Page 16 of Beautiful Losers

Jack coughs loudly from the other side of the pergola. I’d forgotten he was there. Though his gaze hasn’t moved from the tan leather notebook he’s been scribbling in since breakfast, I’m fairly sure he witnessed this parental overshare.

‘Umm, you know, love, it doesn’t make for the prettiest picture. How about a rainbow?’ I say, feeling flustered.

‘Rainbows are boring. Will you draw me Ironman?’

‘Which one is he again?’

~

There’s a hole in the kitchen ceiling. Leonard reckons it’s coming from the shower in the bathroom directly above. The only plumber in the village is on holiday, so we’re making do with pots and vases and lasagne dishes to catch the steady drip of water until he gets back. After tripping over a vase and smashing it yesterday, I snapped and sent Sophie a strongly worded email demanding an explanation. ‘Minor repairs,’ she’d said before we got here. Was she having a laugh? The place is like the ‘before’ in an episode ofExtreme Makeover: Home Edition. She insists they sent dozens of photos in advance and had alerted me to the areas that required attention. It was all in the contract.

The contract. The day I signed the paperwork, I was all over the place. Wavering over the decision to move to France, I’d continued to apply for jobs. That morning, I had an interview for a junior reporting position at an agricultural trade magazine. My knowledge of the farming world is limited to the occasional story I subbed atThe Chronicleabout the rise in fertiliser prices, and how the introduction of vegan cheese would decimate the dairy industry. But it was something, and I was hoping it might kickstart my stalled reporting career. I got lost on my way there and spent twenty minutes circling the Lucan industrial estate where the office was based. Already irked by my tardiness, the editor said he couldn’t understand why, after sixteen years at Ireland’s largest publication, I hadn’t progressed beyond the role of senior sub editor. I told him that nepotism and death were the only means of getting ahead atThe Chronicle– and let’s face it, the majority of the old professions in Ireland – and that I suspected the chief sub’s bones would be buried in the building when she eventually left this realm. I didn’t get the job.

On the drive to Ari’s nursery, I’d kept thinking,sixteen years.You’d think I’d have something big to show for such a significant passing of time. Something meaningful. Other than Ari’s birth, I can’t recall a single noteworthy moment. I worked, watchedThe Wire, watchedHomeland, edited Cillian’s self-published first book,Me, My Truth and I, found a rare Ramones vinyl in Tower Records and played it to death, watchedSuccession, had discussions with Cillian about how watching TV has become cool again. Before you know it, you’ve lived half a life.

I’d got stuck in traffic and was the last parent to arrive at Ari’s daycare. He had a meltdown when he saw me, kicked and screamed his way into his car seat, told me he wanted a different mummy the entire journey home. When I finally got him to bed, I signed the contract. I meant to read over it in detail, go over every syllable as I’ve always done. I was so tired, you see. I’m used to being tired. I’ve never slept very well. But there’s a tiredness that’s specific to raising a child on your own. A tiredness that digs down deep and rests in your bone marrow. A tiredness that, if you don’t get the better of it, can make you slip up, take a wild leap of faith, forget that the world is not to be trusted.

I logged into my online banking earlier to check the balance in my savings account, my hands covering my face as I waited for the page to load. It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. It was worse. We’re flying through the cash. Unless we get another couple of bookings ASAP, we’ll be broke come Christmas, never mind next summer. But I’m focused, I can do this. I’ve already reached out to a ton of online travel agents. They needed me to send photos of the place, so I asked Myriam and Leonard to pose as guests. It was hard, getting Myriam to look like she’s onholiday in the south of France and not felling timber in a gulag, but we got there in the end. Next on my list is designing a flier to hand out to local businesses to display by their cash registers. The website needs a complete overhaul too, though considering it’s taken me thirty minutes to add a penis to a photo of Jack looking haughty at a media event, I’m not holding out much hope there.

Myriam comes out of the kitchen. She’s wearing a t-shirt that says ‘Ecstatic’. in tiny lettering. Her hair is hanging around her face in that scruffy-sexy way only women in their twenties can get away with. She’s holding a bowl of the sugar-free rolled oats and nuts I made a few days ago. I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised by the results.

‘I’m glad to see someone’s enjoying my granola,’ I say proudly. ‘Ari wasn’t feeling it.’

‘I bought this in the store,’ says Myriam. ‘Your granola was inedible.’

‘Oh.’

I’m a firm believer in honesty. Still, the bluntness of French communication takes some getting used to.

‘Listen, do you know anything about building websites?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

Is this what I have to look forward to when Ari hits adolescence? Insults and monosyllabic answers?

‘Do you think you could help me make one for this place?’

‘It already has one,non?’

Throw me a bone, Myriam!

‘Yes, but it’s not really doing much for us and ifwe don’t get more guests through the door soon, I’ll have to go on the game or sell Ari into child slavery.’

‘Are you making a joke?’

I sigh. ‘Yes, Myriam.’

‘I will help you. We will download WordPress tomorrow.’

Her phone starts to ring.

‘Putin,’ she mutters in exasperation and storms back into the kitchen.

I realise the owners didn’t mention Myriam in their email even though I’d told them their niece was staying with me. Shrugging it off, I return to putting the final touches on my doctored photo of Jack. It’s not a perfect penis, but how often do you encounter one of those anyway? I’m about to send it to Yiv when a large shadow looms over me, blocking out the sun. I look up to find Jack staring down at me.

‘Eh, hi,’ I chirp, flipping my phone face down on the table.

‘I’d avoid WordPress unless you’re comfortable with a bit of coding. Wix is more user-friendly,’ he says tersely.

---