Page 21 of Beautiful Losers

‘Oh. Up to anything exciting?’

‘Sabrina Rousseau is introducing me to a few friends of hers. I gather it’s a kind of Welcome-to-Cordes thing.’

Seriously? I’ve been here six weeks and the closest I got to a welcome from Sabrina was aBonne journéewhen I added a pear and chocolate tart to my usual order.

‘How lovely,’ I trill, trying to disguise the bitterness in my voice. ‘Well, have a nice time and I guess I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.’

‘See you then,’ he says, stepping past me, his arm brushing lightly against my shoulder. He opens the front door then stalls, turning to face me. ‘It’s a pity Myriam threw out your granola, by the way. It could have done with some sweetener, but I quite enjoyed the taste.’

He hovers for a second and then he’s gone, closing the door behind him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was something vaguely flirtatious about his tone. I dismiss the idea immediately, because I do know better. I can confidently say I’m the farthest thing from Jack Hamilton’s type.

12

‘Can I bring my picture of Grandad to school?’

Ari is standing at the top of the stairs, holding Margaret in one hand and a photograph of Tom Hanks in the other.

‘Shoes on, mister,’ I say, slipping my feet into my sandals and sifting through my bag for the car keys. ‘Anddoudousonly at school, remember? Leave Grandad in his frame beside your bed. You wouldn’t want to lose him, would you?’

‘But Mummy, Matthieu’spapicame to pick him up from school yesterday and I wanted him to see whatmygrandad looked like.’

‘You can show him another time, baby. We’ve got to get moving or I’ll get another bollicking from Mme Dupont.’

‘But …’

‘I said no, Ari.’

Ari sticks out his lower lip, his fists clenched inindignation. I can’t believe I’ve let things get this far. I’m going to have to tell him. I’d planned on sitting him down when we first got here, but it’s been non-stop these past few weeks. I’ll come clean. Soon. I give Ari the sternest face I can muster, though my insides are twisted with guilt.

‘Okay, Mummy,’ he says, deflated. ‘I’ll go get my shoes.’

~

After dropping Ari off to school, I pop into Utopie to buy a bag of financiers. Sabrina is telling the customer ahead of me about her evening with Jack. He was socharmantandbeau, and mustn’t be fed terribly well where he’s staying, because he asked for two helpings of her cassoulet. She shoots me a disapproving glance. When I reach the counter, I admire the elegance of her drop earrings. Jack isn’t the only one who can lay on the charm. She thanks me in the same tone you might adopt if you were asked to donate an organ to a dull relative. You know it’s the right thing to do, but there are infinitely more interesting people you’d rather save.

I make my way back to the car and toss the paper bag in the front seat. Rummaging through my CD case for something appropriately angsty, I settle on Limp Bizkit’sSignificant Otherand blast ‘Break Stuff’ at full volume as I pull out of Cordes, drumming my fingers forcibly on the steering wheel. Sabrina’s gushing over Jack has got to me. The woman never gushes. Jack really knows how to play to an audience, doesn’t he? (Which, I suppose, is why he’s one of the highest-paid TV presenters in the UK.) Luckily, I have the measure of him.

I’m pulling into the car park at a garden centrea few kilometres out of town when I see it – a three-by-seven-metre billboard promoting Tom Hanks’ latest movie. The actor is wearing a Nazi uniform and staring into the middle distance with a very un-Tom Hanks-like air of malevolence.

Oh holy Jesus.

Reversing into the first available space, I narrowly avoid clipping the wing mirror of the car beside me. I tear open the bag of financiers and eat six in a row.

~

I can tell something’s wrong when I pick Ari up from school. He won’t share anything about his day, just stares out the car window despondently. When we get back to the guesthouse, I unstrap him from his seat and he jumps down, running on ahead of me into the house. Leonard is in the kitchen, leaning against the sink with a tool belt around his waist, telling Myriam about the time Neil Young bummed a joint off him.

‘Hey there, sport! How was school?’ he says. Leonard raises his hand for a high five, but Ari charges past him, bumping into Jack, who appears from behind the fridge door, holding a carton of orange juice. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, the top three buttons undone. I feel a wave of irritation at these strangers in my kitchen, about to have front-row seats to an epic parental failure. And what’s Jack doing rummaging through my fridge, his chest all exposed like that?

‘Woah, everything alright there, Ari?’ Jack ruffles my son’s hair and I’m taken aback by the intimacy of the gesture.

I open the zip on Ari’s bag and peer inside. My suspicions are confirmed. The photograph is there.

‘You’re a bad mummy!’ Ari shouts as he bounds up the stairs. ‘You’re getting no news and no wine!’

I throw my hands in the air, laughing nervously.

‘Well, that’s me grounded,’ I say, attempting to make light of the situation.

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