Page 39 of Beautiful Losers

It was Tommy I told before anyone else about the first boy I kissed. I went to a disco run by the parents’ committee at school. Yiv dragged me along. She said we should doat least one regular teenage activity before we graduated, even if we hated it. The boy I fancied was there. He was at the bus stop every day after school, his tie tucked into his pocket, his blazer slung over his shoulder. He asked me the time once and it felt like a real moment between us. I couldn’t believe it when he suggested we shift that night, and I thought maybe my classmates have it right. Maybe there’s merit in straightening your hair and rubbing glitter gel over your shoulders. Maybe good things come from conforming to the rules. He walked me outside to the back of the building, away from the watchful gaze of the chaperones, and kissed me hard on the mouth, grabbing my breast greedily. He slipped his hand roughly into my jeans. I batted it away and he told me to relax. I said no. He pulled back. Your loss, he shrugged, walking away. Afterwards, searching for Yiv, I bumped into a group of girls from our year. I hear you’re frigid, Murphy, said one of them. Revelation of the century. Everyone laughed.

Tommy was outside waiting for me. Dad was away on business and Joan had insisted he pick me up. Lovely day for it, he said as I got into the front seat. It’s the evening, Tommy, I snapped, my eyes welling up. Ah, there, there, he said, placing an awkward hand on my shoulder. I told him everything. Spared no detail. He sat there, saying nothing, his big, calloused hands resting on the steering wheel, taking it all in. Eventually, he said, ‘Look, I’m not good with this kind of thing, not like our Joanie. I’d like to say it gets easier as you get older, but I’m not sure that’s true. What I can tell you, love, is this – the way you’re feeling now, it won’t last. Nothing does. Not the good or the bad. Best thing you can do is to find the ones who’ll stick with you until the cloud passes, let them love you, don’t pushthem away. And when the storm does pass, which it will, give back that love tenfold. Do whatever you can to do some good in this world. It gets you out of yourself, you know?’

I reached across the seat and hugged him.

One day, Dad was home when Tommy came to pick up Joan. He’d just landed a big deal and was feeling celebratory. Come in, come in, Tommy lad, he said, answering the door. pumping Tommy’s hand, his gold chain bracelet clinking against his diamond cuff links. Dad offered him a beer. Tommy said no, thank you, he was driving. Dad laughed and told him he was stopped by the guards on the way back from a golfing weekend in Connemara the week before. He’d had a couple, as you do. The guard in charge gave him a wink and told him to mind his speeding, as he sent him on his way. Well, Tommy said, I’m okay, thanks. Dad asked him what his plans were for retirement. Me and Joanie are going to buy a place by the sea, Tommy replied. Ah, you don’t want to be doing that, said Dad. All those old houses, mould everywhere, energy inefficient. Money pits. This is what you need to be doing, he said, handing Tommy a prospectus for his latest development. Triple glazing and underfloor heating and everything. I could get you a deal if you’d be willing to put a deposit down ASAP. Tommy thanked Dad and said he’d think about it.

I left home for university a few months later. Even though I was staying in Dublin for college, I moved into the halls of residence. Dad was rarely home and Joan retired when her arthritis started playing up. I saw Dad every couple of months. We’d meet at high-end restaurants of his choosing, where he’d bump into business associates, leaving me to eat my fifteen-euro starter alone while he worked the room. It wasaround then I started going to Joan and Tommy’s for Sunday lunch. We had the same thing every week. Roast lamb with carrots and potatoes (no leeks as Joan said they gave Tommy mad wind), apple tart and custard for dessert. We’d sit in their good room, surrounded by photographs of Joan’s sisters’ children on their first holy communions and holding diplomas in their graduation gowns. The TV would be on quietly in the background, playing whatever Gaelic football or hurling match was on that day. Afterwards, we’d have tea and biscuits in the living room, and watchBen HurorThe Ten Commandmentsor some other religious epic RTÉ had lined up for the afternoon. Tommy would fall asleep and wake up during the final credits.

These Sunday lunches were my anchor. I never missed a single one, not even when I decided to become vegetarian. Lamb was part of the routine and it was the unvarying nature of these afternoons that reassured me of my place in the world. I had roast lamb and apple tart and watched a religious epic with Joan and Tommy every Sunday for six years until 5 October 2008.

I became a real vegetarian after that.

23

Our first guests arrive this weekend. (Well, except for Jack, who doesn’t really count. Increasingly, he’s becoming more of a fixture at La Maison Bleue. I’m not sure how I feel about that.) It’s a family from London. They’re taking the Eurotunnel and driving down to Cannes, where I’m told they have a pied-à-terre overlooking the Mediterranean. En route, they plan to stop at several family-run establishments for some ‘local charm’.

I assured Kate Kellaway, the mother, during our lengthy email exchange, that we would do our very best to ensure their stay is as comfortable as possible. Given the current state of the guesthouse, this will be some feat. La Maison Bleue is certainly in better shape than it was when we arrived two months ago. Between Leonard, Myriam and myself, we’ve got rid of the mould, sorted most of the plumbing issues and spruced up the rooms with a fresh coat of paint. I framed some vintage posters I found in abrocantein town for the guest roomsand filled jugs and vases with flowers from outside. The Ritz it ain’t, but there’s an undeniable romance to the place. Even the garden, which looks like it hasn’t been touched by human hands since the dawn of civilisation, has a rugged charm about it. Not the kind of charm I’m guessing Mrs Kellaway has in mind, so I need to get on it before Saturday.

I haul myself out of bed just before sunrise and lug a bottle of industrial-strength weed killer and an assortment of gardening utensils from the utility room to the terrace. I’m surprised to find Leonard on his knees, weeding the potager. I’m growing used to unexpected drop-ins. Still, a pre-dawn visit is unusual, even for Leonard.

‘Morning, Miss Fiadh,’ he smiles, standing to greet me with an impressive agility for a man of his age. He reaches for a flask on the table next to him and pours steaming liquid into a stainless steel cup. ‘Tea?’

‘Hey, Len. Thanks.’ I take the cup from him, energised by the smell of cinnamon and fennel. ‘What are you doing here at this time of the morning?’

‘Know you’ve got guests arriving in a few days and thought you might need some help.’

‘Ah, you’re so good, but I can’t afford you for this job.’

‘I’ll take half a dozen eggs and some of those mirabelles,’ he says, nodding to the plum tree. ‘Deal?’

My first instinct is to reject his offer. It’s incredibly kind of Leonard, but I’m used to doing things on my own, relying on no one but myself. Before I can protest, he extends a leathery hand.

‘Deal?’ he says, with greater emphasis this time, a determined glint in his eye.

I know better than to argue.

‘Deal,’ I say, as we shake on it. ‘Thank you, Leonard. You’re a legend. So, where do we start? Weeding, then onto the hedges?’

‘We start by taking a moment to watch the sun rise. Sit your hiney down.’

‘But there’s so much to get through …’

Leonard ambles over to the bench and, dutifully, I follow. We sit in silence for several moments, Leonard revelling in the dawning of a new day, me fixating on patches of white paint peeling off the wood beneath us. I’ll have to sand the whole thing down.

‘It’s always been my favourite time, first thing before anyone else is up,’ he says, holding his mug under his nose and inhaling deeply. ‘You never know what the day is going to bring. It’s so full of possibility.’

‘Have you always been this appreciative?’

‘Not always, no. It takes practice. And weed.’

‘Are you high now?’

‘Only on Mother Nature, though if it’s a herbal lift you’re after, that can be arranged. You know Marc Cavailles up on Rue Saint-Louis? He’s taken to growing the stuff since his wife left him. She used to complain her husband didn’t have any hobbies. She should see him now. The guy supplies Mary Jane for half the region.’

I laugh. You’ll never be starved for gossip with Leonard around. It strikes me as an opportune moment to capitalise on his knowledge of Cordes’ comings and goings.

‘So, umm, I was in Utopie the other day and I saw a woman behind the counter with Sabrina. Do you know who she is, by any chance? She had blonde hair. Early forties. Very pretty.’

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