“Any dress you see that you enjoy the style of, just let me know. If it isn’t perfect, it doesn’t matter, because my, er… er…” Marie pauses, eyes skyward, searching for the English word. “Dressmaker?”
I nod.
“Yes, well, she said she can make anything that we please, adjust, change…”
Marie’s English is practically perfect in that husky, sexy French accent that melts many a person. She went to university in London, and her mother was born in Cornwall. Like Lucas, her dad is French, and he and Marie own a deli together. One that sells things to gym-goers and the health conscious. Protein shakes, juices, “clean” salads and faux brownies and so many things made from avocados. It’s how she and Lucas met. The deli had just opened, and Lucas had gone in for lunch after a gym session, and he and Marie had ended up talking so much, they had lunch together.
“It was avocados, wasn’t it?” I’d asked Marie on our first meeting. “It’s all Lucas eats. I think he goes to bed with them. Kisses them good night. Gives them massages. Listens to their problems.”
Marie had giggled madly and held my arm. “It was. We ate two avocado dishes. I eat so many of them too. I even make hair conditioner from it.”
“A match made in heaven,” I’d said, and ever since, avocados have been a little “in” joke of ours.
I nudge Marie’s arm now. “What would you think,” I say, lowering my voice, “if I insisted on that,” and I point to a tiny red minidress only Rosie and Cher would be able to pull off.
“Oh,” Marie laughs. “But if that is what you want, Emmie, I would be happy for you to wear it.”
We wander through the shop, hardly able to hear each other over the blasting dance music booming from the shop’s stereo, but both of us talking all the time nonetheless, and I am struck with a pang of something that feels like guilt and heartbreak all at once as Marie turns to me and says, “I’m so excited, Emmie.” It’s the shame, I suppose, of wishing deep down that this wasn’t happening, and I imagine for one painful, stomach-churning moment as Marie takes a photo of a dress on a mannequin and looks down at her phone, punching away on the keyboard in WhatsApp, sending it excitedly to her bridesmaids to add to their shared Pinterest board, what she would do if she knew—if suddenly I told her, right here, what I had expected Lucas to ask me that night at Le Rivage.
“Emmie.” Marie links her slender arm through mine. “What do you say? Shall we eat?”
“Sure. I could definitely eat. And escape this music.”
“My treat,” she says. “For our best woman. And considering I woke you up too early.”
“Oh, I’m glad you did,” I laugh. “When I don’t have an alarm, I could be out for a good thirteen hours.”
Marie squeezes into me and gives a warm giggle. “Luke said you are an epic sleeper. Now, come on, I know this beautiful little place. You’ll love it.”
Marie takes us to a small but higgledy café down a cobbled alleyway, with round, rustic tables and empty tin cans holding cutlery in the center. It smells like strong coffee and garlic, and we take a seat at one of the outdoor tables.
It’s only eleven, so we are handed a breakfast menu—paper clipped to a small wooden clipboard, the text small, spaced and neat, as if it’s been written on a typewriter. Marie leans in. “The waffles and chocolate, oh my goodness.”
“Good?” I ask, and she sighs and says, “Like heaven, Emmeline.” Then she freezes. “Gosh. I never say Emmeline. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. You don’t like being called it, do you?”
Heat passes over my cheeks. “Nobody really calls me Emmeline,” I say. “But don’t be sorry. At all.”
“No, I should be. I think a person’s preferred name should be respected,” she says, and I just want to reach out and hold her face and tell her I’m sorry, because she is so bloody nice.
“My mum calls me Emmeline. Jean used to too, actually. He doesn’t believe in shortening names.”
Marie rolls her eyes, an elbow coming up to rest on the table. She leans her face on her hand. “How shocking it is that it’s a man who ignores a woman’s preferences,” she says quietly. “So, you were baptized Emmeline?”
“Oh no,” I say, “I’ve never been christened or baptized. My mum never really believed in any of that. But it’s on my birth certificate. My mum loved the name. Plus, my dad is from France.” My mouth feels dry as I speak those last words. “It’s been years since I’ve gone by Emmeline, that’s all.”
She nods, almond eyes serious, and doesn’t press, which tells me she either knows more than I have told her, or that she can tell I don’t really want to give her any more than that. Robert called me Emmeline; used my name so many times, in such short conversations, that it felt weird sometimes, and purposeful. He called me Emmeline that night. Hot and wet against my neck and my ear, the back of my head pressed hard against the door. I couldn’t bear hearing it after that.
“So, Emmie, shall we order?” Marie smiles warmly, clearing her throat. A waiter hovers by the door, waiting, his eyes flitting from us, to the two couples eating, chattering quietly at neighboring tables. “Are you ready? I know I am off caffeine, but surely one Americano can’t harm me?”
We order our food—both of us go for the waffles with chocolate sauce—and Marie tells me about the bad wedding dreams she keeps having despite it still being eight months before she marries Lucas. She asks me about my journey here, with Eliot, too, and I tell her it was nice. “ ‘Smooth, no traffic.’ ” I don’t tell her that we talked for an hour, solidly, about my dad and the birthday cards, and even about Mum, too, or how much telling him has helped. I feel lighter after talking to Eliot. Like he’s taken some of the weight that was dragging me down. A smiling waiter brings our food over, and we sit in the shade, watch the world amble by beneath the sun, and swap stories and anecdotes, the rich smell of coffee and cigarette smoke from a man at the next table swirling around us. Mum’s ex Den used to smoke roll-ups, standing by the front door, blowing the smoke into the outside, as I hung off the handle and gave him an hour-by-hour account of my school day. I love the smell, and I feel a warm settling, as if there’s a cat curled up, snuggled on my lap.
“I still cannot believe how you and Lucas came to meet,” says Marie, adjusting the napkin on her lap. “So… serendipitous.”
“I know. I still find it so difficult to believe that he found it, all those weeks later.”
“Your balloon?” She says balloon in the French way—ballon—and I love the way it sounds.
“Yes.” I smile. “I still remember where I was when I received that first email.”
Marie beams at me, brown skin smooth, a line above her top lip appearing as she smiles. “What did he say?”
I remember every word, and of course, have it printed out and in an envelope, which is now safely back in a shoebox under my bed.
* * *
Hi Emmeline,
My name is Lucas Moreau. I’m 16 and I live in Le Touquet, France. I found your balloon on a beach near Boulogne-sur-Mer yesterday. It made it over one ocean and over 100 miles!