‘Was that what you wanted to talk about?’ Delphine asked. ‘Before you climb the outside of the building and look under my black curtain?’
He had thought about it. Briefly.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘I want to know what Orla Bradbee is doing here, Delphine.’
The cinnamon rolls were returned to the shelf and Delphine continued down the aisle. ‘These shelves are so disorganised. Remind me not to let Gerard mess with my biscuits again.’
‘Delphine, you cannot avoid talking to me about this. She is currently staying in my home!’
‘I do not know what you want me to say,’ Delphine hissed. ‘She is here to write about the reindeer and, you know, Saint-Chambéry.’
‘And a mute man?’
‘Sometimes you have to embellish things a little to catch media attention.’
‘And what do you need media attention for, Delphine?’ he asked. ‘You have a love/hate relationship with tourists as it is. You wish for many more to come here? You know there are reasons I live a distance away from the village, a reason thatIdo not want media attention.’
‘I know that if you do not step out now you will never step out.’
‘That is my decision to make, Delphine. Not yours.’
And now there was anger brewing in his gut. He needed to remember that whatever this was, Delphinedidcare about him, had kept his secrets. He swallowed down the feelings, focussed on facts not the potential consequences.
‘But, you know, if I am to believe your need to promote the village in this way, tell me, why does the reporter have to be Orla Bradbee?’
‘Oh, Jacques,’ Delphine said, shaking her head, a smile on her lips. ‘Why are you asking me that question?’
‘The same reason everyone asks questions. Because I want to know the answer.’
She pressed a packet of Christmas chocolates to his chest. ‘You already know the answer. You knew why the moment you realised it was her.’
His mouth was suddenly dry and the weight of the chocolate box felt constricting.
‘But, for the purpose of clarity, I will spell it out,’ Delphine began. ‘She is the only person you have shown an interest in in all the time I have known you. Not one sharing platter night I arranged, not one bowling trip, not any of the single women I have found and put in your path has sparked the slightest change in your demeanour. But Orla. Every month when you come to collect the magazine. The following days when you tell me about the latest place she has been and the things she has written about… the transformation in you!’
‘Stop,’ Jacques said, taking a grip of the chocolate box and poking it back on the shelf. ‘This is craziness.’ But he couldn’t deny it.
‘What is crazy about it? You come to life when you talk about her and her adventures! That is what I want for you, Jacques. For you to come out of that house and live again. Meet someone with similar interests. Reconnect.’
He was shaking his head on instinct now as the realisation dawned. Delphine had got Orla here on false pretences because she had some mad idea that they should what? Date? He wasn’t stupid. He knew Delphine had put women in his path, organised Saint-Chambéry events and teamed him up with the latest divorcée, but she had never really beenthatforceful with it. Not in the realm of getting someone on a plane to travel here on the basis of some mad story. And what she had said about reconnecting, it wasn’t as easy as flicking a switch.
‘I enjoy her writing,’ Jacques finally said. ‘That’s all.’
Delphine made a noise she always used when she was frustrated. It was part snort, part whistle. ‘I enjoy playing cards with Madame Voisin but my entire demeanour does not morph into a deliriously happy Disney Princess whenever she suggests a game of bridge.’ She began to walk up the aisle towards the café area.
‘I do not do that,’ Jacques told her as he followed.
‘For someone who is the most observant person I know, you are pretty clueless when it comes to yourself. Gerard and I decided you should have some help.’
‘Gerard is in on this too? I should have guessed.’
‘Well, now you know,’ Delphine said, as if the conversation was over. She began busying herself with wiping down the countertops.
‘And what do you suggest I do with that information?’ Jacques asked.
‘I do not know, Jacques! That is the thing about people. You can assist but you cannotinsist. I have brought Orla here. She will hopefully write a wonderful piece for her magazine about the reindeer and the village. What else happens is up to you.’ She looked at him directly. ‘But do not close down an opportunity because you are too proud or too scared to take a chance.’
Before he could make any reply, Delphine was rushing into the café, taking issue with something one of her staff was doing. He took a breath, his gaze going to the window of the store, part misted with condensation. He could see Orla by thebrouette, taking photos, most of her hair tamed by a woollen beanie. She had always intrigued him. Somehow, through her stories, the richness of her words, she had taken him places he hadn’t been, yet after he had read each article he had found himself wondering how someone did the job she did. What sort of person travelled around the world to give a voice to endangered species, outlying communities, ordinary people with extraordinary ways. Who was Orla Bradbee? What did she do when she wasn’t writing? He shook his head. He wasn’t a weirdo. He didn’t have her stories pinned up in a closet like a shrine to someone he was crazy about but Delphine was right. Her magazine was a highlight each month. She was someone he found attractive. It had been safe to feel that way because she was out of reach, a never-going-to-come-into-his-life fantasy. Except now she was here. And, no matter what he told himself, the desire to find out more about her was stronger than ever.
