Page 2 of Beautiful Losers

It became clear, as we toured our new surroundings, that the bat hadn’t been the only one living in the dark. La Maison Bleue was not the dreamy Frenchchambres d’hôtesI’d been led to believe it was. Sure, it had character – exposed beam ceilings in every room, a huge farmhouse-style kitchen – but it had been neglected. For every original fireplace, there was a corresponding patch of mould, for every antique chandelier or armoire, a rotten window frame. The place hadn’t seen love in a long time.

When we finished looking around, Ari emptied his backpack onto the kitchen floor and played with his Lego, while I unwrapped our dinner – bread, brie, grapes, half a bag of unsalted crisps, and thetarte aux pommesfor dessert. I poured red wine into a chipped mug that saidMadame Bonheurabove an illustration of Little Miss Sunshine, and slumped down next to Ari, my back resting against the huge oak dining table in the middle of the room.

‘To our new adventure,’ I said, holding up my mug. Ari lifted his tumbler of orange juice and clinked it against mine.

‘Cheers, big ears,’ he said, taking a sip and returning to his play.

I smiled and leaned my head back against the leg of the table with a sigh, wondering, not for the first time since we left Ireland, what the hell I’d got us into.

2

You know how it goes in the Hollywood version of life – Main Character embarks on a journey of self-discovery, but there are challenges, obstacles she must learn to navigate before the happy ending we all know is coming her way. Cue the classic movie montage, where seemingly insurmountable tasks are tackled in no time to a peppy, you-got-this soundtrack. A month or two passes and our protagonist has not only achieved The Big Thing, she’s learnt something fundamental and game-changing about the world and her place in it.

I’ll tell you what I’ve learnt these past four weeks – pigeon shit is a nightmare to get rid of. Man, those birds can defecate. I spent days extracting hardened lumps of the stuff from windowsills and outdoor furniture. The process became easier once I discovered that a tablespoon of dishwashing detergent mixed with warm water softens avian faecal matter, makingit easier to remove. Not exactly life-changing information, but useful nonetheless.

I fixed the broken water valve on the dishwasher and set about exterminating an infestation of Indian meal moths that had taken over the pantry. I made several runs to thedéchetterieto dispose of various defunct household items: a faulty toaster, a one-legged dining chair, a Johnny Hallyday apron. (Are you even French if you don’t own a piece of memorabilia paying homage to the Elvis Presley of France?)

On the third day, I was kneeling on the worktop in the kitchen, attempting to right a wonky shelf when I heard a rap on the French doors leading to the garden. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man with his face pressed up against the glass. Startled, I lost my balance, falling onto the floor and landing unceremoniously on my coccyx. The man opened the door and hurried into the room, placing the small cardboard box he was carrying on the table.

‘Are you okay? Sorry – I didn’t mean to scare ya,’ he said, guiding me up off the floor by the elbow and ushering me to a chair.

‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’

He walked over to the sink purposefully, like he knew his way around the place, and turned on the tap. Lifting a glass from the drying rack, he filled it and returned to my side, hunching on his knees beside me. I accepted the water from the strange man in my kitchen, because I was actually thirsty, and physiological requirements take precedence over personal security in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

‘Thanks,’ I said, squinting at the man over my glass for a better look.

He appeared to be in his sixties, his skin loose with age and leathery from the sun. He was wearing orange harem pants, a Grateful Dead t-shirt and a charcoal-grey trilby.

‘Are you hurt?’ he said, seeming concerned. ‘I can get Doctor Bourdariat to pop by, take a look at you? He doesn’t normally do house calls – who does these days? Remember the time you could get a medical professional to visit you at home? Ah, you wouldn’t, though. You’re too young. But the good doc owes me a favour. I look after his plants when he’s out of town.’

Who was this guy?

‘Umm, have we met?’ I said.

The man stood up and removed his trilby.

‘Sorry, where are my manners?’ he laughed. ‘The name’s Leonard. I know Nicolas and Sophie, the owners? Used to do odd jobs around the place for them. I wanted to come introduce myself and give you this. Welcome to Cordes!’

He lifted the box off the table and handed it to me. Inside was a bunch of asparagus, some radishes, new potatoes and a punnet of strawberries.

‘Freshly picked from my own garden,’ he said proudly. ‘I have a stall at the Saturday market on the main square. You should come along. I’ll introduce you to some great folks.’

I was touched by the gesture, albeit wary. In my experience, most relationships are transactional and I wasn’t sure what it was Leonard wanted from me.

‘Thank you. That’s really kind and this all looks delicious. We’ll pop by tomorrow if we get a chance.’

‘We?’ said Leonard.

‘My son Ari is here with me. He’s five. I’m Fiadh.’

‘Well, it’s sure nice to meet you, Fiadh. Do I detect an Irish accent?’

‘You do indeed,’ I said. ‘I’m from Dublin. Have you been?’

‘Nope, never had the pleasure of visiting the Emerald Isle,’ he said, pulling out a chair and making himself comfortable. ‘But I’m one sixteenth Irish, so practically a native.’

If the accent didn’t already do it, this tenuous claim to Irish identity confirmed Leonard was American. I hadn’t invited him to stay, but now that he was seated, I felt obliged to offer him a cup of tea.

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