French Leave by Anna Gavalda Read Free Book Online Page B

not with you?”
    â€œNo. He’s at work.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, at work?”
    â€œWell, back at his château . . . ”
    Our elder brother shrunk four inches in one go.
    â€œBut . . . I thought . . . He told me he was coming.”
    â€œI tried to persuade him but nothing doing. You know, Vincent and petits fours . . . ”
    Simon seemed devastated.
    â€œI had a present for him. A really rare vinyl LP. Plus I really wanted to see him. I haven’t seen him since Christ­mas. God, I’m so disappointed. I think I need a drink . . . ”
    Lola made a face.
    â€œCaramba. Simon he no look very happy.”
    â€œI’ll say,” I muttered, glaring at Miss Spoilsport who was in the process of sucking up to all our aged aunties. “I’ll say.”
    â€œWell, girls,” said our mom, “you are splendid at any rate! You’ll cheer him up, won’t you, get your brother to dance some this evening, okay?”
    And she moved away to pay the customary compliments here and there.
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    We followed her with our gaze—such a tiny little woman. Graceful, charming, full of energy, elegant, so much class . . .
    A typical Parisienne.
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    Lola’s face clouded over. Two adorable, laughing little girls were running to join the procession.
    â€œRight,” she said, “I think I’ll go over and join Simon.”
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    I stood there like a dork in the middle of the square; the folds of my sari suddenly felt all limp.
    But not for long, in fact, because our cousin Sixtine came up to me with a cackle.
    â€œHey, Garance! Hare Krishna! You going to a costume ball or something?”
    I smiled as best I could, and refrained from commenting on her poorly bleached mustache or her apple green suit from the Christine Laure chain in Besançon.
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    No sooner had she moved on than it was my Aunt Geneviève who renewed the attack: “Good Lord, is that you, my little Clémence? Good God, what’s that metal thing in your bellybutton? It doesn’t hurt now, does it?”
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    Okay, I thought, I’d better go and join Simon and Lola at the café . . .
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    They were both out on the terrace—their beers within reach, their heads thrown back to the sun, their legs stretched out before them.
    I sat down to the sound of “cccrrrr” and ordered the same thing.
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    Elated, at peace at last, our lips festooned with foam, we observed the good folk standing in their doorways observing the good folk outside the church. A feast for the eyes.
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    â€œHey, is that Olivier’s new wife—after the first one cheated on him?”
    â€œYou mean the short brunette?”
    â€œNah, the blonde next to the Larochaufées . . . ”
    â€œHelp. God, she’s even uglier than the first one. Get a load of that handbag.”
    â€œA fake Gucci.”
    â€œExactly. Even worse than the ones those street vendors in Italy sell. Fake Goo Chee from Beijing . . . ”
    â€œDisgraceful.”
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    We could have gone on like that forever if Carine hadn’t come looking for us.
    â€œAre you coming? It’s about to start.”
    â€œWe’re coming, we’re coming . . . ” said Simon, “let me finish my beer.”
    â€œBut if we don’t go right away,” she insisted, “we’ll have lousy seats and I won’t see a thing.”
    â€œGo ahead, I said. I’ll catch up with you.”
    â€œHurry, okay?”
    She was already sixty feet from us when she turned around to shout, “Stop in at that little grocery store on the other side of the square and buy some rice, okay?”
    And she turned around yet again.
    â€œNot the expensive kind, okay? Just some Uncle Ben’s, like last time! For all we use it for . . . ”
    â€œYeah, yeah . . . ” he muttered, in his beard.
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    We saw the bride off in the distance on her daddy’s arm. A girl who, soon enough, would have