Marlow:Yes I can. Intel?
Gustavo:Um … Not that I can share.
Marlow:You are terrible at secrets.
Gustavo:Why do you care?
Marlow: Exactly. Thx. Gnight.
But she did care. Marlow was personally offended by how disinterested Yves was in Sabine. That he was a successful filmmaker only made it worse.
She ripped herself away from Yves’s social media feed and doomscrolled friends’ five-star vacations, dreamy romances, and perfect lives. She checked in on everyone from her graduating class. Four were directing on one-hour TV series, three were making big-budget features, one was the programmer at a festival in Norway. Marlow was making fourteen-second videos on her Instagram feed.
She drank more, making the presentation retrofit unlikely. She’d wake up early, do it then. She wolfed down some cake to cancel out the booze but kept drinking, so the cake had no effect.
She could be spontaneous. Redirect her life. “Pivot,” as they say, which made her want to barf because it was such a word du jour. But she wanted to, goddammit. She wanted to pivot. Maybe she could do one thing before the end of today. Take one tiny step to crawl out.
It was 11:47 PM. Thirteen minutes to do something. Anything.
Don’t be ridiculous. Redo this presentation, send it to Oscar, get the full-time job, and be happy Sabine is launched. Well. Almost.
More doomscrolling. More drinking. More cake.
It was 11:56 when she came upon a “Suggested For You” Facebook post, aGuardianarticle titled, “Buying a house for a single euro in France changed my life forever.” It was about abandoned rustic“maisons de campagne.”France, like Italy, had adopted a one-euro program to stop the ghost town problem in rural areas, a result of the exodus of, first, young people to thecity to find a job, and then, of old people following them because they needed care. A US couple, tired of their lives, had bought a one-euro house and,voilà!—their lives had magically transformed. The house was rustic to be sure, but basically the most charming thing ever. The article promised this, too, could be yours. For one. Single. Euro.
There was a link to an info page in French. Marlow clicked on it to see a cornucopia of picturesque medieval villages, some perched high atop a hill, some nestled in a valley. The stuff of dreams. There were a few bigger houses with terraces covered in vines, and even châteaux. Those were not for one euro. But when Marlow clicked further, she found an assortment of appetizer-sized houses. Sometimes you could see photos of rooms, sometimes just the quaint exterior, with a hobbit-sized heavy wooden door and chunky doorknob. But you could conjure the simple yet classic inside; picture yourself in a nook on a cool, crisp night with a big sweater, reading by candlelight. She toggled back to the article, the American woman and her husband makingboeuf bourgignonin their rustic kitchen. Eating on a stone patio overlooking the vineyards at sunset. Truffle hunting. Yes, that happened in France, not just Italy. Imagine!
The summer before her last year of undergrad, Marlow had been an au pair in France. Yes, she’d had to take care of two annoying kids, but Diet Coke was more expensive than a decent red (so why not drink the red), she practiced her French and it improved, cheese was stinky and, eaten with a warm baguette, the best thing in the world. She’d taken the kids to museums and parks and galleries in Paris; she’d explored castles with them in the Loire Valley; she’d spent hours in the sunshine with them at the beach near Aix. She’d flirted with French boys everywhere she went. She’d felt so international, so adult, so free. That summer had made her realize there were all kinds of choices you could make in your life—experiences you could have. Places you could live. What she wouldn’t do to be back there.
Sabine woke her mother with light streaming in the window. Marlow hadn’t even opened the Murphy bed. She was on the couch in her clothes from last night, two empty bottles on the floor.
“I have an ice pick jabbing me right behind my left eye.”
“That’s called a hangover, Mum. Polishing off two bottles solo will do that to you.”
“It’s nice to be judged by your daughter at the crack of dawn,” said Marlow.
“It’s not dawn, it’s eight forty-five.”
“What? Crap!”
“Maybe I’ll have cake for breakfast,” said Sabine. A fine way to start fresh.
“If there’s any left,” said Marlow. “I was on a bender last night.”
“I see that.”
“Oscar’s presentation. I don’t think I finished it. Or did I? Who knows?”
“Do you need an intervention?” Sabine asked, putting the bottles into the recycling bin.
“Just because you have not one care in life,” said Marlow, opening her laptop, “doesn’t mean you can boss the rest of us.”
“Feels like you could use some bossing, though.” Sabine had plenty of cares but no idea what to do with them. Would Willa get her first kiss at prom tonight, the prom Sabine would miss even if Bubble Tea Desmond had impromptu-style invited her? Would she out of the ether get a message from the universe:Go to this university, get this degree, live in this city?
Today was Friday. She’d decide next week.
“I have too much open on my desktop,” said Marlow. “I can’t find the file.”
