Page 48 of Beautiful Losers

‘This is my style,’ I say, wounded. I thought Sabrina and I had turned a corner.

‘Is it?’ says Sabrina. ‘Or are you trying to pretend that you don’t care about appearances?’

‘Well, I don’t,’ I say. ‘I mean, haven’t we evolved from judging women on what they wear?’

‘Oh please, the human brain is no more evolved now than it was during the Stone Age, whatever we care to tellourselves. You want to wear giantpantalonsbecause you like it?Mais oui, enjoy. But I think you dress like this because you don’t want to be noticed. You don’t want to admit that the things that matter to other people matter to you as well.’

‘What things?’

‘Being desired, being loved, romance. And why don’t you brush your hair? You’re too old for messy hair.’

‘I thought you said I was young a minute ago.’

‘When a woman gets to a certain age, not owning a hairbrush is unacceptable.’

The truth is, I stopped brushing my hair the day Mum walked out. She used to run a comb through it after bath time on a Saturday night. I’d sit between her legs in front ofThe Late Late Showwhile she went over my wet scalp, gently untangling each knot until it was gone. Considering the volume of hair to be tamed, it was a rare display of patience on my mother’s part.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘Much as I appreciate … whatever this is, I’m fine. I do have a hairbrush. Somewhere. And as for romance, that’s not on the cards right now.’

‘Are you certain about that?’

Sabrina looks at me purposefully.

‘That’s a lovely bracelet,’ I say, eager to change the subject.

‘This?’ Sabrina places her index finger on a silver cuff with cobalt-blue stones on her left wrist. ‘A boy I met in Kabul gave this to me many years ago.’

‘You were in Afghanistan?’

It’s hard to picture the chic, composed Sabrina Rousseau somewhere so exotic.

She nods. ‘In the early seventies. Before the Russians invaded.’

‘What happened to the boy?’ I ask, leaning forward, my curiosity piqued. I had assumed Sabrina had never left the Tarn. I realise I’ve been making a lot of assumptions lately.

‘I used to travel, you know,’ she says, ignoring my question. ‘I swore I’d never end up back in Cordes, but when my mother got sick, my father asked me to help him run the bakery. I told myself it was only temporary. That before long, I would get back to travelling the world. That was thirty-five years ago.’

‘What happened?’

She makes a dismissive gesture with her hands. ‘Time passes. The longer you wait, the easier it becomes to find excuses to stay still. I had been planning on taking a trip. Closing the bakery for a few months and visiting a friend in Tuscany. But my niece Chloe arrived from Lyon last month with her son. Theo’s father is, how you say? An asshole. He has not been good to Theo or his mother. They needed a fresh start. They are living with me for a while. Theo will start thelycéein Albi in September and we hope he will go to college the following year. Jack has been very good to us. I asked him if he could help Theo with his English one day a week. He comes almost every day. Refuses to take any payment.’

I feel giddy. Is it possible there’s nothing going on between Jack and Chloe? Is that what he’s been doing these past few weeks? Helping Sabrina’s great-nephew?

‘Of course, even without my house guests, I cannot go anywhere thanks tola Covid,’ she continues. ‘The government thinks it knows best, treating people my age likechildren. Telling us it is unsafe to leave the house. To think, this whole crisis could have been avoided if the Chinese ate chicken like civilised people.’

Christ, Yiv wasn’t wrong about the Sinophobia.

‘Umm, I don’t think you can say that,’ I say.

‘I’m seventy-four,ma chérie. I can say what I like. That’s the fun part about getting older.’

She winks at me and reaches for her mug.

‘How are you finding life in Cordes?’ she asks. ‘You are enjoying running the guesthouse?’

‘“Enjoy” is a strong word. I wasn’t expecting it to be this hard, to be honest. I’ve thought about going back to Ireland a lot.’

‘But you are still here. You are strong.’

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