‘He loves his family… and his cats… and he likes old hip-hop songs and he has a record player. He drives but his dad’s Mercedes is really old and keeps breaking down. He goes to the gym and he doesn’t drink alcohol and his favourite football team is Man United.’
‘O-K… sorry, I mean, wow, can we get him to change from Man United? Get him giving Chelsea a look?’ Orla suggested.
‘And,’ Erin began but paused. ‘He’s… Albanian.’
‘Oh,’ Orla said before she had thought about it.
‘Now Iwantyou to say OK,’ Erin said, annoyance in her tone.
‘Albanian,’ Orla repeated. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Orla! Of course I’m sure! He lives in Albania with his Albanian parents.’
‘OK, it’s just… well, they don’t have the best reputation for being…’ How could she put this? There was only one word for it. ‘Loyal.’
‘I’m aware. Believe me, I’m served the “save her from the Albanian boy” TikToks on an hourly basis,’ Erin replied, folding her arms across her chest and looking defensive. ‘Butyou’vealways told me that we take people at face value. That we form our own opinions based on people’s actions with us.’
She had said that. Many times when Erin was growing up. Instilling into her sister that you always looked for the good in people before anything else. That was the whole basis of her reporting. The feel-good stories, communities with different ways of doing things that we can all learn from. And her sister had remembered that… and was now using it to her advantage. She went to make comment.
‘Orla, I know that Craig was a shit to you. I also know that Salvatore was punching big time and, by the way, he does not have a villa in Portugal. But Henry… I think he really liked youand I think that’s why you stopped replying to him. Because it scared you.’
‘What?’ Orla gasped, putting her coffee cup down before she dropped it. She had no idea what her sister was talking about and… how did she know about Salvatore’s villa in Portugal? Or, apparently, hislackof a villa in Portugal!
‘You stopped messaging him back. It was quite a sad ending to something I thought had potential,’ Erin said, unfolding her arms again.
‘I didn’t stop messaging Henry,’ Orla said. Except her words were coming out stilted as if they couldn’t commit to escaping from her mouth.
‘Six messages he sent you over a period of three weeks and then you sent him one really bland effort when you got back from one of your African trips.’
‘And he never replied.’
‘Do you blame him? The guy was reaching out for weeks and getting nothing back. What’s he supposed to do? Keep hanging in there?’
Orla’s throat was dry. Was this true? Hadsheghosted Henry and not the other way around? Suddenly the coffee was tasting sour.
‘So I know you know what situationships are, Orla. But I think you’ve been making your own rules.’
She didn’t know what to say. Her heart was beating hard, her head feeling a bit muzzy. Was this a newsflash? Or, deep down, did she know it washeravoiding commitment and not the guys in her DMs?
‘OK, say something,’ Erin urged, leaning forward and inspecting Orla like she had turned to stone. ‘I thought you would… come at me with excuses or… have a go about me reading your messages or… be pissed about me kinda stalking your ex like Joe Goldberg.’
Her brain was firing around all kinds of scenarios now. Had she avoided a real relationship in favour of something she could manage around her work? Not really getting invested. Leading people on? Were there guys out there sad over the wayshehad treated them? Yes, she had always been the career girl, the girl who wasn’t in the same country longer than a few weeks, but she was also the girl who cared. Caring for others was what she did. Her stories were proof of that. Her need to protect the family unit was undisputed evidence. But what Erin had just suggested was starting to loom large and grow roots.
‘Orla! Speak!’
She opened her mouth and there was only one sentence that came out.
‘Jacques has asked me on a date.’
40
SAINT-CHAMBÉRY
‘What happens to these gifts anyway? Or are they just empty boxes? I’ve always thought about it but been too scared to ask when Delphine’s around.’ Tommy took his eyes off thebrouetteand looked over his shoulder like the village stalwart might suddenly appear.
‘They are donated to charity. Each of the tags gives an indication of the suggested recipient.’ Jacques picked one out of the wheelbarrow. ‘This one says… someone young at heart. OK, that was a bad example and I have no idea who is going to make a call on that one.’ He put the gift back in the wheelbarrow.
Tommy picked a present up and checked the tag. ‘This one says… I don’t know… my French is bad lately.’ He passed the gift to Jacques.
