Page 10 of Beautiful Losers

After a while, Jack says, ‘Excuse me, what time is dinner served?’

‘Your agent said you were eating out tonight.’

‘He did?’

I glance at Jack in the rearview mirror. He’s still typing, a pinched expression on his face.

‘Is anywhere open?’ he asks, peeved.

‘On a Monday? Unlikely. I can fix you a cheese plate?’

‘Sure,’ he mutters, wholly unenthused by the offer.

He continues with his frenzied correspondence. Other than a phone call, which I think is from his lawyer (there’s talk of spousal maintenance and a ‘Yes, Charlie, tell her she can have the bloody air miles and the Arne Jacobsen sofa. lf she’s determined to go through with this, all I want is joint custody’), there is no further conversation.

As we pull into La Maison Bleue, he asks me where the pool is.

‘We haven’t got a pool.’

‘What? How do you cope in this heat?’ he says, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

I want to tell him, ‘Maybe if you took that ridiculous wool blazer off you’d be more comfortable,’ but instead I say, ‘You should also know, I’m afraid there’s no air con.’

I take a perverse delight in the pain this information inflicts.

‘Nice one, Harry,’ he says under his breath.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘My agent. I swear, he can’t get anything right. I specifically said I needed somewhere with a pool.’

He inhales deeply, holds his breath for a beat, then exhales through his mouth with an exaggerated whooshing sound.

‘Don’t worry, he says. ‘It’s not your fault.’

I smile through gritted teeth, possibly showing an excessive amount of gum – the man visibly flinches. I grab his bag from the boot of the car and show him to the outhouse, which Myriam vacated yesterday, moving into the bedroom beside Ari. True, I’m keen for Jack to be as far away as possible, but his room also happens to be one of my favourite spaces on the property. It’s got an old fireplace and a writing desk overlooking the garden. Its charm is lost on Jack, who merely nods when I ask him if everything is to his liking.

‘Hopefully you’ll have enough peace and quiet here to get cracking on your memoir,’ I say.

He winces at the word ‘memoir’. I resist the urge to say it again.

‘Well, your cheese and much-needed wine will be waiting for you on the pergola in an hour if that suits. It’s a gorgeous spot. You can see the whole village from there.’

‘I’d prefer to eat in my room tonight.’

‘Grand, so. If there’s anything you need in the meantime, just give me a shout.’

I reach for the doorknob, which comes off in my hand. Jack stares at me, unimpressed – with me or the doorknob, I can’t tell.

‘Whoops,’ I laugh uneasily. ‘Will get that fixed in no time. We’ve been having a few teething problems since the handover from the owners, but don’t worry, I’m on the case!’

Backing out of the room, I salute Jack for the second time that day and close the door behind me with a sigh of relief.

7

I haven’t seen much of Jack since he arrived. He’s been holed up in his room for two days, presumably working on his pity memoir. As requested, Myriam and I have been leaving his meals outside his door. On retrieving the empty trays, we find tasting notes addressed ‘To the Chef’. Which would be me.

Chicken somewhat dry. Did you stuff the cavity with citrus fruit? Doesn’t have to be a lemon. Decent effort on the braised cabbage.

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