The Boy from France by Hilary Freeman Read Free Book Online Page B

too, sometimes. But I enjoy to cook.’
    ‘Cool.’ I blush. I think he might just be the perfect boy. ‘Well, Amy’s house is about ten minutes up Camden Road, just off it, in a posh little square.’
    ‘A leetle scware?’ He looks perplexed. Maybe they don’t have squares in France, or maybe he can’t pronounce it.
    ‘Yeah, like a street with a green bit in the middle . . . Never mind. You’ll see.’
    We stroll up Camden Road, chatting about his sisters; he has two, both older than him, one of whom has left home already and is training as a teacher in Paris. I tell him they sound cool and he
makes that raised eyebrow, half-frown, half-pout expression again, which makes him look so very French. I don’t tell him that I’ve always wanted a sister, someone to chat to and share
things with, especially when things get hard with Mum. Even a brother would do. Being an only child sucks sometimes. Maybe that’s why I’m so close to Rosie and Sky; I guess I think of
them as my surrogate sisters.
    ‘So what else do you like doing in Nice, apart from going to the beach?’ I ask.
    ‘I play volleyball and football.’
    ‘Yeah? Are you any good?’
    ‘Not bad. I am in zee school team.’
    ‘Cool. I used to play football too, when I was younger. I play netball now – I’m top scorer in my year, actually.’
    ‘Ah,
oui
? Netball?’
    ‘You don’t have it? It’s like basketball, I guess, except you don’t bounce the ball.’
    He stops and looks me up and down, then grins. ‘But you are not so tall.’
    I redden. I’m a perfectly average height, I just feel awkward when he stares at me. ‘You don’t have to be for netball.’
    ‘Ah,
oui
?’
    ‘Wee.’ It’s practically the first French word I’ve said since he arrived and I feel ridiculously self-conscious about my accent. I know the whole point of the exchange is
to improve my French speaking but Xavier is so good at English, and his accent is so appealing when he speaks it, that there isn’t much incentive to try.
    He smiles. ‘Ah,
tu parles Français
!’
    ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I can speak a tiny bit of French but your English is tons better. And my accent is awful.’
    ‘No! Eez cute axont. I love zee axont
Anglais
.’
    ‘Really?’ I’ve never really considered that French people might like English accents as much as we like French ones. It’s hard to imagine that my North London vowels can
sound sexy to anyone.
    He nods and I blush for what must be the millionth time today. ‘Come on,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘We’re nearly there. We just need to cross the road.’
    Before I can stop him, he has stepped off the kerb. A motorbike zooms past, missing him by a nose. On instinct, I grab his jacket and drag him back to safety. ‘Xavier, what are you
thinking? Don’t they teach you the Green Cross Code in France?’
    ‘
Mon dieu!
’ he says, appearing visibly shaken. ‘My God! I sink I was looking zee wrong way. I forget – you Engleesh drive on zee left.’
    ‘Er, yes, we do. It’s kind of an important thing to remember. God, Xavier, please don’t do that again. Apart from anything else, can you imagine how much trouble I’ll be
in if I get you run over?’
    He laughs. ‘No worries. I am
Français
. I cannot be hurt by zee English cars.’
    ‘It wasn’t a car, it was a motorbike. Quite a cool one, actually.’
    ‘Ah,
oui
. You like zee motorbikes?’
    ‘God, yes. I’m not allowed to ride one yet, obviously. But I’ve always wanted a motorbike and as soon as I’m old enough, I’m going to get one. Or a scooter, at
least.’
    He seems impressed, like boys always are. But this is one guy whom I really don’t want seeing me as ‘one of the lads’. Well done, Vix, I tell myself, you’ve done it
again.
    Or maybe not . . .
    ‘My cousin, he has a scooter. He lets me ride it sometimes, not on zee roads. Maybe if you come to Nice I can give you a ride, on zee back.’
    Is he inviting me to Nice? That means he likes me