How Orla had missed the approach of someone so tall with a chest so broad it could definitely handle a whole family-sized charcuterie sharing platter, she didn’t know. But Jacques was now standing by their table looking particularly fine in a navy-blue long-sleeved top over black jeans. His beard looked newly neatly trimmed and those dark, deep brown eyes were set onher. It was then she realised her fingers had been grazing the symmetry of the beanbag.
‘Bonsoir. Hello,’ Orla said quickly.
‘Ah,’ he continued. ‘You have the horseshoes. Not the best shape I would say but, not the worst either.’
‘There’s different shapes?’ Erin remarked, sitting up tall and seeming to scan the rest of the tables for evidence.
‘They symbolise the history of the village. There are wagon wheels, pentagons like the shape of the lake here, sausages like?—’
‘OK,’ Orla said quickly as Erin sniggered. ‘We’re getting it.’
‘Good,’ Jacques replied. ‘So, you will have to move now.’
‘Move?’ Orla queried.
‘The beanbags are thrown at this firepit,’ he told them.
16
Jacques watched Orla getting ready to throw their horseshoe-shaped beanbag. Despite her very firm opinion that this festive game was ‘a health and safety nightmare’ and ‘an accident waiting to happen’ she was becoming heavily invested in the outcome. She stood still, seeming to ignore the off-putting jibes coming from their competitors in the crowded bar, a horseshoe beanbag in her hands.
‘That’s her full-on concentrating face,’ Erin whispered to him. ‘Like she is not contemplating losing here, just so you know.’
‘I am beginning to know,’ Jacques replied.
‘But how are you going to feel when she takes your crown? Like, she’s not thrown beanbags before. Let alone backwards, over her shoulder and into a fiery pit.’
‘Are you suggesting I could be a bad loser?’
‘You’re a man, aren’t you?’ Erin said, as if that explained everything. She went back to tapping at her phone.
Jacques tuned back in to Orla, swinging her arm and preparing to throw. Then she swung hard, the beanbag leaving her grasp, flying through the air as all eyes watched. It rotatedand spun and finally slapped down on the very edge of the fire pit, tumbling to the floor. Delphine stamped on top of it on the flagstones, putting paid to any potential smouldering.
‘Five points!’ Delphine declared.
‘Only five?’ Orla exclaimed. ‘It clearly hit the flames and bounced back out.’
The crowd oohed and Jacques knew Delphine wouldn’t appreciate her decision being questioned. Although Orla did have a point…
‘Gerard!’ Delphine called. ‘What is your decision as adjudicator?’
‘I was not close enough to see,’ the man answered.
‘Oh, so now we have an adjudicator and he’s not watching?’ Orla stated.
There was more oohing and Jacques wondered whether he ought to step in and stop this. It really didn’t matter to him if he won or not. But he knew this contest mattered to Delphine because her late husband had loved it.
‘It is now the turn of Philippe!’ Delphine declared.
‘Wait, what?’ Orla asked. ‘You’re moving on? But we haven’t settled on how many points I have!’
He had heard enough to know now was the time to intervene. He made his way around the tables until he was standing beside Orla.
‘It’s not your turn,’ Orla greeted him. ‘Apparently it’s Philippe’s.’
‘I am aware,’ Jacques answered. ‘So, we should stand out of his way. He likes to really go for it with his back swing.’
With that said, Philippe promptly arrived and began warming up for his go at tossing his pentagon-shaped beanbag.
