“I’ve heard Marseille is nice.”

“Not my Marseille.”

He had two days’ stubble on his cheeks and really did look in profound need of a bath. He also sat sullenly, his arms folded, as if furious at being in a job interview situation—which indeed he was—as Fintan attempted to explain what was going on up at the Rock. He looked around even as Fintan was still talking.

“You want me to cook ou quoi ?”

Fintan was caught mid-spiel. “Well, I’m just trying to explain what—”

“Oui, oui, but eef you hate what I cook, then this ees a waste of everyone’s time, non ? Eet ees pointless talk talk talk, bleh bleh bleh.”

Without waiting for an answer, he stood up and stalked into the small kitchen.

“Maree-ong!” he shouted. “You have nuzzing ! Nuzzing ees here!”

“You know this guy?” said Fintan.

Marian nodded.

“Is he a dick?”

“Uhm.” Marian truly didn’t want to be unprofessional.

Fintan, reading her face, groaned.

“But,” said Marian, to the sound of a gas burner being turned up high and popping loudly, “he can cook.”

Chapter 8

F intan went in to watch what Gaspard was doing. What Gaspard was doing was having a cigarette out the window, in blatant defiance of the fire regulations and the many signs posted around the walls.

“What are you doing?” said Marian.

“Sweating the onion,” said Gaspard. “Nobody does eet properly. They do not leave eet long enough. They rush rush rush. And so, dégueulasse .”

He shook his head sadly and leaned back so far out the window, Fintan thought he might fall out.

Fintan couldn’t help himself. His lips twitched ever so slightly. Gaspard tossed his cigarette out the window and went back to the pan without washing his hands. Hearing Marian’s anguished sigh, he theatrically returned to the sink and did so. Then he added some finely chopped bacon, reduced some white wine he had already sampled straight from the bottle, and gave Marian a big telling off on terroir, explaining that if you bought wine for cooking that was worse than your normal wine, you were an idiot, and if you bought that wine for both cooking and drinking, you were also an idiot, and so what was she? Finally he added some cream to the sauce, quickly seared some scallops in another pan with fennel, and served them all the lightest, most delicious lunch Fintan had had in some time, particularly after ferreting around in the back of the cupboard and finding a slightly more acceptable bottle of wine.

“Tiens,” Gaspard grumbled, throwing his food down like a lanky bear.

He disappeared after Marian insisted on his leaving the building for another cigarette.

“I’ll take him,” said Fintan.

“Are you sure?” said Marian. “He’s a pig. And he doesn’t last long in jobs.”

“So why did you show him to me then?”

“Because we were . . . a little short on CVs.”

“Well,” said Fintan, as Gaspard rolled back in, shouting at the top of his lungs what were patently obscenities in French down his phone. “You’ve got him off your hands.”