Page 47 of Beautiful Losers

‘I thought it was excellent,’ says Jack. ‘Probing, full of insight. You clearly have a knack for reporting.’

I blush, rattled by the realisation that Jack’s opinion matters. More than it should. I look down at my empty glass and swirl my straw around the half-melted ice cubes.

‘Ihada knack for it,’ I say, correcting him. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘So what happened? Why did you stop?’

‘After the financial crash, when everything kicked off with Dad, my boss thought it would be good for me to stay under the radar for a while. I guess I could have gone back to reporting if I’d asked. I don’t know … I think I felt I’d be too exposed or something. Didn’t want to be judged for the sins of the father, you know?’

‘You wouldn’t want to give journalism another shot?’

‘I think that ship has sailed,’ I say. ‘I’m tryingto figure out my next move. Who knows? Maybe I’ll win the lottery and buy a guesthouse of my own, stay here forever.’

‘There are worse things I can think of.’

Jack runs a finger around the sides of his cup, licking it clean. A small blob of dissolved sugar clings to the corner of his mouth and I’m struck by an overwhelming urge to lean across the table and kiss it off. I wonder if he senses this, because he’s smiling now, looking at me with such intensity, like I’m the most interesting person in the world, like he could sit here forever, that I feel every part of me wake up, dead cells regenerating (if that’s even biologically possible). I feelhopeful.

I straighten in my chair, folding my paper napkin into a neat triangle.

‘Yeah, well, even if I wanted to stay, the guesthouse isn’t for sale. Besides, everything looks great in the summer, when it’s all rosé and perfect sunsets.But these moments don’t last, do they? They’re not real life. Sooner or later, you have to go home. Face reality.’

I’m startled by the brusqueness of my tone. Jack’s face falls.

‘Yes,’ he says flatly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

He calls for the bill.

26

‘Tell me, how old are you?’

Sabrina is sitting on my terrace, waiting for the tea she’s requested. She turned up twenty minutes ago and I’m still none the wiser as to why she’s here. I assumed she wanted to see Jack and I told her he’d gone on a trip.

It was unexpected, Jack’s leaving. He appeared at breakfast yesterday morning with his leather holdall, told me he’d rented a car and was off for a few days. I didn’t ask where and he didn’t volunteer the information. He looked like he hadn’t slept and seemed distracted, nervous almost. I assumed, with a disarming pang of jealousy, that he was taking Sabrina’s niece with him, though Sabrina seems as in the dark over Jack’s absence as I am.

‘Aren’t French women meant to be all enigmatic about ageing?’ I say, handing Sabrina a mug and sitting across from her.

‘Don’t play coy with me, my dear. You can’t be much older than, what, forty-two?’

‘I’m thirty-nine, but thanks for that. Good to know the facial yoga is working.’

‘So. You are still young.’

‘Depends who you’re talking to. I’m too old to understand how perms have managed to make a comeback; hopefully too young for starting sentences with, “In my day …”.’

‘Do you always do this? Make a joke out of everything?’ she says with an air of exasperation.

‘In my day, sarcasm was all the rage,’ I say, unable to help myself.

Sabrina sets her mug on the table and purses her lips, taking me in.

‘Tell me, why do you dress like this?’ she asks.

‘Like what?’

‘Like a clown. Is it to go with your little jokes?’

I look down at my outfit. I’m wearing my favourite electric-blue harem pants and a Del Monte t-shirt I’ve had since I was eleven. You got it free when you saved up a certain amount of coupons from the premium orange juice brand.

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