Max was in his bedroom, talking to his mirror. It was Monday and he had rushed home from school, showered, cleaned his teeth and dug out his best jeans and T-shirt, the Snoop Dog one that Danny’s eldest brother had once remarked was cool. Now he was practising the words he needed for Esmé. He said to the mirror, ‘I’m sorry about dropping the pasta on Friday. It was stupid.’
It had taken him two days and two nights to put these sentences together, and he still wasn’t sure they were right. Pasta or macaroni? Sorry, so sorry, or really sorry? To grin, as if it was almost funny? To look humble? To remark casually, as if he had only just remembered?
Max tried again, with macaroni and grinning, and then with pasta and humble, and then macaroni and casual, and then with really sorry, pasta and slightly raised eyebrows. Max did this twice and thought it was probably the best. He wished he could have worn his sunglasses, because he felt much more confident with them on, but he couldn’t because it was winter and indoors. He tried the words through one more time and then went down and said them.
Esmé had, as usual, walked Louis home, helped him find a snack, switched on the kitchen TV, watched five minutes of cartoons with him, and then opened her enormous art book and become immersed in her work. She looked blankly at Max after he had spoken, so he coughed, rearranged his eyebrows (which seemed to have stuck in the raised position) and attempted to juggle with two oranges from the fruit bowl.
Esmé’s look became very puzzled.
‘So are we OK now?’ asked Max.
‘Pardon?’ asked Esmé.
Max repeated his words again, quite loudly, with macaroni this time and no eyebrow control at all.
‘Ah!’ said Esmé, nodding to show she now understood (obviously, Max realized, her weekend had not been harrowed by recurring memories of dropped pasta). ‘I think next time you please stay and clear up.’
‘Definitely, definitely!’ agreed Max (in – oh, horrors! – a fake American accent), retrieved the oranges from under the table, held one each side of his head to make cartoon ears and then put them back in the fruit bowl.
‘Pas gentil,’ remarked Esmé, taking them out again.
Max was very pleased to have been spoken to in actual French, although he had no idea what she meant. ‘Oui, oui,’ he said, suddenly wonderfully happy. ‘Can I see what you’re drawing? Louis, does she mind?’
‘She does not mind,’ said Esmé, rolling her eyes. ‘Voilà!’
It was the first time Max had seen any of Esmé’s art. Looking at it made him feel sorry for her. It was so shabby: huge grey dusty sheets of paper, all scribbled in pastel and charcoal, orange and black, ochre and white. However, he tried not to let what he felt show on his face, and said, ‘It’s brilliant, what is it? Oh, I can see now . . . Horses?’
‘Esmé’s book is full of horses,’ said Louis. ‘Horses and bears, tous les animaux.’
‘Who taught you French?’ asked Max severely.
‘Personne,’ murmured Louis. For weeks now Esmé had spoken to him in French when she couldn’t be bothered with English, and he had soaked up the new words without noticing. He had learned to shrug too. He shrugged and began colouring the palm and fingers of his left hand bright orange with one of Esmé’s chalks.
‘Stop it!’ ordered Max, feeling very grown-up. ‘Don’t waste her stuff. She hasn’t got that much. Esmé, I’ve got a set of multi coloured sharpies you can borrow if you like.’
‘No thank you,’ said Esmé, laughing.
‘She doesn’t use things like that,’ said Louis.
‘You be quiet,’ said Max.
‘Is true,’ said Esmé.
‘She does cave art,’ said Louis. ‘Like cavemen did.’
‘Louis, just shut up!’ said Max, appalled. ‘What do you know about art? You don’t understand anything!’
‘Stone Age,’ said Louis. ‘I do understand. I help.’ He held out his orange hand to Esmé. She inspected it, frowning a little.
‘Water,’ she said.
‘Yes, and soap,’ agreed Max bossily. ‘Get to the sink and don’t touch anything!’
Louis ignored him, dipped one clean finger of his right hand into his water glass and began swirling his orange chalk into paint.
‘Not too much,’ said Esmé, sliding her paper dangerously close to him as she spoke. ‘No drips! Where I say, OK?’
‘OK,’ agreed Louis, and then Esmé pointed, Louis reached over, and to Max’s absolute horror, slapped his bright orange hand flat on Esmé’s drawing and pressed hard.
‘LOUIS!’ yelled Max.
Louis lifted his hand and showed a perfect print, four fingers, palm and thumb.
‘That’ll never come off!’ exploded Max.
‘Little more chalk, little more water, then again,’ said Esmé composedly. ‘Very good, Louis.’
‘All that fuss because I dropped the macaroni cheese,’ said Max, outraged, ‘then he makes a mess like that and you say very good!’
‘I didn’t fuss,’ said Esmé, and at last she stopped hanging over her awful artwork and looked up at him. Her eyes were dark, crinkled at the corners with laughter. She pushed her hair behind her ears, and he saw black crystal studs, very small. Around her neck a leather thong was threaded with a piece of stone, roughly pear-shaped, smooth and nearly white against her olive skin.
Max’s eyes followed the line of the thong down to the stone and stopped. He became very hot. He thought, I must look somewhere else quick. He found himself juggling again, very recklessly, throwing the oranges much too high. It made Louis laugh and when Louis laughed, Esmé laughed, which was actually magnificent and caused Max to suddenly remember some French that he never knew he had. ‘Ça va? Je t’aime!’ he cried. ‘Is that right? Bien sûr! Voilà, les pommes orange!’
His juggling ended abruptly with two hard impacts on the table.
‘Non!’ wailed Esmé.
‘Oh God oh God I’m sorry,’ moaned Max.
‘I’ll get a towel,’ said Louis.