Page 32 of Beautiful Losers

There’s something about the clinical setting – the white walls, the strip lighting, the giant dispenser of hand sanitiser on the desk – that lends a surreal quality to Doctor Bourdariat’s beauty. Like he’s a rare piece of art to be admired, never handled. In husky tones, I tell him about my swollen glands, my throat burning with the exertion of talking.

‘Please,’ he says, gesturing at the examination table.

I shuffle over to the bed in the corner of the room, head bowed low, avoiding all eye contact, one of the untouchables about to be healed by Jesus. Doctor Bourdariat puts his stethoscope to my back and instructs me to take deep breaths, then holds my wrist as he examines his watch. It occurs to me that this is the most physical contact I’ve had with a man since Cillian left.

‘Oh yes,’ Doctor Bourdariat mutters as he examines my throat. ‘They’re very swollen.’

He invites me to return to my seat while he makes notes on his computer.

‘You are from Ireland, yes?’ he asks as he types.

‘How did you know?’

‘Cordes is a small place. I heard an Irish family had taken over the guesthouse. There was talk of the owners selling to a big developer from Toulouse. They wanted to knock theproperty down and build apartments, but the deal fell through. I am glad. I have many fond memories of La Maison Bleue. I had my tenth birthday there.’

When was that – last year?

‘I went to Ireland once,’ he says.

‘Oh really?’

He nods. ‘To Kilkenny.’

‘It’s a great town.’

‘Yes, but it was strange. I could find nowhere to eat. Only pubs. You Irish like to drink,non?’

‘Ah, there are lots of restaurants in Kilkenny and the bars do pretty decent food, too.’

Recently, I feel like a representative from Fáilte Ireland, trying to give our national image a rebrand. I can see Jack’s face now, vindicated in his portrayal of the place.

‘It was a fun weekend, though,’ says Doctor Bourdariat. ‘I love the Irish. You guys really know how to live for the moment, enjoy life.’

Do we?

I remove a tissue from the sleeve of my top and blow my nose, smiling weakly at Doctor Bourdariat. He gives me a sympathetic look.

‘Tell me,’ he says. ‘How is everything generally? Are you eating well? Getting enough sleep?’

‘I start my day with half a block of butter, also known as a ‘croissant’, and I haven’t slept through the night in twenty-eight years. But I’m doing fine!’

I grin and flash him a double thumbs-up. Why did I do that? Who gives the thumbs-up anymore? Didn’t I read Gen Z feel attacked whenever they see the thumbs-up emoji?I think they find it passive aggressive or something. If Doctor Bourdariat is offended, he doesn’t let on.

‘It mustn’t have been easy, leaving Ireland,’ he says. ‘I’ve lived in the Tarn my whole life. I can’t imagine starting over. You are very brave.’

He holds the door open for me as I leave. ‘Take care, Madame Murphy’, he says, smiling warmly.

I’m not sure if it’s being called ‘madame’ or being pitied by Doogie Howser, but I’ve never felt more old in my life.

In the queue inside the pharmacy, clutching a prescription for strep throat, I check the latest news updates. The little girl has been trapped in the well for three days now. Scores of people from neighbouring villages have come to help the complex rescue mission, working alongside search crews and first responders and engineers from around the world. I put my phone back in my bag and crane my neck to get a better view of the top of the line. What’s taking so long? I clock the back of an elegantly highlighted head and recognise the woman Jack was chatting to outside Sabrina’s house. She’s engaged in animated conversation with the pharmacist, a cantankerous old fecker, who makes Sabrina Rousseau look like Dolly Parton on Prozac. Yet he seems to be tickled by whatever the woman is saying. I try to ascertain what she’s in for. Stool softener? Worm treatment? A steroid cream for her athlete’s foot? The pharmacist discreetly bags up her prescription, beaming as his customer departs. She brushes past me, smelling of summer nights and fresh starts, and I’m struck by the same desire to egg her, like I did Jack.

What’s wrong with me? I don’t know this person. She’s done nothing to me. She doesn’t even know I exist.Is it Jack? Did I imagine a different energy between us this past week? An understanding of sorts?

See, this is what happens when you forget that life is not the leisurely buying of courgettes and moments of connection in a dimly lit kitchen while the rest of the world is sleeping. It’s famous men sleeping with chic, breezy women. It’s five-year-olds falling down wells, wells necessitated by a long-term shift in temperatures and weather patterns, driven by those who believe a private jet is a basic human right.

The pharmacist calls me forward, greeting me with his familiar scowl.

19

---