Jubilate by Michael Arditti

Grotto. ‘Look, two for the price of one!’ He picks up a laminated picture in which Christ’s head morphs into the Pope’s. ‘What about this?’ He winds up a small Madonna that warbles the Ave Maria. ‘She’s playing our tune!’
    ‘People are looking,’ I say as he rummages through the merchandise with open derision.
    ‘The money changers aren’t just in the temple; they’ve taken it over.’ He ignores my warning and continues to delve. ‘Wow, see this!’ He presses the switch on a cherub cigarette-lighter. ‘Come on baby, light my fire! Now this is sad. John Paul II at half-price.’ He holds up a plaster statuette. ‘Poor old Pope! I almost feel sorry for him. Marked down even in Lourdes.’
    ‘Are you going to film here?’ I ask, in a bid to distract him.
    ‘I wish! Sophie and I tried to get permission when we came on our recce, but they’re not fools.’
    ‘Vous désirez quelque chose, Monsieur ?’ the illustrious saleswoman asks, as he jiggles a crucified Christ whose eyes open in alternate piety and pain.
    ‘Nous admirons vos objets d’art, Madame ,’ he replies with a smile that she takes at face value. ‘Malheursement nous prenons l’avion. Les restrictions de poids.’
    ‘Vous avez des foulards et des choses en tissu pour Madame ,’ she says, steering him towards a rack of garish scarves. Meanwhile, Richard, who has been looking round with Patricia, comes over with a miniature Eiffel Tower.
    ‘I want this. Can I have some money?’
    ‘But Richard, it’s hideous.’
    ‘It’s my money.’
    ‘That’s amazing,’ Vincent says, staring at the model. ‘Show it to me, will you Rich?’ I wonder if the name is deliberate. ‘Do you think it slipped in the wrong batch? Some tat-making factory sent it here rather than Paris? Or are they trying to cater for all markets?’
    ‘I want it.’
    ‘And you shall have it. On me.’
    ‘You don’t have to,’ I say.
    ‘It’s my money,’ Richard insists.
    ‘I want to. Rich and I are old mates, aren’t we?’ He nudges Richard, who grins and almost drops the model. Vincent is so good with him that, against all reason, I construct an elaborate fantasy of his returning from Lourdes and moving in with us. My euphoria swiftly turns to despair. Quite apart from the logistics, I have slept with him only once. Once! I don’t doubt his sincerity but, in his world, sex is as casual as a cup of coffee. He would be appalled by my schoolgirlscenario. At most this is – was – a holiday romance: two lonely people seeking solace in each other’s company. Even if we were truly making love, rather than enjoying the quick bonk, screw or fuck with which I charge myself, there is no law that love has to last. I shall defer to Vincent and not attempt to match the human to the divine.
    ‘Penny for them?’ Vincent says. ‘Or would you rather have a shawl?’ He grabs one of the cloths and drapes it round my shoulders.
    ‘What do you say?’ he asks Richard. ‘Shall we buy it for her?’
    ‘I don’t have my money.’
    ‘It’s a tea-towel,’ I say, replacing it on the pile. ‘We’d better go. Father Dave will be losing patience. I don’t suppose he’s on commission.’
    Vincent raises his eyebrows. ‘Okay, Rich,’ he says, ‘let’s pay.’ As he leads him to the till, I nonchalantly scan the shelves. My eyes fix on a Lalique angel, its elegant simplicity a reproach to the surrounding kitsch. I pick it up to admire.
    ‘Oh that’s lovely,’ Patricia says, approaching. ‘Show me. Are you thinking of buying it?’
    ‘I was, until I saw what it cost. Two fifty!’
    ‘Two euros fifty?’
    ‘Come on, Mother!’ I surprise myself by using her preferred form of address. ‘Two hundred and fifty.’
    ‘How can they? And for an angel! But it’s so pretty.’
    Vincent returns with Richard, who holds his packet like an icecream cone.
    ‘Have you found something, ladies?’ Vincent asks. ‘An angel!’ His studied ambiguity makes me