Page 46 of Beautiful Losers

Jack smiles resignedly. ‘It certainly helps with Max’s tuition fees. I also have expensive taste in shampoo.’

He stares at me knowingly and I feel a wave of panic wash over me.Does he know I’ve been rooting through his things?

Before I can think up a reply, I catch Doctor Bourdariat out of the corner of my eye. He’s approaching our table, wearing a French rugby t-shirt and tiny shorts.

‘Madame Murphy, bonjour,’ he says, flashing that kilowatt smile of his.

I can’t help blushing. He reminds me of yer man in that show everyone’s talking about –Emily in Paris, I think it’s called. I switched it off after noting a dozen cliches in as many minutes, but there’s no doubt that Gabriel guy is phenomenally good-looking.

‘Hi, Doctor Bourdariat,’ I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my left ear.

Jack tilts his head to one side, a quizzical expression on his face.

‘Please, Vincent,’ says Doctor Bourdariat, in English. ‘How are you feeling now? You look good. Healthy.’

Jack pulls a face. Could he be jealous? Of course not. Though it’s clear he isn’t digging this interaction.

‘Much better, thanks,’ I say, equally mortified by the attention and relishing Jack’s discomfort. ‘Vincent, this is my, er, friend, Jack Hamilton.’

I steal a glance at Jack to gauge his reaction. It’s the first time I’ve attempted to define our relationship status. I’m the last person to have expected to strike up an affinity with Jack Hamilton, and I’m not sure ‘friend’ is quite the right word for whatever’s going on between us. But if not friends, what is this? What are we doing here?

‘Nice to meet you,’ says Vincent, shaking Jack’s hand.

‘A pleasure,’ says Jack, who might want to consider communicating this sentiment to his face.

‘I’m just on my way to rugby training,’ says Vincent.

‘You play for a local team?’ asks Jack.

‘No, in fact I play semi-professionally for Stade Toulousain.’

Jack’s face darkens.

‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Jack. Madame Murphy, see you around.’

Vincent Bourdariat walks off, taking all the light with him. Literally. A cloud is blocking out the sun.

‘He’s into you,’ Jack says.

‘Oh please. He’s just being friendly. Anyway, what were we talking about? You were agreeing you were a gobshite?’

‘I said no such thing.What about you, Murphy?’ he says.

‘What about me?’

‘You used to work forThe Irish Chronicle, right?’

‘How did you know that? Have you been googling me, Jack?’ I try to disguise my pleasure at the information.

‘I needed to make sure I wasn’t staying with a psychopath. You don’t have much of an online presence for someone with an infamous father.’

‘That’s precisely why I don’t have an online presence.’

‘I came across the piece you wrote on the McCormack cartel,’ he says.

‘Oh really?’ I say, feigning indifference.

Before I was transferred to the production desk, I convinced my boss Paul to give me a shot at reporting on an emerging organised crime syndicate in Dublin. The family-run group, which started out peddling drugs to inner-city kids, has become a multimillion dollar criminal network. Under the wing of an experienced investigative reporter, I spent months researching the gang and conducting off-the-record interviews. The published article made the front page and led to a number of arrests.

---