“Why?”
“I worked at a huge agency and had no choice over what I did; I just had to take on whatever they threw at me.”
“Like what?”
“Loo roll, cleaning stuff, food and drink…Mostly products that are sold into supermarkets. Helping a big multinational company to shift gallons and gallons of sugary fizzy liquid to teenagers doesnotfill up my soul.”
“But water does?” He raises an eyebrow.
“It’s not just any water, is it? It’s good for you. It’s sourced from a volcanic spring and it’s naturally sparkling. It comes from deep underground and is pure and geologically protected. I believe in it and other people do too, so yeah, it kind ofdoesfill up my soul.”
“It sounds amazing. Shame it’s the price of wine,” he says drolly.
I can’t help but laugh.
His lips lift at the corners and then straighten again. His expression softens. “You can use my mother’s design.”
My heart leaps. “Really?”
“As you say, you would have done something similar anyway. I wouldn’t have been able to stop you, and that’s what I’ll tell my uncle. If he even asks,” he adds sardonically. “He moved to Montpellier to be closer to the ocean and he’s too busy enjoying his retirement to pay attention to the packaging of Eau de Sainte Églantine. He never cared for my mother’s art anyway. He was annoyed when their father said she could paint on the garage wall.He thought it had no place being there. But at least he kept it,” he concedes.
“Thank you.” I’m beyond grateful. “I don’t suppose you have any artist or graphic designer friends who might be able to re-create the design?”
“Louis would be good,” he replies. “I told you about him. The artist who worked on Grotte Chauvet 2.”
My eyes widen. “Do you think he’d be interested?”
“I can ask.” He digs into his pocket and gets out his phone. I watch as his thumb darts around, drafting a text. He pockets his phone again and looks at me. “Let me know if I can connect you with anyone else.”
“We probably will need a graphic designer at some stage, and a website designer. I know people in London, but it’d be nice to hire locals. And we could do with a photographer too so we can shoot the pavilion before it’s done up.” I’m thinking on the spot, imagining the story we’ll be telling.
“No problem,” he says.
“You know a graphic designer, a website designer, and a photographer?” I ask it teasingly, but he nods. “Fuck me, you have a lot of friends.”
He looks amused. “Most of us never left this place. And those who did have come back.” His eyes travel over the sparkling river, the sun-bleached houses hugging the banks, and the distant hazy tree-covered mountains. I follow his gaze and feel a wave of euphoria. “You understand, right?” he asks, and it’s only then that I realize his attention has returned to my face.
I smile at him and nod. “Yeah. I do.”
18
“How did it go withÉtienne?” Jackson asks on Monday morning.
My face lights up. “He gave permission!”
“Yay!” He high-fives me. “Actually, that deserves a hug.”
As he jumps up and wraps me in a short but affectionate rock back-and-forth I kick myself. I had an opportunity to milk my so-called date and I let it pass me by.
“Well done, that’s amazing,” he says as he releases me. “When are you next seeing him?”
Again, no sign of him feeling threatened. I’ve played this so wrong.
“I don’t know. Maybe this weekend.”
Total bullshit. I’m sure he’ll have plans with his gazillion friends.
“I don’t think we’ll get the paperwork drawn up by then.”
