One Summer In Paris

“So?” She walked everywhere alone. “What do you want to drink?”

“Anything.” Meena walked to the fridge and opened it before Audrey could stop her. “What happened here? Why is your fridge empty?”

“My mother was defrosting it. It was so full, it needed clearing out.” The lie came easily, as lies always did to Audrey.

Yes, Miss Foster, everything is fine at home.

My mother couldn’t make parents’ evening because she’s working.

She could control the story she told. Less easy to control was the shame. It clung to her like sweat and she turned away, terrified it might be visible. “This pizza is getting cold. We should eat.”

“You’re lucky. Your mum gives you so much freedom.”

Audrey switched on her habitual smile. “Yeah, it’s great.”

Why didn’t she just tell Meena and her other friends the truth? It was partly because having started this story it was hard to untangle it, but mostly because it was embarrassing to admit that your own mother thought a bottle of wine was more important than you were. What did that say about her? At the very least, that she was unlovable.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do this summer?”

“I’m going to Paris.” Audrey snapped the top off a can of soda. They had no food in the house, but they always had mixers. “I’m going to find a job and somewhere to live.”

“That’s going to make Hayley sick with envy. You need to post photos that are cooler than hers. Have you seen her Instagram? Spending a month by the pool in Saint-Tropez this summer. #lovemylife.” Meena crunched her way through the overcooked pizza and licked her fingers.

“Yeah. I’ve got my own hashtags. #yousmugbitch or maybe #hopethepoolturnsyourhairgreen or #hateyourguts. Trouble is, I can’t spell any of them.”

“I’ll spell them for you if you promise you’ll post at least one smug photo of you in Paris. How are you going to communicate? You don’t speak French.”

Audrey nibbled her pizza. “I can say I’m hungry, and I know the words for hot guy. The rest is going to have to be body language. That’s universal.”

“Do you think you’ll have sex?” Meena pulled at another slice of pizza, catching the cheese that trailed in strands. “You’ve done it, right?”

Audrey shrugged, not wanting to admit what a total letdown sex had been. She had no idea why so many books were written about love and passion. There was obviously something wrong with her. “It’s like going to the gym. You can get physical without having to engage the brain. Not that I exactly have a brain to engage.”

“Stop it! You know that’s not true. So you’re saying sex is like being on the treadmill? What happened to romance? What about Romeo and Juliet?”

“They died. Not romantic.” Audrey nibbled her pizza. “Also, that Juliet had no street smarts whatsoever.”

“She was only thirteen.”

“Well, I can tell you that even if she hadn’t drunk that poison, she never would have made it to old age.”

Meena giggled. “You should write that in your exam. So do you want to revise?”

“You don’t mind? It’s not like you exactly need to.”

“I do need to. And I love being here with you. You always make me laugh. What do you want to start with? Physics? I know that’s really hard for you because of all the symbols. It’s hard for me, too, and I don’t have dyslexia. Whenever I open my book I’m just one atom away from a brain explosion.”

Audrey knew that wasn’t true, but she was touched by her friend’s attempts to make her feel better. “I think I’m getting there, but ask me some questions and we’ll find out. Shall we have some music?” She finished her pizza and reached for her phone. “I revise better to music.”

“I love coming to your house. Everything is so relaxed here. Where’s your mum tonight?”

“Out.”

“With Ron?” Meena watched as Audrey chose a track and pressed Play. “Now that’s romantic. All those years widowed, missing your dad, and now she’s in love again. It’s like a movie.”

“Widowed” sounded so much better than “divorced three times.”

Losing a husband in tragic circumstances attracted sympathy and understanding. Being divorced three times attracted suspicion and incredulity.

Audrey figured that with the way her life was, she was allowed a little poetic license. And since she and her mother had moved to this part of London only two years before, no one was likely to find out the truth.

“I love this song. Revision can wait.” She slid off her chair. “Let’s dance. Come on, meaner-Meena, show me what you’re made of.”

She turned up the volume and danced around the kitchen. She swayed and bumped to the music, her hair flying around her face. Meena joined her, and soon they were whooping and laughing.

For ten glorious minutes Audrey was a teenager without a care in the world. It didn’t matter that she was going to fail her exams and that the rest of her life would be ruined. It didn’t matter that her mum preferred to drink than spend time with her daughter. All that mattered was the pump and flow of the music.

If only the rest of her life could be like this.

Grace (#ulink_26853147-8bc7-5eb0-abc6-8303a3b7e86d)

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Monica pulled up outside the hospital. “You’re shivering.”

Was she? Grace felt removed from everything, even the reactions of her own body. It was hard to believe that three days had passed since that night in the restaurant. “I need to do this on my own, but thanks. You’re a great friend.” She stared down at her feet and realized she was wearing odd shoes. One navy. One black. Visible evidence that she was falling apart. “Losing it” as Sophie would say.

“I still can’t believe it. I mean, David. You two are the perfect couple. And he’s such a family man. He takes Sophie swimming every Saturday and does backyard barbecues.”

“This isn’t helping, Monica.” Should she go home and change her shoes? They offended her sense of order.

“I’m just so angry. I could strangle David with my bare hands.” Monica thumped the steering wheel with her fist. “How could he do this to you?”

How? Why? When? Her brain was stuck in a loop.

What had she done? What hadn’t she done?

She’d thought she was the love of David’s life. The one.

Finding out that she wasn’t overturned her entire memory bank. What was real and what wasn’t?

“Apparently, he’s bored with his life.” Her mouth felt dry. “And since I was a large part of his life, I guess that means—”

“Do not tell me you’re boring,” Monica spoke through her teeth, “because we both know that’s not the case.”

“He said I organize every part of our lives and it’s true. I like predictability and order. I’ve always seen that as a good thing.”

“It is a good thing! Who wants a life full of chaos? Don’t do this to yourself, Grace. Don’t make it about you. The truth is you’re so competent, you’ve bruised his ego.”

“I don’t think so. David is very secure and sure of himself. I think I’ve made him feel—redundant. But it’s not a manhood thing. He isn’t like that.”