Basil

One.

Océanne was the local beauty. A punishing type of beautiful, where we stopped and stared as she walked past, a deep ache pushing and pulling at our chests, at our insecurities, at our emotions. She was a type of beautiful that felt beyond us, beyond this reality, the type of beauty that seemed beyond earthly explanation. Hugo Dionne, the local painter – he's painted hundreds of portraits of her, mesmerised by her features, almost desperately pressing paint to canvas so as to be a part of her perfection. Océanne was tanned skin, thick dark hair, bright eyes. She was tall, slender, suited to every colour in every shade. She was smiling constantly, blissful with life, with her passage through it, the kind of easy confidence of a girl who was beyond rejection, the warm arrogance of a girl who dazzled everyone she met. Océanne, the foreign daughter of foreign nationals, the local beauty, the one who spoke French with a Mediterranean accent, she was beautiful, and she was happy.

But Océanne, she's human.

They say she's getting older. With an almost satisfaction, they crowd around each other and lower their voices to generous whispers, agreeing that she won't be so beautiful forever, that one day she'll age and she'll slow and she'll wither, and her smile will be sweet but not pretty, and her eyes will be kind but not enthralling, and we'll say, 'elle était notre beauté', but all her compliments will be in past tenses. Imperfect, passé composé, but her beauty will no longer be our present. They say this remorsefully, with an empathetic sort of satisfaction, wiping any blame off their hands by alleging that time claimed even the most beautiful, that they weren't wishing evil on our Océanne, but she, like us, would age and her godforsaken beauty might finally fade.

She's taken on pottery, almost frantically, as if trying to find a skill to remedy her uselessness. She's taken on pottery and all us girls have joined her.

Hugo, the local artist, he's happy with her presence and he's happy with ours. He teaches us on Sunday mornings, we craft on Wednesday nights, and he sells our pots to the local men on Fridays, kindly informing them that each pot was crafted sensually by a nice young woman, and gives us no commission but claims teaching pottery to 6 girls free of charge should satisfy us as payment.

There's some speculation as to why Océanne is not yet married. If I were to pick any theory to believe, it would be that all men fear her. If I were to pick the most likely theory, it would be that she never saw a need to tie herself down, not until the accusations of ageing began. If I were to say the truth, because I knew the truth, then the answer was simple – Océanne was the local beauty, but she was too beautiful for the locals, and she knew that.

"Les filles," she said to us on Wednesday, hands cupped over some clay, leaning in with her hair tied up and away from a face so pretty, so incredible, "there's a new boy arriving tomorrow night."

And so, she was throwing a party.

I was dutifully in charge of the macarons. I made them. I tested them. I carefully plated them by colour onto fine glassware, my fingers delicate and my intention pure. I confidently declared them to be the best macarons in Northern France. "Ce sont des macarons des dieux." I insisted, gesturing to my hard work. "Des macarons de la vie."

My older brother, a nightmare of a man named Mathieu, he fought me away to steal a pink macaron and then insulted my talent. He, claiming to be immune to Océanne's beauty, or disliking her because of it, was here to wreak some minutes of chaos before leaving. If she was the local beauty, then he was the local menace. "Quel dieu?" He asked, mouth full of perfect pastry. "If your gods exist, then they would not be impressed."

Our mother might disown him if he wasn't so stubbornly successful. He'd almost faced excommunication when he was a teenager, and he'd been forced to renounce his silly university pamphlets when stood in front of the confession booth and given one last chance. He might be a disgrace if he wasn't so wealthy, but because he was, he was 'eccentric', as if he deserved such an interesting description.