Shakespeare play where the eyes get gouged out onstage? The letter is burning a hole in Zoe’s pocket all the way home, so she walks round and round the long way home and finally goes down this little alley that leads to the back of a shop and she tears it up and puts the pieces into the shop’s litter bin, but even then she’s terrified that she’s going to be found out for reading somebody else’s letter. For ‘dependable’, she’s thinking, read orthodontic braces; read red hair that’s too curly; read freckles and nearly flat-chested; read second-to-shortest girl in the class. In others words, read not blonde and not boy-mad, with not underwired uplift bras. That’ll be why she’s got the French boy. Mrs Mead thinks there’s no chance that he’ll want to get smoochy with her. Still, at least if you haven’t grown boobs yet you can go on day-dreaming about becoming a dancer, like in Dream of Sadler’s Wells , or like in her current top favourite, Lola Comes to London .
‘Do I have to go?’ Zoe says to her mother, once she’s got home. ‘Please can I not go? I’ll work extra hard at French, I promise.’
‘Of course you’re going,’ Caroline says, and she’s sounding all upbeat about it.
Zoe can tell that her mum is really enjoying the idea of the French exchange. She’s making it into one of her eager educational projects. And it’s only because, even though she can speak French really well and she backpacked all over before she came to England from Australia as a graduate student, she and Zoe’s dad never have proper holidays now, like going to Provence, or Malta, or the Canary Islands, or somewhere else nice, like Maggs and Mattie’s families do.
They’re on a tight budget because of having to provide for Gran, who lives near them instead of in Australia, because of some ‘difficulty’ she’s had way back with Zoe’s Aunt Janet whom Zoe’s never met, but it wouldn’t be ‘kind’ to talk about it, Caroline says. So, even though they both go out to work full-time, they can still only ever afford to do stuff like taking tents to St Ives and walking Offa’s Dyke.
‘If I didn’t go to France, would it save enough money for me to start ballet lessons?’ Zoe says. ‘Because I’ll soon be too old.’
‘Oh stop it, Zoe,’ her mother says. ‘For heaven’s sake. This is all too silly and babyish. You’re far too old already. And I just know that you’ll love France once you get there. You’ll be half an hour from Paris. Just think how exciting that’ll be. You’ll go on lovely trips to Versailles and Fontainebleau. You’ll go to the Louvre. You’ll be walking along the Seine to Notre-Dame and peering into all those little art galleries and boutiques. And the food will be just wonderful. You can buy crêpes in the street. And think of the little brioches and pains au chocolat you’ll be having for breakfast. I expect at supper there’ll be all those delicious soups and terrines. The French are so much better about sitting down to proper family meals.’
But ‘soups and terrines’ are what Caroline makes at home from her French cookbooks. And, anyway, Maggs’s older sister, who did the French exchange two years ago, says that all her Maman ever gave her to eat was sort of instant chicken-nugget things and bags of cheap cup cakes with lots of vanilla in them, like those ones you can get in a plastic bag at the Co-op on special offer.
‘I want you to say I’m a vegetarian,’ Zoe says, ‘because otherwise I’ll have to eat liver.’
‘But you’re not a vegetarian,’ Caroline says. ‘I don’t mind writing a letter to Maman saying that you’d prefer not to eat intensively farmed meat.’
‘Please don’t write a letter,’ Zoe says in sudden panic. ‘Promise me you won’t write a letter, or they’ll think I’m a freak.’ Then she says, ‘How do you say “liver” in French?’
‘ Foie ,’ her mother says. ‘But it depends on the animal, of
‘Do I have to go?’ Zoe says to her mother, once she’s got home. ‘Please can I not go? I’ll work extra hard at French, I promise.’
‘Of course you’re going,’ Caroline says, and she’s sounding all upbeat about it.
Zoe can tell that her mum is really enjoying the idea of the French exchange. She’s making it into one of her eager educational projects. And it’s only because, even though she can speak French really well and she backpacked all over before she came to England from Australia as a graduate student, she and Zoe’s dad never have proper holidays now, like going to Provence, or Malta, or the Canary Islands, or somewhere else nice, like Maggs and Mattie’s families do.
They’re on a tight budget because of having to provide for Gran, who lives near them instead of in Australia, because of some ‘difficulty’ she’s had way back with Zoe’s Aunt Janet whom Zoe’s never met, but it wouldn’t be ‘kind’ to talk about it, Caroline says. So, even though they both go out to work full-time, they can still only ever afford to do stuff like taking tents to St Ives and walking Offa’s Dyke.
‘If I didn’t go to France, would it save enough money for me to start ballet lessons?’ Zoe says. ‘Because I’ll soon be too old.’
‘Oh stop it, Zoe,’ her mother says. ‘For heaven’s sake. This is all too silly and babyish. You’re far too old already. And I just know that you’ll love France once you get there. You’ll be half an hour from Paris. Just think how exciting that’ll be. You’ll go on lovely trips to Versailles and Fontainebleau. You’ll go to the Louvre. You’ll be walking along the Seine to Notre-Dame and peering into all those little art galleries and boutiques. And the food will be just wonderful. You can buy crêpes in the street. And think of the little brioches and pains au chocolat you’ll be having for breakfast. I expect at supper there’ll be all those delicious soups and terrines. The French are so much better about sitting down to proper family meals.’
But ‘soups and terrines’ are what Caroline makes at home from her French cookbooks. And, anyway, Maggs’s older sister, who did the French exchange two years ago, says that all her Maman ever gave her to eat was sort of instant chicken-nugget things and bags of cheap cup cakes with lots of vanilla in them, like those ones you can get in a plastic bag at the Co-op on special offer.
‘I want you to say I’m a vegetarian,’ Zoe says, ‘because otherwise I’ll have to eat liver.’
‘But you’re not a vegetarian,’ Caroline says. ‘I don’t mind writing a letter to Maman saying that you’d prefer not to eat intensively farmed meat.’
‘Please don’t write a letter,’ Zoe says in sudden panic. ‘Promise me you won’t write a letter, or they’ll think I’m a freak.’ Then she says, ‘How do you say “liver” in French?’
‘ Foie ,’ her mother says. ‘But it depends on the animal, of
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