The arrivals hall was crowded,
people spoke foreign languages, looked lost and milled about. Flight AF 2601 from Marseille displayed a
flashing green ‘Landed’ on the large information display screen. Sophie scanned faces of young men emerging
from behind the anonymous grey partition.
Smartly dressed men in chauffeur uniforms held up assorted coloured
cards bearing a variety of strange sounding names. Should she have made one with Guillaime’s
name on it? His last photo was five
years ago. He couldn’t have changed much
in that time; now he was twenty two, maybe more mature.
His letter came out of the blue,
three years since the last one. He’d
started a new job and was coming to London for a training course. He suggested meeting up; they talked about it
years ago, but they were still at school.
Part of a correspondence exchange so each could improve their written
French and English. It was fun at first,
she was twelve and he was a year older.
What are your hobbies? Do you have any pets? How much homework do you get? After the initial flurry of letters the flow
slowed, birthdays, Easter and Christmas.
His English better than her French, soon it became repetitious. Other girls in her class had exchange visits with
their French pen friends. Sophie lost
interest with the arrival of her first real boyfriend at sixteen. She suspected Guillaime had a girlfriend but he
never mentioned it. At eighteen, Brian
her next boyfriend didn’t like the idea.
She couldn’t understand why he was jealous, but she didn’t send a
birthday card that year and contact fizzled out.
He’d written in good English and
apologised for not keeping in touch. His
letter flattered her. Engaged to Martin,
she thought it interesting to meet him at last.
Sophie realised she didn’t know
whether he was tall, or short. His last
photo showed him smiling, sat on a beach.
Wearing only his swimming trunks showed off his athletic physique. His light brown hair was long and blown by
the wind gave him an appealing wild look.
It was half an hour since the plane had landed, still no sign of
him. Plenty of young men had appeared, some
attractive ones, but not Guillaime.
Passport control could be funny with foreigners, or having a purge on
illegal immigrants; or just slow. The
handlers were sometimes slow at getting the bags of the plane. She looked at her watch again, almost three
o’clock.
The nerves in her stomach knotted;
what if he didn’t come? Surely he’d let
her know. Then she thought about a text
message, could she remember enough French?
Would he have his phone switched on?
She dug her phone out of her handbag and looked up his number. They’d never spoken, but he’d put his mobile
number on his letter. Racking her brains
for the right words she peered at the screen.
‘Sophie.’
She looked up; it must be him. His face was fuller; he sported a goatee
beard and wore heavy rimmed sunglasses.
She hesitated.
‘Bonjour Guillaime,’
He leant in to kiss her; his beard
scrubbed her cheek. If he was wearing aftershave,
it smelt more like stale body odour.
Disappointment swelled up inside. His hair was close cropped, accentuating the
beard. Where was the swim fit body?
‘You are more beautiful than I
remembered.’
Sophie spluttered, unsure whether
to speak in English or try her rusty French.
It was going to be a long and awkward weekend.
