Page 1 of Beautiful Losers

1

June 2021

The other day, the lad behind the counter in the post office asked what had brought me to France. I could have said I was here for the sixteen hundred varieties of cheese or the sunshine. That I moved for the generous holiday allowance or the luxury of a same-day doctor’s appointment. I might have told him that a small part of me was hoping to run into Jean Reno and become his fourth wife.

Instead, I told him the truth. I’m in France because I lost my job, my dad is Ireland’s public enemy number one and the father of my child ran off to LA to become a life coach to the 1 per cent.

He gave me a Gallic shrug and called for the next customer.

Ari and I arrived in Cordes sur Ciel just over a month ago. We’d been travelling for two days, swapping rain-sodden rows of potatoes for sun-soaked fields of artichokes on our journey from Dublin to the Tarn region of southwest France. We passed the time easily, which, let me tell you, is no mean feat when you’re road-tripping with a five-year-old. Distraction came in the form ofThe Clash: Greatest Hitsand I Spy. Ari also asked questions.

Why did we leave Ireland?

How did Jesus God die?

Can I have chips when we get there?

Do bees have vulvas?

I responded in the affirmative to the chips, bundled my way through an age-appropriate breakdown of Christ’s last days on Earth and said I’d have to get back to him on the genital arrangement of winged insects. Explaining to my son why we’d upped sticks, leaving behind the only world he’s ever known for a village two thousand kilometres away, a village we’d yet to step foot in, was a trickier business. Thankfully, he fell asleep before I could come up with an answer that would satisfy us both.

It was late afternoon when I turned a bend in the road and saw Cordes for the first time. There was something otherworldly about the scene – a dreamy cluster of medieval buildings perched on a hill surrounded by endless vineyards and fields dotted with farmhouses. The village appeared to rise from the clouds, as though floating mid-air. That’s how it got itsname,‘rocky heights in the sky’ – from the low mist that gathers in the river valley below in spring and autumn.

I drove slowly through the outskirts of town, passing two antique shops, a sculptor’s studio and an elderly man pushing a Bichon Frisé in a pram, and pulled up outside a bakery on the main street. Ari started to stir as I switched off the engine. I turned round to look at him. Tufts of fiery-red hair had matted to his forehead, his freckled skin glistening in the sticky heat. He was clutching his favourite stuffed toy, a California golden trout called Margaret. Ari named her after a pensioner we met in the checkout queue at Dunnes Stores. She was wearing an eye patch on account of her glaucoma, and Ari asked her if she was a pirate. I have to hand it to her, she entered into the role play with impressive enthusiasm, continuing herArrrr me heartiesout of the supermarket and into the car park, right up until we parted ways at the trolley drop-off point.

Margaret was a birthday present from Ari’s dad, a Hey-mister-sorry-for-leaving-you-and-your-mum-so-I-could-pursue-my-authentic-self-halfway-across-the-world kind of gift.

‘Are we there yet?’ Ari mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

‘Almost, Aribo. I thought we could grab some croissants first. The house is just down the road. Isn’t this exciting?’

I smiled maniacally, unsure who I was trying to convince – Ari or myself.

Utopie smelt of warm baguettes and caramelised apples. A bell rang when we walked in and an attractive woman in her seventies appeared behind the counter, her hair streakedwith blonde highlights and flour. She saidbonjour, though the rest of her face communicated a less welcoming sentiment. I smiled and complimented her on her shop. It had an old-school, general-store charm about it, with its weathered chestnut-wood counter and vintage weighing scales. The woman glared at me. It was then I realised I had committed the cardinal sin of French etiquette. I had failed to lead with ‘hello’. In France, you can dispense all the pleasantries you like, but forget the basics and your card is marked.

I asked for croissants. The last time I had one, I was five months pregnant with Ari. Cillian had been invited to Aix-en-Provence to give a TEDx Talk –Speak Truth to Your Prefrontal Cortex: How to Master Your Brain for Optimal Living. I spent most of the weekend on my own while he networked. The day of the talk, I bought a coffee and a pastry, and sat on the steps of the fountain in the middle of Place Richelme. I’d just started to proofread the script for Cillian’s latest podcast monologue when Ari kicked for the first time. I knew then, instinctively, that it was going to be just the two of us, Ari and me. And that we’d be okay.

‘It is 5 p.m.,’ the woman behind the counter barked in her native tongue.

‘Erm,oui?’

‘In France, no one eats croissants after noon. It is uncivilised.’ She indicated an empty bread basket, coated in fat flakes of pastry, beside the till.

‘Oh. Right. In that case, I’ll have atarte aux pommes, please, and two baguettes. I’m Fiadh by the way. It’s nice to meet you.’

I extended my hand, explaining that we weretaking over the guesthouse just outside the village, but the owner decided to close up shop – on the small talk and, like, actually close up shop. As soon as we paid, she ushered us out the door and locked it behind her.

Back in the car, I checked my phone and followed the automated assistant’s directions towards the far end of Cordes. Turning right, we drove for a few minutes down a winding country lane before reaching a hamlet consisting of three properties: an abandoned church, a converted farmhouse and La Maison Bleue, our new home.

‘We’re here, baby!’ I said, switching off the engine and reaching round the back of my seat to rub Ari’s leg.

I groaned as I got out of the car, raising my arms in the air to stretch the stiffness of forty-eight hours’ driving out of my body. Freeing Ari from his car seat, I helped him down. He took my hand, Margaret tucked under his other arm. In front of us, a faded cornflour-blue wooden gate opened onto a flagstone path leading to the guesthouse, a six-bedroom cream stone property, with wooden shutters painted the same colour as the gate and equally weather-beaten. Running along the side of the house, a cascade of purple wisteria tumbled over a pergola containing several wrought-iron tables and chairs, the seating angled towards an impressive view of Cordes in the distance.

I looked down at Ari, squeezing his hand. ‘Shall we go explore?’

He grinned and tore ahead of me, through the gate and down the path, around the side of the house and into an overgrown garden filled with fig and plum trees, and a potager, its soil cracked from dehydration. I searched for a terracotta flowerpot beside the French doors, which openedonto a large terrace facing the garden, while Ari peed against a fig tree. He’s gone off toilets for some reason. Feeling my way underneath the pot, I pulled out a muddied set of keys and Ari and I made our way back to the front of the house.

I don’t know what I was expecting to find inside. A bottle of wine and some delicate French biscuits, perhaps. At the very least, some teabags and a welcome note from the owners explaining how everything worked. I certainly wasn’t counting on a terrified baby bat flying into my face when I pulled back the shutters in the living room. It bounded from wall to wall, frantically looking for an escape route. I’m not easily startled, but a heads-up that the guesthouse was an occasional roosting site for the common pipistrelle would have been appreciated.

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