30
‘We are going out,’ says Myriam.
She’s leaning against the doorway of the utility room, hollowing out a passionfruit with a teaspoon. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Myriam without something edible in her hand. It reminds me of a YouTube compilation I watched during a slow day at work: ‘Fifteen Minutes of Brad Pitt Eating’. It led me to an article examining why Pitt is always masticating in his movies, and speculated as to the reason we find this so absorbing. Various ‘experts’ chimed in with their theories. One said watching Pitt eat triggers our autonomous sensory meridian response, a pleasurable sensation you get from certain stimuli. Another reckoned Pitt’s humanity is more visible if he’s doing something we all do. I think we just like watching hot people put things in their mouths.
‘Sounds good,’ I say, folding a pair of Ari’s underpants. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Domaine Gayrard. It’s a vineyard not far from here. They’re doing jazz and aperitifs this evening.’
‘Excellent plan. Let me finish this and I’ll grab my keys.’
‘I’ll drive.’ She looks me up and down. ‘You should change.’
‘What’s wrong with this?’ I say.
Myriam throws me a withering look and departs. It’s the second time this week a French woman has deemed my outfit unfit for public consumption. I shrug and continue with my folding as Ari runs into the room.
‘Hey Mummy, Myriam says you need to look like an actual woman tonight and that I have to help you get dressed. Let’s go!’
Upstairs, after trying on several outfits at Ari’s insistence, we settle on a maxi-length, forest-green dress that scoops down low at the back. I bought it new to celebrate the launch of Cillian’s first book, but felt too exposed to wear it in the end, like it might attract too much attention or something. Cillian agreed. I slip a gold cuff over my wrist and examine myself in the mirror. The dress is tighter than it was when I got it and yet, I feel good, attractive – even by French women standards.
‘You look beautiful, Mummy,’ Ari beams, slipping his tiny hand into mine.
‘Thank you, baby,’ I say, bending down to hug him.
I hear the sound of tyres on the gravel outside and lean out the open window. The Parisian couple who own the house next door are climbing out of their car. My heart sinks. I thought it might have been Jack. It’s been two days since I temporarily took leave of my senses and had the audacity to think Jack Hamilton and I, under the spell of nineties nostalgia, were actually going to score against a car like a couple of teenagers. The man has been avoiding me ever since. There was a strange vibe at breakfast yesterday. He was being all formal and excessively polite. He complimented my cooking even though I’d mistakenly added cayenne pepper instead of cinnamon to the homemade granola. Later, he said something about taking Sabrina’s great-nephew out for a driving lesson and that he wouldn’t be back til late, so not to count him in for dinner.
I don’t know why I’m obsessing like this. Jack’s due to head back to the UK in two weeks. Back to his life as a highly paid TV personality and I’m … I don’t know where I’m heading.
Before Cillian, I had two relationships, both short-term. The first guy referred to his penis as his ‘ apparatus’ and had a habit of saying ‘good girl’ in a thick Cavan accent during sex, building up the intensity of the commentary, like a horse-racing pundit, and finishing with a slap on my arse, as though he’d just secured a great deal at a heifer auction. The other one sold health insurance at a call centre and didn’t drink. He insisted he didn’t need alcohol, that he was ‘tremendous craic’ in his abstemious form. Not to be a substance pusher, as I do see the merits of sobriety, but if anyone needed alcohol, it was this guy.
I watched a David Attenborough documentary not long ago about a recent discovery rocking the natural world. Apparently, scientists have unearthed a complex underground network of roots, fungi and bacteria beneath every forest that helps connect trees and plants to one another. They call it the Wood Wide Web. Since forever, the assumption was that fungi were harmful to plants, the cause of disease and dysfunction. Turns out, some fungi exist in symbiosis with other living things, combining with roots to join individual trees together, allowing them to distribute essential resources between one another.
With Cillian, I never felt that connection, that what was good for one of us was good for the other. That our mutual survival depended on the thriving of both parties. Lately – and this is going to sound crazy, I know – when I’m around Jack, I feel unravelled and unhinged, yes, but I also feel that mutual thriving, that maybe we’re better than the sum of our parts. And madder still – I think he might feel it too.
Myriam agrees to let me drive, at least on the outward journey. (I’ve seen her behind the wheel. She views speed limits more as a suggestion than legal requirement.) The air is stifling as we cruise past vineyards and fields of burnt corn. Myriam is more loquacious than usual, telling me about her plans post-university. She’s been offered an internship at a corporate law firm in Paris.
‘You seem surprised,’ she says, rolling down her window and resting an elbow on the frame.
‘I suppose I am,’ I reply. It’s quite a conventional path is all. I had you pegged as an activist, like Greta Thunberg.’
‘Greta Thunberg has to sleep on her friends’ sofas because she gets death threats sent to her family home. I admire her principles, but I want a normal life, whatever normal will look like in ten years’ time. I’m not sure if you realise this, but the French aren’t exactly queuing up to give Algerians well-paid jobs. You’ve seen how middle-class white people are treated when they take to the streets. If someone like me joined Extinction Rebellion, I’d be on a terrorist watchlist. And you know, I want things for myself. I want to travel and eat in nice restaurants, and I don’t want to feel ashamed for wanting those things.’
It’s a sobering take on the world. A realism I certainly didn’t possess at Myriam’s age. When I left college, I didn’t see the obstacles, only opportunities. I guess it’s easy to be idealistic when you come of age in one of the most peaceful and economically prosperous periods in history.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Myriam continues. ‘I won’t be staying in Marseilles after I graduate. I’m getting as far away from the place as possible.’
‘Why? What happened in Marseilles?’ I say, changing gears.
‘What else? A man. He is, how you guys like to say, a “fuck boy”. He broke things off with me then slept with my supposed best friend. Now that I’m here, he calls me all the time.’
‘So that’s what’s been bothering you? That’s what all those phone calls were about?’
I start to laugh.
‘What?’ says Myriam.
‘I thought …’ I stop myself. I can’t imagine she’d see the funny side of I thought you were on the run from the police after kidnapping a VIP
‘I, eh, thought you were upset about the state of the world. Inequality, social injustice, that sort of thing.’
I cringe inwardly at how pathetic I sound.
Myriam looks at me, narrowing her eyes. ‘Of course I’m upset about the state of the world. I’m also upset when someone I love breaks my heart. Isn’t that why we’re all here? To connect? Isn’t interaction what shapes reality? If we can’t get that right, what’s the point in trying to save the world?’
She exhales loudly, agitated, and leans her head out the window.
‘You probably think I’m making no sense. This is fine for me. Old people do it all the time – destroy the world then tell us we’re the ones who need to lighten up.’
I glance across at Myriam, take in her young, unblemished skin, her air of total self-possession.
‘You make perfect sense,’ I say.
~
We pull up at the vineyard and park in a packed field, following a group along a dirt path towards a stall selling tickets. As I reach into my bag for my purse, Myriam beats me to it. I object and try to snatch the twenty-euro note from her. She bats my hand away. You’re a student, I scold. Don’t worry, it’s not me covering it, she says, mysteriously. We walk through the entrance, towards a beautiful stone farmhouse with red shutters on the windows. String lights hang across a terrace laid with long tables and fold-up chairs. The dining arrangements extend to the gardens beyond, which overlook rows of vines, glowing pink and gold in the evening sun. Myriam scans the crowd and takes out her phone. A man in a Panama hat walks past with a plate of charcuterie and a bottle of wine.
‘This way,’ says Myriam, putting her phone away and leading me and Ari through the crowds, past stalls selling local produce and a makeshift bar. We turn a corner, arriving at a quieter spot in the shade. I see Sabrina first, talking to the boy I saw at Utopie. He must be her great-nephew, Theo. Leonard is sitting beside her, engaged in animated conversation with Theo’s mum. The table is set with plates of olives and cheese, cured meats and a couple of bottles of wine. In the centre is a huge chocolate tart and a bowl of strawberries. I see Jack out of the corner of my eye, standing with his back to me, taking in the view of the countryside beyond the vines. He turns round and I feel a thrill of excitement as he approaches, looking unbearably handsome in cream trousers and a crumpled white linen shirt.
‘What’s all this?’ I say, as Jack lifts a bottle of wine from the table and pours me a glass.
‘Happy birthday,’ he says. His hair is brushed back off his face and I’m struck by the elegance of his forehead.
‘You planned all this?’ I say, unable to hide my pleasure.
‘I spent my fortieth birthday with a bunch of sycophantic media types and B-list celebrities. Helen decided to throw me a surprise party after OK! magazine dangled the idea – and a significant paycheque, I might add – in front of her.’
I laugh, accepting the glass of wine.
‘Really, you’re just an excuse for me to have the celebration I actually wanted. It’s incredibly selfish of me, when you think about it,’ he says.
I catch Sabrina’s eye. She nods at my outfit in approval and raises her glass.
‘Mummy, mummy!’ Ari tugs at my dress. ‘Lyna from school is here. Can we go play?’
He’s holding hands with a girl in a lemon-coloured smock dress.
‘Sure, baby. Where are Lyna’s parents?’
‘Over there.’ He points at a couple I recognise from the school gates. The mother waves and I reciprocate.
Ari and Lyna run off. I turn back to Jack, our eyes locking. He rubs the back of his neck. He seems nervous.
‘Eh, here you go,’ he says, reaching for a clumsily wrapped present on the table. ‘Sorry about the wrapping. Gifts were always Helen’s remit.’
I smile and take the parcel from him, gently tearing at the edges. Inside is a recipe book called How to Cook Everything: A Complete Beginner’s Guide to the Kitchen and a signed photo of Duncan from Blue.
‘No way!’ I say. ‘How did you …’
‘I had to fork out a small fortune for that on eBay,’ Jack says. ‘The buyer was asking for a tenner, but I bargained him down to eight.’
I laugh. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘My pleasure.’
We look at each other uncertainly, not sure what to do next. The band strikes up. Out of nowhere, Leonard is beside me, hand extended.
‘Can I interest the birthday girl in a dance?’ he says, raising his hat.
‘Why, lead on, good sir!’ I don’t know where the upper-class English accent has come from. I sound like a BBC royal correspondent from the 1950s. Jack looks bemused as Leonard leads me off towards the band, twirling me as we walk. We dance for ages, Leonard confidently taking the lead. Sabrina joins us with her Chloe. Her niece is warm and charming, and compliments me on my dress. If Jack is sleeping with her, I can’t blame him. And yet, every time I glance over at him, he’s watching me, his left hand in his pocket, a glass of wine in his right hand.
It’s dark now, a chill in the air. I leave the others to it and head back to the table for my wrap. I can’t see Jack. Myriam and Theo are seated at the end of the table, Myriam twirling her hair around her finger, Theo flushed from his throat to his forehead. I get the impression she’ll be over her heartbreak soon enough. I smile and pour myself another glass of wine. Walking away from the crowd, towards the edge of the vineyard, I spot an abandoned outhouse between two cypress trees, their needles browning at the top. I lean against the front wall of the building, wrapping my shawl tightly around me as I look up at the sky.
‘You don’t get stars like that in London.’
I startle. It’s Jack. He walks over to me and rests his back against the wall.
‘Or Dublin,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a night sky this bright. What’s that you’re holding?’
He hands me a paper plate of falafels and grilled courgettes.
‘That’s as close as you’re going to get to vegetarian meze around here.’
‘Ah, that’s good of you, but I’ve probably eaten half a pig tonight. My principles have gone right out the window since moving here.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ says Jack. ‘You’re the most principled person I know.’
I feel myself going red and am grateful it’s dark.
‘Thank you,’ I say, nudging his arm with my shoulder. ‘No one has ever done anything like this for me before.’
‘You deserve it.’
‘Why have you been avoiding me?’ I say, emboldened by the wine.
‘I haven’t been avoiding you,’ Jack replies quietly, refusing to return my gaze.
‘Oh come on. I’ve barely seen you the past few days and you ate the granola! Since when do you shy away from highlighting my culinary failures?’
‘It was one of your weirder combinations for sure,’ he smiles.
‘Seriously, what gives?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I saw you in the épicerie the other day. I waved at you from the till. You pretended not to notice. It looked like you were taking a forensic interest in the list of ingredients on a tin of tuna.’
‘Oh,’ I say, mortified.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, watching my face intently. ‘I thought it was cute.’
Without thinking, I lean towards Jack and kiss him. He doesn’t seem surprised, doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t quite take advantage of the moment either. I pull back, unsure of myself.
‘So look,’ I say, before my brazenness dissipates. ‘I like you. A lot. Your hair smells great. And I bet it feels good too. Can I? I’m just going to …’
I reach out and run my palm along his head.
‘Jesus, wow. That’s soft. Umm, so look, the thing is, since getting to know you, I realise you’re actually not an arsehole …’
‘Fiadh …’
‘And I know you’re leaving in two weeks, and that’s totally fine. I only want you for your body anyway.’
‘Fiadh,’ he says again, softer this time. He puts his thumb gently on my lip then runs the back of his index finger along my cheek. I have to remind myself to keep breathing.
‘I’m going to kiss you now. Is that okay?’
I nod. He reaches his hand up to my cheek and pulls me into him.