Page 67 of Beautiful Losers

‘I think we don’t know his reasons for doing what he did and it’s not our place to judge,’ says Jack.

‘But like, he left his daughter when she was ten with no explanation and he clearly hadn’t seen her in the intervening years. What kind of person does that?’

Jack tilts his head to the right and looks at me with confusion. ‘Erm, the kind of person who gets a medal for bravery in combat? Who transformed your garden into a haven for wildlife for the price of a couple of plums? Who made a life-sized bicycle out ofgarlic?’

‘Oh so he’s some kind of saint because he has a talent for sculpting with vegetables?’

‘I don’t understand why you’re doing this,’ says Jack. ‘It’s not like you to be this judgemental.’

I scoff. ‘What do you know about what I’m like? We’ve been in each other’s lives for all of five minutes.’

He looks hurt, but doesn’t rise to the bait.

‘All I know is, Leonard could have had any number of reasons for leaving his family. If he spent time in Iraq, it’s highly likely he struggled with PTSD. And even if he did walk out on his wife and kid for some less sympathetic motive, like, I don’t know, a midlife crisis or an affair, should that one action define the guy? Take away all the good things he did? Most people aren’t saints, Fiadh. Most aren’t assholes or psychopaths either. The majority of us are treading water somewhere in the middle.’

‘You would say that,’ I say.

‘Excuse me?’

I know I’m veering into dangerous territory, but I can’t control it. This build-up of emotion that’s been quietly simmering since Jack got here or maybe since we arrived in France. Perhaps it’s been there much longer than that.

‘Are you talking about Leonard or yourself?’ I say, my voice shaking. ‘It feels like you’re trying to justify your own actions. Square your lack of principles with yourself.’

‘My own actions being what exactly?’ Jack says guardedly.

‘Being the inflammatory nonsense you spew on your show. Being not being around for your dad when he needed you.’

The minute I say it I wish I could rewind. Stuff the words back into my mouth and swallow them whole. I force myself to look at Jack, see the impact of my cruelty. Jack colours, clouds collecting on his face.

‘I realise the way I make my living is unpalatable to you,’ he said scornfully. ‘And sure, there are times I feel I’ve crossed a line, that I’m not living in accordance with my values or whatever, but for the most part I enjoy what I do and I stand by what I say. I’m not perfect, but neither is the world. At least I’m contributing. You have all these lofty ideals, but what are you doing with them, Fiadh? How areyouchanging the world? You blame others for your life not turning out the way you wanted it to, but you can rewrite the script at any stage. Or at least make a fucking stab at it.’

He sighs in frustration and leaves the room.

34

I don’t know how long I stay in Leonard’s bedroom, reeling from the force of Jack’s words, from the truth of them. When I head into the kitchen, expecting him to be gone, he’s quietly packing, sleeves rolled up, jaw set. He doesn’t look up when I enter the room, refuses to acknowledge my presence. I lift one of the empty boxes we brought with us and we work together in silence, folding and stuffing and wrapping until there’s nothing left to fold or stuff or wrap.

It’s early evening by the time we finish. Jack locks the door behind us and drops the keys through Mme Chave’s letterbox. We climb into the car without saying anything – Jack hasn’t uttered a syllable since our fight and despite being acutely aware of the need to apologise, I’m too afraid to broach the subject, can’t bear to hear Jack tell me this thing between us is over before it’s begun. Jack drives us back to the guesthouse, his eyesfixed firmly on the road. When we pull into La Maison Bleue, he turns off the ignition and faces me, making eye contact for the first time since our fight, wordlessly willing me to say something, anything. I don’t know where to begin. He sighs, unbuckling his seatbelt, and gets out of the car.

I stay there for several moments, leaning my head against the window, watching Jack as he walks down the garden path to his room, shoulders hunched, and opens the door. Inside, the light goes on. Is he undressing? Lying on his bed? Is he waiting for me to go to him? I run my hand along the gear stick, the last thing Jack touched, move my palm to the driver’s seat and rub the imprint of his body on the leather.

I can see the whole house from here – the shutters Leonard and I repainted, the path leading to the garden we resurrected, Ari’s fort. The mirabelle plum tree has seen better days, an infestation of aphids causing the leaves to curl. I’m not sure it’ll make it. But the fig tree is starting to thrive, its branches finally bearing fruit. Maybe the older mirabelle passed its remaining resources on to the younger tree, nurturing it, sharing its secrets on how to survive in this world.

~

After putting Ari to bed, I make my way to the bedside table in my room. Pulling out the drawer, I remove an envelope and empty its contents onto the bed. Sixteen years I’ve been carrying Mum’s ring around. I think I liked the idea of taking her with me wherever I went. That as long as I still had the ring, I still had a mother. I slide the ring onto my finger and hold it up to the light one last time.Taking it off, I put it back in the envelope and put the envelope in my bag beside the door.

The next morning I get up early, splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth. I throw on a pair of purple leggings, a lime-green t-shirt and a baby-pink sun visor I got for an eighties party, and run down the stairs. I make myself a coffee and knock it back, then open the French doors and march to Jack’s room, steadying my rapid heartbeat with deep breaths en route. He answers the door in a pair of deliciously form-hugging pale-grey briefs and I momentarily forget why I’m here. He squints at me through sleep-deprived eyes.

‘Can I go running with you?’ I say peppily, jogging on the spot.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Now?’

‘Don’t you run in the morning?’

‘Not on Sundays. Do you even run?’

‘I came fourth in the all-Ireland schools cross-country championships,’ I lie.

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