ago, we were sitting in the school canteen; now we’re ordering lunch in a French restaurant.’ He leans back in his chair and puts his hands
behind his head. ‘Which reminds me of a joke.’
I pick up my napkin and start to chew on it.
‘An Englishman, a Frenchman and an American are walking on a beach. They come across a lantern and a genie pops out . . .’
There’s no way this joke can end well. ‘Excuse me.’ I stand up. ‘Just popping to the loo.’ I slide away between the tables, looking for toilet signs, relieved when
I spot the universal sign for Ladies.
Inside, I stop in front of a mirror. The Paris air has tamed my curls. And my skin is glowing. My freckles actually look like they belong to me. Usually, it’s like aliens have colonized my
face. I look fresh and natural, like the women I’ve seen on the streets. Suddenly I feel at home. I don’t need mascara. Or lipstick. I wash my hands, run my fingers through my hair to
neaten it a little and then straighten my crisp white shirt, ready to face Rupert’s jokes.
I hear him as soon as I near the table.
‘What do you call a Frenchman wearing sandals?’
Cindy sighs. ‘I don’t know, Rupert.’
‘Philippe Phillop.’ Rupert spots me and leaps to his feet, but I’m determined to sit down before he has a chance to play my gentleman-in-waiting. I slide in between my seat and
the table and sit down.
The world opens up beneath me.
Rupert was quicker than me. With a crash, I sit straight on the floor. Hoots of laughter rip round the table and I look up through my mass of curls. Rupert’s standing above me, holding my
chair. He must have whipped it away as I started to sit.
‘I’m so sorry! I was just moving it for you to sit down.’
He drops the chair. It crushes my hand. Wincing, I snatch my fingers to safety, but Rupert’s dragging me to my feet by my elbow. I crack my shoulder against the table on the way up, making
the glasses rock. Everyone grabs their water before there’s a flood.
‘Sorry.’ Rupert’s using his favourite word.
I shake him off, grab my chair and sit down. The moment of quiet confidence I’d felt in front of the mirror has gone. Instead, rage and humiliation are making my freckles flare.
Rupert sits down, looking abashed. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have much luck with chairs.’
‘We don’t have much luck, full stop,’ I hiss, between gritted teeth.
Barbara leans towards me across the table. ‘Are you OK, Gem?’
David is owl-eyed behind his glasses. ‘You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?’
For a moment the lovebirds are united in sympathy for me, and my heart lifts. They are made for each other.
Cindy giggles behind her hand. ‘Oh, Gemma, you
do
make us laugh.’
I lift my chin. ‘I’m glad to hear it. If you want me to trip over on the way home or fall into the Seine, just ask. I’m sure Rupert will help.’
He looks at me sheepishly. ‘Sorry, Gem. I was just trying to help.’
It’s hard to feel cross when he looks so contrite. ‘It was just an accident,’ I concede. As I pat his hand, I spot a waiter heading towards us with a loaded tray. He whirls
round the table, distributing food like a ballerina. My duck salad slides under my nose. Sam breathes in the steam rising from his cheese and ham toastie.
David stares at his plate. ‘Lamb chops?’
The little legs on his plate don’t look much like lamb. More like tiny tap dancers with their arms and heads missing.
‘It’s frogs’ legs, mate,’ Sam tells him.
Cindy practically crawls up the back of her chair in horror. Rupert peers warily across the table. Barbara tips her head. ‘Oh, David, you poor thing. Would you like half my
toastie?’
David straightens. ‘No thank you, Barbara. I think this will be a good experience.’ I’m impressed by his courage. Like a soldier going into battle, he fixes his face into a
determined grimace and begins to saw at one of the legs with his knife and fork.
We watch,
behind his head. ‘Which reminds me of a joke.’
I pick up my napkin and start to chew on it.
‘An Englishman, a Frenchman and an American are walking on a beach. They come across a lantern and a genie pops out . . .’
There’s no way this joke can end well. ‘Excuse me.’ I stand up. ‘Just popping to the loo.’ I slide away between the tables, looking for toilet signs, relieved when
I spot the universal sign for Ladies.
Inside, I stop in front of a mirror. The Paris air has tamed my curls. And my skin is glowing. My freckles actually look like they belong to me. Usually, it’s like aliens have colonized my
face. I look fresh and natural, like the women I’ve seen on the streets. Suddenly I feel at home. I don’t need mascara. Or lipstick. I wash my hands, run my fingers through my hair to
neaten it a little and then straighten my crisp white shirt, ready to face Rupert’s jokes.
I hear him as soon as I near the table.
‘What do you call a Frenchman wearing sandals?’
Cindy sighs. ‘I don’t know, Rupert.’
‘Philippe Phillop.’ Rupert spots me and leaps to his feet, but I’m determined to sit down before he has a chance to play my gentleman-in-waiting. I slide in between my seat and
the table and sit down.
The world opens up beneath me.
Rupert was quicker than me. With a crash, I sit straight on the floor. Hoots of laughter rip round the table and I look up through my mass of curls. Rupert’s standing above me, holding my
chair. He must have whipped it away as I started to sit.
‘I’m so sorry! I was just moving it for you to sit down.’
He drops the chair. It crushes my hand. Wincing, I snatch my fingers to safety, but Rupert’s dragging me to my feet by my elbow. I crack my shoulder against the table on the way up, making
the glasses rock. Everyone grabs their water before there’s a flood.
‘Sorry.’ Rupert’s using his favourite word.
I shake him off, grab my chair and sit down. The moment of quiet confidence I’d felt in front of the mirror has gone. Instead, rage and humiliation are making my freckles flare.
Rupert sits down, looking abashed. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have much luck with chairs.’
‘We don’t have much luck, full stop,’ I hiss, between gritted teeth.
Barbara leans towards me across the table. ‘Are you OK, Gem?’
David is owl-eyed behind his glasses. ‘You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?’
For a moment the lovebirds are united in sympathy for me, and my heart lifts. They are made for each other.
Cindy giggles behind her hand. ‘Oh, Gemma, you
do
make us laugh.’
I lift my chin. ‘I’m glad to hear it. If you want me to trip over on the way home or fall into the Seine, just ask. I’m sure Rupert will help.’
He looks at me sheepishly. ‘Sorry, Gem. I was just trying to help.’
It’s hard to feel cross when he looks so contrite. ‘It was just an accident,’ I concede. As I pat his hand, I spot a waiter heading towards us with a loaded tray. He whirls
round the table, distributing food like a ballerina. My duck salad slides under my nose. Sam breathes in the steam rising from his cheese and ham toastie.
David stares at his plate. ‘Lamb chops?’
The little legs on his plate don’t look much like lamb. More like tiny tap dancers with their arms and heads missing.
‘It’s frogs’ legs, mate,’ Sam tells him.
Cindy practically crawls up the back of her chair in horror. Rupert peers warily across the table. Barbara tips her head. ‘Oh, David, you poor thing. Would you like half my
toastie?’
David straightens. ‘No thank you, Barbara. I think this will be a good experience.’ I’m impressed by his courage. Like a soldier going into battle, he fixes his face into a
determined grimace and begins to saw at one of the legs with his knife and fork.
We watch,
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