#ch:dianebouchard

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With a large pair of kitchen tongs, Diane lifted lamb from a pot—shoulder, coated with various oils and purees, sizzling and steaming violently before she dropped it onto her chopping board, the glamorous cigarette hanging from her mouth depositing ash onto the raw sausage meat to the side. 

“Oh, just brush it off,” she said when Lissa protested, and waved her hand about as the oil began popping violently in the casserole pot, and smoke filled the kitchen.

It was so steamy the walls were wet with it, and the windows too—opaque with condensation, hot air battling cold, as snow piled on the sills. Lissa yanked one open, and the smoke raced as though sucked through a vacuum into the freezing night. 

“Leave the windows closed. You’ll let all the heat out.”

And Lissa was coughing then. Comical, really, how terrible this cassoulet idea was turning out to be. Diane had been far too ambitious, overconfident in her abilities, too eager to please—a trait Lissa loathed to inherit. Of all the things—the sophistication, the charm, the metabolism—Diane had given her daughter a simpering, people-pleasing sensibility she had no use for. 

She waved a tea towel about before the smoke alarm caught wind of the situation, while Diane mused about how dinner might take more time than she originally planned. 

Lissa wasn’t hungry anyway. “It’s fine. Anika is delayed. Apparently she’s now missed the bus.”

“Okay, so this is all for the best. She’ll be on time for dinner.” Diane employed an awkward, double-tonged approach in an attempt to remove the bone from the lamb shoulder. “She and that boyfriend she has, no?”

“Yes, him too. Not boyfriend—ex—friend, or something. I don’t know.”

“Okay, excusez-moi. Her lover.”

“Don’t mention anything about it, Mum, please. Things are bad enough at the moment.”

Through the arch of the kitchen, Joshua was on the couch, typing furiously on his laptop computer while Alexander played some loud video game that allowed him to be a heroic soldier shooting other soldiers in the back.

Joshua’s New Year’s plans had collapsed when his brother’s wife went into labour on Christmas morning—most inconvenient, in his view. He’d boarded the flight as though to the gallows, still complaining about Barbara’s distracted cooking and the absence of “proper” Christmas flavour.

She’d already told him about Anika before they left Dublin, which had annoyed him. But she’d left out the Nick issue.

She waited until they had unpacked in the chalet. 

Slid her phone from her pocket and frowned at it. “Oh, God… that is just so typical of Anika.”

Joshua was barely interested. “What’s she done now?”

“I can’t believe this. She’s just… invited someone else to come and stay.”

He considered this a moment. “A bit rude.”

“Yeah, completely rude. What on earth? I’m so… bloody annoyed.” 

“And who is it? One of those girls with holes in their tights?”

Lissa had to turn her face away, pretend to look at something outside the window. “Um. It’s that Nick guy.”

A long, horrible silence. “Are you joking?”

“No,” but she laughed anyway. A nervous, skittering laugh that mismatched the emotion of the scene. 

He was just staring as though he knew she’d done this on purpose. 

“You’re joking,” he said again. 

“No. Seriously. I don’t know what to do.”

He looked at her for a long time. How convenient, she knew he was thinking. But what could she say?

“Fine,” he said finally. “But I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” she lied.

That had been two days ago. He’d barely spoken to her since, just hammered away on his keyboard for hours at a time, punishing her with silence.

Now, Diane joined her in the kitchen archway, and they both watched him from where they stood.

“It’s good to have a boyfriend who won’t speak to you,” she said. “Adds an interesting texture to life.”

“Mum, stop.”

“Oh, I mean it. Men should speak less.”

Lissa seized a can of white beans from the counter and pried it open, dumping the contents into a sieve. “It’s complicated at the moment. Just something I can’t explain.”

“It’s not that complicated,” Diane said. “Is this what you think you deserve?”

Lissa’s hands stilled over the sink. “Don’t say things like that.”

“What? You think you can bring a man to my house and he’s allowed to ignore you? I’ll be speaking to him later.”

Lissa whirled on her. “Mum! You will not. You’ll say nothing at all to him. I am serious.”

“But why? Why do you do that to yourself? How long will you let him punish you?”

“He’s just angry about how his Christmas turned out.” 

“Lissa,” Diane’s voice was sharper than usual. “It seems this has been going on longer than Christmas.”

Lissa wouldn’t look at her. “I don’t really want to talk about this, thanks.” She left the beans in the sink and went to the living room, where neither boy acknowledged her arrival. “Dinner will be another hour,” she announced. “Would either of you like something in the meantime? Toast?”

Alexander grunted. 

Joshua looked at his watch. “So, dinner after nine o’clock, then?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

“Very continental, but I don’t enjoy going to bed on a full stomach.”

Irritation zipped through her. “Okay, then you’ll have toast?”

“The sourdough is so hard. It’s like chewing on slabs of concrete.”

“Then something else.”

“I just thought you might have planned ahead.”

She stared. He didn’t look at her over the top of his laptop. Just typed away. Click click click.

“There’s food in the fridge. I’m sure you’ll manage to look.” She hoped to sound icy, but her voice wobbled its way through the sentence. 

“I’d rather not go into the kitchen right now,” he said. “Seems a bit chaotic. It’s fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Click click click. 

“Alexander? Toast?”

“Yeah,” he said, slightly breathless from the intensity of his game. “Raspberry jam and butter? Please? Thank you.”

She stormed back to the kitchen and fired two slices of bread into the toaster, while Diane casually stirred the pot. “Did you have words with him?”

“He doesn’t want to eat. He might not even have dinner.”

“Ah!” Diane cried. “Fine. So let him starve.”

After another hour, the cassoulet was finally in the oven. Lissa was taking plates from the cupboard when headlights swept up the walls, a car winding up the mountain road. The sick feeling settled in her stomach again. 

“They’re here,” Diane rushed into the living room—the hustle of the perfect hostess, sweeping toast crumbs from the coffee table with one hand, stashing away magazines with the other. “Alexander, quick. Switch off that horrible game and help with the bags.”

Lissa wiped condensation off the window with her sleeve and watched Nick and Anika climb out of the taxi. Wow, she thought. This is the worst idea I’ve ever had. 

Diane was calling for her. “Lissa, come greet your guests!”

In the living room, Joshua was still on the sofa. She met his eye as she passed. 

“Well,” he said with a grim expression. “Here we go.”

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There would be times in Lissa’s life she would encounter difficulties far beyond those faced in her first two decades—times she would struggle, fail, claw her way back up, only to fail again. Moments she would feel out of her depth, inferior, overwhelmed, like surrendering was her only option—but New Year’s Eve, that crisp, white day in 2005, found her without notion of such things as losing. She was actively winning! No race but the one inside her head had been declared, but she was beating the others as she tore down the slope, leaving them in the mist. 

The precise forward tilt, her control of the skis, cutting, swerving. She conjured up a flattering image of herself—The olympian punching through the air, aerodynamic, sleek. She was pure technique. Undeniable, even in a suit that had fit more nicely the year before, the dull headache pressing at her temples from poor sleep. And Joshua—

Her mind snagged on him, and her body surged with a sourness that swamped her self-satisfaction. His face that morning. His “I don’t feel like going,” like he couldn’t be bothered with an excuse. The point was to show face—participate in an activity with her, as was the obligation of all boyfriends, instead of embarrassing her. 

She didn’t have time to correct. Her ski—the world tilted—sky, trees, snow, and then she was down, ankle twisted beneath her.

She felt a wrongness, like something coming off inside her. 

Then the pain came. Sharp, white-hot, shooting up her calf.

“Lissa!” Diane’s face appeared as the edges of her vision blurred. “Lissa, are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said, and that was instinct. The reality was her ankle swelling inside her boot. “Actually, I don’t know.”

And then they were all there—Alexander, Anika, Nick—filling her vision, staring. She did not want to be stared at. Not while fallen. She tried to struggle up, but someone pushed her back down. Nick. Gloved hands pinning her shoulders to the snow. 

“No, wait,” he said. Breathless from the skiing, hopefully, and not the sight of her. “Don’t move. You might have broken something.”

“That’s what I’m trying to see. Let me look at it.”

“No, stay down. What if you’re really hurt?”

“As in I’ve broken my back?” she said indignantly. “I think I would know!”

“It’s good to be safe,” Diane said. “Just stay there. Alexander—call for patrol.”

“You’re all being so ridiculous!”

“Shh,” Nick said, which made her want to shout some more. 

“I am fine! Let me up! I’m not going down like this, I’m not!” 

But she did go down like that, and doing it via sled, wrapped in a giant sheet of what might have been tin foil, which only added to the humiliation. Nick went with her. God knows why he’d insisted on coming, because all he was doing was repeatedly asking if she was okay between anxious comments to ski patrol in French spoken without even the barest attempt at an intelligible accent. She had to start ignoring him. 

The medic at the tent spoke as rudely as possible to her—likely for the crime of not being French enough—and prodded around her ankle with hard fingers while Nick went grey in the face. Sprained, not broken. That was the diagnosis.

“So I can’t ski?”

“Eh? Of course not.” Stupid girl. 

Bandaged and armed with a blister pack of painkillers, she was banished to the chalet in disgrace. 

“You can go back to the slopes if you want,” Lissa said, unsure what to do with her leg. “You don’t have to sit here staring at me. The injury’s not getting worse.”

Nick struggled out of his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. “It’s alright. I’ll stay.”

“If my mum forced you to come, it doesn’t mean she’ll be mad if you go back. Tell her I’m fine. Tell her I wanted to be alone.”

“Do you want to be alone?”

“I don’t mind.”

Nick picked a log from the pile by the fireplace. “I’ll light a fire,” he announced, as if offering a great, noble deed. “You’ll want to be warm, yeah?”

She watched him place the logs in an aesthetically pleasing arrangement atop the pile of last night’s ash. A perfectly lovely fire pit worthy of a children’s cartoon, which would absolutely never work. 

“You going to clean it first?” Lissa said. 

He chuckled under his breath. “Yes, of course. I was planning on doing that.”

“Your parents never made you light a fire.”

“No. Excuse you. I mowed the grass, washed the car, things like that.”

“Wow, I’m impressed. We’ve got a real handyman here.”

“Hmph.” He dismantled his tower, log by log. “And where’s your boyfriend, then? Shouldn’t he be the one lighting you a fire?”

“Well, it’s you that insisted.”

Nick opened the grate and let ashes spill onto the hearth. “Shouldn’t you tell him we’ve come back? Let him know about your ankle?”

From the bedroom above, there was no sound. “I don’t want to interrupt him,” Lissa said. “He’s so wrapped up in his essay.”

“What essay?”

She didn’t know. “Something for college. He takes it all really seriously.”

“Ah, so seriously it prevents him from engaging with his girlfriend’s sprained ankle.”

Lissa bristled. “He takes his work seriously. It’s one thing I admire about him.”

“Right, yes. Of course. That’s a special thing you share.”

“Well, anyway. There’s more to life than all of that, isn’t there?”

Nick just laughed. Emptied his shovel into the metal bucket and wiped his hands on his trousers, smearing grey powder over his hips. 

“Firelighters,” she told him. “Then logs.”

“Right, there’s an order.”

“Do you know how many fireplaces there are at the hotel?”

“I don’t. One hundred. And they made you light them all like a little child-servant.”

“Some. That’s how I learned.”

A match rasped against the side of the box. “So this is your future, then? Lighting fires in the Mansfield.”

“I don’t expect so, as I’m not the one who’ll own it.”

“What, the business? You won’t inherit it?”

Lissa chuckled. “No, of course not. I don’t want the hotel. I’m going to do something a bit more exciting, that actually belongs to me. The whole point is to create my legacy, not to inherit someone else’s, so whatever—Alexander can have the Mansfield, and I’ll have my thing.” 

Nick thought this was funny—a singular shake of his shoulders while he reassembled his stack.

“What?”

“No, just, I’m not convinced I can see Alexander take on the business. He doesn’t exactly seem like a tycoon to me, you know what I mean?”

“He’s still only seventeen.”

“Mm, but you at seventeen… You already had the spirit of a thirty-five-year-old estate agent. You’re not the same animal.”

Lissa paused. They were sitting suddenly on the edge of something, which he must have sensed too, as he was all at once extremely interested in the flames.

“I didn't know you thought that,” she said.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I suppose I felt you were a bit—” he trailed off.

She let him trail off. Watched him.

“Well. At my dad's wedding, you said—”

Now his ears went red.

“You told me you thought I was the flower girl, and that I looked fifteen. Do you remember that? I remember it.”

“It was like two and a half years ago,” he mumbled. “I dunno what to say. I was an idiot.”

“So you didn’t think I was fifteen, then,” she said. “You just—did you say that to make me feel bad?”

“No, no, come on. I was joking.”

She could still recall his expression, and the careless shrug he threw her without even bothering to look her in the face. She hated that Nick. Even after all the time that had passed, he managed to bring her temper to a boil. 

“I don’t think you were.”

“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was harsh, probably. I don’t remember that being a very good day.”

“Well, neither do I,” she said. “My father was remarrying essentially the moment the courts allowed it to a woman who invited tabloid magazines to do a feature on them. I was trying not to cry while a load of bloody journalists followed me around, asking which Backstreet Boy was my favourite. It was hell. I get angry when I think about it.”

He turned now, a moody, cornered look on his face. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “That isn’t ideal.”

“It wasn’t. And then, in the middle of it all, some random teenage boy came over and told me he thought I was stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were stupid. That isn’t what I thought. I thought the opposite, actually.”

“You thought I was a—a huge nerd or something,” Saying this was somehow unbearably embarrassing for Lissa, who flattened her hands against her face, burning from ear to ear.

“I didn’t know you were Lissa Mansfield,” Nick said. “We got off on the wrong foot. I would have spoken to you differently if I’d realised.”

“And how does one speak to Lissa Mansfield?”

He grunted dismissively. “Look, my parents talk about you the whole time—Jarlath’s daughter, and how perfect she is. They thought maybe because we’re the same age or in the same circles I would want to know. Or maybe, I dunno, it was a humiliation ritual, or a way to trick me into copping on. They thought I would like to know how well you were doing at school, or how you did debating, or hockey, or spoke fluent French, all while working that weekend job you had at the hotel. To be honest, it was annoying.”

“My dad brags about me to whoever. I think it’s to make himself look good.”

“Yeah, well, my parents were pulling me out of boarding school that summer—arranging for me to go somewhere where they could basically pay my way into college. It was our last, pathetic resort. The last stop before I became one of those sad men playing games in the family computer room until they died.”

Lissa was not in an especially sympathetic mood. “Right,” she said. “So because you were having a hard time, it was fine to take it out on me. Are those the kind of punch-down tactics they taught you at boarding school?”

“Well—come on. I wasn’t thinking about it like that.”

“You make me so self-conscious. I’ve always been convinced you kind of hate me.”

“What? I don’t remotely hate you. I actually—like, I admire you.”

She scoffed. “Oh, come on.”

“I do,” he watched the fire, picking up now and scorching the edges of the wood, and for a long moment, he was quiet. “Your dad’s right to brag. You’ve got pretty much unbelievable levels of work ethic. I was mad because I felt I needed to compare. I can’t, obviously. I’m just one guy, and you’re like three girls all in one, so…”

“Yes. My life is completely sorted.”

“I said you work hard, not that you’re a perfect person,” he said. “The point is, I’m sorry. I really am.”

“I know that.”

“I’m making a conscious effort to be less of a dickhead, even though it’s… innate.”

“Please, you’re not that bad.”

“It’s fine. I am. But I don’t want to be a dick to people who don’t deserve it.”

“Well, okay. I appreciate that.” 

Lissa shifted automatically, and as an arrow of pain shot up her leg, she remembered her ankle. She let out a small, involuntary cry, and Nick leapt to attention. 

“Can I do something?”

“Ah—no. You’re fine. It just hurts.”

He was grabbing a cushion. “Do you want to put this under it?” He was unsure whether or why such a thing would help, which struck Lissa as oddly cute. Not a sportsman.

“Could you do me a big favour, actually?”

“Of course.”

“I think I’d like hot chocolate. Do you think you could—”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely,” he grinned, delighted to be useful. “Don’t worry, Lissa, I’ve got you there. I can make hot chocolate easily.”

And to the kitchen he went, whistling to himself while the fire reached a hearty blaze. Its crackling and popping while the snow piled up on the sills brought a childhood comfort, a nostalgia for the good old days, if she hadn’t imagined them. 

Upstairs, Joshua was moving around, pacing. In the silent pockets between Nick’s clanging and cursing, she could hear the low rumble of his voice through the ceiling. He was on the phone. She couldn’t make out what he was saying. 

Nick emerged after some moments, pleased with himself, a mug in each fist like a pair of trophies. Sat with her on the sofa, and she disregarded the brief brush of her fingers against his as he passed her the drink. 

She sipped and held the liquid in her mouth for a long moment. Bitter. 

“Good?”

“Yes. Lovely.”

They watched whatever was on television—some French film featuring people in elaborate medieval costumes, already halfway through, without subtitles. 

Nick rested his head back against the cushions and stared at the screen. He was close enough that she could smell wood smoke on his clothes. She slyly observed the shape of his throat as he craned his neck toward the ceiling, and Joshua’s footsteps crossed the bedroom above. “Is he on the phone up there?” 

“Mm.”

A pause. “If we can hear him, he’s heard us, right?”

“I suppose.”

“And he’s not come down to say hello?”

Lissa didn’t say anything for a moment. “He’s busy. It’s probably about his brother’s baby.”

She felt him watching the side of her face, as if to make pointed eye contact, but she stared at the television.

He gave up. Joshua kept talking—pacing. It had been ages now. 

After sipping his drink, Nick jolted forward in his seat and sputtered. “Jesus Christ, that’s awful hot chocolate. What the hell did I do?”

“No sugar,” she said. “You used plain cocoa.” Her own cup was cooling on the coffee table—unstirred powder blooming on the surface.

“Well, why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

Nick laughed. “I think you should be ruder, Lissa.”

She liked hearing that. “You think?”

“Absolutely.”

She smiled. He smiled. They stopped speaking and watched the movie. 

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Downstairs, someone shrieked with laughter. Music pounded. Diane’s voice rose above it all, bright and drunk and oblivious. “Fifteen minutes!” She cried. “Where is my daughter?”

And in the living room, among a sea of sophisticated strangers, ex-pats and art dealers, Diane caught her arm, champagne spilling onto the carpet, her eyes bright. “Lissa! Where is Joshua?”

“Not feeling well, unfortunately.” 

“Oh, that headache is lasting a while. Poor thing.” She pulled a great, dramatic, and utterly unconvincing sad face, but then her eyes sharpened as she looked more closely at Lissa. “Are you alright, darling?”

“Fine, yeah.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look—”

“I’m fine, Mum. Leave it.”

“Oh, well, then. Have some champagne. It’s almost midnight.”

Lissa took the glass and brought it to an armchair. Pushing coats and bags aside, she sat and sipped, observing as though through a pane of glass the party churning around her. She was the mysterious figure in the dark corner, watching adults behave like teenagers, laughing and laughing, faces bright and joyful, and easy to resent. 

The occasional drunken diplomat staggered up to greet her. Oh, Lissa. You look beautiful. You’ve grown. Do you remember me? She never did. Diane’s acquaintances were a rotating reel of sun-aged faces, Francis or Claude, Thelma or Camille. 

Near the fireplace, Nick and Anika had their heads close.

“I should say something to her, shouldn’t I? Just check?” He said. 

“No,” Anika replied. “Leave her. Don’t say anything. She’s more sensitive than she pretends to be.”

The countdown started.

Dix! Neuf! Huit! Sept! Six!

Lissa stayed where she was.

Cinq! Quatre! Trois! Deux! Un!

Bonne année! The room erupted, and Nick cupped Anika's face.

Lissa watched. Anika’s hand on his hip, the way her head tilted back as he kissed her. Open mouths. It was pleasant, in a way, to watch him kissing someone else—the angle of his jaw and the shadow of his lashes against his face while confetti exploded cinematically around them. 

She stayed where she was, staving off drunken small talk until the party died down and finally—finally, Diane had to be carried off to bed, and thus marked the end of the night. 

Anika appeared by the chair, crouching into Lissa’s eyeline. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said. “Are you doing alright?” 

“Yeah, fine.”

“Did something happen with Joshua?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it, thanks.”

Anika nodded. “Alright, well, I’m here if you want to talk.” 

“Yep.”

Alexander cleared the glasses and swept the confetti from the floor, stealing wary glances at Lissa, and frightened to address her. Then, when he had finished cleaning, he sloped off to bed, mumbling, “goodnight”. 

And Nick—Nick who she wouldn’t dare to look at again, in case he approached her—Nick snuck another bottle of wine from the cellar. With two glasses in his hand, he and Anika headed upstairs, pausing only to press up against the wall, giggling softly into one another’s mouths. 

And then she was alone. 

She moved the coffee table to make space for the pull-out bed, fetched blankets and pillows from the cupboard, and with the house silent save for the patter of snow on the glass and crackling timber in the dying fire, she lay down and finally, finally, she allowed herself to cry. 

Once she’d started, it was less of a cry and more a wail—retching, infant-like, and heaving from her depths. Open-mouthed with no sound, gasping for breath, and then the wave would pass for a few moments, and she’d stare at the beams on the ceiling, hot tears steaming down her face and she’d feel dimly optimistic in her assumption that nothing could ever feel worse than this. 

Then she’d remember something poignant, like when Joshua held her hand under the covers of this very pull-out bed, on this very night six years earlier as one century became another, and she would cry again for the hopes she’d held for them and for herself, her foolish assumptions that everything would be alright. 

There was movement on the stairs—the creak of a step, and Lissa sat up. 

Nick. 

A silhouette in the ghostly light, he moved toward the kitchen, then stopped. He’d spotted her. 

“You’re sleeping down here,” he said. 

“Yes.”

He went into the kitchen. Filled a glass with water. She heard the gurgle of the pipes, the squeak of the brass tap, then he paused in the archway, and they looked at one another. Lissa couldn’t think of what to say to him, but for once, that felt alright. They were caught in the shadowy place between one year and the next, and it was borrowed time. She felt no obligation to perform. 

“Fuck him, Lissa,” he said simply. “Fuck him.”

And then he was gone. 

Lissa stared at the fire for a long time—the final embers glowing orange, then fading to ash. 

And sometime in the very first hours of 2006, she finally slept.

End of Part One

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She browned herself in the sun, turning every fifteen minutes to ensure an even bake. Dead, airless heat ground the vineyard to a halt. Silent, not a gentle breeze to rustle the leaves of the vines or lift little peaks from the pool’s surface. It lay like a sheet of glass behind the villa, reflecting the sky back at itself—a vivid blue rectangle in the midst of scorched land.

Every so often, Lissa would lay her book aside and sink her hand into the water just to let it trickle down her arm, watching how quickly the drops evaporated from the stone. This was just how the days went. She couldn’t for the life of her remember what she used to do when she visited, but had never been this bored before. So bored she might cry. 

Occasionally, Alexander would disrupt the quiet, marching around hitting weeds with sticks, or whatever else kept him occupied. France was his hell, allegedly, thanks to the dial-up internet and the fact Diane didn’t possess the correct ports in her ancient television to accommodate a PlayStation 2. 

Her voice drifted from the windows of the house—expressive French—on the phone again to someone with an obscure royal connection, maybe, or a diplomat, whom she was inviting to a dinner party. They’d come over, her important friends, dressed in wrinkled linen, and sit around congratulating each other on their great wit and importance, pretending to enjoy Diane’s terrible cooking. And by midnight, they’d find themselves on the patio getting wine drunk and dancing to old records, while Lissa lay wide awake, furious, and too warm to close the window. 

“Lissa,” Diane Bouchard was calling from the patio, thin, freckled, beautiful, her dark hair loose under her sun hat.

“Yes?”

“You look hot, darling, are you burning?”

Lissa flipped a page. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“It’s just you’re wearing so much clothing…”

Lissa groaned and turned over to lie face-up, her book shielding her mother from view as she approached, with that wrinkle of concern between her brows. 

It was the one-piece bathing suit that concerned her. The utilitarian, thick neoprene, firm and distinctly un-sexy. Everything not left to the imagination was covered by a pair of shorts for men that made her look like her uncle from Texas. It was not a question of whether Diane would mention it, but when. Lissa was just surprised it had taken a week. 

“Forgive me, Lissa, but I don’t see the point of tanning in something like this. Why don’t you put on one of your old swimsuits?”

“From when I was fifteen?”

“You’ll have unsightly lines when you get home, and I simply cannot be held responsible.”

Lissa sulked. “I already look bad. What difference will a farmer’s tan make?” 

“Silly. You don’t look bad! Where are you looking bad?”

“My skin,” the mere admission made Lissa’s voice tremble. “I’ve broken out, obviously. And I’m—well, I’m a bit fat, mother, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Diane had noticed—The cake served on Lissa’s dessert plate two nights previously was half the size of Alexander’s, and she’d forgotten to pick up a third croissant at the patisserie—but she was choosing to pretend anyway, uttering one of those flippant, French noises. “Oh, and so what? We’ll put you on pills.”

“For which?”

“Gosh, the skin, darling, of course. And you can just…” Diane gestured vaguely at Lissa’s fuller form. “Lose the weight. We’ll go on more walks.”

Yes. Walks. That would do it. As though Lissa hadn’t just been schlepping up and down the streets of Dublin on the daily, running frantic loops of the hotel in the chaos of high-season. The bloat was something else—some psychological toxin made flesh. She resented Diane and her thinness, her declarations that she was full after eating three grapes, and enjoying a wholesome dinner of twelve cigarettes on the balcony. 

“Maybe I would walk if it wasn’t so warm,” she said, adding: “and therefore boring.”

Diane scoffed. “You’re not inspired by your literature choices?”

She tossed Anna Karenina aside. It was her third venture into Tolstoy’s Russia, the book dog-eared with cracks along the spine, but this time, it had lost her attention somewhere around its middle, as she could no longer find comfort in the trudge towards a predictable ending. 

“No,” she sulked. “It’s become dull.”

“Then choose another book. The shelves are just sagging with them.”

Lissa just grunted, aware Diane would suggest Bonjour Tristesse again, the story about that manipulative little French girl. 

“Oh, darling. You’re making me depressed. I don’t expect you to keep visiting if it’s making you so miserable. The courts can’t force you like they can Alexander.”

“I’m either bored here, or bored in Dublin.”

Diane sighed. “How is your love life, sweetheart? Why aren’t you with Joshua?”

“Because I’ve told you. He’s sailing with his friends. He didn’t want to come.”

“And what? You didn’t want to sail with him? Wouldn’t that be terribly romantic? serves a couple, you know—time alone together in such close quarters.”

But it wasn’t romantic. Joshua was preparing for some onerous race up the east coast with the boys, more windburn and waterproof trousers than seafood and wine, the docked boat swaying to the cadence of their lovemaking. But Lissa couldn’t blame Diane for her imagination, as this was precisely the sort of situation she herself could have landed herself in by delightful coincidence. It seemed that in her younger, wilder days her bags were always packed, prepared to be whisked around the Mediterranean by some lothario on a boat. 

But Lissa was not Diane. Possessed none of the sun-faded, rootless romance of people who thrived through the seventies. Photos of her in her youth filled the villa: denim jeans with worn knees, long hair, freckles across her skin. Nomadic, spiritual, free, like she didn’t know how cynical life could be. She still didn’t know. 

Diane was suggesting an affair now. Lissa pulled herself upright, sunk her ankles into the pool. 

“There’s a young man I know,” Diane explained. “Pierre. He’s twenty-five and very handsome. I could invite him to dinner, and you could connect. Who knows? Maybe you’ll feel a spark.”

Lissa spoke flatly. “No. I love Joshua.”

“Oh, Joshua. Joshua isn’t here.”

“I don’t think you understand commitment.”

“Well,” the rustle of cardboard as Diane produced a cigarette. “Do you really think college is a good time to be with just one man? One man, Lissa, for your whole life. Is that what you want? You ought to be making mistakes and having sex with different people constantly. Every day, if you want, who cares? Why aren’t you doing that?”

“Is that your motherly advice?”

“Oui. Of course.” 

“Thank you, that’s helpful,” Lissa stood and walked back towards the villa. The blazing sun on her shoulders made her woozy. Her new thrilling plan: lie down with the shutters closed. 

“At Christmas,” Diane called after her. “Will you still be like this?”

Lissa paused. “Like what, exactly?”

“Ah! So dour. So lonely. Furious at your own loneliness.”

“We’ll see.”

Diane waved a lungful of smoke away from her face. “Invite friends next time, won’t you? I’m sure I’ll wither away without youthful energy. I can’t take it. All my accomplices are becoming dreadfully old—and it seems, forgive me, so are you.”

“You’d like to meet my friends?”

“Yes, whatever bohemian types you’ve found at college. Two, three, as many as will fit in the chalet.”

It sounded vaguely like she would like to eat them. 

Lissa turned again, passed into the cooler kitchen. “Yeah, I’ll think about it,” she said, and pulled the doors shut behind her. 

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[hannahssimblr]

The cassoulet sat in the centre of a table with burning candles and flowing drinks. Wine—so much wine. A Marcellec this time, which Alexander had dragged up from the cellar. Rich and dark, and staining the inside of Joshua’s lips considerably as he took impassive sips and slid food around his plate with a fork. 

“You’ve something on your mouth,” Lissa murmured beneath the dinner conversation, and he turned his head to her, a slightly affronted expression on his face. “Just there, just your lip.”

He took a paper napkin and blotted ineffectually, and she pretended he’d gotten the mark off. 

“... well, this was when people still wired money, darling. I had to call my poor father and beg him so I could get a flight out of there.”

She had been zoning in and out of the conversation for the last forty-five minutes. Coming up with exciting phrases like “What? Oh, yes,” whenever Diane prompted her to fill in a detail. She was utterly frozen in this strange situation she had orchestrated. She knew everyone was just going along with it to be polite. They thought it was weird, right? She kept looking at them for confirmation, but they sat engaged and content, smiling at Diane, prompting her earnestly for more romping tales of her youth and reacting to each new, outrageous detail. 

“You didn’t!”

“Oh, of course I did. What else could I do?”

Lissa tried not to stare at Nick. He leaned back in the chair with his elbow slung over the spindle—a messy, mod-adjacent haircut that made him look like one of those Arctic Monkeys boys. So casual, the way he held himself, how he swiped pieces of sourdough from Anika’s side plate, shared her wine, took up space—all legs beneath the table. He caught her eye occasionally when she adjusted herself, kicked his feet or knocked knees, and she had to apologise in case he felt she was doing it on purpose. 

Otherwise, he wasn’t particularly aware of her, and she wasn’t making a point to talk to him, mostly because she didn’t have anything to say that would wow him like her mother could. It was all about Diane according to Nick, who wore the enchanted look of every man who encountered her—Sitting kind of moony-eyed and dopey, complimenting her excessively—her decor, her wine, her cooking, which was a lie, as the cassoulet was dramatically over-salted and burnt, and he hadn’t finished it. 

“Nicholas, did you know…” she said while pouring from the second bottle of wine. “That you and I have met before?”

“Have we?”

“Yes. A long time ago,” she shot Lissa a private wink over the rim of her glass, which sent a jolt of dread through her body. 

Nick glanced between them. “I don’t think so. I would have remembered.”

“Lissa, darling, don’t you remember? Tell him what happened.”

“I actually don’t.”

“Oh, she does, but I’ll tell you anyway. Did you know you came to visit our home in Dublin when you were a child?”

He seemed perplexed. 

“We thought—well, Jarlath, my ex—he thought it would be nice for the children to get together and play, since you’re the same age as each other, and well, he used to see so much of Ben and Linda. So, we invited your whole family to the house on a Saturday afternoon, and our Lissa was so excited. She really was the hostess with the mostest, weren’t you? You still are, I’m sure, yes? She loves meeting new people.”

Lissa smiled. 

“Well, she spent the afternoon in a frenzy. She tidied up her bedroom and laid out her best toys. She went into the garden and found every tennis ball lying about. And you know, it’s a large garden, and tennis balls were just everywhere—lost in the long grass, the hedgerow—she was digging through,” she was doing a charming impression of seven-year-old Lissa burrowing through the laurel hedgerows like an over-eager little mole. “And she found dozens. Put them all into this great bucket, and sat like this, and waited for you to arrive.”

Nick was enraptured, as though he weren’t a character. 

“And then, finally, the Lynotts arrived! And guess what you did? Can you guess?” Diane was cackling now, clutching his arm. “You completely ignored her! Oh, it was so cruel. You had absolutely no interest in playing. You wanted to sit up in the kitchen and speak to the adults, while she played tennis with herself against the garage door. Oh, it was terrible. But funny, you know, in a way that children don’t yet know is funny. Eventually, she begged us to send you home, and we were under strict instructions never to invite you again.”

Nick let out a weak laugh and looked at Lissa. “I—well, honestly, I really don’t remember that. It’s horrible. I can’t believe I did that.”

“It’s fine,” she replied. “It was over a decade ago. I don’t care.”

“Christ, but I’m sorry, I don’t know what was wrong with me.” He reached across the table and squeezed her arm. “My parents should have had me tested after that. I was demonic.”

Anika was cackling too. “That’s such a Nick story. I can see that happening.”

He gasped in mock offense. “No…”

“Yes, Nick. You’re so rude by default. I adore that you were like this even as a child. It’s almost comforting, right? Like nobody really changes that much through the years, and we’re really just who we are, whether we like it or not.”

“That’s not a very appealing characteristic, though. I was a rude little bastard—excuse me, Diane, sorry. I meant, a rude little—”

“Oh darling, we can say whatever words we like in my house.”

He grinned like he thought this was sexy. 

“How about you, Joshua?” Anika said, and there was a brief pause around the table. “What were you like as a child? The same as you are now?”

He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

“Ah, but, you know—what have your parents said about you? Don’t they have stories about things you did?”

“I haven’t asked.”

“Well then, what about Lissa?” Nick said. “You two have been together forever, right? What was she like as a child? Wait, sorry, you met… when?”

“At twelve,” Lissa said. “We started going out at thirteen.”

“Right, right. So, go on, twelve-year-old Lissa, Joshua, tell us all about her.” He smirked before adding: “If you can remember that, of course.”

Joshua leaned back, puffing through his lips. “Well, she was quite sweet, actually. She was shy and giggled a lot. Hm, let me see… Polite, soft-spoken, and very sensitive. A little clumsy.”

Lissa’s smile faltered.

“Ha!” Diane cried. “What are you saying? She wasn’t. She was a furious, bossy little cow who needed everything her way, and she was fabulous. She got that from me.”

“Mum!”

“Yeah, two entirely different people are being described here,” said Anika. 

“Alexander!” Nick said. “Which description fits your sister?”

Alexander held back a smile. “Mum’s, obviously. Lissa was mean.”

Nick let out a squawking, triumphant kind of laugh as he turned his attention back to Joshua. “So, actually, you don’t remember? Have you hallucinated her?” 

Joshua’s nostrils flared. “That’s how she was with me, and it’s how I remember her, so I don’t know what else you’d all like me to say.”

“Was I really?” Lissa was failing to conjure a memory that supported his allegations. “I was soft-spoken? I led the debating team at Loreto. They had to ask me to lower my voice as I was so naturally shrill.”

“Mmm, she was always shouting at home,” Diane agreed. “Shrieking at her father about the government, or the hole in the ozone layer, or whatever was upsetting her. Thank God that house had so many rooms. I could hide away in peace.”

“Well, excuse me for saying she was nice,” Joshua huffed. “My apologies. Obviously, I was wrong.”

“Aw, no worries, mate, we all make mistakes,” Nick said, and snickered while Anika poked him beneath the table. 

Diane smiled thinly at Joshua, then looked around at all the plates piled high with uneaten food—cold meat in a pool of watery sauce. “Well, anyway. I’m sorry for the meal,” she pivoted. “It really wasn’t my best, you know—I was never destined for a domestic life…”

“Oh, no,” Anika said. “It was lovely. We just ate while we were waiting for the bus, didn’t we, Nick?”

“Yeah, we filled up on McNuggets at the airport. Terrible. It’s a shame, really. This meal was so nice.”

“Oh, don’t.”

“No, seriously.”

“Yes, Mum, it’s lovely. You did a nice job.”

“Well, thank you, Alex, sweetheart.”

“Sorry,” Joshua tossed his napkin onto his plate. “Are we all just going to sit here and pretend the food is edible?”

There was silence. 

Diane placed down her wineglass and smiled serenely. “It’s refreshing to have such honest guests. Joshua, I apologise if my cooking isn’t up to your standards.”

Anika leapt in. “No, Diane, really, it was lovely…”

“No need to be polite,” Diane stared at Joshua. 

“Actually, apologies, everyone, but I’m going to go to bed,” he said. “I have a headache.” He got up and left his plate where it was, barely out of earshot before Diane said: “Ah, wonderful. Looks like we’re cleaning up after him, too.”

“Mum, don’t.”

Diane’s eyes met Lissa’s, and there was something hard and frightening in them that made her want to sink into the floor. 

“I’ll clean up,” Nick jumped to his feet and began grabbing plates and cutlery all around him, forming an unstable tower in his arms. 

“No, no, Nicholas,” Diane protested. “I don’t want you to clean. Please leave it. Have more wine.” The bottle dribbled into the bottom of Nick’s glass. “We’ll get another. Alexander. Won’t you go to the cellar again?”

She shot him a stare, and he instantly rose from the table.

“Now, Nick, Anika, you stay here and relax. Lissa and I will clear the plates, and then we’ll join you. We can play cards. What do you think?”

While they made noises of agreement, Lissa trailed her mother into the kitchen, the half-full casserole pot in tow. 

Diane laid the stack of plates down, a tremor in her hands that rattled her bangles. 

“Mum…”

“I don’t want him in my home,” she said through gritted teeth. “That… horrible little man. I don’t want him here for another minute, let alone two more days.”

“It’s just a mood he’s in. He’s…” Without a reasonable excuse, Lissa let the sentence die. 

“I've been watching him all evening. The way he looks at you, the way he speaks to you, or doesn’t, frankly, as he barely said a word. Has he always treated you with such hatred?”

“It isn’t hatred. Don’t be dramatic.”

“I can’t believe how you allow him to behave.”

“Wait, me?” The pot was hefty. Lissa dropped it on the stove with a clunk. “Why am I in charge of how he is all of a sudden?”

“Because you don’t stand up for yourself, which is the same as condoning it.”

“You want me to grab him by the collar and slap him around when he misbehaves?”

“I want you to say something. You won’t let me do it, so why don’t you?”

“Because, Mum—”

“Jade might allow this in her house, but I won’t allow it in mine. I don’t allow anyone to behave like that. Not in front of me.”

“Wait, Jade?”

“Yes. That Jade. She… she moves into my house and ruins it with her designs. My gardens, my tennis court, and then she lets that little blonde devil in—lets him treat you so awfully. That’s where he gets the idea he can.”

“This has nothing to do with—Mum, you said we can’t talk about her.”

“Well, I’m talking about her now.”

“No!” Lissa hissed. “You don’t get to bring this up after you’ve had an entire bottle of wine. You always want to blame everything on Dad and Jade when you were the one who—”

“Everything alright in here?” Nick stood in the archway, wine bottle in hand. “Sorry—looking for the corkscrew. Any chance you cleared it up with the plates?”

Diane’s fury evaporated in an instant, replaced by her hostess smile. “Oh, Nicholas. We must have, darling. Let’s take a look.” She sifted through the stack, hands still shaking.

He glanced between them. “You sure I can’t help with the dishes?”

“No, please. We’re nearly done.”

He found the corkscrew and left. Diane waited until his footsteps disappeared to speak again.

“I mean it.” She said sternly. “I don’t want Joshua here if he’s going to be this way. You need to figure it out.”

She turned on the tap, hot water rushing into the sink.

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