‘Happy hunting – and, as ever, much love, Mum.’
Chapter 59
Poppy
Rose couldn’t look more nervous if she tried. She also looks great – I’ve seen to that – but her hands are shaking and her breath is coming in panicky little wheezes. It’s so sweet; she’s like a teenager on her first night out.
‘It’s easy,’ I say, leading her into the crowded bar, the noise levels so high I have to shout. ‘We’ll just give fake names, and make up fake jobs. I do it all the time. I usually pretend I’m a nurse – men go nuts for nurses. Just listen to what I do, and play along.’
She glares at me, her made-up eyes sparkling, and I suspect that if she had biblical powers, I would just have been turned into a pillar of salt.
We decided, after laughing and cringing our way through Mum’s last video, that she was right – we did need cheering up. We’d travelled the world, made steps towards meeting our estranged father, and I’d had a mini-meltdown. Then, after all that, we’d had to watch as our visibly wasting-away mother pretended to be jolly for our sake. This was bloody hard going, and we both needed to take the Alcohol Cure.
The bar is dark and hot and throbbing with life. The music is R&B with occasional French hip-hop beats thrown in, and I smile as we are enveloped in the warmth and potential. These places are my natural environment – but poor Rose looks terrified.
‘I don’t speak French,’ she’d said, lamely, as we were getting ready. ‘Apart from stuff I know from song titles.’
‘That’s fine. In fact, that’s even better – nobody will expect much of you. Anyway, these are French men, Rose. They’re genetically hard-wired to flirt with any woman they encounter.’
I’m not sure whether my pep talk helped, but the three glasses of wine she’d downed certainly had. I hand over an extortionate amount of euros in return for some more, and look around until I spot a table. There’s one that’s almost full of men, men who have clearly come here straight from the office and are letting off steam. There are two chairs free at the end, and I stride towards them.
I don’t bother asking if the seats are taken – that’s a very English tradition – and instead simply sit down, smiling widely at the group. There’s a mix of ages, from early 20s through to mid-50s, and they’re all pretty drunk. Perfect.
‘Salut, tout le monde!’ I say, greeting them. ‘Je m’appelle Millie.’
It’s a fake name I’ve used before – Millie is a nurse on the paediatric unit – and one I feel comfy with. I look at Rose expectantly, raising my eyebrows at her in a prompt. She visibly jumps, as though she’s just remembered that she has to talk, and says: ‘Je m’appelle … er … Vanilli!’
I blink my eyes, and try not to laugh. Which is more than can be said for our new pals, who clearly think this is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Even Rose, once she realises what’s she’s done, starts to giggle.
It turns out to be perfect, and breaks the ice in a way that no amount of stories about my imaginary time on the children’s A&E ward could have done.
Within seconds, we are all chatting. Well, to be precise, I’m chatting. Rose is grinning like my simpleton sister, and drinking. A lot.
One man in particular seems very taken with her. Or at least certain parts of her. He’s probably in his later thirties, and has chocolate-drop eyes and deep-brown hair and a borderline weird goatee. Truth be told, he looks a bit like an off-duty magician – stick a cape on him and hey presto.
His name is Patrice, and he can’t take his eyes off Rose’s chest. He’s definitely much more drunk than we are, and tells me in French that she has beautiful boobs.
‘What did he say?’ asks Rose, whispering in my ear. ‘I heard “beautiful”. Was it my eyes? Does he think I have beautiful eyes?’
I giggle, then bite it back. She sounds so excited.
‘Yeah, let’s go with that, shall we? Anyway … look around. This place is full of potential S partners. Maybe it’s time to use some of your French?’
‘But I’ll sound stupid!’
‘No, they’ll appreciate the effort. And Mum is watching. Come on, finish that glass, then go and get us some more. Make it a bottle. And on the way, talk to some men, all right?’
She downs almost a whole glass of wine in one go, and gets to her feet. She’s slightly unsteady, but looks determined as she makes her way through the crowds. I keep my eye on her, ready to leap to her aid if necessary, and grin as she encounters a large gaggle of guys.
I can’t hear what she’s saying over the din of the music, but the group lets out a huge whoop of delight, and cheers as she goes past. One of them accompanies her to the bar, and I suspect that she is not paying for her own drinks.
By the time she gets back to us, she is flushed bright red, but looking slightly triumphant. The men are waving at her and she is waving back.
‘What on earth did you say?’ I ask, genuinely intrigued.
‘Well … you know how I said I only know French from song titles?’
‘Yes.’
