Page 11 of Beautiful Losers

If insistent on making vegan bolognese, the sauce needs to sing. Might I suggest the addition of harissa?

A culinary revelation! Never considered replacing sugar with salt in an apple crumble.

I scrunch the last note into a ball and hurl it across the garden (heading back outside to retrieve it three minutes later. Littering is never acceptable, no matter who you’re dealing with). The crumble was an easy mistake to make. I’ve startedbuying in bulk to save money, decanting dry foodstuffs into glass jars. I would have put the correct label on the sugar had I not been distracted by Myriam acting strangely. She was pacing the house and checking her phone constantly. I noticed it was one of those old Nokias I had at her age. These days, nobody has a burner unless they’re planning a casino heist. Whatever’s going on, it’s not my business. I need to focus on making sure Jack’s stay goes smoothly, so we have a shot of making it ontoReal France.

I hadn’t realised how badly we need the publicity. I’d assumed Sophie and Nicolas had partnered with a number of online travel agents to attract customers, but it looks like they’ve been running the place entirely on word-of-mouth recommendations and a website that should be in a museum alongside the earliest examples of web design. What was I thinking, not doing my due diligence?

Hopefully, I can convince Jack of La Maison Bleue’s charms and we’ll make it onto the showand be overrun with guests. It’s not my strong suit, positive thinking. I find optimism, much like Leonard’s stories, requires a willing suspension of disbelief. But I need this to work. I can’t have another thing fail in my life.

I add harissa to the shopping list.

~

I’m hanging bedlinen on the terrace. A breeze picks up the scent of the lavender bordering the potager, infusing the sheets with its perfume. As I bend down to grab a pillowcase from the laundry basket, the extra-thick elastic band holding my hair in its usual messy bun snaps. My hair has never played ball. My mother saidI came out of her furrier than a highland cow. Before my school debs, I went to a stylist, who supposedly specialised in locks that deviated from the norm. It took him and a colleague an hour and a half to blow-dry it straight. He groaned theatrically the entire time and said I was lucky he didn’t charge me extra.

The wind picks up, sending my hair over my face. I remember being on Sandycove beach with Cillian not long after we started seeing each other. The wind was wild, blowing my hair into my ice cream, but I didn’t care. I felt exhilarated and in love. Cillian said I looked like Bigfoot.

I tie it back again, using the spare elastic on my wrist, and spot Jack at the bottom of the garden. He’s on the phone, smoking. I’m reminded of that Ben Affleck meme, the one where he looks like life has defecated on him from a massive height and the one good thing in his miserable existence, the only thing stopping him from drowning in the shit soup he’s been swimming in for so very long, is this cigarette.

‘I’ve already told you, Helen,’ he says, circling the mirabelle plum tree in a possessed manner, ‘I’m not sleeping with Lauren! We’ve had her and Simon over for dinner a million times.’

…

‘Yes, I know she still has your breast pump. You haven’t used it in seven years, but if it’ll make you happy, I’ll get it couriered to you today.’

…

‘Look, can I please speak to Max? You can’t keep me from talking to my own son.’

Hurriedly, I throw the last of the laundry on the line and slip indoors. It doesn’t seem right, bearing witness tothe unravelling of a person, regardless of how I feel about them. Anyway, what do I really know about Jack Hamilton? Sure, he’s not been the easiest to deal with, but it’s clear he’s having a rough time of it. I decide to adopt a more charitable mindset and give him a second chance.

Twenty minutes later, I’m collecting eggs from the chicken coop when I hear Jack’s voice through the open window in his room. He’s on the phone again. Jesus, he’s fond of a chat. Good luck to him meeting that daily word count.

‘Come on, Harry,’ he says. ‘You’re not seriously telling me we’re still front-page news? Has nobody anything better to write about? A deadly virus, perhaps? Police brutality? The catastrophic loss of the natural world?’

…

‘What have Iactuallydone? I refused to throw an old friend under the bus without sufficient evidence. How is that a crime?’

…

‘I don’t care how it looks! I’m not giving in to these Twitter Nazis!’

…

‘No, I haven’t written a word yet. Helen’s threatening to go through with the divorce and won’t let me speak to Max. I can’t think straight. Any word on the contract renewal withSunrise? Do I need to be worried?’

…

‘Fine, I’ll stick out the two weeks and try to get some writing done. And I think we’ve got what we’re looking for with this place. You should see it, mate. It’s Fawlty bloody Towers. Nothing works. The manager’s a real character. Wearsbizarre outfits and clearly hasn't a clue about running a guesthouse. Also, I’m convinced she’s trying to poison me with her food. Then there’s the kid. I came out of my room the other morning and he was right outside the door on his bike, staring straight at me like something out ofThe Shining. Terrifying, but it’s going to make great TV.’

Splat.

‘What the fuck? Hang on a second, Harry. I think someone just tried to egg me.’

Jack sticks his head out the window, his phone pressed against his ear, searching for the miscreant responsible for the bright yellow yolk trickling down the glass beside him. Mercifully, from his vantage point, he can’t see me crouched behind the hen house, my heart thudding against my rib cage. I wait several minutes until I hear him close the window, then I shuffle across the grass, military-style on my stomach, crawling up the stone steps leading to the kitchen. Standing up, I brush bits of straw and dried chicken shit off my clothes. I see Myriam through the open doors. She’s staring at me impassively, the knife in her hand suspended over a chopping board of diced carrots. There’s a clear view of the hen house from where she’s standing, so it’s safe to assume she saw everything.

‘Don’t judge me,’ I say, pulling a feather out of my hair.

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