French Leave by Anna Gavalda Read Free Book Online Page A

A/C.
    That gets up my nose, too, that sort of thing, people who keep the engine on when they stop somewhere just so that they can keep their feet warm or their head cool. But anyway, never mind. We’ll talk about global warming some other day. She’d locked herself in, which was something. Let’s stay positive.
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    Simon stretched his legs while we got changed. I’d bought a magnificent sari in the Passage Brady right next to my house. It was turquoise, embroidered with gold thread and pearls and tiny bells. I had a little bodice with sleeves, a very tight straight long skirt slit high on the thigh, and a sort of huge cloth to wrap it all up in.
    It was gorgeous.
    Dangly earrings, all the amulets from Rajasthan around my neck, ten bangles on my right wrist and nearly twice that on my left.
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    â€œYou look great,” said Lola. “Incredible. Only you could get away with something like that. You’ve got such a lovely belly, all flat and muscular . . . ”
    â€œHey,” I said, feeling radiant but keeping a lid on it all the same, “six floors without an elevator . . . ”
    â€œHaving kids has put my belly button between parentheses . . . You’ll be careful, won’t you? You’ll use cream every day, and—”
    I shrugged. My little spyglass couldn’t see that far.
    â€œCan you button me up?” she chirped, turning her back to me.
    Lola was wearing her black faille dress for the umpteenth time. Very sober, sleeveless, with a round neckline and a million tiny cassock buttons all the way down the back.
    â€œYou haven’t gone to too much expense for dear Hubert’s wedding,” I said.
    She turned around with a smile.
    â€œHey . . . ”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHow much do you think I paid for the hat?”
    â€œTwo hundred?”
    She shrugged.
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œI can’t tell you,” she laughed, “it’s too awful.”
    â€œStop laughing, stupid, I can’t do the buttons . . . ”
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    Ballet flats were in that year. Hers were soft, with a little bow; mine were covered in golden sequins.
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    Simon clapped his hands. “C’mon, Bluebell Girls . . . All aboard!”
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    Holding tight to my sister’s arm so I wouldn’t stumble, I muttered, “I warn you, if that codfish asks me whether I’m going to a costume ball, I’ll make her eat your hat.”
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    Carine didn’t get a chance to say a thing because I immediately had to get up again the minute I sat down. My skirt was too tight and I had to take it off if I didn’t want to split it.
    Sitting in my thong on those alpaca viscose car seats, I was . . . priestly.
    We put on makeup using my compact while our resident echinococcosian double-checked the position of her clip-on earrings in the mirror on the sun visor.
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    Simon begged the three of us not to put on perfume at the same time.
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    We arrived in Podunk-on-Indre in good time. Behind the car I slipped on my skirt and we went to stand outside the entrance to the church while the good Podunkians looked on in astonishment from their windows.
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    The pretty young woman in gray and pink chatting with Uncle Georges over there was our mom. We rushed over to hug her, careful not to let her smudge us with lipstick.
    She very diplomatically kissed her daughter-in-law first, complimenting her on her outfit, and then she turned to us with a laugh.
    â€œGarance . . . You look superb . . . All that’s missing is the bindi on your forehead!”
    â€œThat would take the cake,” blurted Carine, before rushing over to our poor withered uncle. “Last I heard, this is not supposed to be a carnival . . . ”
    Lola made as if to hand me her hat, and we burst out laughing.
    Our mother turned to Simon. “Were they this unbearable the entire trip?”
    â€œWorse, even,” he said gravely.
    And added: “Where’s Vincent? He’s