Page 9 of Beautiful Losers

Jack Hamilton’s agent asks if I could pick him up at Toulouse airport. He has to ‘make an appearance at an awards thing the night before, so I doubt he’ll be fit to drive. Don’t let him convince you otherwise’.

I decide to be on my best behaviour and meet him in the arrivals hall. I’m running a guesthouse, after all, and am determined that the one guest we have should receive the appropriate level of customer service. Even if he is a self-aggrandising narcissist.

Passengers travelling from the UK can no longer whizz through the EU line at passport control, thanks to Brexit. Though Jack never publicly confirmed he voted for Britain to leave the European Union, he certainly gave its proponents, those who spewed outlandish lies about the so-called benefits of the UK’s sovereignty, a hell of a lot of airtime on his show. Despite having to wait longer for my pick-up to appear, thethought of the man stewing in a bureaucratic mess of his own making takes the edge off the inconvenience.

Jack was meant to be arriving with the show’s director. The plan was to use La Maison Bleue as a base to explore the region and recce other guesthouses before filming starts next month, but his agent emailed yesterday to say the director was in the process of being replaced due to ‘creative differences with the talent’. Jack would be travelling alone.

The automatic doors open and out walks the man himself. I don’t recognise him at first. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and looks less polished than he does on screen, his usual industrial-strength hair gel notably missing from the unkempt golden-brown mane covering half his face. He’s also less gargantuan than I had imagined. Still tall, but normal-tall as opposed to whoa-how’s-the-weather-up-there tall. They often say that about famous people – that they’re slighter in person, more breakable.

I’ve forgotten to bring a placard with his name on it, so I raise my hand to wave, changing my mind halfway through the gesture. It feels girlish and lacking in conviction, although my hand is already mid-air with nowhere to hide. I salute him instead. Jack looks around him to check if he was the intended recipient of the salute. I walk over to him, suddenly very much aware of my attire. I’m wearing mustard-coloured denim dungaree shorts with a badge on the lapel that says,‘Foxy Lady’. I got them in a clothes swap when I was pregnant with Ari.

‘Jack Hamilton? Hi there, I’m Fiadh from La Maison Bleue. I hope you had a good flight?’

He takes off his glasses.Autumn, I think. It’snot so much the colour of his eyes – flecks of amber cutting through deep brown – it’s a feeling I get, a half-remembered image. Walking along the Grand Canal with Dad, holding his hand through gloved fingers as the leaves crunch beneath us. He’s wearing his battered old sheepskin jacket and I’m wrapped up in a red jumper he’d bought me earlier that day – he’d had a good month at work and wanted to treat me. We’ve been walking the city for hours. Dusk is falling, but we keep going, soaking up every last drop of the autumn sun.

Jack’s phone starts to ring. He answers it without excusing himself, raising his index finger to put me on hold, the thinnest of smiles on his lips.

‘Jack Hamilton.’

…

‘Yes, Harry, I’ve just arrived, sober and correct. Well, sober might be a bit of a stretch, but don’t panic, I won’t drive. My pick-up is here.’

…

‘Yeah, yeah. Alright, will give you a call when I get there. Chat soon, mate.’

Jack puts his phone in the inside pocket of his blazer and extends his hand.

‘Jack Hamilton,’ he says, shaking my hand with all the self-assuredness you’d expect of someone who went to Oxford and earns a million pounds a year.

I wonder how many times a day he uses his full name. Has his public persona consumed him to such a degree that he refers to himself in the third person? ‘Jack Hamilton will have a flat white and a cronut, please.’ And presumably, hisagent’s number is saved in his phone. Does he introduce himself every time he calls?

‘Did you have a nice trip?’ I ask, reaching for the deceptively heavy leather holdall in his left hand.

‘The airline lost my bloody luggage again,’ he replies, allowing me to take his bag. ‘Listen, you couldn’t do me a favour, could you? The rep I was speaking to on the other side said I need to file a lost luggage claim. My French isn’t up to much – you wouldn’t mind taking care of it for me? I’ll just grab myself a coffee and a fag, and wait for you outside. Much appreciated.’

I file his claim and watch as he smokes two cigarettes, while speaking to someone animatedly on the phone. The conversation doesn’t appear to be going very well – he kicks a parking bollard then yelps and grabs at his foot, spilling his coffee over his jeans. I make my way outside and ask him if he’s ready to go. He drains his paper espresso cup and tosses it in the bin.

‘That was bitter as hell. Why can’t the French do a decent cup of coffee?’ he says, in a tone that implies the entire population of France has conspired to make him suffer for their delectation.

‘It’s because their taste buds are used to the bitterness,’ I say matter-of-factly. ‘France used to import its beans from the colonies, which came in duty free, meaning they were less expensive. These were mainly robusta beans, which are cheaper and harsher tasting. By the time coffee importation laws were deregulated in the 1950s, the French were accustomed to the taste. That’s the thing about colonialism – it’ll come back to bite you in the arse.’

‘That’s umm … interesting. You said the car park was in that direction?’

We make our way to the car, me doing the conversational heavy lifting, which is never a good idea. I’m hopeless at small talk – you know, the polite chat between colleagues sharing a lift on a Monday morning.What did you get up to at the weekend? Oh, the spa at Monart? How lovely. Did you hear about the woman who contracted a flesh-eating bacteria from the hot tub in her hotel room?This time, I manage to keep a lid on the inappropriate chat by pointing out Visit Occitanie posters of rambling and medieval reenactments and wine drinking, and going, ‘Doesn’t that look like fun?’

When we get to the car, Jack throws his suitcase into the boot and slides into the back seat.

‘You can sit in the front if you like. I’m not a taxi,’ I say.

‘Sorry. I’m shattered from the flight and not the best company at the moment. Plus, I have a few emails to catch up on. You don’t mind, do you?’

It would be erroneous to say Jack Hamilton is rude. He’s observed basic manners, offered a few half-smiles. But there’s something about him, a guardedness, a lack of warmth, a sense that he’d pee on you if you were on fire – but only because it was the socially acceptable thing to do.

‘Not a problem,’ I say, relieved not to have to make small talk. I turn on the radio, flicking through stations until I get to a serious-sounding discussion. They’re either analysing dreams or talking about going on strike. (Equally plausible topics of conversation in France.) Whatever it is, the tone has the required level of gravitas. If we’re to get through these nexttwo weeks, it’s important I establish a note of competence and professionalism.

We drive in silence, except for the occasional snort and murmured expletive from my passenger, who spends the majority of the journey typing furiously on his phone. The car reeks of cigarettes and at one stage I get a distinct whiff of one of those pre-made gin and tonic baggies they serve on Ryanair flights.

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