8
Told you he was a massive … Yiv inserts the aubergine emoji.
No shit , I type back. I just didn’t realise to what extent – confounded face emoji.
I unscrew the cover of the plug connected to the toaster while Yiv is typing . I filled her in on what Jack had said about Ari. She told me if she wasn’t on a work trip, she’d be on the first plane out to Cordes. If he thinks The Shining is scary, he should check out Asian horror. She’ll go full Grudge on his ass. (I remind her that The Grudge is a Japanese film, not Chinese. Yiv says there’s no distinction between the two to an ignoramus like Jack Hamilton.)
You need to boot his arse out on the streets. NOW.
I place the main wire in the plug and thread the individual wires into place.
Can’t , I type back. Need the – dollar emoji.
But what about the TV show? He’s going to make you look like an absolute idiot.
Not necessarily. He might fall for the place and we come out of this thing looking like The Ritz?
I add the hands-in-prayer emoji and hit ‘send’.
Hysterical-laughter emoji. Fiadh, have you seen his previous stuff?
Regrettably, I was now familiar with Jack Hamilton’s complete broadcasting oeuvre. After overhearing him on the phone to his agent the other day, I went online and found a similar travel series he’d filmed in Ireland a few years back. It was as unimaginative and ill-informed as I had feared – a series of interviews and monologues (mainly monologues – Jack is fond of those) presenting Ireland as a rural backwater to Britain, its natives perma-drunk simpletons. Archive shots of kids riding bareback through poverty-stricken streets were favoured over the reality of modern Ireland – hard facts, like the country being one of the most successful tech economies in the world.
Despite the sneering tone, Jack had taken a shine to certain characters, including an affable B&B owner who emerged as the unlikely star of the entire series. In a subsequent article, the man credited Jack with putting his flailing guesthouse on the map. He hasn’t had a night off since. As much as it pains me, my only option is to stick out the two weeks and mount a full-scale charm offensive to persuade Jack to paint La Maison Bleue in a favourable light.
~
The Saturday market is busier than usual, a busload of French tourists stocking up on local cheese and handmade soaps. I wave at Leonard, who’s giving his friend a hand selling his hammocks, keeping my other eye on Ari, on the carousel. Myriam is with him, but I’m not sure I trust her yet with Ari. She’s constantly distracted by her phone. Also, I don’t know the girl. She seems harmless, but so did Vladimir Putin, and look how that turned out.
At the fruit and vegetable stall, I pop ten peaches into a paper bag and grab a watermelon from the front row.
‘That’s not ripe,’ says a voice from out of nowhere.
I turn round. Jack is standing behind me, wearing sunglasses the colour of Vantablack and eating an apple.
‘How do you know it’s not ripe?’ I say.
‘The field spot on the underside is white. A ripe melon should have a creamy yellow ground spot along its belly.’
‘It looks fine to me,’ I say. I don’t know the first thing about melon ripeness, but I’m reluctant to give Jack the win.
‘Give it a thump.’
‘Huh?’
‘On the rind. If the sound is deep and hollow, like a knock on the door, it’s good to eat.’
What is this guy – the watermelon whisperer? Sceptically, I tap on the skin with my knuckles. The sound comes back high-pitched, like a ring.
‘See? It’s not ready. Try the one behind it.’
He takes a satisfied bite of his apple. I could ignore him and buy the melon I’m already holding, but I don’t want to seem churlish. He waits while I pay and follows me to the next stall.
‘Have you been in hospitality long?’ he says, as I ask the marchand to bag up a selection of fresh ravioli.
‘A while,’ I reply. It’s best to keep things vague. I don’t want Jack googling me and discovering this is very much my first rodeo.
‘What about you? Have you done many travel documentaries?’ I ask, feigning ignorance.
‘A couple. I did a thing on Ireland a few years ago, but I suspect you already knew that.’
I can’t tell if he’s looking straight at me – the lenses on his glasses are too dark – though I feel exposed. I’ve known the man all of five days and already he has an unnerving habit of appearing to read my thoughts, like he can see through me.
‘Come to think of it, my friend Yiv may have mentioned something. So, what are your plans for this series?’
The man behind the counter hands me the ravioli, which Jack takes off him while I search through my bag for my purse.
‘Plans?’ he says.
‘I mean, what’s the tone of the show? And how do you go about choosing which properties to feature?’
It’s a warning shot. I’m letting Jack know that I have the upper hand here. If it’s Fawlty Towers and a hapless manager he’s after, he’ll have to find them elsewhere.
‘Both are up for negotiation. I don ’ t have a set agenda. I like to be surprised.’
I’d say this guy came out of the birth canal with an agenda, but I bite my tongue. We move on to the fish stall, Jack lingering beside me like the smell of rotting mackerel. Why is he still here?
‘ Madame ,’ says a man in a white apron. ‘ Dites-moi. ’
‘What’s that one?’ I ask, pointing to a piece of white fish.
‘Colin.’
I scrunch my nose, not quite getting him.
‘No, I mean it’s name . What type of fish is it? Qu’est-ce que c’est le nom de la poisson? ’
The man stares at me blankly.
‘Colin,’ he repeats.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, more to myself than to Jack. ‘Why would he name the fish? Was it a pet?’
‘Colin is French for “hake”,’ says Jack, amused.
‘Ah right, of course. I’d forgotten that,’ I say, my cheeks starting to burn.
Great. The man who doesn’t speak French is giving me a vocabulary lesson. First the watermelon, and now this. I’m not doing a good job of convincing Jack of my competence, but right now I don’t feel much like convincing him of anything.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I say, turning to him.
‘Sure.’
‘If you’re a journalist, why don’t you ever dig beneath the surface? What’s with all the lazy stereotyping? It’s like you go in with your mind made up, the story already written.’
‘So you have seen my work.’
He says ‘work’ with a certain weightiness, like he’s Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein, capable of toppling governments with his investigative reporting.
‘All of Ireland saw it. And honestly? If we could zap it from our collective memory, we would.’
Jack takes a last bite of his apple and tosses the core in the bin beside us.
‘I’m in breakfast TV,’ he says neutrally. ‘I’m not an historian.’
‘So entertainment comes at the cost of the truth?’
I glare at him, hand on hip. It’s infuriating I can’t see his eyes, though I imagine they’re giving off some seriously imperious energy. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a woman nudging a middle-aged man and whispering in his ear. The man’s eyes widen as she points at Jack. He strides over to us, taking his phone out of his back pocket.
‘Is it really you?’ he says, slapping Jack on the back. ‘The missus said, “That’s Jack Hamilton,” but she’s blind as a bat. Left her glasses in the hotel room, didn’t she? She was right, though. For once. Wait til the lads down the pub hear about this. You don’t mind if I take a selfie, do you, mate?’
He puts an arm around Jack’s shoulder and extends his other arm towards the sky, pointing his phone down at the pair of them.
‘Actually, I do mind,’ says Jack coldly, removing the man’s arm. ‘I don’t do selfies. If you’d like an autograph, I’m happy to oblige.’
‘Ah, come on, mate. What use is an autograph? Everyone will think I wrote it meself. Just one quick piccie.’
He extends his arm again. Jack removes it with greater force this time. The man looks stunned as Jack turns his back to us and walks in the direction of the guesthouse without saying goodbye. The man’s wife appears at his side, lips puckered, and we watch as Jack disappears into the crowd.
‘Told you he was a dickhead,’ she says.