All We Have Is Now

trois

"I think I need something stronger than coffee," I huffed, following her into the kitchen.

"Amy! The legal age for drinking is the same here as it is in the UK, you know. You won't be allowed to start until you're 18, so you've got another month to wait young lady," Mum scolds.

I roll my eyes. As if legal drinking age laws actually stop people from consuming alcohol.

The three of us crowd into the undersized kitchen, watching as Mum places a mug under the coffee machine's funnel. For a moment, the hiss of the water boiling is the only sound that fills the narrow confines of our apartment. Then, Mum breaks it with a smile.

"Isn't it lovely to have the three of us back together?" she says, placing a fleeting kiss on my father's cheek. "I've missed you, David."

"I've missed my favourite girls, too," he smiles, placing his arm loosely around my mother's waist. I look away, cringing slightly, turning to face the living room window which is visible from the kitchen. The glass reaches from the floor to the ceiling, a tall French window attached to a small balcony with wrought iron railings. There's barely enough room for standing on the balcony, let alone the withering potted plant which stands in solitude, but it offers a picturesque view in compensation. Paris is framed in the window, the summer sunlight ricocheting off the glittering facades of tall buildings as the cityscape melts into the horizon.

"Maybe we should go out for dinner tonight, to celebrate!" Mum suggests.

"Celebrate what?" I mutter.

My parents choose to ignore my comment. "Excellent idea. I've had a chance to visit a few restaurants in the area, and I've found a lovely Thai place we can try."

"Sounds wonderful," Mum says.

"What do you think of our new home?" Dad asks.

"I think it's lovely, darling," she smiles, placing another kiss on my father's cheek. "So...traditional and chic."

"C'est tres chic," my father grins.

"You're going to have to start teaching me French, honey," Mum pouts, failing to comprehend his words.

"And me," I grunt, raiding through the drawers in an attempt to figure out where the mugs have been stored. I feel like an imposter in someone else's home, not knowing where everything is. Dad has been living in the apartment for the past few weeks, unpacking all our furniture as it has been shipped over from England. There are still a few cardboard boxes stashed around, but for the most part he's arranged everything so that Mum and I would feel settled as soon as we arrived. Unfortunately, I could not feel less at home if I tried.

"You're already a lot more advanced than your mother, Ame," Dad says, dropping a sugar-cube into the mug of coffee Mum has made for him.

"Hardly," I roll my eyes. "An A Level in French isn't equivalent to being fluent."

"Maybe we could take lessons together! We could hire a tutor..." Mum says, her tone light and sugary as she gazes dreamily into an idealistic future in which mother-daughter bonding sessions involve French grammar and vocab.

"Sounds fun," I say, sarcasm rolling off my tongue.

"Amelia, I don't appreciate your negativity," Dad scolds. "A lot of people would kill to be in your position. You have a chance for a fresh start, in Paris of all places! Your mother and I have worked hard to make sure we have the best possible accommodation we could find, and you don't seem to be very grateful."

"Grateful for what? You forcing me to leave behind my whole life in order to start a new one in a country I've never even visited before? Yeah, thanks Dad. I'm super appreciative."

"Give it a chance, Amy. You might like it here even more than you liked England!" Mum says, her tone effervescent with forced positivity.

I narrow my eyes at my mother, seeing through the façade she wears above her expensive foundation and hair extensions. My mother can act like she's thrilled by the move, but I know she's just as nervous as I am. For as long as I've been alive, my mother has worked in a local beauty salon where her biggest concern has been smudging someone's nail varnish. She didn't even operate the waxing station, due to a fear of burning someone. Moving to a foreign country where she knows no one and doesn't speak the language is just as nerve-wracking for her as it is for me.

"I'm sure you'll like it here too, considering you don't know anyone and can't even speak French," I say spitefully. Anger ignites my words and forces them out with a smoky tone, as if there is a dragon buried in the pit of my stomach.

"Amelia! Don't you dare talk to your mother like that. Have some respect," Dad reprimands. He's never been one to raise his voice, but the frustration is still evident in his tone. He's a mellow man, always quiet and gentle, but he's resolute in his morals. I think it's why people at work respect him so much, which is probably why he got the job that forced us to move here.

"Respect? Oh, like the respect you had for me when you ruined my whole life?" I'm hysterical now; the dragon breaths flames of anger down my throat until my voice escapes breathlessly, high-pitched, burnt. I can feel the resentment rising through the room like steam from the coffee machine. It's the same argument we've been having for the past several months; a broken record, stuck on the same song. Soon, the music will crackle and fade into nothing but static white noise which will fill the room with fury and bitterness and regret.

"We didn't ruin your life, Amy! We just gave you a new one!" Mum defends.

"I didn't want a new one!"

"Stop being so selfish. Your father has been promoted, and you should be happy for him rather than angry. Don't make this harder for us. You're not the only one who's had to leave their life behind, Amy. At least me and your father are being positive about it."

"You're the selfish ones, dragging me away from everything I've ever known!"

"That's enough, Amelia," my dad says, his voice like water being poured over a fire. His cool, calm tone extinguishes the dragon's flames, but embers of resentment still flicker beneath my tongue, igniting the roof of my mouth. "I think you need some time out to calm down. Why don't you go and explore the area a little, find a nice coffee shop?"

"I don't have any money," I hiss through gritted teeth. "The pound sterling doesn't work in France."

He fishes in his pocket, withdrawing a handful of euros and thrusting them at me. I snatch them from his palm ungratefully. "Don't come back too late, young lady. I don't want you wandering around a foreign city late at night on your own."

I clamp my teeth down on my tongue to stop myself from uttering another spiteful remark, navigating through the paper walls of this imposter apartment until I locate the front door and slip out, letting Paris swallow me in its unfamiliar embrace.