Page 7 of Beautiful Losers

‘You said Ari was different. Different how?’

‘Hyper-sensitive, for one thing. Too plugged into everything that’s going on around him.’

‘Isn’t that a good thing in a kid? In anyone? Hell, the world would be a vastly different place if we were all a little more in tune with our environment.’

I chew the inside of my cheek, mulling over Leonard’s words.

‘Agreed,’ I say. ‘With Ari, though, I don’t know … He feels things. Like reallyfeelsthem. And I’m terrified that when he grows up and realises what the world is like and how people are with each other, he won’t be able to cope. Honestly, the best thing a parent can do for their child is teach them resilience.’

Leonard studies me for a second, a look of concern flashing across his habitually serene features. ‘Well, you know what Leonard Cohen said – “When things get really bad, just raise your glass and stamp your feet and do a little jig. That’s about all you can do.”’

Leonard is his namesake’s number one fan and I suspect the ever-present trilby on his head is a tribute to the legendary Canadian songwriter. It’s not clear whether Leonard changed his birth name to honour his idol or if it’s a fortunate stroke of fate that he should share a name with the man he would go on to worship. Sometimes, when Leonard-from-Wichita speaks, he affects a low, smoky kind of voice, half-speaking, half-singing his words, like his famous counterpart. At one stage, I wondered whether he might identify as Leonard Cohen. I decided it didn’t matter.

‘Any more bookings?’ he asks.

‘Just that English family arriving next month. Should I be worried it’s this quiet?I thought things might have started to pick up by now.’

Before he can answer, Myriam appears, wearing rubber gloves and holding a spade.

‘Gráinne is dead,’ she says sombrely. ‘I will bury her by the compost heap.’

Gráinne is one of three hens we inherited with the house. (Another piece of information the owners neglected to pass on.) I named her after the pirate queen, who fought for Irish liberation from the British. Her sisters, Spiderman and Skinny Fries, were christened by Ari.

Leonard leans over and squeezes my hand. ‘It was her time,’ he says.

I nod, watching Myriam as she roots through thecupboard underneath the sink for bin bags, stopping to push her bluntly cut fringe out of her eyes. Myriam has been staying with us for the past five days. She turned up out of the blue, saying she was Nicolas and Sophie’s niece. Apparently, she spends every summer helping them out in the guesthouse in exchange for food and board. She seemed surprised to learn her aunt and uncle weren’t around, and I felt bad sending her away, seeing as she’d just made the five-hour trip from Marseilles. She’s currently sleeping in the converted outhouse, just off the kitchen, and has been giving me a hand around the house.

Myriam’s wardrobe is almost entirely black. The only item of colour I’ve seen on her is a pair of neon-green crocs. This means either, like me, she appreciates maximum comfort when it comes to footwear or she’s doing that ironic fashion thing young people are into right now. I read bucket hats are back. I own both a bucket hat and crocs, which would make me bang on trend if I hadn’t been wearing them for the past twenty years.

She doesn’t say much. All I know about her is that she isn’t on social media. On her first night here, I asked her if she and her mother did dance routines on TikTok. Yiv showed me the video-sharing app when we were out for dinner a few months ago and that seemed to be the gist of it. Myriam said she’s not interested in having her data mined and profited by the Chinese state, and that her mother has patellar tendinitis, so dancing is out of the question. I like that Myriam doesn’t broadcast the minutiae of her life. I’ve never understood why people feel the need to unburden themselves online. Cillian was the sharer in our relationship. After our cat died, he posted a photo of himself crying on LinkedIn, accompanied by a lengthycaption about vulnerability being the root of authentic leadership and meaningful connection.

The volume on the radio increases, heralding the 9 a.m. news. I just about make out the words ‘pétrole’ and ‘meurtre’.

‘Are they talking about the kidnapped oil executive? Did they find out who did it?’ I ask Leonard.

‘It’s only a matter of time before they do. That guy’s a big fish.’

Two weeks ago, the chief financial officer of a global oil and gas company was taken from his Parisian penthouse apartment in the middle of the night. A few hours later, a breakaway faction of a climate activist group released a video of the executive, his hands bound, flanked by his masked captors. One of them read from a prepared statement, accusing the hostage and the multinational he worked for of lying to the public for years about the impact of fossil fuels on the planet, and covering up their role in the crisis. It was time for oil and gas companies to be held to account, he said. Two days later, the executive was dropped off outside a tower block in Saint-Denis, blindfolded, in the monogrammed silk pyjamas he’d been wearing when he was snatched. Turned out, a member of the group had had a crisis of conscience and released him. Her co-conspirators (he said it was a woman who had bundled him into the boot of the car) were threatening further reprisals.

‘It was bound to come to this,’ Leonard continues. ‘Peaceful protests taking a darker turn. These kids should be at college, getting wasted, sleeping with the wrong people, not going fullApocalypse Nowon the oil industry. Someone’s going to get killed soon, you mark my words.’

‘It’s not like they have a wealth of opportunities ahead of them, though, is it?’ I counter. ‘Let’s face it – the future isn’t exactly glittering for your average twenty-something. Most of them will never be able to afford their own home or start a family. That’s if you want to bring a child into a society that’s happy to let half the world drown through global warming.’

I realise that this is a bleak assessment of humanity, even for me, and remember Myriam – not-so-average, yet a twenty-something nonetheless – is in the room.

‘All I know is, violence ain’t the solution,’ says Leonard, shaking his head. ‘Saw enough of it in Iraq to last me a lifetime.’

Leonard does this occasionally. Drops implausible conversational bombshells out of nowhere. I’m an Iraq war veteran. I once played bass for Bruce Springsteen. I was born with six toes on my left foot.

I pick up the last croissant and tear it in half, handing a piece to Leonard as my phone beeps. I jump. I’m still not used to having my notifications on. I changed the settings to make sure I didn’t miss a potential booking, but rarely do I receive anything related to the guesthouse. My most recent emails were Cillian’s latest newsletter (I’ve unsubscribed four times – he keeps re-adding me) and an advert for perimenopause pyjamas. I’m thirty-nine. I thought I had at least another year before the need for ‘cool clothing for hot moments’, but here we are.

‘Oh,’ I exclaim, reading the newest addition to my inbox.

‘Everything okay?’ asks Leonard.

‘We’ve got a booking. They arrive next week.’

‘Fantastic! But why do I get the impression you’re less than enthused by the news? Weren’t you just saying how quiet it was?’

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