Chapter 3
3
A few days later, despite Eloise’s many protestations, we walk together for her first day at a new school in the 6th arrondissement, Saint-Germain-des-Prés. It’s a little further away than expected but they have a music programme, so it’s worth the extra distance as Eloise is musically inclined even though it’s mostly self-taught with the help of YouTube.
The school is a twenty-minute walk from the apartment, or there’s the option of catching the bus, which Eloise has point-blank refused. ‘The bus would be more efficient,’ I say, thinking of my parents who have offered to walk Eloise to and from once I’m gainfully employed.
‘Urgh. Buses are so mid.’
‘Mid? What does that mean?’
‘Mediocre, I guess.’
‘How do you get mid from mediocre?’ I’m genuinely curious about Gen Z slang. It can be clever at times, but mostly it makes no sense, like this ‘skibidi’ word nonsense that belies translation, at least to me.
‘Who cares? ’
‘I do. If it’s from mediocre wouldn’t it be med not mid?’
‘You’re overthinking it.’
‘I guess so.’ I let it go with the other unanswered questions to the great unknown. This morning, the air is perfumed by spring flowers and it’s bright and sunshiny, and it makes it feel like my bones are defrosting after a long, cold London winter. Of course, it’s spring in London too, but when we left it hadn’t exactly sprung yet.
We walk along the bustling Boulevard du Montparnasse. The neighbourhood has changed, yet somehow stayed the same. Cafés as far as the eye can see that all have the ubiquitous weaved rattan bistro chairs in the Maison Drucker style of yesteryear. I love that about Paris; the good things don’t change.
The yeasty scent of fresh baked baguettes permeates the air as we pass a boulangerie .
Traffic is heavy, cars toot, people hurry, and tourists meander, snapping photos. Eloise’s eyes widen as we stop at the window of a patisserie where petit four cakes sit in colourful rows, like miniature artwork.
Up ahead, I notice one of my favourite haunts is still open and doing a bustling trade. ‘Ooh, Eloise, see the shopfront with the blue and white striped awning? Le Crêperie Bretonne? That’s where I’d go after high school to regroup and read.’
‘By eating your feelings?’
Illogical but true. ‘ Oui , I’ve been known to partake in a bit of comfort eating. School wasn’t always easy for me.’
‘Because you’re a nerd?’
‘Am I a nerd?’
She manages to screw up one side of her face, which I’ve come to learn means duh, obviously. ‘You got straight As, you read your textbooks before the school year started?— ’
‘Just for fun!’
‘—you graduated at the top of all of your classes. Nerd behaviour.’
‘I see.’
‘You were ahead of your time, Mum. Nerd culture is mainstream now.’
‘Trust me to have peaked too soon.’ Always the way.
She laughs, a tinkling musical sound, as we walk past the crêperie .
‘We should’ve had breakfast there,’ Eloise says as the syrupy scent of sugar assails us. There’s nothing quite like the humble crêpe au sucre , a plain crepe with lashings of melted butter and sprinkled with icing sugar.
‘Why don’t we go after school?’ I’m conserving funds but have allocated a small amount for first day of school celebrations.
She considers my offer. There’s such a dichotomy to this age; the push and pull of child to teen. Her first expression is one of anticipation and childlike wonder about simple pleasures such as a sugary crepe, but it’s soon replaced by hard mask of a teenager, as if she’s railing against getting excited about something so basic as food. This strange age of development is a gut punch at times. There’s that sense of an ending; the innocence and glee of childhood vanishes without warning one day.
‘No, actually I hate crepes.’ A mere minute ago she was of a different opinion. Teenagers are contrary. But I’ve learned the hard way it’s best not to point this out, as being contrary in nature they will often disagree.
I’ve done the research. This behaviour stems from wanting to fit in. Although I do want to assure her it’s perfectly acceptable to find happiness in a crepe, to get icing sugar over her face and crow about how delicious every ooey gooey sweet buttery morsel is, but I do not.
It’s the way of things. It’s probably me who needs to accept thirteen is the new thirty and the little girl with pigtails is gone.
The crêperie disappears behind us.
‘Are we close to school?’ she asks. ‘I don’t want to be late on my first day.’ She’s a lot like me in that respect: punctual, organised – as much as her age allows.
‘ Oui . It’s just up there.’ I point to the imposing black gates of the school.
I’m thankful she’s bilingual and speaks fluent French so this transition won’t be marred by any language barrier. Right now, she’s speaking a mix of both languages, as if she’s not quite sure which words to use when it’s just us two.
We approach a group of teens who have their eyes glued to mobile phones while they push and shove in that joking tactile way teenagers do. It’s my worst nightmare, others encroaching on my personal space like that, but it doesn’t seem to worry these kids.
Eloise stops and turns to me, dropping her voice to a hiss. ‘Why can’t I do this on my own? When I holiday here, Mémère doesn’t follow me everywhere. I’m allowed my independence.’
I give her my well-practised ever-patient mothering smile. The one that shoots pain into my skull. Now that she’s seen the other students, she doesn’t want to lose face having her mum here. I get it, but still, she might have holidayed here, but she hasn’t lived here since she was a toddler. She doesn’t know how to navigate this area yet.
‘I want to make sure you get to school safely each day, if that’s OK with you?’ I’ll miss her today, but a break from each other will do us both the world of good. ‘Come on.’ I nimbly dodge groups of teens to get to the entrance. ‘I’ ll pretend I don’t know you, if you prefer?’ I don’t want her first day marred by the fact her mother is a nerd.
I’m rewarded with a scowl. Eloise often reminds me of a fire-breathing dragon. A totally normal part of development precipitated by an influx of hormones. ‘It’s too late for that what with you incessantly talking to me and all.’
Teenagers have the unique ability to believe that the entire world is hyper fixated on them. I steal a glance around us and not one person is looking our way, so I feel her assumptions are incorrect, but I keep that to myself. ‘OK.’
Cars are double parked on the pavement and traffic whizzes by. There’s the screech of brakes, a siren wailing in the distance; the cacophony of Paris life. Just inside the gates, a few parents mill about chatting.
‘I’ll walk myself home, now that I know the way.’
I have an internal battle with myself. Fight or accept? Eloise knows the Montparnasse area well, but she hasn’t ventured around the 6th very often, and definitely not alone. She is creeping closer to fourteen, which in my view is still too young. I assess how I feel about it from a safety perspective and decide that I’m just not comfortable yet with her walking so far from the apartment without an adult. It might be different once she makes friends and they walk in a gaggle together, but not right now, not by herself.
‘I’ll be waiting at the bench by the park over there for you after school. We can stop at Le Crêperie Bretonne or perhaps an ice cream shop as a treat to celebrate your first day at school.’
She scoffs, contempt marring her pretty features. ‘A treat . What am I, like… four?’
I paste on a smile when all I really want to do is admonish her for being a brat, but maybe her nerves are the driving force and I need to give her some grace. ‘No, you’re not four, darling! When you were four, you were a joyous little thing, always smiling and happy. You’re not like that now.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
I pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘I know the answer to this one. Mine?’
‘ Oui .’ And just like that, she spins on her heel and enters the gates. No au revoir , no sign of la bise – the French custom of brushing cheeks in greetings and goodbyes . I take a shuddery breath and try to exhale all the worry. Nerves, that’s all it is. Not for the first time, I wish she had a father figure in her life. Someone to help me with the weight of things. To shore me up when I’m depleted. Be a sounding board for Eloise. But so far that hasn’t happened. Even Alexander refrained from any parenting responsibilities with Eloise, claiming he had no experience and that Eloise would only incinerate him with her galactic-force stare and he’d really rather not be involved.
When she’d argue with me, he’d disappear down the local pub for a few beers. I’d felt oddly abandoned at those times. Like he didn’t quite love me enough to try and be part of our little family.
As I fight negativity from hijacking the bright spring day, I walk around Saint-Germain-des-Prés, my mind on my daughter hoping she has a great first day. I stop by a patisserie and order a café crème. While I wait, I check my emails, hoping there’s a sparkly new job interview waiting patiently for me.
My coffee arrives as I scroll down my inbox.
We’re sorry to inform you that you were unsuccessful at this time…
It’s a concern. I’ve made allowances for four weeks of nominal living expenses. What if I’m not employed by week five and my funds are depleted entirely? The last thing I want to do is ask my parents for monetary help. It would be yet another failure and proof that I’m grossly incompetent at forward planning, a skill I once prided myself on. My life is glitching. Is the solution a power down and reboot? If only it were that easy!
I keep scrolling and find an email from a French publishing pal named Fleur from her personal account. We haven’t spoken in an age, but I texted recently to give her the heads up that I’d applied for an editorial position at the same publishing house as her, in a different division, and asked if she could vouch for me. Fingers crossed the tide is turning!
Bonjour Coco,
I’m sorry to email instead of speaking in person but things are hectic, and I wanted you to know ASAP. There’s been much chatter in the office after you applied for the editorial role here. Unfortunately, after the London difficulties, the powers that be think it best to keep their distance. I’m so sorry. I did speak up for you, but they wouldn’t be swayed. I hate being the bearer of such awful news, but I thought you should know what you’re up against. I know you’ve got Eloise to look out for. Let’s catch up when you’re settled in?
Bien amicalement,
Fleur
Mon Dieu! The tides aren’t turning, they’re gathering into one almighty tsunami. I bite down on a scream while I contemplate what this means for my future.
I am a publishing pariah.
How did I get embroiled in a mess such as this? Alexander, with his seductive eyes and smooth tongue, that’s how. He often called me ambitious as if it was a negative trait and not aspirational. He bandied terms like ‘workaholic’, as if it was a character flaw and not that I had the forethought to schedule my daily timetable in an effective manner so that I completed tasks in an efficient fashion. Shouldn’t those skills be lauded?
I shoot a reply to Fleur thanking her for the insider information and the chance to catch up in the future. I finish my café crème and leave some coins on the table, waving au revoir to the waiter as I go.
The news having evidently spread to Paris significantly shrinks my chances of finding editorial employment. Though, as a former publishing director myself, I’d take a wide berth too when hiring someone who’d been embroiled in such matters, so I’m not surprised about their stance. The simplistic part of me had, I suppose, hoped my experience would speak for itself and that someone would let me explain face to face. Alas, that’s not to be.
What can I do to support my daughter? It’s time to rethink the plan.