the french girl

I ducked down behind the wall, throwing myself onto the concrete thankfully. Licking my lips in an expression of fear, I sat perfectly still and contemplated the events which had brought me to this hiding place. I had first spotted her coming out of Tesco’s three weeks and two days before. She was wearing a mustard yellow coat with over-sized buttons and matching navy hat and gloves. Fashionable, I’d say, and elegant, certainly. In her hands, and weighing her down, were two well worn, re-usable shopping bags, emblazoned with the words ‘respecter pour la nature’. Was she French? I had wondered, intrigued already. She was enchanting, all slit-eyed and angular in the face, with a tall, statuesque figure. An aloof and intriguing Parisian, perhaps? Maybe she was a student, learning English at one of the Universities?

Or - and this was my favourite - she could be a dancer, she definitely had the lean, highly-trained body of one. I imagined the delicate, feline grace of the movements that this wavy-haired, quiet beauty would create. My breath caught, as her kind, twinkling smile startled me from my feverish reverie. She emanated friendliness and I knew that she was the kind of person people warmed to. Unlike me, so very unlike me, but opposites attract right? In response, I slowed as I passed, and for a moment I thought that she would speak to me, with rolling r’s, and i’s like long, drawn out e’s. When she didn’t, I hesitantly opened and shut my mouth once or twice, but no plausible conversation starter formed. She seemed not to notice, and so I watched her cross the road, stopping briefly to swap the bags in her hands as she entered the park, before disappearing from view.

I was furious with myself for days afterwards. What an idiot, I kept thinking. What a bloody fool. Why couldn’t I just have spoken a normal everyday sentence – a point of contact at the very least. Nothing flash, just ‘lovely weather out’, or simply a pleasant ‘hello’. Anything would be preferable to that open-mouthed, face like a fish expression that I had such a capacity for. But as usual, it was too late, and I had let the opportunity drift away on the Autumn air. At the bottom of my thoughts, was the niggling knowledge that I shouldn’t even be attempting such things anyway. I knew too much to put myself under the pressure of forming new relationships so soon. But I felt so fine now; the seasonal shedding of the old that was evident all around had made me feel fresh and new again, and the French Girl was beckoning.
I walked home, hands in my pockets and taking care not to step on the cracks, with an agitated emptiness of white noise blocking my ears. In the hospital, I had been taught ‘coping strategies’. Coping strategies for a solitary life - stuff that, my mind screamed. And when I was so positive that she and I would get on - I pictured The French Girl again. She would share my love of Georges Bizet. We could wrap ourselves in a cocoon of friendship and sit on park benches enveloped in its warmth. She would introduce me to the best French cuisine in a little known café, and I could impress her with my extensive knowledge of her nation’s history. We would walk everywhere, arm in arm, heads close together in comfortable intimacy, as we discussed life and love in all its techni-colour glory. I was aware of the contrast that this image struck with my own existence, but I never gave up hope that the rosy glow of well-formed relationships would one day cast its light upon me.

Back at home I twiddled my thumbs, switched on Countdown, and made a cup of tea. Three rinses of water when I filled the kettle, milky, my favourite red mug (free with multi-packs of Kit-Kat some years before), and two shortcake fingers on the side. I washed everything thoroughly afterwards, and began to feel a little better. Concentrating on the TV and the rhythmic rolling of Carol Vorderman’s voice soothed me. I cleared my mind with numbers, sums, and order. I have always liked balance; equilibrium is my favourite word. People may think I am weird, but I can’t bear chaos. A long time ago it wasn’t like this. I had plenty of friends – I was normal, bright, and loved. But out of nowhere came the mood swings, the loss of focus. Then the swirling confusion, the worsening panic attacks, and in the end, the incident concerning the girl in my halls and a series of letters. I only wanted to help her, but it all went horribly wrong somewhere.

However, that’s not something I think about now. They said that I have repented enough, that nothing good can come of constantly rearranging the events in my mind. What’s done is done, and I can only learn from it. Thinking thus, I was content as I prepared for bed. I knew I was a good person; I just had an odd way of doing things. Looking out over the park, I wondered what other lone souls were also staring out at the black, starless sky of the London night. It was a faceless city, and I knew a foreign girl would need a friend - somebody to protect her vulnerable beauty. I arose early on autopilot; packing beef spread sandwiches and a flask of de-caf into my back pack along with my latest historical novel. It was about the other Boleyn, sister of Anne, and I thought it was disappointingly evident when reading it that women’s relationships hadn’t changed much. I walked towards Tesco’s, and settled opposite on the low wall of Natwest, which would be my vantage point.

I watched and waited for days and weeks. I left for food and bed in the evening, but I couldn’t sleep. Insomnia had always been a problem, yet on the wall things were peaceful. I enjoyed watching the world go by; I studied the people who passed one by one, wondering what their lives were like. Every so often, I would get out my pocket watch to check the time. It was an antique left to me in my Grandfather’s will and I treasured it. Sometimes I stared at it with such intensity, that I was almost positive that in that moment, I could have made time move. It was a thought that was both tempting and repellent. It was at a moment like this, after three long weeks on the wall, when I finally saw The French Girl again.

She was getting off a bus, a huge pile of library books in her arms. So she was a student. I stood up, walking discreetly along behind her at a reasonable distance. I had no plan, but felt strangely calm - a rare moment of tranquility. A few seconds into the park full of twittering birds, the girl dropped one of her books. She had been struggling, and it just plopped off with a satisfying plunk. I scurried forward to help, breathless with excitement. She looked at me a little suspiciously, but smiled a small smile, and nodded her head in an acknowledgement of thanks. I then took the alternate fork in the paths across the park, and swung back when she was almost out of sight.

She rounded the corner into a row of tumbledown and scruffy Victorian townhouses. She glanced back occasionally, and terrified that she would think I was following her, I slowed to snail pace. Inside number nine, she put on the TV and made a cup of tea, I imagined, just as I had after our first meeting. Eventually, I could bear no more. I marched towards the door, and rapped hard twice with the knocker. My whole body shook that she would not answer, and that she would. Seconds passed and my nerve was lost. As I stepped down onto the pavement to retreat, I heard the lock sliding open. Unthinking, I ducked down low behind the wall that shielded me, throwing myself against the concrete thankfully. Heart in my mouth, head in my hands, I contemplated the events which had brought me to this hiding place.