Chapter 17
17
‘Are you sure you are OK?’
It was about Jacques’s fifth time of asking and Orla wasn’t sure if she was more annoyed at that than she was about the large singe mark on the sleeve of her jacket. Yes, his beanbag had hit her and propelled her – or her sleeve at least – into the flames of the fire pit, but it hadn’t been intentional and it had never been as serious as having to stop, drop and roll. And feeling some kind of responsibility, Delphine had brought them cognacs and made them sit at this table next to the Christmas tree and furthest away from any further potential disaster.
‘I’m fine,’ Orla answered. ‘You’re talking to someone who’s had to run from lava in Italy.’
‘This does not happen usually,’ Jacques remarked.
‘You surprise me,’ Orla said. ‘Seeing as how there was a lady stationed by a fire extinguisher throughout the whole contest.’
‘That is Madame Voisin,’ Jacques said, as if that explained it all.
‘And?’
‘She needs to have something to do or she will start doing things that Delphine does not want her to do.’
‘Ah,’ Orla said, sipping the cognac, which was pleasantly warming. ‘Delphine seems to be at the very heart of everything here, doesn’t she? This fiery contest, the shop-stroke-café-stroke-bed-and-very-rapid-breakfast, my being here, the non-existent reindeer…’ She let the sentence linger.
‘You still do not believe it is coming,’ Jacques said as a statement.
‘Do you? If you’re really honest?’
She looked straight into his eyes, wanted to see any flicker of hesitation. She usually had a good read on whether someone was telling the truth or not.
‘I believe that Delphine would not deliberately mislead me,’ he answered.
‘But would she mislead me ?’
‘Delphine is a good person. Why would you think otherwise?’
He had a point. What was this immediate distrust she was sending out into the world lately? Was how things had ended with Henry now making her question everything and everyone?
‘I… don’t know,’ she admitted.
‘Well, I have known her for a while now and her motive behind anything is good-natured.’
‘Apart from when she’s insisting I’m standing over the mark on the floor for the beanbag throw.’
‘You were,’ Jacques said with a smile.
‘Maybe one tiny toe’s worth,’ she admitted.
‘And you made the final so…’
Yes, that’s how crazy this place was. She was in the final of a beanbag slinging contest.
‘So I should probably ask you some questions before I have to spend my days practising for that. Is there a cash prize or an actual crown?’
‘Is that your first question?’
It was beginning to be a running joke now but she really did have to get her journalistic head on if she was going to make anything productive out of this trip. Even if the pregnant reindeer turned out to be no more than a festive myth, she would be expected to come up with goods of some kind. And currently, in any spare second, Orla was going back over autumn conversations she’d had with Frances where her boss had definitely been budget conscious. Was Travel in Mind in financial difficulty? Could her job be at risk if this story didn’t fly? It was one thing to want bigger and better things – like her dream of Time magazine – but it was quite another to have to jump ship quick if the need suddenly arose. She took a sip of her drink.
‘I asked it before – why do some people call you “Wolf”?’ She cradled the cognac glass in her hands.
He shrugged. ‘What does it matter?’
‘OK, well, I get “Wolf” is giving all manly and strong, but you’re telling me if the village called you “Buttercup” or something you wouldn’t want to know why?’
He shrugged again. ‘Why do you think they call me “Wolf”?’
She looked at him again with this in mind. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be a name I would call you in relation to how you look.’
‘No?’
‘Wolves are strong, yes, but they’re wiry, not tall or solid or more like… a bear.’
Why had she said that? A bear! And why when she’d said the words ‘tall’ and ‘solid’ had her eyes done an all-over body reconnaissance of him, from his dark hair, down over his broad, muscular-looking shoulders and lower to his chest in that tight-knit sweater…
‘A bear,’ he said with a definite look of amusement.
At least he hadn’t growled. Although there were parts of her that were signalling that might have been appealing. What was wrong with her? She looked at the cognac in her glass as if it was to blame for everything.
‘What is your nickname?’ he asked her.
‘I don’t have one,’ she answered straight off the bat.
He gazed at her and then swirled the liquid in his glass as if his brain was doing something similar in response to her reply. ‘You lie to me.’
‘What? Why would you think that?’
‘I do not think it. I know it.’
He couldn’t know. She’d only had one nickname her whole life. Given to her by her dad. Orla Orange. It had begun when she was small and she had pronounced the ‘o-r’ of ‘orange’ like the ‘o-r’ of Orla. It was silly. She swallowed, the cognac reminding her of some of the issues the Bradbee family were facing back home.
‘So, what is it? The name?’ he continued.
‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I don’t have one.’
‘And I told you that I know you are not telling the truth.’
She smiled now, gaining some control back. ‘And you being so confident with that leads me to thinking that you must have some kind of… psychology background.’
He smiled. It was a good smile. The kind that somehow teased.
‘What?’ Orla asked when no reply was instantly forthcoming.
‘Now I definitely know you have a nickname.’
Why did she now feel like someone had dropped her out of her depth in the swimming pool? How was this man doing this to her? She never let anyone, apart from Erin get the better of her in conversation unless it was for her own benefit. It was time to stop messing around. She picked her bag up off the stone floor and took her electronic pad out, snapping the pen off its mount.
‘Age?’ she asked him.
‘How old do you think I am?’
‘I’ll put thirties.’
‘What?’
‘Single. Obviously. Lives in the middle of nowhere in one of France’s harshest mountain environments with a sole canine companion in a smart house that resembles… I think I’ll put “something out of a panic-room movie”.’ She scribbled furiously. ‘No photos of family or friends. No books. Connects with community just enough but doesn’t really appear to like it. Perhaps integrates to conform to social norms or give a little to avoid questions to hide a dark back story. Smacks of only child, or maybe even orphan?’
She didn’t know what was moving fastest, her pen over the notepad or her mouth firing out her thoughts.
‘OK, we’re done,’ Jacques said, getting up.
‘What?’ Orla asked. ‘But you said if I came here tonight you would answer any questions I had.’
‘That was before.’ He plucked his coat from the back of the chair and started to put it on.
‘Before what? Before you scorched my favourite jacket? Before you got an attitude?’
He turned then, took a step closer to her chair, his presence filling the space. ‘Before you decided to make the way I live into some kind of joke.’
She could see he was angry. There was a pulse in his neck visibly beating, his pupils were dilated, his lips were firm and, she suspected, keeping clenched teeth in check.
‘I’m… not doing that. I just…’ She paused, her temperature rising. ‘You’re not giving me anything.’
‘So, what do you do, Orla?’ he asked. ‘When someone doesn’t give you anything?’
The way he was looking at her was burning her worse than any flaming beanbag. Those dark eyes were a mix of fire and granite – alight with anger and as hard as rock. And she didn’t know how to respond as the intensity hung like a perilous abseiler.
‘Surprise!’
Orla jumped and watched Jacques flinch too as a pair of hands were clapped to his shoulders and someone appeared right there with them. It was a man, maybe in his late teens, dark hair fluffed on top and short and tapered everywhere else.
‘Whoa, dude. You OK? You’re shaking,’ the newcomer said to Jacques.
‘It’s this cognac,’ Jacques answered quickly. ‘And seeing you. What are you doing here?’
‘Well, you know me.’
Apparently that was all the answer this young man was going to give.
‘And this beautiful person does not know me,’ the man said, looking at Orla. ‘But, she should. Hi, I’m Tommy.’ He reached out a hand.
‘Orla,’ she introduced, taking his hand.
‘ Enchanté ,’ he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her hand.
‘Orla,’ Jacques said. ‘Meet my brother.’ He took a breath and met her eyes, sharpness still evident. ‘There goes your only child theory.’