Page 52 of Beautiful Losers

‘Not a word. I can’t concentrate in this heat. Where are you off to?’

‘Lautrec. It’s the garlic festival this weekend.’

‘Sounds like fun.’ He looks at me with a rare expression of shyness.

‘Are you taking the piss?’ I say.

‘Not at all. Lautrec’s meant to be gorgeous and I happen to be a big fan of garlic. It has all kinds of health benefits.’

‘So I believe. I’m told it increases the male sex drive.’

‘For one thing. It also boosts oestrogen, so can help women get off too.’

He bites the inside of his cheek, locking eyes with me. Again, I can’t tell if he’s flirting. Extolling the libido-boosting merits of garlic would be a weird way to go about it.

‘You’re welcome to come with me if you like.

Please say no, please say no.

‘Okay, sure. Let me change quickly. Be with you in a sec.’

Shit.I wasn’t prepared for this unexpected development. Bending down to scan my reflection in the wing mirror, I root through my tote for tissue paper and dab underneath myarms. Grabbing a paper bag, I hurriedly stuff it with detritus from the car – an empty juice carton, a mountain of receipts, a crayon-scribbled reminder to ‘buy apples and wash pants’. Jack reappears five minutes later, wearing an orange-brown shirt that makes the colour of his eyes even more intense.

It’s the first time I’ve been in the car with Jack since the day I picked him up from the airport. This time, he sits in the front seat and I’m acutely aware of his physicality, the space he takes up.

‘Don’t suppose you have a tissue on you?’ he says, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s clear it’s the heat, though I briefly indulge the fantasy that I’m the cause of the excess perspiration. ‘I left my handkerchief in my room.’

I smile.

‘What?’ he says.

‘Nothing. You just don’t see that many men using cloth hankies these days. It’s old-fashioned – in a nice way.’

‘My dad used to say a gentleman always has one in his pocket.’

‘Mine too.’

People said it was affectation. Dad was known for his ostentatious style. He’d swagger around Dublin like an extra fromPeaky Blinders– three-piece suit, silk pocket square, flat cap. The linen hanky he’d offer to female guests shedding a tear at a wedding speech or use to dab the blood from my knee after a childhood fall – that was always there, an inheritance from his father.

It’s the second time I’ve thought about Dad today, an unwelcome intrusion on a birthday I didn’t want toacknowledge. Suddenly, it’s too much. Dad trying to get in touch after all this time, Cillian getting engaged, Jack tagging along on my solo day out. They’re taking up all the oxygen in the car. I roll down the window and tell Jack he’ll find a tissue in the glove compartment.

‘What do we have here?’ he says, pulling out a battered CD case. ‘Fiadh Murphy’s CD collection. You do know there’s a thing called streaming now?’

‘I bought this car before time began. Go ahead, take a look. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Not bad,’ he says, leafing through the CDs. A bit anti-establishment for my liking, but I take it back, you do have pretty decent tas— Hang on, what’s this?’

Oh God.

‘Phat Beats.’

‘Put it away! I made that a lifetime ago.’

‘Listen, you’ll get no judgement from me,’ he says. ‘I’m susceptible to a phat beat myself. Let’s see what we’ve got on here.’

‘Jack, don’t you dare!’

Before I can stop him, he’s hijacked my CD player and LFO’s ‘Summer Girls’ is playing at full blast.

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