ve arranged to meet Rosie and Manon and Sky by the bridge at the Lock in half an hour. Xavier wants to buy some London souvenirs for his family, so on the way I take him to one of those
tacky tourist shops on Camden High Street that sell everything you never dreamed you needed (and don’t), all adorned with pictures of red telephone boxes, red buses or the London skyline. He
chooses a London bus keyring for his dad and a set of fridge magnets for his mum. The red paint is already flaking off the keyring.

‘Now I am a real Camden guy,’ he says, putting his Union Jack emblazoned plastic bag into his rucksack. He looks so happy that I don’t want to disillusion him by telling him
that nobody who actually lives in London would buy any of these things . . . not in a million years.

‘Yes, I’m sure your family will love them.’

‘London is just as I imagined. Except no fog. About zis, I am disappointed.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The weather, it is cold but sunny. Since I arrive, no rain, no fog. I want to see London fog. Like in zee movies. Like in Sherlock ’olmes.’

I giggle. ‘That was in Victorian times. It isn’t foggy in London any more, not that I’ve noticed.’

He pouts, for comic effect. ‘No fog?
Bof
.’

‘
Bof
?’

‘
Oui
,
bof
! Eez difficult to translate. Like, erm, nevair mind, I don’t care, in a way. But not. Just
bof
!’

‘Ah, you mean like . . . meh?’

‘Meh?’

‘Yes, meh.’ I laugh. This is a ridiculous conversation. ‘And, er,
bof
. I think we’re lost in translation. Come on, the others will be waiting.’

Camden Lock is so busy today that it’s hard to find my friends. And part of me hopes that I won’t, because it would be great to show Xavier my favourite areas of the market without
having to please anybody else. Eventually, we spot them loitering by a stall that sells handmade silver jewellery. Manon drops the bracelet she’s handling and makes a beeline for Xavier,
virtually pushing me out of the way to greet him. She gives him three – not two – kisses on his cheek and then starts chattering away in French so fast that I can’t make out a
single word. I stand there like an English spare part for a minute, then decide to leave them to it and go over to join Rosie and Sky. As we embrace, I can’t help noticing that Rosie is
wearing a green polka-dot silk scarf, which I’ve never seen before, tied in a complicated knot.

‘New scarf?’

Rosie grins, proudly. ‘It’s Manon’s. She lent it to me and showed me loads of ways to tie it. Do you like it?’

‘Yes, it suits you.’

‘I might look for something similar in the market. Something vintage, maybe, to go with my other jacket.’

‘Good idea. So how is Manon? Are you getting on OK?’

‘Manon’s really cool, thank God,’ says Rosie. ‘We had a real laugh, last night, trying on each other’s clothes and stuff. I think she’s going to fit right
in.’

‘Yeah, she seems nice,’ says Sky. ‘I chatted to her on the way up here.’

‘That’s good,’ I say, conscious that Manon hasn’t been very friendly to me so far, at least. ‘Maybe I’ll talk to her later and get to know her a little
better.’

Rosie smiles. ‘You should. She’s going to be in our class at school too, so we’ll be spending loads of time with her.’

‘Great,’ I say. It doesn’t come out as enthusiastically as it should have done. ‘How’s her English?’

‘Really good. Miles better than my French.’

‘Yeah, Xavier’s is too. It’s embarrassing. Why are they so much better than us?’

‘I guess they hear English all the time, in films and music, so it’s easier to pick it up. We only do French at school.’

‘Good point. Don’t you love their accent though?’

‘Yeah. It’s super cute.’

I tell Sky and Rosie about the ‘fish and sheep’ and they laugh. Maybe not as hard as I would like, but perhaps you had to be there.

‘Sounds like you’re having fun with Xavier,’ says Sky, with a knowing smile. ‘And he is just as fit as Rosie said. So . . . are you going to introduce me then?
Don’t worry, I know you’ve got first option.’

‘Ha ha. Course. Sorry, I forgot you haven’t met him yet. Come on.’

I take her arm and steer her over to Xavier and Manon. They’re still talking at a million miles an hour, with no apparent gaps between their sentences or breaths between their words.
I’m about to interrupt when Xavier spots me, stops speaking, and turns to me and grins, like he’s really pleased I’m there. Manon seems nonplussed.

‘Xavier, this is Sky,’ I say. ‘Sky, this is Xavier. I think you’ve already met Manon.’

‘
Enchanté,
’ he says, kissing Sky. ‘Your name eez Sky? Like
le ciel
?’

Sky laughs and shoots me a bemused glance. ‘If you say so.’

‘Sky can’t speak any French at all,’ I explain, thankful I understand what he’s just said. Lucky I was paying attention in the weather vocabulary lesson a few years back.
‘Yes, like the sky. Her mum is a sort of hippy.’

‘Cool,’ says Xavier.

Sky shakes her head. ‘Not really. It’s a pain in the . . . really annoying most of the time.’

Rosie sidles over. ‘Come on, guys. We really should look around the market, if we’re going to.’

And that’s exactly what we do, for the next hour or so. We check out T-shirt stalls and poster stalls, stalls selling incense and perfumes, home-made cakes, candles and jewellery, and
cavernous spaces where you can buy musical instruments, second-hand clothes and furniture. We take each other’s photos standing by the giant bronze horse statues in the Stables Market, drink
orange juice freshly squeezed in front of us, and try on dresses in a vintage boutique (all except for Xavier, obviously). Rosie has an Indian head massage, which makes her giggle, and frizzes her
hair, and Manon buys a tan leather handbag. I tell her I like it and she says, ‘Of course,’ which I think is a bit rude. Maybe it’s a language thing.

Now Sky is suggesting we might like to stop to have an ice cream.

‘Good plan,’ I say. It’s not strictly ice-cream weather (about ten degrees too cold), but I know why Sky has come up with this idea. We’re standing just a few metres from
the entrance to the weirdest ice-cream parlour in Camden. In London. Or, in the world, probably. It’s called The Chin Chin Laboratorists (I have no idea why) and it’s like a cross
between a GCSE science lab and an ice-cream shop. The staff wear white lab coats and safety goggles and they use test tubes and beakers filled with colourful solutions. They make the ice cream
right in front of you, using liquid nitrogen, producing huge clouds of white gas. Don’t ask me how, but it creates the creamiest ice cream. And even though there are only a few flavours to
choose from each day, they’re the most imaginative flavours you could dream up: birthday cake, mango and pepper, hot cross buns and Earl Grey tea or basil choc chip. There are tons of yummy
toppings too. It’s all very Willy Wonka. You can even play on swings outside. I wonder what our French guests will make of it.

Sky gathers everyone together. ‘Ice cream?’ she says, to no one in particular.

Rosie nods, enthusiastically, as do I. But Manon scrunches up her nose and pouts, in exactly the way Xavier does when he’s not sure about something. When he makes that face, it’s
cute; I think it makes her look arrogant. ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘Eez too cold. And I eat too much already. Coffee, instead, maybe?’

‘Xavier? What about you?’ I say, disregarding her. (Well, she’s been practically ignoring me all day.) I already know how much Xavier likes his food; I don’t think
he’ll take much persuading. ‘This isn’t normal ice cream. It’s like nothing you’ve seen or tasted before. You’ve got to try it.’

‘Yes . . . OK,’ he says. ‘Eez cold, but I try.’

I lead him into the ice cream parlour, with the others following close behind. His eyes light up as he takes in the spectacle and grow even wider as the ice cream maker – or chemist
– creates his chocolate ice cream in front of him, explaining each step of the process. He’s almost too excited to choose a topping, so I pick sugar-coated frogs’ legs (not real)
for him (as a little joke). Rosie has chocolate too, with a sea-salted caramel topping, while Sky and I decide to be adventurous and try the blueberry muffin flavour. It’s insanely tasty.

Manon looks on, grumpily, taking delicate sips of her coffee as we enjoy our ice creams. I think she’s too proud to change her mind and have one. I wish she wasn’t here. I rarely
dislike anybody, especially when I first meet them, but there’s something about her that grates on me. Still, I must try to hide my feelings. Rosie seems to like her a lot, and she’s
going to be around for a few weeks. Maybe I just need to try harder.

No time like the present. ‘Hey, Manon,’ I say, brightly. ‘So what do you think of Camden Market?’

‘I like,’ she says, without looking up from her coffee. That’s it. Then she turns to Xavier and starts gabbling to him in French.

I glance over at Sky and raise my eyebrows. She smiles back at me, sweetly. So she hasn’t noticed how ‘off’ Manon is being with me? Surely I’m not imagining it? Or could
there be another explanation? Could I be . . . jealous? It’s not a feeling I recognise. Or one that I like. And it’s irrational: Xavier isn’t my boyfriend, or anywhere near it.
He’s just a guy who’s randomly staying in my house. We’re getting on really well, but I’ve known him for less than twenty-four hours. So why do I feel so anxious and annoyed
every time he talks to Manon?

re you OK, Xavier?’ I can’t help noticing that he seems bored. Not in a rude, huffing and puffing way
– he’s trotting around with us, patiently waiting while we try on clothes and jewellery – but I can tell that he’s not really enjoying himself any more. I don’t think
boys
get
shopping, especially clothes shopping, not unless they need to buy something.

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘No problem.’

‘It’s just . . . I mean, would you rather go somewhere else? I guess it must be a bit rubbish for you, hanging out with girls all day, looking at dresses and stuff. Even I get bored
sometimes.’

He shrugs. ‘No, zees is not a problem. I have seesters. It’s nor-mal.’

‘But there must be something you’d like to see. Something you’d prefer to do? Isn’t there?’

He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s not sure whether I’m serious, then smiles. ‘Er, Veecks, do you know what it eez zat I would like very much to do?’

I don’t know
, I think, gazing at his dimples.
Kiss me?

Oh my goodness! Where did that come from? That crazy thought has popped into my mind from absolutely nowhere and, try as I might, I can’t get it out. I jerk my head, as though it will help
to dislodge the idea and stop my cheeks from burning up. Of course that’s not what he’s going to say. As if! Here, in the middle of the market, with all our friends around us and, more
to the point, when he doesn’t fancy me anyway? He’s more likely to say ‘rob a bank’.