Page 5 of Beautiful Losers

‘I know. Long day. Look, Fiadh.’ Yiv reached across the table and grabbed my hand. ‘I think a change of scenery would do you good. And Ari. It’s been a tough couple of years for you guys with everything that went down with your dad, then Captain Bellend going off to LA to discover his own arsehole. You need a reboot.’

‘Yiv, I’m not a computer.’

‘Sorry. I’ve been coding since 8 a.m. You knowwhat I get like. All I’m saying is, you could do with an adventure. I remember at school, you weren’t afraid of anything. You couldn’t wait to get out there and change the world. To be honest, I found your faith in our species to sort its shit out a bit naive, but it was kind of inspiring at the same time. What I’m trying to get across (and patently doing a piss-poor job of it) is, it’s not all bad. I mean, yes, the far right and the religious nuts are taking over and we’re all going to die in a fiery apocalypse of our own making, but there are good things in the world, Fiadh. Like this opportunity to move to France. And the sex I’m going to have with that waitress when she finishes her shift. Just promise me you’ll think about it and I’ll buy you dinner.’

‘You’re buying it anyway. You’ve eaten half of mine. But fine, I’ll think about it.’

‘Good. Because I’ve already given Sophie your email.’

~

There was no formal interview process for the role of manager of La Maison Bleue, simply a series of blank emails with questions in the subject line.

Can you make your own preserves? (We are known for our mirabelle jam.)

Eh, sure?

Do you know how to fix a ballcock?

Is it a plunger or diaphragm-type? Might be a good idea to replace it with a more modern float-cup-style fill valve.

How do you feel about poltergeists?

Fine. As long as they keep the noise down between 2 and 4 a.m. – that’s when I get my non-REM sleep.

Haha. We make little joke. There are no ghosts at La Maison Bleue. It is important to have a sense of humour in hospitality.

The salary was non-existent, I’d have to foot the utilities bills and the odd minor repair might crop up. On the plus side, there was no rent to pay as Sophie and Nicolas owned the property outright, I could keep any takings and there was a place for Ari in the local school.

I had agreed to contact the owners to get Yiv off my back, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What it would be like to take on a seventeenth-century property in rural France. Do a Diane Lane inUnder the Tuscan Sunand start over in style. Sophie warned me that business had been slow these past few months. In normal times, they’re fully booked in high season. She assured me things would pick up before long as France had started to ease its lockdown restrictions.

I did the maths and reckoned we had enough savings to cover us for a year without the additional income from guests. Aside from my monthly dinners with Yiv, who, despite her protestations to the contrary won’t dine anywhere that doesn’t have an exorbitantly priced vegetable on the menu, I’m fairly sensible with cash. I buy clothes for Ari and myself in charity shops. We go camping for our holidays. I reuse teabags. My salary atThe Chroniclewas modest, but I’d managed to cobble together a small nest egg for us. More goldcrest-sized than albatross. Still, it was a nest egg all the same. I didn’t worry about spending it, because I didn’t think we would. Not muchof it anyway. I was confident we’d soon have an avalanche of bookings.

Before I knew it, it was the week before our departure and I allowed myself to be talked into a farewell drink with my old boss, Cara. It turned out to be a surprise party. If I enjoyed the company of others or were a better actor, I might have made the appropriate noises on discovering seven colleagues scattered around a reserved section of O’Donoghue’s to wish me bon voyage. Afterwards, Cara told me she’s literally watched paint dry with greater enthusiasm than I’d shown for my leaving do.

At the bar, Dermot, theChronicle’s star writer, offered to buy me a drink. Without waiting for a reply, he instructed the barman to make a gin martini.

Dermot and I started at theChronicleat the same time. Within a couple of years, he’d kissed enough arse to land the paper’s top writing job. I’ve always found the reverence with which his name was uttered in the Irish media to be a case of the emperor not wearing any clothes. The insights he shares in his weekly column are about as original as those mugs emblazoned with the slogan, ‘But first, coffee’. Dermot has one on his desk.

He came on to me once. I was going with Cillian at the time, but I would have said no anyway because I don’t do workplace romance and, also, Dermot is a bit of a shite. He didn’t take the rejection too well. The next time I edited his column, he sent me an email, cc-ing the entire office, after I dared to remove the indefinite article from his copy. Couldn’t Iseethat he had been making ajoke, with that particular indefinite articleabsolutely crucialto the punchline? (I was tempted to point outthat italicising multiple words in a sentence negates the emphasis you’re going for, and that ‘absolutely crucial’ is a tautology.)

‘Well, Fiadh,’ Dermot said, leaning against the bar and taking a sip of his Guinness. He licked the creamy residue off his lips in a disturbingly exaggerated fashion. ‘It’s a shame you’re jumping ship.’

‘I didn’t jump anything, Dermot. I was made redundant,’ I replied, taking a larger gulp of gin than intended.

‘You know, these things rarely work out. I had an aunt who bought a littlealbergoin Positano.’

He said ‘albergo’ and ‘Positano’ with an Italian accent.

‘It’s a thankless business. She worked all hours and barely broke even. Came back home after four months. Hospitality requires real graft. The reality is, most of these ventures fail.’

‘Well, I’m confident I’ll be the one to buck the trend,’ I said, sticking my chin out.

‘I give it til the end of the summer,’ he said, with an assuredness that made me want to tip the remainder of his pint over his head. ‘Listen, when you do come back, I’m looking for someone to handle my affairs. Nothing too taxing. Travel arrangements, a bit of light cleaning and ironing, some meal prep. I’d be more than happy to help you get back on your feet.’

‘So good of you, Dermot, but actually, we’re fully booked for the next six months. If an opening pops up in your busy schedule, you must come and stay with us. I’ll do my best to squeeze you in.’

He gave me a pitying look and sauntered off.

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