23
Our first guests arrive this weekend. (Well, except for Jack, who doesn’t really count. Increasingly, he’s becoming more of a fixture at La Maison Bleue. I’m not sure how I feel about that.) It’s a family from London. They’re taking the Eurotunnel and driving down to Cannes, where I’m told they have a pied-à-terre overlooking the Mediterranean. En route, they plan to stop at several family-run establishments for some ‘local charm’.
I assured Kate Kellaway, the mother, during our lengthy email exchange, that we would do our very best to ensure their stay is as comfortable as possible. Given the current state of the guesthouse, this will be some feat. La Maison Bleue is certainly in better shape than it was when we arrived two months ago. Between Leonard, Myriam and myself, we’ve got rid of the mould, sorted most of the plumbing issues and spruced up the rooms with a fresh coat of paint. I framed some vintage posters I found in a brocante in town for the guest rooms and filled jugs and vases with flowers from outside. The Ritz it ain’t, but there’s an undeniable romance to the place. Even the garden, which looks like it hasn’t been touched by human hands since the dawn of civilisation, has a rugged charm about it. Not the kind of charm I’m guessing Mrs Kellaway has in mind, so I need to get on it before Saturday.
I haul myself out of bed just before sunrise and lug a bottle of industrial-strength weed killer and an assortment of gardening utensils from the utility room to the terrace. I’m surprised to find Leonard on his knees, weeding the potager. I’m growing used to unexpected drop-ins. Still, a pre-dawn visit is unusual, even for Leonard.
‘Morning, Miss Fiadh,’ he smiles, standing to greet me with an impressive agility for a man of his age. He reaches for a flask on the table next to him and pours steaming liquid into a stainless steel cup. ‘Tea?’
‘Hey, Len. Thanks.’ I take the cup from him, energised by the smell of cinnamon and fennel. ‘What are you doing here at this time of the morning?’
‘Know you’ve got guests arriving in a few days and thought you might need some help.’
‘Ah, you’re so good, but I can’t afford you for this job.’
‘I’ll take half a dozen eggs and some of those mirabelles,’ he says, nodding to the plum tree. ‘Deal?’
My first instinct is to reject his offer. It’s incredibly kind of Leonard, but I’m used to doing things on my own, relying on no one but myself. Before I can protest, he extends a leathery hand.
‘Deal?’ he says, with greater emphasis this time, a determined glint in his eye.
I know better than to argue.
‘Deal,’ I say, as we shake on it. ‘Thank you, Leonard. You’re a legend. So, where do we start? Weeding, then onto the hedges?’
‘We start by taking a moment to watch the sun rise. Sit your hiney down.’
‘But there’s so much to get through …’
Leonard ambles over to the bench and, dutifully, I follow. We sit in silence for several moments, Leonard revelling in the dawning of a new day, me fixating on patches of white paint peeling off the wood beneath us. I’ll have to sand the whole thing down.
‘It’s always been my favourite time, first thing before anyone else is up,’ he says, holding his mug under his nose and inhaling deeply. ‘You never know what the day is going to bring. It’s so full of possibility.’
‘Have you always been this appreciative?’
‘Not always, no. It takes practice. And weed.’
‘Are you high now?’
‘Only on Mother Nature, though if it’s a herbal lift you’re after, that can be arranged. You know Marc Cavailles up on Rue Saint-Louis? He’s taken to growing the stuff since his wife left him. She used to complain her husband didn’t have any hobbies. She should see him now. The guy supplies Mary Jane for half the region.’
I laugh. You ’ ll never be starved for gossip with Leonard around. It strikes me as an opportune moment to capitalise on his knowledge of Cordes’ comings and goings.
‘So, umm, I was in Utopie the other day and I saw a woman behind the counter with Sabrina. Do you know who she is, by any chance? She had blonde hair. Early forties. Very pretty.’
I casually examine my nails, attempting to play it nonchalant.
‘Chloe?’ says Leonard. ‘That’s Sabrina’s niece. She’s here with her son, Theo. Had a bad split from his dad, I believe. They’re staying with Sabrina for a while until they’re back on their feet.’
I want to know more, but I’m not sure how much I can ask without giving the game away. I like Leonard. There’s no judgement with him. He seems entirely at ease in his well-worn skin. Not a hint of ego or entitlement. This, in my experience, is a rare thing in a white man over forty. That said, I don’t trust him not to try and play matchmaker if he gets a whiff of my being into Jack. I’m not sure what’s going on with me. I feel like Jack is messing with my head. Drawing pictures with Ari, offering to cook the other night. The nice guy routine is almost convincing. The thing is, I know Jack Hamilton. He’s the man who wore leather trousers to work for a week in protest against a British burger chain launching a vegan steak. My recent attraction to him is clearly the result of some kind of hormonal meltdown, my vagina’s last gasp for relevance as it inches towards decrepitude.
‘Hey, look,’ Leonard whispers, nudging me with his elbow.
He tilts his chin at an ant crawling across the armrest of the bench, a considerable-sized crumb of bread on its back.
‘Did you know an ant can carry fifty times its own body weight? They can transport even bigger objects when they work together. Isn’t it amazing what something that small can achieve?’
I smile.
‘What?’ Leonard says.
‘Nothing. I enjoy your company is all. You don’t see much of what you’ve got these days.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Being happy with your lot. Trying to do right by others. Generally not being an arsehole.’
‘Ah there’s plenty of it around. You just need to seek it out.’
‘Well, I’d love to know where you find it. Do you ever feel like the world has gone off its hinges? There’s no good news anymore. You know that little girl who fell down the well? She died. All those people and they couldn’t save her. She was down there on her own for five days. She must have been so scared. I don’t know. It feels like humanity’s been on a losing streak forever and I can’t see things getting any better.’
Leonard rests his arm on the back of the bench and looks at me attentively.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure if I’m talking about the world or myself.’
He stretches his feet out in front of him, crossing his ankles.
‘My man, Leonard Cohen, he wrote a couple of novels. Did you know that? I wouldn’t recommend reading them. He was a genius, but the novel wasn’t his form. Anyway, his second book, I can’t remember what it was about – it was a commercial flop. It was the title that got me. Beautiful Losers . It resonated, you know? Seemed to me to sum up the human experience. We’re all losers when you think about it. We lose all the time. Jobs, lovers, status …’
‘Waistlines. Hairlines,’ I quip.
‘Why do you think I wear this baby all the time,’ he says, lifting his trilby to reveal a thinning grey crown. ‘We’re losing the natural world and the fight against climate change. We lose the people we love. Sooner or later, we lose this game called life. And all of these losses, don’t get me wrong, they’re a sucker punch to the chest. But then you have to decide – what kind of loser am I gonna be? That’s where it gets interesting.
‘It’s a goddam tragedy what happened to that kid, but you know what I took from that story? All those people coming together, working around the clock to save her, knowing their efforts would most likely end in failure. I thought, man, isn’t it a beautiful thing, the love we’re capable of showing when we’re not trying to tear everything apart.’
I want to say it’s a lovey sentiment. To tell Leonard I felt the same once. That I looked at the world and saw what he saw. That I want so badly to feel that hope again.
‘But if you can’t change anything for the better, why bother?’ I say. ‘What’s the point in being a beautiful loser?’
Leonard furrows his salt-and-pepper brows and turns to face me.
‘Look, I lived in Arizona for a while. One summer, there was a drought. Real bad. All the lakes dried right up, there were fires everywhere. It was a shit show. The authorities imposed a hosepipe ban. Now, you had these assholes who didn’t observe it. You’d drive past their lawns and they were green as pop rocks candy. And you know, I’m there turning off the tap when I’m brushing my teeth, thinking what’s the point? Me turning off the tap doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to the drought, not when you’ve neighbours who won’t play their part. And then it hit me. It didn’t matter if it made a difference or not. There was only one question I needed to ask myself. Did I want to be the kind of person who cares about their community or did I not want to be that person? Easy decision. I turned the water off.
‘You gonna lose, kid. Many times. There’s no surer thing in the world. The best thing you can do is to ask yourself what kind of person you want to be and figure out what matters most to you. Then fight like hell for it. Are you gonna save the world? Probably not. Can you help me make this garden beautiful, help some local wildlife to thrive? Yes, you can. Now, are we doing this or what?’
Leonard screws the lid back on the flask and makes to stand. I put my hand on his arm.
‘In a minute,’ I say. ‘Let’s watch the sunrise a bit longer. ’