Australian-ness of her father until he was practically roping cattle with his teeth while surfing and drinking a beer.
Does he have that weird Australian pug nose?
Amanda had never asked.
Or the omnipresent layer of Australian male baby-fat?
she’d never queried.
Or a ponytail out of an inbred ’70s jug-band?
she’d never wondered aloud. She checked herself internally. She was being grossly unfair. But wasn’t grossly unfair sometimes
thrilling
?
‘Dad’s great with JP,’ she said. ‘He’s very kind, is my father. Gentle.’
‘Mmm,’ Rachel didn’t quite say, looking across the field they’d chosen to some youths also taking advantage of the weather to kick around a football. ‘Jake Gyllenhaal’s younger brother, three o’clock.’
Mei blinked. ‘You know, I never know what you mean by that. You say “three o’clock” like it’s a direction.’
‘It
is
a direction?’ Rachel said, pointing. ‘Twelve, one, two,
three
o’clock? Not that difficult?’
They turned and looked at Mr Three O’Clock who, Amanda would never admit out loud, was indeed handsome, if a bit too young even for her, though possibly not for the six-years-older Rachel. His hair was as thick and luscious as a milkshake, and there was no way he didn’t know it. Even at this distance, he gave off self-regard like the Queen gave off forbearance.
‘He looks like he cries when he comes,’ Amanda said, not realising she’d said it out loud until she heard Mei snort with laughter. She turned, but Mei was already retreating again under Rachel’s glare. Mei quickly picked up her phone to keep tracking her daughter. ‘Still in Nando’s,’ she said.
‘Well, at least Marco takes an interest?’ Rachel said. ‘At least he’s not off with some hot new girlfriend in another country? Forgetting every bit of his duty?’
Amanda’s fork stopped halfway between the last bite of the salad and her mouth, momentarily so stung that swift tears filled her eyes. Blunt willpower alone kept them from spreading down her cheeks.
Because it wasn’t like that. Well, it
was
, but it also wasn’t. Henri
was
back in France and living with Claudine now but Amanda had basically forced him to go, booting him out of her and JP’s life with a force and constancy that had surprised even her. He called JP every week, though, even if JP’s four-year-old phone skills were barely rudimentary. Henri said he just wanted his son to hear real French, wanted him to hear his name (Jean-Pierre) pronounced properly, wanted him to hear the lullabies his own grandmother had sung to him.
If Amanda’s heart hadn’t ripped freshly in two every time she heard Henri’s voice, it might have even been sweet.
They’d met her last year at university, seeing each other first in a shared tutorial, then overlapping at the same parties. He was stocky, and manly to the point of bullheaded. His hair was going saltily grey even at twenty, and out of every girl in the tutorial,
she
was the one he sat by, seeing – he eventually told her – a kind of kindred intensity, like she’d not only be able to kill an enemy, but eat him, too.
For her part, she got so giddy every time he was in the same room that she began to live in a state of almost permanent fury. She’d refused to even tell her parents about him for months, lest there be any hint of laughter at her falling so hard, though they would of course have been the last people to do so.
She took most of it out on Henri. ‘You’ve got
fire
,’ he said, and though it sounded ludicrous even in a French accent, they’d each been so turned on it hardly mattered. It was like a hurricane courting a scorpion. Objects thrown, unbelievable sex, months lived in a kind of constant, shivering fever. It had all felt so young! It had all felt so French! She’d been swept away, but in hindsight only in the sense that a landslide brings down a highway: unstoppable catastrophe, followed by rubble. They’d even argued at their
Does he have that weird Australian pug nose?
Amanda had never asked.
Or the omnipresent layer of Australian male baby-fat?
she’d never queried.
Or a ponytail out of an inbred ’70s jug-band?
she’d never wondered aloud. She checked herself internally. She was being grossly unfair. But wasn’t grossly unfair sometimes
thrilling
?
‘Dad’s great with JP,’ she said. ‘He’s very kind, is my father. Gentle.’
‘Mmm,’ Rachel didn’t quite say, looking across the field they’d chosen to some youths also taking advantage of the weather to kick around a football. ‘Jake Gyllenhaal’s younger brother, three o’clock.’
Mei blinked. ‘You know, I never know what you mean by that. You say “three o’clock” like it’s a direction.’
‘It
is
a direction?’ Rachel said, pointing. ‘Twelve, one, two,
three
o’clock? Not that difficult?’
They turned and looked at Mr Three O’Clock who, Amanda would never admit out loud, was indeed handsome, if a bit too young even for her, though possibly not for the six-years-older Rachel. His hair was as thick and luscious as a milkshake, and there was no way he didn’t know it. Even at this distance, he gave off self-regard like the Queen gave off forbearance.
‘He looks like he cries when he comes,’ Amanda said, not realising she’d said it out loud until she heard Mei snort with laughter. She turned, but Mei was already retreating again under Rachel’s glare. Mei quickly picked up her phone to keep tracking her daughter. ‘Still in Nando’s,’ she said.
‘Well, at least Marco takes an interest?’ Rachel said. ‘At least he’s not off with some hot new girlfriend in another country? Forgetting every bit of his duty?’
Amanda’s fork stopped halfway between the last bite of the salad and her mouth, momentarily so stung that swift tears filled her eyes. Blunt willpower alone kept them from spreading down her cheeks.
Because it wasn’t like that. Well, it
was
, but it also wasn’t. Henri
was
back in France and living with Claudine now but Amanda had basically forced him to go, booting him out of her and JP’s life with a force and constancy that had surprised even her. He called JP every week, though, even if JP’s four-year-old phone skills were barely rudimentary. Henri said he just wanted his son to hear real French, wanted him to hear his name (Jean-Pierre) pronounced properly, wanted him to hear the lullabies his own grandmother had sung to him.
If Amanda’s heart hadn’t ripped freshly in two every time she heard Henri’s voice, it might have even been sweet.
They’d met her last year at university, seeing each other first in a shared tutorial, then overlapping at the same parties. He was stocky, and manly to the point of bullheaded. His hair was going saltily grey even at twenty, and out of every girl in the tutorial,
she
was the one he sat by, seeing – he eventually told her – a kind of kindred intensity, like she’d not only be able to kill an enemy, but eat him, too.
For her part, she got so giddy every time he was in the same room that she began to live in a state of almost permanent fury. She’d refused to even tell her parents about him for months, lest there be any hint of laughter at her falling so hard, though they would of course have been the last people to do so.
She took most of it out on Henri. ‘You’ve got
fire
,’ he said, and though it sounded ludicrous even in a French accent, they’d each been so turned on it hardly mattered. It was like a hurricane courting a scorpion. Objects thrown, unbelievable sex, months lived in a kind of constant, shivering fever. It had all felt so young! It had all felt so French! She’d been swept away, but in hindsight only in the sense that a landslide brings down a highway: unstoppable catastrophe, followed by rubble. They’d even argued at their
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