Page 53 of Beautiful Losers

‘Quite the pivot from “Sunday Bloody Sunday”, but what a tune,’ says Jack.

I glance across at him. He looks lighter than he did when we first met, less weighed down by life. Younger, I guess. Of course Jack Hamilton would have to age backwards as I inch closer to the crypt.

‘Oh shut up,’ I say, turning the volume down.

‘No, really,’ he insists. ‘It’s like a window into thelead singer’s soul. In three minutes, we know everything about this guy – his innermost desires, hisbêtes noires. He likes preppy women and Kevin Bacon. Chinese food gives him indigestion.’

I suck my teeth and skip ahead to the next song.

‘B*Witched?’ Jack looks at me incredulously.

I’d forgotten that was on there.

‘Look, I was seventeen, and they were everywhere,’ I protest weakly.

‘But the double denim! The Irish dancing! I’d have thought you of all people would object to such a blatant display of paddywhackery. Seriously, Ireland should sue.’

He turns the volume back up and for the next forty minutes we drive to the soundtrack of my final year at school. Lyrics such as,Am I sexual?,Comin’ quicker than FedExandYou gotta rub me the right waylead Jack to conclude, as we reach the outskirts of Lautrec, that my teenage years were spent in a state of perpetual horniness.

We park in a field opened up to accommodate the surplus of visitors to the medieval village and stroll along the twisting, cobbled streets lined with half-timbered houses and stalls selling healing crystals and posters of belle époque painter and Lautrec’s most famous former resident, Toulouse Lautrec. In the market square, a jazz band plays in front of a long trestle table laid out with complimentary bowls of garlic soup. Jack grabs a couple and we find a spot in the shade to eat.

‘Good thing neither of us have plans tonight,’ Jack says, dipping a chunk of baguette into a polystyrene bowl.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s at least a whole bulb of garlic in this bowl alone. I couldn’t get a woman to kiss me if I tried.’

‘How do you know I’m not seeing anyone?’ I say.

‘Are you?’ he says, casually mopping up the remnants of his soup with the bread, though his tone implies a greater interest in my response.

I don’t answer. I’m not sure if I’m reluctant to share because I’m embarrassed about my non-existent love life or if I want to seem mysterious and alluring to Jack.

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After eating, we explore the Roman amphitheatre and browse the market. I buy some garlic, raspberries and green beans, and a small wooden train for Ari. Jack nips into theépiceriewhile I check out a stall featuring the winning entries of the 2021 Lautrec Rose Garlic Sculpting competition. It’s an impressive, albeit bizarre line-up. There’s a windmill, a duck and the winning entry – an uncanny likeness of Emmanuel Macron, all made out of nothing but twine and garlic. I do a double take as I pass the photograph of the artist responsible for the third-prize entry, a life-sized allium bicycle.

‘Isn’t that …?’ Jack is standing behind me, holding a paper bag. I can smell his shampoo and it’s all I can do not to turn round and bury my face in his hair.

‘Yep,’ I reply. ‘Leonard. I’d recognise that trilby anywhere.’

‘Wow,’ says Jack. ‘So he’s a master garlic sculptor. That’s one story we haven’t heard.

Hey, do you fancy walking up to the old windmill? The view from the top is meant to be amazing.’

We make our way to the edge of the village, climbing a gentle hill that leads to the seventeenth-centurywindmill. Bypassing the line of tourists snaking around it, we find a quiet spot overlooking the Agout valley. Jack pulls two beers and a bottle opener out of his bag.

‘Aha. So that’s what you were up to,’ I say.

He opens a bottle and hands it to me. I hold it to my head and sigh in pleasure.

‘Excellent work. This is exactly what I needed.’

He raises his bottle. ‘To Leonard, a man of many talents.’

‘To Leonard,’ I say, clinking Jack’s bottle.

We sit in companionable silence for a few moments.

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