25
The Kellaways are heading out for the day. They seem to be enjoying their stay. Kate told me at breakfast that she appreciated the turn-down service I didn’t recall administering.
‘The chocolate truffles on the pillow were heaven, isn’t that right, girls?’
One of the teenagers looked up from her phone and said, ‘Yep’. I was bowled over by this endorsement of their experience.
As soon as they leave, I grab my purse and pocket English-French dictionary, and head to the tabac for a newspaper. I’m confident I’ve re-familiarised myself with the rudiments of French conversation and am ready to take things to the next level. I find a table outside Chez Colette, order a citron pressé and get stuck into reading. Thirty minutes later, I haven’t got beyond an article on doctors’ unions suspending negotiations with health insurance companies. It’s not exactly riveting read ing, but you never know when such knowledge will come in handy. Like a sixth sense, I feel Jack’s eyes on me. I look up and see him walking in my direction, Sabrina on his arm. She looks less formidable than usual, dark sunglasses on, her hair tied back in a loose bun.
‘Hey guys,’ I say. ‘Good night, Sabrina?’
She groans. ‘ J’ai la gueule de bois. ’ Literal translation: ‘I have a mouth of wood,’ which is a spot-on description of a hangover in my book.
I can’t think of the French for, ‘You were fairly tearing into the sauce last night’, so I ask her what she makes of doctors’ unions suspending negotiations with health insurance companies. ‘If the government persists, it will surely lead to a health catastrophe!’ I say, parroting a quote in the article from the union head. I throw my hands in the air despairingly for added French-ness.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ asks Jack.
‘Never better. What are you guys up to?’
‘Sabrina’s here to meet a friend. I ran into her en route.’
‘I’ll see you two later,’ Sabrina says, giving Jack la bise and walking over to a ruggedly handsome man at the bar. He looks older than Jack and me, younger than Sabrina. He kisses her hand and produces a sunflower from behind his back. Sabrina smiles coquettishly.
My eyes widen. ‘Way to go, Sabrina!’
‘One of many suitors, I believe,’ says Jack. ‘Sabrina Rousseau has a more active love life than I do.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I scoff. ‘Exactly how many women have you been associated with in the past six months?’
‘Don’t believe everything you read. May I?’ He gestures at the vacant seat beside me.
‘Go ahead. I need to get back soon, but will stay for another. Thanks again for last night, by the way. I owe you one.’
‘The food wasn’t bad, was it? The tarte tatin was a little smokier than I’d intended. I think we pulled it off, though.’
He shoots me a mischievous side glance.
‘It wasn’t just the food. Did you leave chocolates on the pillows?’ I ask.
‘It’s the small details that count, Murphy.’
‘Well, I appreciate it. Kate Kellaway was certainly impressed. She was disappointed not to see you at breakfast.’
‘I decided to extend my run this morning lest I was forced to witness her trying to corral her daughters into another attempt to go viral on TikTok.’
‘Jesus. I didn’t see that. Was it painful?’
‘I particularly enjoyed the moment she hip-swayed over to them while lip-synching the lyric, I might pull up flexing on these niggas like aerobics .’
I wince. I still haven’t a notion what the deal with TikTok is. Yiv once showed me a video of a girl eating fish and chips to a Pharrell Williams song. It had been viewed twenty-five million times. Sometimes, I wonder if we’ve peaked as a species.
The waiter arrives to take Jack’s order, grabbing his hand and pulling him in for a bro hug, which Jack executes with greater smoothness than I’d have given him credit for. Jack asks for a coffee and inquires after the man’s new baby, bantering with him in perfect French. ‘Wait a second, I thought you couldn’t speak French?’ I say, when the waiter leaves.‘When did I say I couldn’t speak French?’
‘Eh, when I picked you up from the airport and you made me file your lost luggage claim?’
‘I believe I said, “My French isn’t up to much”, which it wasn’t at the time. A hangover and a two-hour Ryanair flight tends to dull one’s linguistic adroitness.’
‘You’re unbelievable,’ I say.
‘Why, thank you,’ he grins.
A family walk past, a boy around Ari’s age perched on his dad’s shoulders. He makes a funny face at Jack, who reciprocates by pulling on his earlobes and sticking his tongue out. The boy laughs.
‘You know a fair bit about climate change,’ I say.
‘I’m a global ambassador for WWF and a climate advocate for the UN. It would be embarrassing if I didn’t have a basic handle on the subject.’
He registers the look of surprise on my face.
‘Doesn’t tally with the box you’ve put me in, does it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My opinion on one thing doesn’t dictate how I feel about another, Fiadh.’
It’s the first time he’s addressed me by my first name, and I can feel every nerve in my body respond.
‘Well, if I’m being honest, eco warrior isn’t exactly on brand for Jack “Our Man in a Mad World” Hamilton.’
The waiter arrives with Jack’s coffee. He opens the wrapper on the accompanying spiced biscuit and breaks it in two, handing me half.
‘I did my undergraduate degree in geography,’ he says, dipping his half into his espresso. ‘I ’ m a science guy, and the science on the fallout from the burning of fossil fuels is definitive. Likewise, on the necessity of wearing masks and social distancing during a pandemic. I realise we live in a world where every viewpoint needs to say something about your politics and identity, but I don’t subscribe to that. I can believe in small government and give a shit about polar bears.’
‘Fair point,’ I admit. ‘But tell me, if you’re so level-headed, why do you behave like such a gobshite on TV? Ranting and raving over the smallest of things.’
He looks chastened. ‘I know how I can come across sometimes.’
‘Sometimes?’
I sit back in my chair, folding my arms.
‘Okay, a lot of the time,’ he says. ‘It’s not like I set out to become Britain’s most divisive figure. Believe it or not, I went into journalism because I genuinely wanted to do some good in the world. I don’t know what happened. Whether I believe what I’m saying half the time or if it’s all just an act. To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m still there. I should have left years ago.’
I’m taken aback by the admission, unsure how to respond. Jack, on the other hand, looks visibly lightened at having unburdened himself.
‘You’re in it for the money,’ I tease, trying to ease us back to more familiar territory – insults and wilful misunderstandings.
Jack smiles resignedly. ‘It certainly helps with Max’s tuition fees. I also have expensive taste in shampoo.’
He stares at me knowingly and I feel a wave of panic wash over me. Does he know I’ve been rooting through his things?
Before I can think up a reply, I catch Doctor Bourdariat out of the corner of my eye. He’s approaching our table, wearing a French rugby t-shirt and tiny shorts.
‘ Madame Murphy, bonjour ,’ he says, flashing that kilowatt smile of his.
I can’t help blushing. He reminds me of yer man in that show everyone’s talking about – Emily in Paris , I think it’s called. I switched it off after noting a dozen cliches in as many minutes, but there’s no doubt that Gabriel guy is phenomenally good-looking.
‘Hi, Doctor Bourdariat,’ I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my left ear.
Jack tilts his head to one side, a quizzical expression on his face.
‘Please, Vincent,’ says Doctor Bourdariat, in English. ‘How are you feeling now? You look good. Healthy.’
Jack pulls a face. Could he be jealous? Of course not. Though it’s clear he isn’t digging this interaction.
‘Much better, thanks,’ I say, equally mortified by the attention and relishing Jack’s discomfort. ‘Vincent, this is my, er, friend, Jack Hamilton.’
I steal a glance at Jack to gauge his reaction. It’s the first time I’ve attempted to define our relationship status. I’m the last person to have expected to strike up an affinity with Jack Hamilton, and I’m not sure ‘friend’ is quite the right word for whatever’s going on between us. But if not friends, what is this? What are we doing here?
‘Nice to meet you,’ says Vincent, shaking Jack’s hand.
‘A pleasure,’ says Jack, who might want to consider communicating this sentiment to his face.
‘I’m just on my way to rugby training,’ says Vincent.
‘You play for a local team?’ asks Jack.
‘No, in fact I play semi-professionally for Stade Toulousain.’
Jack’s face darkens.
‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Jack. Madame Murphy, see you around.’
Vincent Bourdariat walks off, taking all the light with him. Literally. A cloud is blocking out the sun.
‘He’s into you,’ Jack says.
‘Oh please. He’s just being friendly. Anyway, what were we talking about? You were agreeing you were a gobshite?’
‘I said no such thing. What about you, Murphy?’ he says.
‘What about me?’
‘You used to work for The Irish Chronicle , right?’
‘How did you know that? Have you been googling me, Jack?’ I try to disguise my pleasure at the information.
‘I needed to make sure I wasn’t staying with a psychopath. You don’t have much of an online presence for someone with an infamous father.’
‘That’s precisely why I don’t have an online presence.’
‘I came across the piece you wrote on the McCormack cartel,’ he says.
‘Oh really?’ I say, feigning indifference.
Before I was transferred to the production desk, I convinced my boss Paul to give me a shot at reporting on an emerging organised crime syndicate in Dublin. The family-run group, which started out peddling drugs to inner-city kids, has become a multimillion dollar criminal network. Under the wing of an experienced investigative reporter, I spent months researching the gang and conducting off-the-record interviews. The published article made the front page and led to a number of arrests.
‘I thought it was excellent,’ says Jack. ‘Probing, full of insight. You clearly have a knack for reporting.’
I blush, rattled by the realisation that Jack’s opinion matters. More than it should. I look down at my empty glass and swirl my straw around the half-melted ice cubes.
‘I had a knack for it,’ I say, correcting him. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘So what happened? Why did you stop?’
‘After the financial crash, when everything kicked off with Dad, my boss thought it would be good for me to stay under the radar for a while. I guess I could have gone back to reporting if I’d asked. I don’t know … I think I felt I’d be too exposed or something. Didn’t want to be judged for the sins of the father, you know?’
‘You wouldn’t want to give journalism another shot?’
‘I think that ship has sailed,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to figure out my next move. Who knows? Maybe I’ll win the lottery and buy a guesthouse of my own, stay here forever.’
‘There are worse things I can think of.’
Jack runs a finger around the sides of his cup, licking it clean. A small blob of dissolved sugar clings to the corner of his mouth and I’m struck by an overwhelming urge to lean across the table and kiss it off. I wonder if he senses this, because he’s smiling now, looking at me with such intensity, like I’m the most interesting person in the world, like he could sit here forever, that I feel every part of me wake up, dead cells regenerating (if that’s even biologically possible). I feel hopeful .
I straighten in my chair, folding my paper napkin into a neat triangle.
‘Yeah, well, even if I wanted to stay, the guesthouse isn’t for sale. Besides, everything looks great in the summer, when it’s all rosé and perfect sunsets. But these moments don’t last, do they? They’re not real life. Sooner or later, you have to go home. Face reality.’
I’m startled by the brusqueness of my tone. Jack’s face falls .
‘Yes,’ he says flatly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
He calls for the bill.