Page 58 of Beautiful Losers

Upstairs, after trying on several outfits at Ari’s insistence, we settle on a maxi-length, forest-green dress that scoops down low at the back. I bought it new to celebrate the launch of Cillian’s first book, but felt too exposed to wear it in the end, like it might attract too much attention or something. Cillian agreed. I slip a gold cuff over my wrist and examine myself in the mirror. The dress is tighter than it was when I got it and yet, I feel good, attractive – even by French women standards.

‘You look beautiful, Mummy,’ Ari beams, slipping his tiny hand into mine.

‘Thank you, baby,’ I say, bending down to hug him.

I hear the sound of tyres on the gravel outside and lean out the open window. The Parisian couple who own the house next door are climbing out of their car. My heartsinks. I thought it might have been Jack. It’s been two days since I temporarily took leave of my senses and had the audacity to think Jack Hamilton and I, under the spell of nineties nostalgia, were actually going to score against a car like a couple of teenagers. The man has been avoiding me ever since. There was a strange vibe at breakfast yesterday. He was being all formal and excessively polite. He complimented my cooking even though I’d mistakenly added cayenne pepper instead of cinnamon to the homemade granola. Later, he said something about taking Sabrina’s great-nephew out for a driving lesson and that he wouldn’t be back til late, so not to count him in for dinner.

I don’t know why I’m obsessing like this. Jack’s due to head back to the UK in two weeks. Back to his life as a highly paid TV personality and I’m … I don’t know where I’m heading.

Before Cillian, I had two relationships, both short-term. The first guy referred to his penis as his‘apparatus’ and had a habit of saying ‘good girl’ in a thick Cavan accent during sex, building up the intensity of the commentary, like a horse-racing pundit, and finishing with a slap on my arse, as though he’d just secured a great deal at a heifer auction. The other one sold health insurance at a call centre and didn’t drink. He insisted he didn’t need alcohol, that he was ‘tremendous craic’ in his abstemious form. Not to be a substance pusher, as I do see the merits of sobriety, but if anyone needed alcohol, it was this guy.

I watched a David Attenborough documentary not long ago about a recent discovery rocking the natural world. Apparently, scientists have unearthed a complex underground network of roots, fungi and bacteria beneath every forest thathelps connect trees and plants to one another. They call it the Wood Wide Web. Since forever, the assumption was that fungi were harmful to plants, the cause of disease and dysfunction. Turns out, some fungi exist in symbiosis with other living things, combining with roots to join individual trees together, allowing them to distribute essential resources between one another.

With Cillian, I never felt that connection, that what was good for one of us was good for the other. That our mutual survival depended on the thriving of both parties. Lately – and this is going to sound crazy, I know – when I’m around Jack, I feel unravelled and unhinged, yes, but I also feel that mutual thriving, that maybe we’re better than the sum of our parts. And madder still – I think he might feel it too.

Myriam agrees to let me drive, at least on the outward journey. (I’ve seen her behind the wheel. She views speed limits more as a suggestion than legal requirement.) The air is stifling as we cruise past vineyards and fields of burnt corn. Myriam is more loquacious than usual, telling me about her plans post-university. She’s been offered an internship at a corporate law firm in Paris.

‘You seem surprised,’ she says, rolling down her window and resting an elbow on the frame.

‘I suppose I am,’ I reply. It’s quite a conventional path is all. I had you pegged as an activist, like Greta Thunberg.’

‘Greta Thunberg has to sleep on her friends’ sofas because she gets death threats sent to her family home. I admire her principles, but I want a normal life, whatever normal will look like in ten years’ time. I’m not sure if you realise this, but the French aren’t exactly queuing up to give Algerians well-paid jobs. You’ve seen how middle-class white people aretreated when they take to the streets. If someone like me joined Extinction Rebellion, I’d be on a terrorist watchlist. And you know, I want things for myself. I want to travel and eat in nice restaurants, and I don’t want to feel ashamed for wanting those things.’

It’s a sobering take on the world. A realism I certainly didn’t possess at Myriam’s age. When I left college, I didn’t see the obstacles, only opportunities. I guess it’s easy to be idealistic when you come of age in one of the most peaceful and economically prosperous periods in history.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ Myriam continues. ‘I won’t be staying in Marseilles after I graduate. I’m getting as far away from the place as possible.’

‘Why? What happened in Marseilles?’ I say, changing gears.

‘What else? A man. He is, how you guys like to say, a “fuck boy”. He broke things off with me then slept with my supposed best friend. Now that I’m here, he calls me all the time.’

‘So that’s what’s been bothering you? That’s what all those phone calls were about?’

I start to laugh.

‘What?’ says Myriam.

‘I thought …’ I stop myself. I can’t imagine she’d see the funny side ofI thought you were on the run from the police after kidnapping a VIP

‘I, eh, thought you were upset about the state of the world. Inequality, social injustice, that sort of thing.’

I cringe inwardly at how pathetic I sound.

Myriam looks at me, narrowing her eyes. ‘Ofcourse I’m upset about the state of the world. I’m also upset when someone I love breaks my heart. Isn’t that why we’re all here? To connect? Isn’t interaction what shapes reality? If we can’t get that right, what’s the point in trying to save the world?’

She exhales loudly, agitated, and leans her head out the window.

‘You probably think I’m making no sense. This is fine for me. Old people do it all the time – destroy the world then tell us we’re the ones who need to lighten up.’

I glance across at Myriam, take in her young, unblemished skin, her air of total self-possession.

‘You make perfect sense,’ I say.

~

We pull up at the vineyard and park in a packed field, following a group along a dirt path towards a stall selling tickets. As I reach into my bag for my purse, Myriam beats me to it. I object and try to snatch the twenty-euro note from her. She bats my hand away. You’re a student, I scold. Don’t worry, it’s not me covering it, she says, mysteriously. We walk through the entrance, towards a beautiful stone farmhouse with red shutters on the windows. String lights hang across a terrace laid with long tables and fold-up chairs. The dining arrangements extend to the gardens beyond, which overlook rows of vines, glowing pink and gold in the evening sun. Myriam scans the crowd and takes out her phone. A man in a Panama hat walks past with a plate of charcuterie and a bottle of wine.

‘This way,’ says Myriam, putting her phone away and leading me and Ari through the crowds, past stalls selling local produce and a makeshift bar. We turn a corner, arriving ata quieter spot in the shade. I see Sabrina first, talking to the boy I saw at Utopie. He must be her great-nephew, Theo. Leonard is sitting beside her, engaged in animated conversation with Theo’s mum. The table is set with plates of olives and cheese, cured meats and a couple of bottles of wine. In the centre is a huge chocolate tart and a bowl of strawberries. I see Jack out of the corner of my eye, standing with his back to me, taking in the view of the countryside beyond the vines. He turns round and I feel a thrill of excitement as he approaches, looking unbearably handsome in cream trousers and a crumpled white linen shirt.

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