Page 42 of Beautiful Losers

‘On one condition.’

I frown. ‘What’s that?’

‘I’m doing the cooking.’

~

I rope Jack into helping me make up the Kellaways’ rooms and am impressed by his efficiency. He is not impressed by my bed-making skills.

‘Jesus, Murphy, has no one ever shown you how to turn down a corner? Here, let me do it.’

‘I’m shocked you know how to make a bed yourself,’ I say. ‘Don’t you have staff to do that for you?’

‘I’ve always made my own bed. My dad used to say if you start the day with good intentions it has a ripple effect.’

There’s something about the care Jack takessmoothing the sheets, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the imprint of his fingers in the pillowcases as he plumps them. It’s a giant turn-on. Suddenly, it occurs to me that it’s been almost four years since I last had sex. Flustered, I tell Jack I’ll finish the rooms while he preps dinner. He’s doing duck confit and gratin potatoes, followed by a plumtarte tatin. I come back from the supermarket to find him in the kitchen, apron on, chopping shallots on a spotless worktop.

‘How is this place so clean? You’re cooking for nine people.’

‘It’s called tidying up as you go. You should try it sometime. Glass of wine?’

‘Thanks. I have to get outside set up first. Save me one, though. I’ll need it to get through this evening.’

He flashes me a knowing smile. I’d forgotten what it was like, having someone to swap knowing smiles with, those conspiratorial glances that confirm you’re part of something. Cillian and I used to throw dinner parties for his school friends, course mates, groupies he’d picked up from various talks and workshops. I’d do the shopping, prepping, cooking and drink refills, while Cillian provided the entertainment, usually a personal growth exercise he wanted to road test. ‘Describe the person to the left of you in three words’, for example. It didn’t matter if you hadn’t set eyes on the person to the left of you before that evening. The game was a great opportunity for you to see what energy you were giving off to strangers. ‘Set your word for the year ahead’ – that was another favourite, a way of manifesting what you desired from the universe over the next 365 days. At a New Year’s Eve party a few years ago, Cillian’s word for 2016 (the year of Brexit and Donald Trump) was‘truth’. At the end of those evenings, when everyone had gone, I’d kick off my shoes and lie my feet across Cillian’s lap, and we’d toast a successful evening, pretending that the effort put in was equal, that his friends were my friends too. Sometimes, I miss having someone to pretend with.

~

It’s a gorgeous evening for dining outside, Cordes dominating the dusky pink skyline. I push together a couple of tables and dress them with mismatched linens and tiny jars of cyclamen. Leonard and Sabrina arrive as Jack, who has changed shirts and gelled his hair into place, comes out with a tray of saucisson, olives and mini toasts with a homemade artichoke tapenade. I wanted to give the Kellaways the impression of a full guesthouse, so I called in backup. I was touched Sabrina agreed to the rouse. She’s mellowed since Ari went missing. I even got a free croissant the other day. It was stale as anything, but I’ll take what I can get.

Sabrina raises an eyebrow when she sees Jack standing beside me, a vague smile on her lips. She looks great in a mustard-coloured maxi dress and a multitude of bangles that jingle every time she reaches for an olive. Leonard has brushed his hair back into a ponytail and is wearing a black waistcoat over a bare chest. I’m getting serious Bono circa 1987 vibes, but he pulls it off. Myriam is the last to appear. I note a fresh application of eyeliner and appreciate the effort made. I feel warm inside. It could be the first glass of wine kicking in or the early stages of sunstroke. Or it could be something like pride in this unlikely gathering of people. They scrub up well, and they’ve shown up for me. And that means something.

Kate and her daughters arrive, all three on their phones.

‘Audrey, I’m not accusing you of anything,’ says Kate, ‘but we’ve been billed for rentingThe Second Best Exotic Marigold Hoteland I know how much you enjoyed the first one at Easter. Are you sure you’ve signed out of our Amazon Prime account?’

Kate mouths, ‘Mother-in-laws’ at me, with a stoic expression on her face, like,The things I have to endure. I nod sympathetically, like,God, tell me about it. Taking liberties with someone else’s streaming service is the literal worst.

I head into the kitchen to grab a couple of bottles of chilled wine from the fridge, bumping into Kate’s husband en route.

‘Mike Kellaway,’ he says, pumping my hand. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

Like his wife, Mike Kellaway is small and slight in stature. He’s about ten years older than her and has one of those full beards that seem to be popular among middle-aged men now. Serious facial hair, cultivated to convey a sense of reliability and introspection.

When I return with the wine, Mike is telling Jack about his role as a senior executive of a private healthcare company. They’ve just introduced a new charge for people using trolleys to go between rooms, which has led to a significant boost in profits. It was all Mike’s idea, too.

‘Of course, this doesn’t mean we’re not big supporters of the NHS,’ says Kate. ‘We clapped for our key workers every Thursday during lockdown, isn’t that right, girls?’

‘I hear you’re writing a memoir, Hamilton,’ saysMike, sitting down and spreading his compact limbs expansively.

‘That I am, Mike,’ says Jack.

‘Bet they’re paying you well.’

‘Can’t complain.’

‘I’m interested to read your take on the culture wars. You’ll have to send me a copy when it’s out.’

‘Or you could buy one,’ I say, defensively, although I’m not sure why I feel the need to help Jack line his already generously filled pockets.

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