Her Magazine is New Zealand’s only women’s business lifestyle magazine! Her Magazine highlights the achievements of successful and rising New Zealand businesswomen. Her Magazine encourages a healthy work/life balance.
Issue link: https://viewer.e-digitaleditions.com/i/59614
:cover feature short story stranger in this town "ENFIN, POUR LES DEVOIRS, je veux que vous complétiez ces fiches, est-ce que vous me comprenez? J'espère que vous aurez un bon weekend!" Everyone around me started packing up their things and leaving the class, calling out what seemed to be goodbyes to their friends. I sat there puzzled, and checked my watch. It was exactly four o'clock. "Mademoiselle, je suis désolé, mais il faut que vous partiez maintenant. C'est la fin du jour. Bon weekend," said the teacher throwing out these final words while picking up a briefcase and leaving the classroom. I was so worn out, and I'd been completely and utterly confused the entire day; I hadn't a clue what anyone was saying; no one had really even spoken to me once they realised I couldn't speak any French. I figured it must be the end of school since everyone was leaving, so I grabbed my books and wandered outside unsure of where to go. Pulling a crumpled map out of my pocket, I squinted at a road sign. With no idea where I was, I started walking to the left where the shops were. I could at least try to find someone who spoke a little English. I spent a good half hour wandering around a jumble of seemingly identical streets. Eventually, sick of being rejected by Parisians intent on reaching their destination, I plonked myself down on a bench opposite a park. I could sense the metal frame of the Eiffel Tower looming over me, its grid-like structure resembling bars of a prison cell rather than a symbol for the city of love. Closing my eyes I imagined myself back in New Zealand with my friends. I could picture them in my head as clearly as if they were standing next to me. I could hear their familiar voices discussing how hot the new boy was, or debating yet again which "Pink Floyd" album was the best. A ringing interrupted my daydream. I opened my eyes to see a boy sitting on a bicycle on the other side of the road fiddling with the bell. The sun was low in the sky now, casting long narrow shadowy fingers across the street, reaching out towards me. I stole a glance at my watch. It was getting really late now, and I was starting to worry that I wouldn't find my way home. Maybe it was worth venturing to ask for help one more time. I grabbed my bag and walked purposefully towards the boy on the bicycle. "Um, excusez-moi," I was stuck for words. "Do you speak any English? Um, parlez-vous anglais? See I'm supposed to get home, chez maison? …But I can't remember the way and I can't seem to find where I am on the map! Can you, um, aidez moi?" The boy surveyed me with a wry smile of amusement while I struggled in vain to string together a sentence in French. "Yeah, think I could give it a go," he answered in perfect English. A sigh of relief enveloped me. "Oh thank God! You speak English!" The boy leaned his bicycle against a wall and offered me his hand. "I'm Peter." "Annelise." I paused. "So you're not French then?" I was finding it hard to place his accent. There was a hint of an antipodean twang but I couldn't pin it down. "No." His answer was curt and there was a flicker of something in his eyes that told me I shouldn't push for a more detailed response. "Where do you need to go?" I smoothed out the map my dad had given me and pointed to the blue circle that marked our apartment. Peter nodded his head slowly and told me I was way off track. "But it's OK, I know a shortcut." I could feel a nagging doubt tugging at my brain. I was in a quandary. I hardly knew him and it seemed foolish to trust someone I'd only known for five minutes, but on the other hand, I needed to get home, and so far Peter was the only person who had offered to help me. 122 | www.hermagazine.co.nz