‘Wolves are strong, yes, but they’re wiry, not tall or solid or more like… a bear.’
Why had she said that? A bear! And why when she’d said the words ‘tall’ and ‘solid’ had her eyes done an all-over body reconnaissance of him, from his dark hair, down over his broad, muscular-looking shoulders and lower to his chest in that tight-knit sweater…
‘A bear,’ he said with a definite look of amusement.
At least he hadn’t growled. Although there were parts of her that were signalling that might have been appealing. What waswrong with her? She looked at the cognac in her glass as if it was to blame for everything.
‘What is your nickname?’ he asked her.
‘I don’t have one,’ she answered straight off the bat.
He gazed at her and then swirled the liquid in his glass as if his brain was doing something similar in response to her reply. ‘You lie to me.’
‘What? Why would you think that?’
‘I do notthinkit. I know it.’
He couldn’t know. She’d only had one nickname her whole life. Given to her by her dad. Orla Orange. It had begun when she was small and she had pronounced the ‘o-r’ of ‘orange’ like the ‘o-r’ of Orla. It was silly. She swallowed, the cognac reminding her of some of the issues the Bradbee family were facing back home.
‘So, what is it? The name?’ he continued.
‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I don’t have one.’
‘And I told you that I know you are not telling the truth.’
She smiled now, gaining some control back. ‘And you being so confident with that leads me to thinking that you must have some kind of… psychology background.’
He smiled. It was a good smile. The kind that somehow teased.
‘What?’ Orla asked when no reply was instantly forthcoming.
‘Now Idefinitelyknow you have a nickname.’
Why did she now feel like someone had dropped her out of her depth in the swimming pool? How was this man doing this to her? She never let anyone, apart from Erin get the better of her in conversation unless it was for her own benefit. It was time to stop messing around. She picked her bag up off the stone floor and took her electronic pad out, snapping the pen off its mount.
‘Age?’ she asked him.
‘How old do you think I am?’
‘I’ll put thirties.’
‘What?’
‘Single. Obviously. Lives in the middle of nowhere in one of France’s harshest mountain environments with a sole canine companion in a smart house that resembles… I think I’ll put “something out of a panic-room movie”.’ She scribbled furiously. ‘No photos of family or friends. No books. Connects with community just enough but doesn’t really appear to like it. Perhaps integrates to conform to social norms or give a little to avoid questions to hide a dark back story. Smacks of only child, or maybe even orphan?’
She didn’t know what was moving fastest, her pen over the notepad or her mouth firing out her thoughts.
‘OK, we’re done,’ Jacques said, getting up.
‘What?’ Orla asked. ‘But you said if I came here tonight you would answer any questions I had.’
‘That was before.’ He plucked his coat from the back of the chair and started to put it on.
‘Before what? Before you scorched my favourite jacket? Before you got an attitude?’
He turned then, took a step closer to her chair, his presence filling the space. ‘Before you decided to make the way I live into some kind of joke.’
She could see he was angry. There was a pulse in his neck visibly beating, his pupils were dilated, his lips were firm and, she suspected, keeping clenched teeth in check.
