Page 12 of Beautiful Losers

‘Not my style,’ she replies, returning to her chopping.

~

On his third morning with us, Jack appears on the pergola for breakfast. He’s clean-shaven, the bags under his eyes gone, asmell of herbs and mint replacing his usual cloud of smoke. I greet him curtly and invite him to grab a table anywhere he can find one. ‘As you can see, we’re rushed off our feet,’ I say, with more snark than the breezy sarcasm I was going for. I bring him a pot of coffee, fresh orange juice and some homemade banana bread. I burnt the arse out of it last night and have smothered it with goat’s milk yoghurt to disguise the taste.

‘Here you go. Enjoy your breakfast,’ I say, placing the plate in front of him with a thud.

He thanks me and asks if there are any eggs. ‘I noticed you have chickens.’

‘I’m afraid they didn’t produce any eggs this morning,’ I lie.

‘Must be on strike after their trauma,’ he says neutrally.

‘Sorry?’

‘It was the weirdest thing. Someone threw an egg at my window yesterday.’

I can’t read the expression on Jack’s face. There’s a glint of something in his eyes. Amusement? Disdain? The sun bouncing off his retinas? I try to keep it cool.

‘Really? That’s strange. Must have been one of the local kids. There’s not much to do around here.’

‘Must have been.’ He lifts the cafetiere and pours coffee into his mug.

‘Well, enjoy your breakfast,’ I say, repeating myself, and turn to walk off.

‘It’s Fiadh, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘That’s an unusual name.’

Aside from the handwritten critiques of mycooking, this is the most the man has communicated with me since he arrived.

‘It’s not really,’ I say. ‘Fiadh was one of the most popular baby names for girls in 2016.’

‘In the UK, I mean. I’ve never met a Fiadh before.’

‘Well, contrary to what the English like to believe, the UK isn’t the centre of the universe.’

Watch yourself, Fiadh.

He doesn’t take the bait. ‘The spelling, though. The silent “d”? It’s confusing. There was an Irish producer on the show,Sive. It’s spelt S-a-d-b-h, right? She’d fly off the handle when people mispronounced her name.’

‘Yeah. It’s mad, isn’t it? It’s almost like Ireland is a separate country to Britain with its own identity and language. Crazy the natives should be such sticklers about things like names.’

He rubs his jaw, appraising me.

‘Which part of Ireland are you from?’ he says, taking a large bite of the banana bread. He grimaces, but quickly regains his composure.

‘Dublin.’

‘North- or south-side?’

He wants to impart that he has prior knowledge of my little island, that he’s aware of the class divide between the wealthy suburbs south of the Liffey and the less salubrious surroundings to the north of the river.

‘Can’t you guess?’ I say wryly.

‘Well, I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.’ He settles back in his chair, enjoying my irritation. ‘I’d have said whenwe first met that you were a north-sider, but every now and then those elongated, Dublin 4 vowels creep in. And I wonder if you’re trying to downplay some middle-class roots there?’

I bite down on my tongue so hard I can taste blood.

‘My roots are working class. I’m from Coolock, originally. We moved to Blackrock when I was eleven.’

---