Page 27 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

I was actually excited to relay this story to Mum and Anneka.

‘…and when I pointed out her mistake, she died of embarrassment.’

The group laughed at his deadpan punchline, while I groaned. Loudly, apparently, as all of a sudden they were all looking at me.

‘Sorry, are you part of the tour, Miss…?’ The tour guide scanned down the list on his clipboard.

‘Désolée – je ne comprends pas. Je suis française.’

Ha! That should confuse him.

‘Heureusement, je parle français. Avez-vous réservé pour le cueillette? Sinon, vous êtes la bienvenue. Ce n’est pas un prix fixe, donnez ce que vous pouvez.’

Shit.

Had he said something about culottes? I hadn’t thought this through. But, of course, I hadn’t thought any of this through – not a single iota of this was my idea. If my desires had come to fruition, I’d be two days into my fortnight of solo bliss by now. Instead, here I was, having to plumb the depths of GCSE French in front of a group of gawking strangers.

‘Non, merci beaucoup. Au revoir.’

I trusted my basic response would be sufficient to get me out of this pickle. I stood up, flashed a smile and skulked back over to Mum and Anneka, a single shoelace still flapping pathetically.

‘Well?!’ they asked in stereo.

‘He was still doing the health and safety stuff. Doesn’t look like they’ve picked anything yet. Then he spotted me lurking and spoke to me in French so I scarpered.’

‘French?! Why French?’

‘I, er, pretended I was French.’

I knew I wouldn’t need to explain myself further, as they had pretended to be countless nationalities over the years.

‘Never mind, love,’ Mum said, pulling me back down onto the bench. ‘Well done for trying. We’ll sit tight here a bit longer and try again at their next stopping point.’

Her teeth chattered gently as she spoke.

‘Mum, are you okay? You’re shivering.’ I felt her hands again. ‘And your hands are freezing.’

Mum famously ‘ran warm’ – hence she saw no need to wear anything more than a denim jacket in mid-December in New York.

‘Are they? I hadn’t noticed.’ She blew on all her fingers and flexed them a few times. Anneka frowned and took one of Mum’s hands and rubbed it between her own.

‘She’s right, Mum – they feel really cold. Flo, have you got any gloves she could borrow?’

Was this the first time Anneka had sided with me instead of Mum? Quite possibly. I took off my own gloves and handed them over, but the gesture was rejected.

‘I’m fine!’ Mum said, throwing the gloves in my lap, jumping to her feet and jogging on the spot as if to prove her point. ‘Put them back on, Flora, before you start moaning about frostbite. Right, the foragers are on the move. Let’s follow them!’

I stood to join Mum, expecting Anneka to do the same, but she seemed glued to the bench, lost in thought. When she noticed I was looking at her, she shifted her expression into a smile and rose to her feet.

‘Allons-y!’ she cried, linking her arm through mine as we caught up with Mum, who was making friends with an enormous dog, much to the obvious annoyance of its owner.

It could have been my sleep-deprived imagination, but I swore Anneka was clutching me more tightly than usual. Perhaps she was more jetlagged than she was letting on after all.

‘We’re lost,’ I said, my arms folded for warmth as much as for emphasis.

‘We are not lost,’ Anneka insisted. The fact that she happened to be saying the words while standing on tiptoes atop a boulder, trying to peek out over the thick canopy of bushes in search of signs of life, wasn’t helping her case. For the last forty-five minutes or so, we’d been wandering around aimlessly, Mum so determined to find some ‘Kentucky coffeetree pods’ that her freegan Facebook group were obsessed with that we’d lost track of the official foraging tour. In that time, the sun had also been swallowed up by ominous-looking clouds, my phone had run out of battery, Anneka’s phone still had no signal and Mum’s phone was so basic it didn’t even run Google Maps. It barely ran WhatsApp.

‘How would you summarise this situation, then?’ I asked Anneka, my mind not able to prevent visions of a rescue helicopter and the world’s most embarrassing press conference. In fairness, Mum and Anneka would probably welcome both those scenarios.