Chapter 5- Tea or Coffee
Shortly after Teddy and Victoire scarper off home, the bright sky deepens into dark cobalt; the world seems to calm and quieten. I do believe bedtime is upon us.
I sit on my new bed, curled in a cosy ball, and stare out through the window at the stretch of darkening sky. I wonder vaguely whether Florence and my parents are seeing the same sky as I am, or if Lancaster is already wrapped up in an inky black cover.
I miss them already. I miss being mollycoddled and spoiled and loved so much that it hurts.
Dominique is a snorer. I should probably find that annoying but, weirdly enough, the soft rhythm created by the inhale, exhale… inhale, exhale is strangely soothing. Like a lullaby of sorts, but with less cutesie, and more blocked air passages.
It's a nice change, this peace, to when she's awake.
Thinking about it, today could've gone better, but it could have gone a lot worse, too. At least the awkward introductions are out the way – I was dreading them the most. I wonder what they think of me? What kind of first impression I made…?
I bet they all hate me. Pah. I hope not. There's still another 30 odd days to go – 4 weeks. Daunting. A lot can happen in that time.
A slice of moonlight pouring into the room reminds me of the time. I wish Florence was here so she could cuddle me to sleep, but Flopsy will have to do. A cotton substitute for my sister.
I should sleep – God knows what tomorrow will hold. And meeting all these new people has left me absolutely exhausted.
*
"RISE AND SHINE YOU LAZY BIATCH!" a sharp, crude voice shrills into my skull. And then again, like a broken record. What in the world…?
I half jump, half roll out of bed (a wonky ninja roll, if you will), landing with a painful thump in a heap on the carpet. My neck snaps left and right as I hunt through squinted eyelids for the source of that ungodly noise, and it doesn't appear to be emitting from a who, but rather, a what.
Balancing on the highest wooden beam of the bunk bed, chilling casually beside a heap of platinum hair, is our contemptible culprit: a neon pink alarm clock, wailing on repeat. "RISE AND SHINE YOU LAZY BIATCH!"
Who, in their right mind, would want to wake up to that?
Desperately, I reach up and slap the little bugger's snooze button, but still it persists in its quest to assault our eardrums. Or should I say, my eardrums, because Dominique appears to be blissfully unaware, drifting in some otherworldly realm. Is she sodding deaf?!
"Hey," I croak, jabbing the back of her shoulder blade with the crappy contraption. She twitches, but otherwise remains unmoved. She truly is a lazy, crazy so-and-so. Mercury takes the opportunity to pad briskly out of the room, and I honestly consider following suit.
"Can you turn this off?" I plead, louder this time, but my voice is still brittle and muffled with sleep. Oh man. I am so not in the mood for this.
I hobble a few steps up the clumsy ladder and lean down towards her ear, too irritable and fatigued to feel creepy. Hoping to at least stir her, and thinking she won't possibly hear properly in this state, I utter, "you get the hell up right now… or else."
Maybe I sounded a little icier than intended, but come on. It's stupid-o-clock in the morning, that inappropriate racket is giving my already clouded mind a headache, and she's playing Sleeping Beauty with me. So sue me.
It works, though. Her rosy eyelids flash open. Finally.
"Ohmigod! What IS your problem!" squeals the princess, obviously affronted.
My problem? – Your alarm clock. So. Freaking. LOUD.
She sits up, stretches out her bony arms, and glowers at me like I'm the last face she wants to see first thing in the morning. And then she reaches out for the alarm clock, taking her precious time doing so. Like she's revelling in the incredibly dulcet tones of her own voice or something, which honestly wouldn't surprise me.
"Really, Adelaide. I appreciate we're not all morning people, but a little courtesy wouldn't go unnoticed," she says curtly once the alarm breaks, voice agonisingly calm and civil.
But it's her face that truly irks me: patronising smirk, beady blue eyes, and–most annoyingly of all–perfectly smooth hair, first thing in the bleeding morning.
That's just not natural.
I swallow the prickle of anger in my throat and force out a feeble "sorry". There, that wasn't so hard. "I don't know why I said that. But I'm just–" I pause as a hefty yawn escapes my mouth, "–so tired."
"Well that sucks for you," she says helpfully as she hops off her bed, "because today is going to be a bloody long day. Best get ourselves prettied up." She briefly eyes over my appearance with distaste, and I get a horribly shivering feeling that I should brace my self-esteem for a blow. "Good job I got you up early, Adelaide. No offence, but you look dead."
She looks proud of herself, like she's done me a great deed. Yes, how honourable of her, always watching out for us Uglies-in-need.
…This is not what I signed up for.
*
Concealer. Mascara. Blush. Lipstick. More concealer.
The never-ending list continues.
I frown at the colourful collection of pots and tubes in front of me. Why is it that I bother slapping all this junk on my face again and again? Such a needless effort, missing out on much-needed naptime just to brighten my face a little. There's no point to it.
But a brief glance at my naked face in the mirror, and I kinda sorta see what Dominique means.
Hm.
I like to think of my face as a blank canvas. It's a neutral, indistinct thing which could just do with a dab and a smear here, a splash of colour there, and voila. Not so average anymore. A somewhat decent work of art.
My mum once told me that it's kind of narcissistic to be shy. To consider the way we are and the way we look as being important to other people. I've always thought vain was the last word to describe myself, but maybe I am. I care way too much, and somehow editing and improving my face makes it easier. Feels better.
"There's nothing wrong with a little bit of paint," I confirm to my newly perkified reflection.
"That's right, dear, no harm in accentuating your best features. Lovely shade of lipstick you're wearing."
I think – think being the key word here – that the mirror just spoke to me. Christ, my brain is that desperate for its daily dose of caffeine that it's making inanimate objects talk! Get your full nine hours, kids. Sleep deprivation does crazy things to you.
"Your hair could do with a comb though," it adds curtly, as an afterthought.
A startled bubble of laughter escapes my lips as I observe my tangled knots of fair hair. At least it's honest.
I shake my head as I stare at myself. No, no, I hate it when these shallow thoughts bubble into my head. So what if my hair's not primed to perfection? So what if I don't look stunningly attractive first thing in the bleeding morning? I need to start ignoring Dominique's snide remarks and rude comments, refuse to let her use my self-esteem as a plaything. Because if I don't, by the end of this month I might just combust in a pitiful explosion of self-reproach. I mean, that's one of the things I wanted to learn on this holiday visit torture time thingymabob – right? Maybe I'll learn to grow a thicker skin.
Deciding I should get some sugar is my veins sooner rather than later, I quickly drag a brush through my hair before dragging myself downstairs, and I swear the mirror slurs another impolite comment about my hair as I walk away from it.
*
I'm starting to think Dominique has run off to Narnia, or is at least hiding somewhere in a wardrobe, because she's not to be found in any of her natural territories (glued to a mirror, of course). It's Louis I first stumble upon, lounging in the kitchen, feet propped up on the island counter (Hygiene? What's that?).
His nose is hidden away in the deep dark depths of a novel as he carelessly chews on a piece of gum. It's such a peculiar sight; he isn't exactly your typical image of a bookworm. Because, er, everyone knows pretty people don't/can't read literature (Vogue, Grazia, Witch Weekly and the equivalent don't count). Nevertheless, that almost geeky look of pure concentration on his face as he studies the printed words doesn't detract from his prettiness even a little.
(In fact, it enhances it. But shh!)
I'm dimly aware of the slight noise I'm creating, the gentle shuffle of my shoes on the tiled floor, but he doesn't acknowledge me as I enter the room. Perhaps he's deliberately ignoring me.
Well. I suppose all that paint really was needless, if no one's even going to bother looking at my face today.
I get a momentary urge to just scuttle away, to go hide back upstairs and wait for Fleur to come find me, but the ache in my empty stomach keeps me lingering in the doorway. Addie huuungry.
Just as I'm admiring the fridge magnets from afar, Louis lifts his gaze, looking genuinely surprised to see me hanging there, and puts his book down. He waves his long fingers and points to the stool to his left. It's as if he's been expecting me. Confused and weary, I slowly take the seat beside him, straightening my shoulders self-consciously as he natters away. "Oh, hey, you're up. Would you prefer toast, croissants, pancakes…? I can do fried food as well; bacon and eggs and all that, though don't expect anything too lavish…"
Waaait a second. What's this? My own personal chef stroke butler stroke servant? I would have come to France a long time ago if I'd known this was part of the deal…
He pauses in his tirade of what seems to be a Tescos inventory to turn and look at me properly. When I finally speak, my voice is shrouded in bewilderment, and I sound totally, utterly lost.
I blink. "Um, sorry… what?"
"For breakfast. What would you like?" he says, this time at a normal human speed.
I look at him with careful eyes. I glance away, and then look back at him again. Who is this imposter and what has he done with the sulky, hard-eyed boy I met yesterday?
"Are you sure? I can get it myself." I wish I didn't sound so nervous. It might help if I didn't feel so nervous.
He waves me off and begins wandering round the kitchen, narrowly avoiding a thwack to the head courtesy of a low-hanging lightshade. "What do you fancy, then?"
Fleur must have set him up to his; that's the only excuse I can think of.
Ah, well. May as well take the opportunity and milk it for all it's worth!
"Um, I'd quite like some toast, if that's all right? Buttered, with strawberry jam?" Mmm, my mouth waters at the very thought.
"Coming right up." He gives a silly mock salute before springing to work, and I've never seen someone slide bread into a toaster with such eagerness before. And then he reaches into his pocket and points his wand right at it.
Now, as a non-magical person I'm certainly no expert, but I was always under the impression that electricity and magic don't mix. Should never be mixed. And this seems to be affirmed when, seconds later, steam rises in rancid curls around the charcoal'd bread. …Cough?
A minute ago he was promising a whole English fry up, and here he is, struggling to work a toaster. My God.
"Well that wasn't meant to happen," Louis mumbles, flapping at the smoke with his hands. "Um… I'll try again."
"Why don't you try without magic?" I'm quick to suggest, eyeing his wand uneasily.
But he won't hear of it. Gah, why are wizards so bloody eager to show off their magic at any given opportunity? Even if it means burning the place down… "Nah, takes too long."
"Louis, I really don't think–"
Too late. To his credit, only the crusts were charred this time.
"You know what?" I say, the stale smell still coiling up my nostrils. "I'm more of a cereal person, anyway."
Louis glances sadly over the dusty remains of my breakfast to me. I look at him. And for some reason, the moment our eyes meet, we laugh. Him, a deep, rich chuckle, and me, a soft giggle.
It's a short-lived, nonsensical laugh, but it lifts my mood considerably.
"And what would mademoiselle like to drink?" he asks politely after setting a bowl of 'Coco Quaffles' in front of me. They're pretty damn good, too; I make a mental memo to ask Mum to get some. "We have juice, squash, tea, coffee. Water…"
"A mug of Earl Grey would be great, thanks," I say chirpily, still amazed at the fantastic service I'm receiving. Fast and friendly; what more could a guest ask for? The ability to safely operate a toaster would be great too, of course, but that's getting fussy.
"Earl Grey, you say?" He stares at me curiously, lifts his eyebrows. "Why, how very upmarket of you."
Heat spreads rapidly up my neck. "Oh, um – I mean, PG Tips would be fine too–"
"Nah, just teasing you," he grins cheekily. "My mother and Dom are the same. Spit out PG Tips like it's mud, the snobs."
I don't know how to reply to that, so I don't. He leans his long frame against the marble worktop as he waits for the kettle to boil, looking a little too large for Fleur's low-ceilinged kitchen. How can he possibly be that thin? A growing teenage boy? Argh, I know I'm sounding like one of those irritating adults that criticise weight and height and appearance constantly, but I can't help wondering, y'know? I wonder if natural thinness is in their genes; from what I've seen so far, Fleur does cook enough in one meal to feed them all for a week, yet they each have the body of a golf club.
He coughs. Oh hell, maybe I was looking at him for too long. The last thing I want is for him to think I'm creeping on him or something. He's trying hard and being so nice, when really he should hate me for being so annoying and rude about his family, and – I don't want to give him another reason to dislike me. I quickly avert my eyes, making a conscious effort not to look down at my shoes. Don't want to look obvious.
He coughs again. "Sorry. That burnt toast smell is lingering," he admits.
Oh. Well, that could be it too, I suppose.
I look around the room, anywhere but at him, and my gaze falls on the book he was reading. A darkly designed paperback, nebulously titled 'The Grey Ones'. Ooh, ominous. That could be anything – a detective story, a paranormal horror, an action-packed thriller…hell, it could even be a dark romance. If boys even read romances. They probably don't. I wouldn't know.
Intrigued, I flip the book over and skim through the blurb. Sounds kind of spooky, but it seems to have encouraging reviews.
"'s a good book," Louis remarks, snatching my gaze away from the novel. God, he scared me. He smiles lightly. "The author, Horatio Clarke, is one twisted fuck, though. There are these creepy ass grey creatures that only come out at night, for one thing only – to kill. They're kind of like vampires but less human-like. So, there's this couple whose friend has supposedly been taken by one, and they decide to investigate, and somehow the guy ends up falling for one of the Grey Ones – Clarke's a genius for making that work – when, mysteriously, his proper girlfriend disappears… that's the bit I got to when you came in. It's weird, but incredibly gripping."
Dude! Totally called it!
"Sounds… interesting," is all I can say. I admit, I struggled to follow the whole of that thirty-second synopsis.
"I have a thing for creepy stories about the supernatural," he confesses, lowering his voice like it's a big secret, grinning wickedly.
There are a few things I've gathered about Louis Weasley in my short time of knowing him. One: his moods are of the same fragility as a thirteen year old girl's. Two: despite the misleadingly pretty face, he has socially unacceptable hobbies which include reading freaky zombie novels and randomly preparing breakfast for young girls. Three: he can talk and talk and talk and never seem to run out of breath. Or things to say.
Quite a skill, really.
*
I breathe a sigh of relief when Fleur enters the kitchen a short while later, looking lovely as ever in an elegant white tunic. The first thing she does is smile widely when she catches sight of Louis prattling on to me about Horatio Clarke's slightly screwed up and 100% factual life story (after a year of marriage his wife left him for another woman; everything went downhill from there). Then she explains how she's sending the three of us – Louis, Dominique, and I – off to town for the day, to explore the area (as well as do a spot of shopping for her). It's a weird and scary prospect for me, because I trust neither of them, but even so I'm kind of looking forward to getting some fresh air. I really love walks.
As we slip into our shoes, Fleur watches on with a razor-sharp eye and addresses her offspring sternly. "You 'ad better be 'ome well before it gets dark. Okay, Dominique? Louis? If anything 'appens to Adelaide–"
"We know, we know, you'll disembowel us," Dominique quips, gaze flattening. She crosses her arms over her chest and shifts her weight between her bronzed legs, which are fully revealed in a short, wispy skirt. I'm showing my legs too (shock horror!), and they look comically colourless in comparison. I'm almost tempted to give her fake tan a try. Almost.
"–you will both be 'eld responsible."
"Don't worry, Maman. We'll look after her." I glimpse up at Louis coyly, gratefully, and he smiles down at me. He's being a real sweetheart today. But part of me still can't help feeling slightly screwed, trusting my safety and general well-being in the hands of these two.
Fleur reaches up to press her lips against his cheek. He subtly wipes at it afterwards. "And you?" She stares determinedly at her seventeen-year-old daughter, waiting.
"Of course," says Dominique, voice coated with overtly fake saccharinity, and – to my amazement – she grabs my wrist, no doubt catching Addie cooties from the close contact, and pulls me towards the door.
I glance behind me just in time to see Fleur stuff her shopping list into Louis' back pocket, despite her having made us recite the list from memory twenty hundred times over. "Be good!" she hastily calls after us.
Another tug to my hand, and finally we escape into the hot French air.
I haven't actually had a proper view of the front yet, seeing as the first time I was slightly distracted, busy safeguarding the insides of my stomach and stuff. The lawn is adorable, only covering a small area; an assortment of rose bushes and plotted plants dot the borders of a little winding path, leading up to the front gate.
Dominique immediately drops my arm and storms through the wooden gateway, hair whooshing out behind her. I look backwards at the more laidback Louis, who catches my eye and rolls his at his sister's theatrics.
I make to follow her, when out of nowhere a tiny rush of fur thrashes past me, which I take to be Coco, the kitten I inadvertently met on Louis' bed, currently fleeing from a rather predacious-looking Mercury. They don't seem to like each other very much, just as Fleur predicted.
"Hey!" barks Louis to my sprightly Kneazle. He tries to grab him off the ground, but Mercury's too fast, effortlessly leaping out of his clutches. "Leave little Coco alone!"
When the chase continues, dodging in and out of the rustling plants, Louis' indignant face looks over to me for help.
I just give a little smile and shrug my shoulders. What can I say? My Mercury's an agile little boy.
I do feel a bit guilty, though, when his eyes narrow and he quickly looks away, watching his poor Coco romp around like a headless chicken.
"Well? What are you two doing?" Dominique snarls from a little way away, and I wonder what got her so riled up. I quickly catch up to her, because I know she has a wand in her pocket and I don't particularly want to know what she can do with it.
"What a dull street we live on," she comments sourly as she glances down the small suburban road.
I think it's rather nice, personally. It's far more rural than I'm used to, not to mention the complete opposite of the bustling French city I was expecting, but that's part of the charm. The houses are large and charismatic.
"Not much to do when you're surrounded by endless meadows," Louis concurs, easily matching our pace. I'm suspicious that he only pretends to agree with her so that she'll be less likely to snap at him. Sounds like a good plan. He turns to me and kindly fills me in on the deets: "It's a five minute walk to the bus stop, a ten minute bus ride, then a fifteen minute walk to the nearest town. Well, there's a bunch of villages closer to us, but nothing worth doing in them."
Ugh. That sounds like a lot of walking.
Once we turn the corner, far enough away so that anyone (hint: Fleur) looking out the window wouldn't be able to see, Dominique swiftly spins round to face Louis and I.
"Well, it's time to go our separate ways. You kids have fun," are her parting words. She tosses a dry wink at her brother – and then, before we can react, she vanishes from sight. The following pop hangs still in the air for a moment.
I stare disbelievingly at the spot from which she disappeared. Why would she leave? Where did she go?
Louis instinctively lurches forward into the empty space, and shakes his head in frustration. "Christ. I really can't believe her. Actually, I can. Damn. Probably gone off to see her boyfriend. She knows Maman would have a tizz if she knew…"
He sighs a long-suffering sigh. Slaps a weary hand through his hair. Then tries to look more cheerful. "Well, we might as well carry on, hadn't we? Need to get the stuff for Maman."
And so, on we travel. It's great that Louis is being friendlier today than he was yesterday, but it still feels a bit… wrong to be walking along, just the two of us, him towering over me. I mean, he's a stranger! And a boy! The people we pass might get the wrong idea and think we're, like, a couple or something which is totally weird and wrong. Especially when our arms accidentally brush, and the country path narrows so we have to walk a little closer. Weeeird. Even Louis can't think of anything to fill the silence, and he's Louis. The whole thing is just uncomfortable and awkward and, God, I would very much like to sink into the gravel right now.
Thanks, Dominique.