In her room, Evie tried on the long, African-print dress she had bought in the market, and smiled into the mirror; she would never have worn such a dress in Sheldon Lodge. Mrs Lofthouse and the paradise pink lipstick loomed in her mind, and she grinned as she applied a bit of gloss to her mouth and brushed her hair. She was tanned now and her hair had grown a little, silver through the blonde. At the corners of her eyes were deep lines, skin the sun had not reached, which showed when she squinted or laughed, cream against brown. Evie’s reflection beamed back at her; laughter was always a great remedy. She wondered if Mr Grumpy would laugh that evening. It was time for her to leave.
Jean-Luc was waiting outside in a battered red sports car; she’d seen it before when she first arrived at O’Driscoll’s. She had parked the campervan next to it. The soft top was folded down and Jean-Luc’s hair was now brushed out, a mass of grey curls. The collar to his denim jacket was turned up and he was wearing round sunglasses. Evie slid into the passenger seat and he asked her if she was cold, if she minded the top down. She said she didn’t mind at all, it was grand. They drove off, Jean-Luc revving the engine loudly.
She’d expected a simple meal in his house, but they were sitting across a table in a chic restaurant. Evie saw the prices and decided that she would offer to pay. He explained the menu to her and bad-temperedly suggested that she should learn French.
‘I think I will,’ said Evie. ‘I’ll ask Ray or Paulette if they will teach me. I’m sure they’ll be good at it.’
He looked stung and ordered their food, broodily sipping at the water the waiter brought to the table. The starter arrived and he began to eat, hardly looking at her. Evie asked the waiter for a bottle of red house wine in French and Jean-Luc shot her a sharp look.
‘Is that all right?’ she asked him.
‘I would have chosen a better wine. The one you have chosen is bad – overpriced vinegar.’ He exhaled and began to dip bread in the garlic sauce on his plate.
The main course arrived, beef in pastry, and a different sauce, probably mushrooms and cream. The waiter poured the wine into their glasses and she made a point of drinking enthusiastically. ‘This is grand,’ she said. It was overpriced vinegar.
The silence was accompanied by chewing. Evie decided the atmosphere needed to change; she smiled at Jean-Luc. ‘It was kind of you to invite me to dinner.’
He was surprised. ‘But it was your idea.’
She put down her knife and fork. ‘My idea?’
He munched for a few moments and then spoke. ‘After we drank three bottles of sparkling wine, before you passed out, you said to me that I should take you out to dinner.’
Evie blushed. ‘And you always do what random women tell you, do you?’
He shrugged carelessly and continued to eat. Then he said, ‘You told me that my business was … what did you say … “a fecking mess”. I wondered if you would have some great advice for me, being such an experienced businesswoman.’
She decided he was an irritating rude man. She considered what to say, but Jean-Luc stopped eating and looked at her, his eyes dark embers.
‘That was before you told me you were an actor in a pornography film.’
Evie put her face in her hands. ‘I said that?’
He nodded.
‘And is that why you asked me to dinner? Because I told you to and because I said I was a pornography star?’
He continued to eat, then took a deliberate mouthful of the bitter wine, before wiping his lips with the napkin.
‘No, I invited you because I like you. You make me smile. It is a long time since I have smiled like this.’
Evie prodded her food. ‘Well, Jean-Luc, if it is advice you want, I have plenty for you. Your wine-tasting place is in need of a good scrub-down. It’s filthy. The cobwebs need to go and the walls need painting. The tables need some nice candles and a few little knick-knacks to make it feel like home, and … oh, yes – the sign you have outside is shite. No wonder no-one comes in; the place looks like a deserted cowshed and it smells like one. Your wine is good but you don’t market it properly while you are sitting on your arse playing your guitar and singing David Bowie songs. You need to smarten up your act and get out there and advertise yourself – run a proper shop, rather than leaving it to that poor little kid you boss about and treat like dirt while you mope around and drink away the profits.’
He stared at her and took a mouthful of wine. His lips twitched slightly. She did not understand. He did not look angry or cross or grumpy. He was simply watching her.
She put her hands down on the table and stared back. ‘So, there it is. There’s your advice, Jean-Luc. I’ve said it.’
He reached out across the table and put his hand on top of hers, his large palm covering her hand. She wondered if he would crush it. His expression was serious.
‘Evie,’ he began.
She drank more wine. ‘I know. Here we go. You’re going to get all grumpy and sulky and tell me off.’
‘No,’ he said and his eyes were serious. ‘I am going to offer you a job.’