Page 30 of Beautiful Losers

Jack’s smile widens at the mention of Max’s name and I realise it’s the first time I’ve seen his teeth. They look like the teeth of a man who takes care of himself. Stain-free, white, but not that creepy, glow-in-the-dark white famous people are into these days. They simply look like nice, normal teeth that are regularly brushed and flossed.

‘Yeah, Max. He’s eight. He’s badgering us for a laptop, which isn’t going to happen if I have anything to do with it. I want him to have the kind of childhood I did – messing around outside with his friends, building forts, digging for worms. His mum doesn’t agree. She likes him close by where she can keep an eye on him. I don’t know why I expected us to be on the same page. She bought the kid kneepads when he was learning how to crawl, for Christ’s sake.’

‘You must miss him,’ I say.

His face crumples. ‘Very much. He’s in Connecticut for the summer with Helen. I try to speak to him as often as I can, but it’s difficult with the time difference.’

‘Tell me about it. I’ve plastered Ari’s room with photos of Cillian so he won’t forget what his dad looks like.’

‘Helen’s threatening to move to the States. Shesays she wants Max to get to know her family better. I get that, but I can’t just up sticks and leave. My job is here. The job that pays for the ridiculously expensive private school she insists on sending him to. Anyway, who wants to live in America these days? I told her if Max makes it through high school without being shot, he’ll only end up with an opioid addiction his health insurance is unlikely to cover. That didn’t go down too well.’

I laugh, in spite of myself. Jack laughs too. I’ve heard him snigger the odd time I’ve watched him on TV. The polished ha-ha of a politician or cheesy gameshow host. This laugh seems less self-conscious, more honest.

Outside, the dawn chorus is striking up.

‘That’s a house sparrow,’ Jack says.

‘How do you know that?’ I ask.

‘My old man was a twitcher. He’d spend hours in the garden watching birds. I’d join him sometimes. We could sit there for up to an hour without saying anything. Just drinking from a flask of tea and eating Jammie Dodgers.’

It’s an unremarkable statement, yet somehow it feels like Jack has confided in me, shared some crucial piece of information about his essential self. Another minute or two passes and I’m surprised at how comfortable it feels to be here in the early-morning stillness with him. The realisation of which is anything but comfortable. I need to get Jack out of this kitchen. I stand up abruptly, march over to the sink, empty the remainder of my tea down the drain and start unloading the dishwasher. Jack takes the hint.

‘Right, I may as well take advantage of being up at this ungodly hour and get some writing done. Thank you for the tea.’

He hands me his cup, our fingers making contact for a fraction of a second. My breath catches in my throat. I turn my back to him and start washing his cup. As he makes his way outside back to his room, I can hear him singing, softly and not entirely out of tune.

Three for the calls you’ve been making

It’s four all the times you’ve been faking

All rise …

17

The day before he’s due to check out, Jack asks if he can extend his stay by a month.

‘But what about your documentary?’ I say, unscrewing the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling in Ari’s bedroom. ‘Don’t you have other places to visit?’

He puts a hand on the stepladder I’m standing on. I’m vexed by the gesture. The whole point of a stepladder is that it’s self-supporting.

‘Scheduling conflict,’ he says, lifting a framed photo of Ari and me on Ari’s nightstand and moving it close to his face for a better look. Cillian took it on a trip to Keary’s farm in Co. Wicklow a few months before we broke up. It was a fun day out. Cillian got to milk a cow and everything. He doesn’t like to talk about it since he and Nicole have given up dairy and they attended that animal rights rally in Santa Monica. There’s a picture of Cillian on the internet holding a placard thatsays, ‘You keep buyin’, they keep dyin’’ above an image of The Laughing Cow. Mum always said I wasn’t terribly photogenic. I hunched too much, hid behind my massive hair. But I like this photo. Sometimes, I wonder if I framed it because it reminds me of happier times or I wanted to spite my mother.

‘My editor wants the first thirty thousand words of the memoir by the end of August and filming for the show starts a few weeks after that,’ says Jack, returning the frame to the nightstand. ‘I won’t have time to hit my word count and recce the remaining properties, so the production company is sending out a team to come up with a final shortlist.’

‘So you won’t have a say in which guesthouses make the cut?’

‘I’ll still have the final word. They’ll show me footage of the properties and interviews with the owners. If somewhere really impresses me, I’ll make sure it’s included.’

We make brief eye contact – no more than a second or two, though it’s a sufficient amount of time to cause me to lose my balance. I grip the top of the ladder to steady myself, while Jack shoots his arm up reflexively, placing his hand on my waist.

‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say, reddening as I remove his hand. ‘Aren’t you keen to get back to Max?’

‘Helen wants to stay on in the States until Max goes back to school,’ he says, running a hand through his hair, a strangely mesmerising gesture. ‘Some friends of her brother’s have invited them to their summer house for a few weeks. I may as well stay on a bit longer. I’m getting more writing done here than I would in London.’

‘But what about your job? It’s been weeks sinceyou’ve insulted anyone on live TV. I don’t know how you’re managing to keep it together.’

‘Are you wanting rid of me, Murphy?’ Jack says good-naturedly, placing the dead bulb on the coffee table and handing me its replacement.

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