Page 8 of Beautiful Losers

‘I know, I know. It’s just … wow.’

I zoom in to double check the email address. It seems to be legit. I hold the screen up to Leonard, who taps his pocket for his reading glasses.

I move the screen closer to his face. ‘Jack Hamilton is coming to stay.’

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Jack Hamilton, forty-one. Journalist, TV personality, podcaster, general thorn in the side of UK liberals. A former reporter, he was something of a wunderkind in his day, named Young Journalist of the Year at the British Press Awards for a series of investigative pieces on the horrors lurking in school dinners. He came to prominence, however, as an interviewer for the right-leaning newspaperThe Record. Hamilton had a knack for getting his well-known subjects to open up, including billionaire Logan Sacks. The interview with the founder of Palz, a social networking app, was a coup for the paper, the only UK publication to secure face time with the famously eccentric CEO. Hamilton flew out to Palz HQ, in Palo Alto, where he was made to wait for six hours until Sacks had finished forest bathing. When he appeared, wearing pink cycling shorts and loafers, he invited Hamilton to join him in making origami swans as they talked commercial space travel and biohacking. Sacks had a team ofsome thirty physicians monitoring his every bodily function to reverse the ageing process and was well on his way to restoring his rectum to that of his seventeen-year-old self.

On the back of the Sacks interview,The Recordgave Hamilton a column at the front of its weekend magazine, prized print real estate, and for a year or so he wrote about the things he was passionate about (small government, Queens Park Rangers, bath bombs) and the things that riled him (identity politics, fracking, Adele). It was hard to tell if he was a liberal or a libertarian which, I suppose, is the hallmark of a good journalist, less so a good columnist. And so, rather abruptly, the column came to an end. Hamilton cheerfully announced on social media that he was off to pursue other avenues, though everyone in the industry knew it was a cull.

Things went quiet for a while, then out of nowhere he became the poster boy for the disgruntled right. He launched a podcast, onto which he invited controversial figures in the public eye to dissect the latest issue getting the left all worked up. It was an instant hit, leading to a regular slot onSunrise Britain. Each week, Jack ‘Our Man in a Mad World’ Hamilton would grill some ‘wokeist’, typically a lowly paid freelance journalist, who’d been called the day before by a producer from the show.

Producer: Hey there, Jane! Just wondering what your thoughts are on Christmas wrapping paper? Do you think it should be banned?

Jane: Why would I want to ban Christmas wrapping paper?

Producer: Because it can’t be recycled. It’s literally killing all the sea turtles.

Jane: I think it’s single-use plastic that’s killing the sea turtles.

Producer: Single-use plasticandChristmas wrapping paper. Doesn’t it make you mad?

Jane: Well, I guess it’s better to choose a sustainable alternative if possible, but I don’t have strong feelings on the matter either way.

Producer: We’ll pay you a hundred quid.

Jane: I hate Christmas wrapping paper.

Into the studio Jane would go, lamb to the slaughter, a damning strapline running across the screen beneath her –Jane: Wants to cancel Christmas– as Hamilton refused to let her answer the questions put to her.

Once, they brought on a woman who’d tweeted her offence at a supermarket sandwich called Gentleman’s Relish. Why not call it lady’s relish? It was a moot point. Gentleman’s Relish is the brand name of an anchovy paste. Still, it was a particularly obnoxious move on Hamilton’s part, stuffing his mouth with the sandwich right in front of her, a trickle of grey sludge running down his chin. He looked like he was going to be sick, but persisted in polishing off the whole thing. Viewers couldn’t get enough of this performative outrage, and when the lead male anchor atSunrise Britainretired, Hamilton replaced him. For six years, he was untouchable, revered by his fans, the guy his opponents loved to hate.

Then it all started to unravel. Just before Christmas, the British tabloids revealed he was separating from his wife (rumours circulated he was dating his co-anchor, Lauren Jenkins) and had moved out of the family home on Hampstead Heath and into Claridge’s hotel. A month later, Hamiltonwas dragged into a controversy surrounding a friend from his Oxford days. The chair of an international aid charity, the man was accused of sexual misconduct by a junior employee. The investigation was still ongoing, although revelations about the man’s past had started to emerge. Allegations of affairs, rumours of problematic behaviour. Someone had unearthed a photo of him and Hamilton at a Magdalen College fancy dress party. Hamilton was dressed as a Native American. Next to him, a woman was sitting on his friend’s knee, his hand on her thigh, a predatory/constipated look on his face, depending on the political leanings of the media pundit analysing the photo.

Hamilton came under increasing pressure to denounce both the cultural appropriation and his friendship with the man. He refused to do either, saying he wasn’t going to apologise for something that wasn’t an offence ten years ago and that it was the court’s job to determine his friend’s culpability, not social media. Well, it all kicked off and Hamilton became persona non grata, disinvited from university debates, the subject of a petition to get him sacked.Sunrise Britainstood by their man, though he did lose a lucrative contract with a premium yoghurt brand.

At this time of year, Hamilton enjoys the contractual perk of having three months off, while a lesser-known presenter steps in for him. He’s usually spotted on the yacht of some famous friend or other, but a recent paparazzi snap of him outside Starbucks on Tottenham Court Road, sporting days-old stubble and a takeaway flat white cup with the name ‘James’ scribbled on the side, has prompted speculation over his future. Luckily for him, even if he does lose his day job, he won’t be out on the streets anytime soon. A major publishing househas offered him a substantial six-figure sum for his memoir, to include several chapters on what it’s like being a victim of cancel culture. He’s also set to hostJack Hamilton’s Real France, an eight-part documentary series for a major streaming service that‘goes beyond Sartre and Sancerre and explores our Gallic neighbour in all its complicated glory’.

~

‘And that, in a nutshell, is Jack Hamilton,’ I say, looking up from the numerous tabs I’ve opened on my phone to get Leonard up to speed.

‘A memoir?’ Leonard clicks his tongue. ‘What’s with all these young people writing about their lives when they’ve been on the planet all of five minutes? What do they know about life? Man, some of my craziest moments happened after I turned fifty. I could tell you a story about tripping my balls off on ayahuasca in the Costa Rican jungle that would blow your mind. I communed with the divine that day. Nowthat’sa book.

‘Why does he want to stay here, though?’ he muses. ‘Don’t get me wrong – it’s a gorgeous part of the world, but La Maison Bleue is hardly Hotel Cap-Ferrat. Why isn’t he living it up on the Riviera with some supermodel? He looks like a ladies’ man.’

He prods my screen with his finger, indicating a paparazzi snap of Hamilton and Lauren Jenkins leaving Claridge’s, Jenkins with hair that could rival a King Charles spaniel, Hamilton’s hand on the small of her back. The headline reads,From sunset to sunrise – are Jack and Lauren more than just colleagues?

‘According to this email from his agent, the producers are considering including La Maison Bleue in thisReal Francething. They want to feature four B&Bs and are especially keen on less obvious places off the beaten track. This part of France isn’t that well known to non-French tourists. I think he’s going to try and work on his memoir while he’s here, too.’

‘Well, any publicity is a good thing in my book, no matter who the guest is,’ says Leonard. ‘Will he be staying in the outhouse? Makes sense to move Myriam inside and give this Hamilton guy the better room. I’ll get to work on that leaky tap out there.’

He downs the remainder of his coffee and tips his trilby at me. I gather the mugs and carry them over to the sink, trying to process this unexpected development. I’ll be sharing the same roof asJack Hamilton.I’ll have to serve him breakfast, change his bedlinen, smile. I know you shouldn’t judge a person without getting to know them, but empirical research would suggest the man is a total bollox. Arrogant, unprincipled, most likely a creep, too. Do I really want a man like that around Ari for two weeks?

Then again, what choice do I have? I’m running a guesthouse at the tail-end of a global pandemic. We’re not exactly rushed off our feet and I’ve already made a considerable dent in our savings trying to get the place into a liveable condition. It’s only two weeks. And though I’m not wild on the idea of being on TV, the coverage could really help raise La Maison Bleue’s profile. (Not to mention wipe the smile off Dermot’s face.) How bad can it be?

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