Page 54 of The Stranger

“Is she?” Sylvie asks, but I’m going with it.

“Chapeau!” I exclaim. “Well done!” My gratitude is worn in a wide smile of my own.

“Yes!” Sylvie slaps her hand to her forehead. “That is what Sophia said!” She gives a chuckle. Briefly. Then her little brow furrows. “So Papa, what is a virgin?”

15

PRIMROSE

“He looks like he belongs in a 90s boy band.”

Sylvie looks up, perplexed.

“Curtains.” I give my hair a hard middle part before realizing my observation is lost on an audience who has been on the earth for less time than Zoe’s sourdough starter. “Never mind.”

“Lolalallama isn’t a boy, Primrose.”

“Did you just sing me a song?” I assume we’re standing at a respectful distance from the paddock fence for a reason as I watch the llama’s long eyelashes rest at a coquettish angle. I’m not sure if she’s contemplating the universe or us.

“Pardon?”

“La-la-la-la-labamba!” I belt out with a little shimmy.

“Non, silly!” she answers with a giggle. “Lola la llama,” she enunciates with exaggeration, pointing at the camelid currently chewing cud like an attitude-y teenager with a mouthful of chewing gum. “Lola is not a boy. She’s also not ninety, I don’t think. Ninety years is many.”

“Yeah. Almost as old as your dad.”

This cracks the kid up. “He is not ninety years!”

“No? How old is he, then?” Fishing Primrose, really? It was so weird how nice he was trying to be at dinner last night. Trying but finding it difficult, judging by the tension in his jaw and the occasional frown I caught. I suppose I should just be happy he didn’t let me choke on that olive despite hearing (I’m 99% positive) my less-than-complimentary words.

But he can’t be sure I was talking about him. Well, he can surmise, but he can’t prove it. I just hope to heaven that’s all he heard. I wouldn’t like to inflate his ego any more than it already is.

“Well, my papa does not make noises like Monsieur Maria when he gets out of his chair.”

I will not interrogate a six-year-old.

“Does his age start with a three or a four?” I’m just making conversation. I’m only mildly curious. But maybe my nose is growing as Sylvie frowns my way. “A five?” I suggest next. Surely not, unless he’s a vampire.

“He is…” Sylvie’s expression scrunches like I’d just tasked her with a mathematics calculation. “Thirty-nine.” She gives a decisive nod of her head. “I remember now because Felix said thirty-nine is how old papa says he is every birthday.”

So he’s a fibber. And a little vain. Or really a vampire. I suppose if I really want to know, I’ll need to break my personal rule and google it.

I stroke my hand over Sylvie’s white-blond head, her hair so silky and shiny in the summer sun. “Better put your hat back on, poppet.”

She plonks the straw hat haphazardly on her head, and I pull it straight with a tiny smile. She really is a little sweetheart.

I can see how Emmy is so fond of her, though I’m sure, had she been in my place at dinner last night, she would’ve been less fond of her during the whole vegan/virgin debacle. I mean, it was fun to begin with, watching her father grapple with the question: “What is a virgin?”

Let’s see you get out of this, I’d thought, mentally preparing a bowl of popcorn to accompany my viewing pleasure.

“I’m not sure this is dinner table appropriate conversation,” he’d said, discovering a deeply intense interest in the contents of his wineglass.

“I have heard the word before, Papa.” Sylvie pursed her lips, unimpressed.

“When?” he demanded. “When did you hear that word?”

“I heard Monsieur Maria say it. He said he needed extra virgins.”