31
I wake up fully clothed, fighting waves of nausea. Through mascara-encrusted eyes, I make out a thick wooden beam running the length of the ceiling. There is no beam in my room. I reach across the bed, patting the mattress for clues and land on a leg that (terrifyingly? Reassuringly?) does not belong to me. I feel my way up the leg – it’s important to be certain in these matters – and arrive at a firm buttock. The buttock shifts in my hand, its owner rolling over to face me.
‘Morning,’ Jack says with a groan, his eyes closed.
I can feel the heat of his breath. It smells of red wine and garlic, and I think I catch a hint of cigarette smoke as well.
‘Morning,’ I say, self-consciously. Waking up in Jack’s bed is an unexpected, though not unwelcome, turn of events. I wonder if he shares the sentiment.
‘Did you have a good time last night?’ His eyes are still closed, a smirk spreading across his face. God, it’s a beautiful face. I’d love to cut his head off and carry it around with me in a portable cryogenic tank.
It’s a well-worn trope in romantic comedies. The hungover morning-after. The scanning under the bedsheets to confirm the presence of underwear in an attempt to reassure the panicked female protagonist that nothing untoward has taken place. Well, I’m not giving Jack the satisfaction. The room smells like a brewery and though Jack appears to have lost his shirt, his belt and trousers remain intact, so it’s unlikely anything happened. If it did, great stuff! I’m only sorry I can’t remember it.
‘Best night of my life,’ I say, sticking out my chin defiantly.
Jack’s smirk widens to a smile and he opens his eyes to look at me. My mother had a thing about eyes. On the news, when someone was charged for committing some heinous crime, she said you could tell by looking at them that they had it in them. It wasn’t a specific colour or shape of eye that identified the assailant as the kind of person capable of murder, rape, money laundering, a presidential assassination or putting a virtually empty carton of orange juice back in the fridge – it was a quality, an aura. She was convinced that law enforcement authorities were missing a trick by not having people with her unique talents on the payroll. If the reverse of Mum’s theory applied, and the eyes were a reflection of all the decent things a person was capable of, I’d say Jack Hamilton had the look of someone who’d insist you take the seat with the better view at a restaurant.
‘Seriously,’ I say. ‘I’m feeling too delicate to be teased. What happened after we got back here? Last thing I remember is Leonard telling us something about Kirstie Alley being his childhood babysitter?’
‘That one might actually be true. Like our fantastic and fantastical friend, I believe Kirstie was also a Wichita native.’
He raises his head and plumps his pillow. The movement stirs up the smell of old sweat and clean bedlinen.
‘It was all very civilised,’ he says. ‘After putting Ari to bed, you insisted everyone stay for a nightcap. We discussed Donald Trump and inheritance tax. You said the former should be locked up and the latter set at 100 per cent. You then demanded I play Biggie’s ‘Hypnotize’, which was accompanied by quite the creative dance.’
‘Argggh!’ I say, raising the sheet to cover my face.
‘You also told me we were scar twins and showed me the mark on your left thigh from the time you got caught in a barbed wire fence. If memory serves me correctly, you were fleeing from the irate owner of a backyard donkey you were attempting to liberate.’
‘He was tied up to a lamppost all day long and had a really sad look on his face,’ I say, sheepishly.
‘At some stage, you decided that the party was over and marched me to my room.’
‘And then?’
‘And nothing. You passed out on the bed, I removed your shoes, you roused briefly to tell me I was hotter than the melting point of diamond.’
‘I wouldn’t get too excited. There are hotter things in the universe. The sun’s core, a lightning bolt, controlled nuclear fusion … You barely register on the heat scale.’
‘I have to admit,’ he continues, ‘it was a surprise to discover this wasn’t your first visit to my room.’
‘Well, no. Myriam and I take it in turns to make up your bed every day.’
‘And is rooting through the guests’ toiletries part of the service?’
‘I told you about that?’
I want to die. Death would be preferable to this moment.
‘I must say, you’re the most entertaining drunk I’ve met and I work in media. You encounter a lot of drunks.’
‘Stop talking! I can’t cope!’
Gently, he pulls the sheet away from my face, resting his hand above my chest and tracing my collarbone with his finger.
‘There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,’ he says softly. ‘I think you’re amazing.’
He brushes the hair back off my face and kisses me softly at first, and then more firmly, hungrily, and sweet baby Jesus and all the divine saints, I feel such a sense of transcendence, it’s enough to make me question my atheism.
My phone ringing brings me back to Earth.
‘Leave it,’ Jack mutters, his lips on my neck. ‘It’s Saturday. There’s no school. Myriam said she’d get up with Ari.’
I need no convincing. I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. Can you die from arousal? Yes you can! Wasn’t there a woman who had a cardiac arrest while masturbating? It must have been some vibrator. Okay, Fiadh, focus. Enjoy the moment.
Man, this caller is persistent. I pull away from Jack.
‘Sorry, that ringing is doing my head in. Let me switch my phone off.’
The ringing stops. Where were we? Ah yes, Jack’s mouth moving further down my chest …
The ringing starts up again. This time, it’s Jack’s phone.
‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ he says, pressing his forehead against mine.
‘Do you think it’s the same person?’ I say. A feeling of uncertainty creeps over me. A sense of impending doom, like the arse is about to fall out of the world.
‘If it is, they’re about to get an earful.’ He leans across me and fumbles for his phone on the bedside table.
‘Jack Hamilton,’ he says, brusquely.
I hear indistinct chatter. A woman speaking French in an urgent tone.
‘ D’accord. On est en route. Merci, Sabrina. ’
Jack tosses his phone on the bed, a concerned look on his face.
‘What is it?’ I say, sitting up.
‘It’s Leonard.’
~
Jack drives us to the hospital, a thirty-minute journey that feels like thirty years. I drum my fingers nervously on my lap, snippets from Sabrina’s brief conversation with Jack playing on repeat in my head. Unconscious. Barely breathing. An empty packet of pills on the beside table. Jack puts his hand on mine and squeezes it. I smile at him, grateful he’s here. An hour ago, I was ready to abandon my non-believing ways and join the faithful. Good things happen in the world! I should have known better.
Albi is packed with tourists in cargo shorts and visitors to the weekly brocante , carrying vintage lamps and chipped porcelain plates back to their cars. After twenty minutes circling the town centre, we find a space near the Pont-vieux and walk briskly to the hospital. Sabrina is in the Urgence waiting room, sitting on a chair beside a plastic fern. She looks tired, the usual spark of resistance in her eyes gone. She stands up when she sees us and I give her a hug. French people aren’t natural huggers. Least of all Sabrina Rousseau. But she doesn’t stiffen or pull away when I embrace her.
‘What happened?’ I say, guiding her back to her seat.
‘We left you around midnight. Leonard walked me home then cycled back to his house. He was meant to be running the bread stall at the market this morning as a favour to our friend Magalie. She called me when he didn’t show up for the van and we went to his place together. The door was unlocked. Magalie found him in the bedroom.’
‘What did the doctors say?’ asks Jack.
‘No one will tell me anything.’
We wait. I show Sabrina baby photos of Ari on my phone. We drink undrinkable coffee from the vending machine because it gives us temporary relief from our Covid masks. A man with a six-inch nail protruding from his boot passes us in a wheelchair, his girlfriend live-documenting the event on Instagram. Paramedics rush by with a little girl about Ari’s age. Her eyes are closed, her mother clutching a tattered stuffed rabbit as she runs alongside the gurney.
A doctor is walking towards us now. She’s wearing blue scrubs, wisps of black hair falling from her surgical hat. We stand to greet her. She pulls her face mask down, letting it hang on one ear. I’m sorry, she tells us. She says other words. Something about a fatal mix of sleeping pills and alcohol and anxiety medication. They believe it was unintentional. She squeezes her eyes shut then opens them wide, willing herself to stay awake. How many hours is she into her shift, I wonder. How many times today has she had this conversation or some variation of it?
‘ But … he was there, at my house. A couple of hours ago. I just saw him,’ I say, my brain a saturated paper towel, unable to absorb the information.
The doctor is nodding, a practised gesture of sympathy.
‘And he isn’t anxious. He’s happy, isn’t he? He’s the happiest person I know. Tell her, Sabrina.’
Sabrina puts her hand gently on my arm. The doctor is asking if Leonard had medical insurance and I’m thrown by how seamlessly she moves from respiratory failure to paperwork.
I think about my old English teacher, Mrs Mallon. How she planned her own funeral. Chose the hymns and the floral arrangements, booked the caterers for the reception afterwards, because she knew her husband would get the ratio of chicken curry to rice wrong and the older mourners would rate the spread poorly among themselves. How everyone said, Ah, didn’t Christine do well, it was a beautiful service. Like it was something you’d put on your CV – good at dying.
I remember wondering how it felt, to know, at thirty-two, that you wouldn’t see your kids start school or lose their baby teeth. You wouldn’t get to watch them fall in love for the first time and stroke their hair two weeks later when they declare their life is over and they’ll never find love again. You can’t allow yourself to think of these things, these little moments denied to you, because if you did, you’d set the world on fire with your rage. And so you do the paperwork, attend to the bureaucracy of your own death.
The doctor wants to know about next of kin. Did Leonard have any family? It hadn’t occurred to me before. That Leonard was a whole person. That he existed outside of Cordes, outside of La Maison Bleue, that he was more than a supporting character to our life here. I never asked him if he had anyone who knew him Before. Who knew how he looked when he slept, who put a plaster on his knee when he fell.
I should have asked.
~
It’s after 6 p.m. when we get back to Cordes. We drive in silence, Sabrina in the front with Jack. Chez Colette is buzzing as we pull up outside her house, crowds spilling out onto the pavement, soaking up the last of another perfect summer’s evening.
‘His house,’ Sabrina says without looking round. ‘We’ll need to clear it out. And Magalie will handle the calls to his relatives. She knows more than I do. I believe there was a wife once.’
‘Leave it to us,’ Jack says, patting her on the shoulder. ‘You’ve had a long day.’
Sabrina gets out of the car with a heavy sigh. I move into the front seat and Jack drives on, indicating right for the lane leading to the guesthouse.
‘Wait,’ I say, touching his wrist. ‘I’m not ready to go back yet. Can we go somewhere?’
We head through Les Cabannes, a commune on the outskirts of Cordes, and I ask Jack to pull into a deserted lay-by on the far side of the village. He parks underneath an oak tree opposite two industrial bins overflowing with waste. Ahead of us, the sun is sinking towards the horizon.
Jack turns to me. ‘Fiadh, I’m sorry. I know how much you cared about Leonard.’
I shake my head. I can’t do this now. Can’t hear Leonard's name referenced in the past tense. Jack puts his left hand on my bare knee, caressing it absentmindedly with his thumb. I lean into him, my head on his shoulder as he kisses the top of it. We stay like this for a few moments, listening to the sound of the engine running, Jack burying himself in my hair. I raise my chin to him, studying him for a beat, and inch closer, my face against his neck, inhaling him – his sweat, the soap on his skin. I tug at his shirt and pull him into me, kissing him firmly. He reciprocates with more tenderness then pulls away, resting his forehead against mine, his eyes closed. Undoing my seatbelt, I manoeuvre myself on top of him, whacking the small of my back on the steering wheel as I wrap my thighs around his waist. He looks surprised. Are you sure? Here? I nod. I need it to be like this. A quick encounter, devoid of meaning. Everything else lately has been fraught with significance. I take off his seatbelt, asking if he has a condom. Yes, he says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers. I unzip him, touching his erection through his boxers. He lets out a low moan. Taking his penis in my hand, I rub it with the tip of my thumb. He pushes my dress up my thighs, grabbing my ass with his hands. I pull my underwear to one side and slide on top of him, inhaling sharply as he enters me. Christ, Fiadh, he says, his hands moving up my back and clutching at my dress. I move on top of him, quietly and urgently in this litter-strewn lay-by in front of the perfect sunset.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a soiled yoghurt pot sticking out of the recycling bin and I wonder what kind of asshole you have to be to put a non-recyclable material in the yellow bin. And then I’m about to come and I forget about the things we owe each other because I’m feeling good. Fuck, Jack says again, pulling my dress tighter as I start to tremble. He ’ s close behind me. I keep going until he finishes.
Maybe this is the way of it. Maybe life isn ’ t about running from the ugliness, trying to filter the rubbish out, pretend it isn ’ t there. And maybe it ’ s not fixating on it either. Maybe it ’ s learning to live beside it, among it, acknowledging its presence, cleaning up where you can, and trying to find small ways to feel okay in the mess.
Afterwards, I stay on top of Jack, our foreheads touching, chests rising and falling as we wait for hearts and lungs to resume their resting rate. Return to normal. Although I’m not sure anything will be normal again.