Read Online French Leave by Anna Gavalda - Free Book Online Page B

your guard. Venus is in Leo, anything can happen. An encounter, True Love, the one you are waiting for is close at hand. Make the most of your charm and sex appeal and, above all, leave yourself open to chance. Your strong character has played tricks on you in the past. Time to indulge in some romantic sentiment.”
    She was killing herself laughing, the idiot.
    â€œNono! Come back! She’s here! She wants to indulge in some roman—”
    I put my hand over her mouth.
    â€œWould you shut up? I’m sure you just made it all up.”
    â€œNo way! Here, look if you don’t believe me!”
    I tore the rag from her hands.
    â€œShow me—”
    â€œThere, look . . . Venus is in Leo, I’m not making it up.”
    â€œWhat absolute bullshit . . . ”
    â€œWell, if I were you, I’d be on my guard all the same.”
    â€œTsk. This is all bullshit.”
    â€œYou’re right. Let’s have a look and see who’s been prancing around Saint-Tropez . . . ”
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    â€œHang on. No way you’re going to tell me those are real tits?”
    â€œYeah, doesn’t look like, does it?”
    â€œAnd have you seen the . . . Eeeee! Simon, get the hell out or I’ll call your wife!”
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    Like two dogs, the boys were shaking themselves gleefully, showering us with icy water.
    We should have seen it coming . . . Or remembered, rather . . . Vincent had his cheeks full of water and started chasing after Lola, who ran screaming across the field, popping all the buttons off her dress.
    I hurried to pick up all our things and went to join them, spitting at every bush I went by, making the sign of snail’s horns with my index finger and pinkie.
    Begone, Beelzebub!
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    Vincent took us on the tour of his private quarters in the servants’ wing.
    Basic.
    He had brought a bed down from the second floor—where it was too warm for him—and made his niche in the stable. And what do you know, he’d chosen the box that had belonged to Lover Boy.
    Between Polka and Hurricane . . .
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    He’d done himself up like a lord. Boots impeccably polished. A pure white 1970s suit. Hip-huggers and a pale pink silk shirt with a collar so pointy that it reached the armholes. On anyone else it would have looked ridiculous, but on Vincent it was as classy as it gets.
    He went to grab his guitar. Simon took the wedding gift from the trunk of the car and we headed down to the village.
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    The evening light was sublime. The whole countryside was ochre, bronze, and old gold, resting from a long day. Vincent told us to turn around and admire his castle.
    It was splendid.
    â€œYou’re teasing me.”
    â€œNot at all, no way,” said Lola, always mindful of Universal Harmony.
    Simon began to sing, “I’m the king of the caaaastle, and you’re the dirty raaaascals . . . ”
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    Simon was singing, Vincent was laughing, and Lola was smiling. All four of us were walking along a warm pavement leading into a little village in the Indre.
    There was a faint smell of tar, mint, and freshly mown hay in the air. The cows gazed at us admiringly and the birds called to each other, time for dinner.
    A few grams of something sweet.
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    Lola and I had put our hats and various disguises back on.
    No reason not to: a wedding is a wedding.
    Or, at least that is what we figured, until we arrived at our destination . . .
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    We entered an overheated parish hall that smelled of sweat and old socks. Tatami mats were piled high in one corner and the bride was sitting under a basketball hoop. She looked as if she didn’t know what hit her.
    The tables were laid out for a banquet worthy of Astérix, with local bag-in-box wine and music on full volume.
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    A huge lady all wrapped in ruffles hurried over to our little brother.
    â€œAh! Here he is! Come here, son, follow me! Nono said you had family with you. All of you, follow me, come on! Just look at