'What do you mean, I can’t go! You promised me, Mum, if I passed my A levels! Come on, Mum, get real!' I glared at her. 'I’m going to pack right now, because I AM going to Paris, whether you and Dad like it or not!'
I delighted in their raised eyebrows as I swept dramatically out of the room, slamming the door.
'Look, Tim…' I heard my mother say. I paused, pressing my ear to the door.
'No, Anita, there is nothing to discuss. Harriet is not going to Paris on her own and that’s that! She’s only 18, for God’s sake! I was already worried about her going with her loopy pal, Trish – but with her in the hospital, there is no way I will allow my daughter to go alone!'
With gritted teeth, I stormed upstairs, pulled out a case from under the bed and started throwing clothes and cosmetics into it, randomly. Why did my parents have to treat me like some clueless kid. I’m 18, for God’s sake!
I could imagine the scene downstairs. My father would engross himself in a crossword, hiding behind the newspaper. That’s what he always did when he wanted to avoid a conversation.
But surely Mum would be on my side? She had been very supportive of my plans to go to Bristol Uni at the end of the summer. Fingers crossed she would talk my father round…
I zipped up my bulging case, washed my face in cold water and crept back downstairs. Lurking in the hall, I heard my mother’s attempts to placate Dad.
'This trip to Paris could be a good trial run for Harriet – she has to learn to be independent, and the French course is only for 3 weeks. Look, I know it’s hard, seeing your little girl growing up... But Harriet is actually quite a sensible 18-year-old.'
'Hmmm… ' Dad grunted. 'She’s certainly more sensible than her nutty friend, Trish… '
'Exactly!' My Mum sounded triumphant. 'So she’s less likely to get up to mischief, if she’s on her own. She’ll be living in a hostel and studying at the Sorbonne every day. We really do have to trust our daughter… This is an important time in her life.'
Hearing Mum move toward the door, I darted back upstairs and turned up the volume on my Spotify playlist. They would never know I had been eavesdropping. The bedroom door opened and Mum’s head appeared.
'Harriet, can you please come down. Your father and I want to talk to you… '
Over dinner, my father laid out the rules that he would expect me to obey while in Paris. Mum sat quietly, a serene smile on her face. Dad looked serious as he pronounced, 'Number one, we will change your accommodation to a girls-only hostel. That will be a safe environment. Number two, you will phone us at 8pm every evening… Number three, you will be in bed by 10pm every night. Number four, no going out on dates with boys, especially not French boys.' And on and on…
Yessss! I hugged them both and headed up to bed, triumphant.
And so it was that a beaming 18-year-old waved cheerfully to her parents – one dabbing her eyes with a tissue, the other trying to force a smile - as their daughter headed for Departures at Edinburgh airport.
I arrived on a real high – Paris was alive, busy, exciting! I soon discovered that the girls’ hostel in Boulevard Raspail, chosen by my father, had some pretty restrictive rules. But it also had about 100 other fascinating residents – school-leavers and students from every country, all in the same state of awe, wonder and anticipation about their adventure. The excited chatter over dinner at long wooden tables echoed around the huge refectory. Friendships were quickly forged. There were other people on the same summer course as me at the Sorbonne, and so it was that we all set out together the following morning, maps in hand, to find our way to the appointed building.
Well! Three weeks in Paris did more for me than all the years of education at Gillespie’s High School had done. I LOVED it all – the food, the language, the colourful markets, the wacky artists in Montmartre, the bateaux mouches on the Seine, the lively chatter at pavement cafés. I was also really stimulated by the high-level French classes. Quite quickly, the language seemed to become second-nature to me. These were the things I told my parents about when I remembered to phone them – which was NOT at 8pm every evening!
They would never know about the girls’ regular escapes to dark, smoky night-clubs, the sophisticated smoking of Gauloise cigarettes, the bottles of wine concealed in wardrobes to be consumed after midnight by a dozen girls, clad in baby-doll pyjamas, perched on the bed in the biggest of the bedrooms. And I would certainly not be telling them about my encounter with Bernard – the most thrilling, sophisticated French twenty-year-old who called me “ma jolie petite Ecossaise”. Our first kiss, on a night with silver stars reflected in the Seine, would become an enduring memory; and the fact that I finally cast care to the winds as we said a tearful but romantic farewell on a bench in the Bois de Boulogne, seemed like a natural progression. Silently I thanked Mum for her pragmatism, ensuring that I was on the pill.
Back home in dreary Edinburgh, counting the days and relishing the prospect of freedom as a student at Bristol, tears flowed as I discovered that the phone number Bernard had given me was not accessible.
But I had to laugh when, at a family quiz night in the local pub, I heard my Dad boasting to his mates, 'It was definitely worth taking the chance. My wee girl has grown up all of a sudden. Her French has improved so much, and she’s really well prepared for the next stage in her academic career.'