Chapter 39
39
JACQUES’S HOME – THE OUTSKIRTS OF SAINT-CHAMBéRY
Calm . That was how you got things done. It was no good eyeing up the coffee machine like it was an adversary. She was going to make friends with it. A smile, a gentle touch as she put a cup under the spout, a peaceful press of its buttons and…
The angry grinding started and Orla recoiled, jabbing a finger at ‘cancel’.
‘Oh my God!’ Erin exclaimed, laughing. ‘I wish I’d been filming then!’
‘Why doesn’t this appliance like anyone but you?’ Orla asked, frustrated.
‘What can I say?’ Erin said, getting up from her seat at the kitchen table. ‘It has taste. Do you want me to help?’
‘Steady now, Erin,’ Orla replied. ‘You’re almost sounding like someone who wants to lend a hand. Will your nails survive the manual labour?’
‘If you carry on taking the piss I’ll carry on letting you fight for your caffeine fix,’ Erin said, hands on hips.
‘Well,’ Orla said. ‘I was going to make you a coffee. I found some syrup at the back of the cupboard and?—’
‘You found syrup?’ She took strides forward.
‘Yes.’
‘Wait,’ Erin said, curtailing her enthusiasm. ‘This is bribery and corruption, right? This is you trying to make up for being a bitch about Burim.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly say I was a bitch but?—’
‘Oh, what’s the point?’ Erin asked, moving closer. ‘You know you had me at syrup. OK, the trick to this machine is this.’ She reached out and pressed what looked like a black blank space below the display screen.
‘What does that do? Because it doesn’t even look like a button,’ Orla said.
‘It cancels everything,’ Erin said. ‘Wipes clean everything everyone else has done to mess it up when they’re repeatedly hitting this button and that button and making it confused.’
‘It is just a machine, though, right? There’s not a little coffee-creating cat in there or something.’
‘I’m sixteen now, Orla. I don’t need you to make up a fairy tale. So… get another cup out and I’ll show you what else to do.’
Only a few moments later, ludicrously good coffee with a syrup refinement was in both their cups and for a short while they sat at the kitchen table, sipped and enjoyed without saying anything. Until…
‘Dad doesn’t have an alcohol issue and it’s Mum who’s sold all Granny’s things,’ Orla stated.
‘What?’ Erin asked, cream on the end of her nose.
‘Yeah,’ Orla said, contemplative.
‘But… why would she tell me it was Dad? Like, lie?’
‘Because sometimes people do and say things they wouldn’t usually when they’re under pressure,’ Orla said.
‘But she’s always told us God can see your lies,’ Erin said.
‘I know.’
‘And that the only thing worse than lying is stealing and murder.’
‘Yes,’ Orla agreed. Their mum did always say that.
‘So, what, the rules don’t apply to her?’
‘As I said, sometimes, when people are in a difficult place themselves, they often blame others before looking internally.’
‘What’s wrong with her then?’ Erin snapped.
‘We don’t know yet but, sometimes, people, women, get to a certain stage in their life and, well, it can feel like everything’s turning upside down.’
Erin sipped her coffee. ‘If she needs to get some anti-depressants you can just say.’
‘I don’t know what she needs yet.’
‘To stop lying?’ Erin suggested.
‘Maybe a bit of compassion?’ Orla offered as an alternative.
‘Well, perhaps if she didn’t lock up her feelings tighter than the tin for the good biscuits, she wouldn’t be in this situation.’
And Orla had no answer for that. Because, as usual, Erin was astute in her analysis.
‘Burim doesn’t understand our family,’ Erin continued, swirling her finger in the foam on top of her coffee. ‘He says him and his family are always looking for a reason to get together. Like it’s not just Christmas or someone’s birthday if we can be bothered, it’s most weekends or around sports events; they just love being together and spending time together.’
‘Well, I expect Burim’s family live close together. We have Auntie Bren in Norfolk and then the rest of them in Ireland.’
‘And I’ve never seen the cousins in Ireland at all,’ Erin continued. ‘And you’re talking about it like it’s a country on the other side of the galaxy.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Orla admitted. ‘Lucky Burim?’
‘Now you’re taking the piss.’
‘I’m not, Erin. It’s just everyone’s family dynamic is different. And, perhaps, ours is struggling right now.’
‘No shit. It’s kinda embarrassing. Burim’s talking about all the Christmas plans his family are making and all I can say is if we can keep Auntie Bren awake long enough after the turkey dinner, we might have a game of Monopoly.’
‘OK,’ Orla said. ‘So, you tell me about Burim. What are his Christmas plans?’
‘You want to know about Burim?’
‘I’ve always wanted to know, Erin. Yes, perhaps, when Mum first mentioned you were talking to someone I was suspicious, in a big sister kind of way but now, well, if someone is making my sister smile then I want to know all about him.’
‘And you’re not going to judge?’
‘Of course not. I promise.’
She was holding her breath. Because she knew this was important to Erin and, perhaps, with everything up in the air back in the UK, maybe this situationship was something that could ground her sister while Orla helped work things out with her parents. Was she really thinking that? Because Henry might have been the one freshest in her memory but Craig, Joe and Salvatore had all done their best to convince her that men were an untrustworthy species whose priorities were as screwed as the Conservative party’s opinion on trans rights…
‘He says he loves me,’ Erin blurted out. ‘And I want to believe him.’
‘O-K.’
Whatever Erin said, she had to remain calm. Her sister was opening a portal into her feelings and that deserved respect before personal opinion. Exactly the same way she respected the traditions of all the people she interviewed and reported on.
‘And he wants to be a boxer. In the Olympics. And then to turn professional and be rich.’
‘O-K.’
‘Are you going to say anything other than “OK”?’
‘I think so,’ Orla said. ‘Keep going.’
‘He loves his family… and his cats… and he likes old hip-hop songs and he has a record player. He drives but his dad’s Mercedes is really old and keeps breaking down. He goes to the gym and he doesn’t drink alcohol and his favourite football team is Man United.’
‘O-K… sorry, I mean, wow, can we get him to change from Man United? Get him giving Chelsea a look?’ Orla suggested.
‘And,’ Erin began but paused. ‘He’s… Albanian.’
‘Oh,’ Orla said before she had thought about it.
‘Now I want you to say OK,’ Erin said, annoyance in her tone.
‘Albanian,’ Orla repeated. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Orla! Of course I’m sure! He lives in Albania with his Albanian parents.’
‘OK, it’s just… well, they don’t have the best reputation for being…’ How could she put this? There was only one word for it. ‘Loyal.’
‘I’m aware. Believe me, I’m served the “save her from the Albanian boy” TikToks on an hourly basis,’ Erin replied, folding her arms across her chest and looking defensive. ‘But you’ve always told me that we take people at face value. That we form our own opinions based on people’s actions with us.’
She had said that. Many times when Erin was growing up. Instilling into her sister that you always looked for the good in people before anything else. That was the whole basis of her reporting. The feel-good stories, communities with different ways of doing things that we can all learn from. And her sister had remembered that… and was now using it to her advantage. She went to make comment.
‘Orla, I know that Craig was a shit to you. I also know that Salvatore was punching big time and, by the way, he does not have a villa in Portugal. But Henry… I think he really liked you and I think that’s why you stopped replying to him. Because it scared you.’
‘What?’ Orla gasped, putting her coffee cup down before she dropped it. She had no idea what her sister was talking about and… how did she know about Salvatore’s villa in Portugal? Or, apparently, his lack of a villa in Portugal!
‘You stopped messaging him back. It was quite a sad ending to something I thought had potential,’ Erin said, unfolding her arms again.
‘I didn’t stop messaging Henry,’ Orla said. Except her words were coming out stilted as if they couldn’t commit to escaping from her mouth.
‘Six messages he sent you over a period of three weeks and then you sent him one really bland effort when you got back from one of your African trips.’
‘And he never replied.’
‘Do you blame him? The guy was reaching out for weeks and getting nothing back. What’s he supposed to do? Keep hanging in there?’
Orla’s throat was dry. Was this true? Had she ghosted Henry and not the other way around? Suddenly the coffee was tasting sour.
‘So I know you know what situationships are, Orla. But I think you’ve been making your own rules.’
She didn’t know what to say. Her heart was beating hard, her head feeling a bit muzzy. Was this a newsflash? Or, deep down, did she know it was her avoiding commitment and not the guys in her DMs?
‘OK, say something,’ Erin urged, leaning forward and inspecting Orla like she had turned to stone. ‘I thought you would… come at me with excuses or… have a go about me reading your messages or… be pissed about me kinda stalking your ex like Joe Goldberg.’
Her brain was firing around all kinds of scenarios now. Had she avoided a real relationship in favour of something she could manage around her work? Not really getting invested. Leading people on? Were there guys out there sad over the way she had treated them? Yes, she had always been the career girl, the girl who wasn’t in the same country longer than a few weeks, but she was also the girl who cared. Caring for others was what she did. Her stories were proof of that. Her need to protect the family unit was undisputed evidence. But what Erin had just suggested was starting to loom large and grow roots.
‘Orla! Speak!’
She opened her mouth and there was only one sentence that came out.
‘Jacques has asked me on a date.’