‘Did you see my throw?’ Orla asked when they were a safe distance away. ‘It hit the pit.’
‘You are very invested,’ Jacques remarked.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she replied, somewhat defensively.
‘Well, before this morning you did not know that this game exists and now it is like you must be the best.’
‘Says the man who told me how many beanbag crowns he has won since time began.’
‘There are limited things to do in Saint-Chambéry. As you are experiencing.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Orla said. ‘I haven’t had a minute to do anything for myself since I arrived here. And I have a story to write, no mute man and no reindeer.’ She looked straight at him then. ‘Do you happen to have anything symbolic you do to remember a lost love or something?’
Straight away the sounds of the noisy bar diminished, and in his mind they were replaced by a hum and buzz of white noise in response to her question.Lost love.Shattered heart.Sleepless nights.Nothingness. It had been two and a half years now since Katie had called time on their relationship. And he knew it had all been his fault. He had given her everything he could give, but what she had wanted were the pieces he wasn’t able to part with. The bits he didn’t know if he was ever going to deal with himself.
‘And I really want to know, do I call you Jacques or Wolf? Because that’s still unclear.’
He internally shook himself, nothing showing on the outside. ‘Wolf is just a name they used to call me when I first arrived.’
‘Why?’ Orla asked.
He shrugged. ‘I do not know.’
‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘You don’t give someone a nickname for no reason.’
‘I cannot answer for other people.’
‘That’s a nothing reply,’ Orla said. ‘And when I interview you, I’ll be wanting more than nothing replies.’
‘Has the interview not already begun?’ he asked.
‘In the middle of beanbag warfare? I’m a professional.’
‘Wow, OK,’ Jacques said with a smile. ‘You really are taking this seriously.’
‘Not quite as seriously as Delphine with her lax attention to the actual rules that apparentlyshemakes.’
‘Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!’
The chanting signified it was his turn to throw.
‘You have cheerleaders it seems,’ Orla remarked with a scoff. ‘Oh! I didn’t see how Philippe did.’
‘Not as good as you,’ Jacques answered.
Once he was lined up in position, he held his breath and closed his eyes. Why did it feel like it was more important this year than any other? It really didn’t matter to him. He only did this because it mattered to Delphine. And, as irritating as Delphine could be, she had been like a mother to him since he had arrived here. Not just welcoming, as she was to everyone, but she hadn’t judged him on anything but the here and now.
He toyed with the wagon wheel beanbag in his hand and tried to block out everything else. It was his taking part that mattered to Delphine, not the winning. Maybe it was time to give someone else a turn. He could just throw it a bit over to the left. With one quick swing, he let the beanbag leave his hand. And then…
‘Ow!’
‘Oh God, she’s on fire! Help! Someone help!’
17
‘Are you sure you are OK?’
It was about Jacques’s fifth time of asking and Orla wasn’t sure if she was more annoyed at that than she was about the large singe mark on the sleeve of her jacket. Yes, his beanbag had hit her and propelled her – or her sleeve at least – into the flames of the fire pit, but it hadn’t been intentional and it had never been as serious as having to stop, drop and roll. And feeling some kind of responsibility, Delphine had brought them cognacs and made them sit at this table next to the Christmas tree and furthest away from any further potential disaster.
