Page 28 of Beautiful Losers

I apologised to Jack for what I said in the Jardin des Paradis. I wouldn’t describe his response as particularly gracious. (In fairness, I wouldn’t describe my apology as gracious either. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head as I acknowledged my wrongdoing through gritted teeth. ‘You’re always giving with one hand and taking with the other, my girl’.) He said not to worry about it, but has barely spoken a word to me since. He didn’t even mock my baking, and I surpassed myself this morning – I forgot to grease the tin and the madeira cake disintegrated into a dozen pieces when I took it out of the oven and flipped it over. I joked, as I was serving Jack breakfast, that I was going for a deconstructed approach.He thanked me tersely and returned to his book. I’ve only got another couple of days before he heads off to his next location forJack Hamilton’s Real France. My sparkling personality hasn’t won him over and it’s becoming clear that my cooking isn’t going to clinch it either. Maybe I should just come clean about my situation – tell him I’m broke and desperate, and hope to appeal to his better nature? (I immediately dismiss this plan. The man doesn’t have a better nature.)

I need a distraction – from Jack, from runninga vacant guesthouse, from Dad and the holy show he’s making of himself back home. It seems as good a time as any to start Ari’s death education. I’ve yet to form a coherent philosophy on the afterlife, and bees – dead or otherwise – have been notably absent from the garden in recent weeks. Leonard has a beekeeper friend, who says honey production in France is set to be half of what it was last year, as bees are having a rough old time of it thanks to air pollution and pesticides. Einstein once said that if bees disappeared from the planet, humans would only have four years left to live. It’s mad, isn’t it? How hellbent we are on self-destruction.

I figure the best way to introduce Ari to loss is to rentThe Lion King.I saw the film for the first time the day it came out. Dad picked me up after school and took me to the multiplex in Stillorgan. Afterwards, we went for burgers and Dad said Scar reminded him of Uncle Declan. Given half the chance, Dad’s brother wouldn’t hesitate to push him off a cliff into the path of stampeding wildebeest. He’d always been a ‘begrudging aul bastard’.

Myriam joins us for the movie. She’s been with us almost a month now, and I think she’s warming to me, as she’s started to use multiple sentences in conversation. I found out she was born in Oran to an Algerian father and French mother, who struggled to conceive. Her mother told her ‘Myriam’ means ‘wished-for child’. Myriam says it also means ‘rebellion’, so her parents really shouldn’t have been surprised each time they were summoned to her school to discuss their daughter’s latest challenge to authority. I like Myriam. She reminds me of me – a lifetime ago.

We set up camp in the living room with bowls ofpopcorn. I’m excited to share this seminal childhood experience with the pair of them and prepare Ari for what he’s about to witness.

‘Now, this film can get quite intense at times, little man. You’ll probably feel very sad and have a lot of questions. I’ll be right here. You can ask me anything.’

I curl up on the sofa beside Ari. Myriam installs herself on a beanbag in front of the TV. The movie starts, and the songs, the visuals, everything is a joy – just as I remember it. Here’s Mufasa, wise and majestic, sharing his kingly insight with baby Simba. Damn, I’d forgotten how hot Mufasa was. An image of Jack pops into my head. He’s coming back from one of his morning runs, a light sweat on his skin, a subtle flex in his arm muscles as he checks his fitness tracker.

That’s weird. Where did that come from?

I return my focus to the film, belting out ‘I Just Can’t Wait To Be King’ at the top of my lungs. Myriam looks disturbed. I feel a little choked up when Mufasa tells Simba that everything exists together in a delicate balance and that as king, Simba needs to understand that balance and respect all creatures, from the crawling ant to the leaping antelope.

‘But Dad, don’t we eat the antelope?’ says Simba, all big-eyed innocence.

‘Yes, Simba,’ says Mufasa in his deep, sexy voice. ‘But let me explain. When we die, our bodies become the grass and the antelope eat the grass. And so, we are all connected in the great circle of life.’

And then Scar kills his brother and Simba is poking at Mufasa’s lifeless body with his tiny paw. I look over at Ari and wonder how he feels about Simba being all alone inthe wilderness, thinking his father’s death is his fault. And what about the antelope? Before long, the pride lands will become desert, so there’ll be no grass for the lions to turn into and what are the antelope going to eat then? The circle of life is broken. It’s too much reality for a Sunday afternoon.

I head into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. When I return, Ari is grazing on his popcorn contentedly, unfazed by the death scene. He has no questions. There’s not the slightest hint of fear on his face. Am I raising a sociopath? Myriam is equally unmoved. She wants to know why the hyenas are voiced by minority actors and sound like they’re from the ghetto. It’s a fair point, I tell her.

We continue watching the movie. Simba has teamed up with Timon and Pumbaa, and for a while it’s all swinging on vines and eating grubs and moonlight singing. Eventually, Mufasa’s ghost will appear in the sky and tell Simba to look inside himself, remember who he is, that he is more than what he has become. But for now, there are no worries.

16

It’s 4 a.m. I’ve been awake for hours, listening to the rhythmic whirring of the electric fan in the corner of my room. Ari is fast asleep beside me in starfish position, his tiny snores synchronising with the sound. For weeks, he’s been crawling into my bed at the same time every night. Ever since we got here, come to think of it. He’s still not used to this place being home. Neither of us are.

Once, I tried to work out what proportion of my time on Earth I’d spent studying shadows on ceilings. I’ve given all the usual remedies and advice a shot – lavender spray, no caffeine after midday, the yearning call of the male humpback whale. Eventually, I realised the only way to beat these periods of wakefulness is to surrender to them, distracting myself until they pass.

I used to distract myself by making lists. After Mum left, I’d spend weeks lying awake, my mind consumed,not by thoughts of my mother and why she felt the need to walk out on us, but by lists – attending to them, adding to them, curating them. Like sub-editing, lists became my way of making sense of the world, getting my house in order. There were grocery lists, revision checklists, Top 10s: famous redheads, corrupt governments, live TV deaths … Sometimes, I’d drift off to sleep playing the A to Z game. The A to Z of capital cities, for example. Or Meryl Streep films. (You want to go with an actor with a comprehensive body of work here.) I tried the A to Z of infectious diseases, but my anxiety kicked in at bacterial vaginosis and after that, there was zero chance of a melatonin release.

Ari turns over in his sleep and whacks me in the face with his arm. I peel him off me and get up, reaching for my phone to guide me out of the darkness. Creeping out of the room, I head downstairs, avoiding the creaking floorboards, and into the kitchen. I fumble for the light switch above the cooker and fill the kettle with water. Outside, I see a light on in Jack’s room and wonder what’s keeping him awake. His book? The state of his marriage? Something else?

I place the kettle on the hob and perch against the battered oak table in the centre of the room. I watch, hypnotised, as the flames flicker. A noise behind me snaps me out of my trance. I turn round. Jack is standing by the French doors. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and pale grey pyjama bottoms.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his mouth dropping open slightly. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be up.’

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I say.

‘Me neither.’ He looks down at the flagstone floor awkwardly, tracing the cracks with his toe.

‘I’m just making a cup of tea,’ I say. ‘Thought it might get me over. Do you want one?’

‘I don’t want to interrupt …’

‘The only thing you’re interrupting is me communing with a kettle. Take a seat.’

He pulls a chair out from under the table and watches as I lift two mugs off the shelf above the worktop.

‘Is that …?’ He leans forward and squints at my t-shirt. ‘Is thatBlue?’

Crap. I’d forgotten about the t-shirt. I’m wearing a pair of red checked pyjama shorts and an old top belonging to Cillian. It’s emblazoned with a photograph of the former British boyband Blue, its lead singer Duncan in the foreground, shirtless and staring seductively into the camera. Cillian had bought it for a workshop he was trialling – Come Dressed As An Emotion You’ve Been Feeling Lately. He’d been bummed out about the disappointing sales of his first book and thought the t-shirt would be a playful way to encourage an exchange of painful experiences.

‘It is,’ I say.

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