Can she go to his house? Why not? It’s only round the corner.
But if he’d wanted to have drinks he would have gone to Abode, surely?
Unless something came up.
Bryony walks to Ollie and Clem’s place and knocks on the door. Nothing. Her phone rings. That’ll be Ollie now. Although he never rings her and . . . But no, weirdly it’s Clem. Bryony declines the call. She can catch up with Clem later. Talking to Clem right now when she is knocking on her front door looking for her husband would be . . . But this is totally innocent, of course. It’s really mainly a time thing, and . . . Knock, knock, knock. This is just desperate now. Her phone buzzes a message just as she closes the wrought-iron gate behind her and heads back into town.
Fleur knocks on the Prophet’s door. There’s no reply, but she goes in anyway.
‘Hello?’
He’s there, with an old Fila shoebox on his lap.
Fleur is holding the scraps of paper he gave her. Which took poor Holly all night to type, apparently.
‘This is basically your life story,’ she says. ‘It’s not for Oleander’s book. It’s for me. I mean, all that stuff about my birth and . . . I sort of understand what you’ve done, I think. But why?’
The Prophet closes his eyes. Scratches behind his ear. Opens his eyes again.
‘You may as well be with the bloke you love.’
‘You’re very kind. Really . . . But I was like fourteen or something when you first knew my mother, right? There’s no way you could be my father. Although I liked the bit about being born at the end of a rainbow, that was really beautiful. And . . .’
‘Look, it doesn’t matter who spunked in who. There’s more to life than that.’
Fleur laughs. ‘Well, when you put it that way . . .’
‘Your mother . . . I mean, anyone could have been your father. No offence.’
‘I just look so much like a Gardener.’
The black hair they all have because of Gita, the beautiful bride that great-grandfather Charles brought back from India and whose portrait hangs in Fleur’s bedroom. Fleur looks just like her, which is one of the reasons the portrait has been hidden from the rest of the family for all these years. It’s how Oleander knew.
‘There was a woman, all right, back in the early seventies. Maybe seventy-three. She was exactly like your mother. Same red hair, pale face and everything. I thought Briar Rose was her when I came here. I mean, that’s why I chased after her so much. One of the reasons. I’d heard that this other girl got knocked up around the time that I knew her. And for a long time I did think you were mine. I wanted to think it. Thought I’d found you. Like you’d been a princess sent in a basket down a river or something. It’s not that far-fetched.’
‘But my mother and Augustus . . .’
‘Yeah, if you want a loaded father then he’s the one to choose.’
‘Was.’
A low cackle. ‘I give all my money away.’
‘To me.’
There’s a pause. The robin flies in, gets his bit of seed pod and flies out again.
The Prophet shrugs. ‘All right, well, you’ll have to do it this way.’
‘Do what which way?’
‘You spoken to Piyali lately?’
This is not a bad question. Everyone knows they are ‘together’ now. It’s even sort of accepted in the house. But do they speak? Not that much. He’s now offering Yoga for Athletes and two new reading groups. He’s started learning Malayalam and Sanskrit. He’s become too busy to speak to Fleur. Except to occasionally criticise the way she runs the house.
‘No.’
‘He’s going back to India, apparently. To find himself.’
‘Oh . . .’ Fleur is not as disappointed as she would have thought. ‘I suppose I had begun to realise that . . .’
‘So there’s going to be nothing stopping you from having a go with the bloke you really love.’
‘Except the fact that he’s my brother.’
The Prophet sighs. ‘I don’t think that matters.’
‘Everyone else would think it does, though.’
He gives her the shoebox.
‘This was meant to be for you anyway. For the “right time”.’
Fleur opens the box. Inside, it contains a tiny glass bottle of clear fluid lying in a nest of shredded newspaper.
‘Doesn’t stay that potent in sunlight,’ he says. ‘So I’d keep it in there until you’re ready.’
And then, through the front window of Abode, Bryony sees Ollie.
‘Thought I’d missed you,’ he says when she joins him.
He did remember. But he is obviously quite drunk. How long has he been here? It can’t be longer than an hour, because Bryony was here an hour ago.
‘Thought I’d missed you.’
‘Not sure I’m going to be very good company, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Everything’s a bit fucked up, TBH. Clem’s left me. And I’ve been suspended from the university.’
Not only is he drunk, he has obviously been crying.
‘Shh,’ says Bryony. ‘It’s OK. Tell me everything.’
What follows is a jumble of stuff about how much he loves Clem and something about a fishing game, and then some video made by a student, but one of Ollie’s students, not one of Clem’s students, which was all quite hard to untangle, and how the video is on YouTube, just like Skye Turner’s video was on YouTube, and, in fact, this one was partly inspired by Skye Turner’s video, and shows that Ollie offered to give her fifteen more marks on her essay if . . .
‘Oh my God,’ says Bryony, cringing. ‘But why . . . ?’
‘It was a total fucking ambush. I’d given her my number because . . .’
‘You gave her your number?’
‘She said she didn’t have any friends! She was suicidal!’
‘Right.’
‘I have to speak to Clem. Clem doesn’t understand. I never even had any sexual feelings about Charlotte May. If anything I fantasised about her being my daughter. Which of course I can’t say in public because it makes it sound even worse.’
‘So why did you offer her fifteen more marks?’
‘Because she had her top off and . . .’
‘Oh my God,’ Bryony says again.
‘I offered her the marks to make her put her top back on again. If anything it was just for the camera, to show how desperately I did not want to have her topless in a room with me. But apparently offering to give students more marks is gross misconduct whatever the circumstances.’
‘So what did Clem say?’
‘She said she knew for ages that something weird had been going on with me. But not only that, like everyone else she is sick of me. Apparently I lie, and I cheat, and I’m sexist and I’m racist and . . .’ Ollie looks out of the window. ‘Shit. Great. Press.’
‘How do you know?’
‘That cunt’s been following me all day.’
‘I don’t think he’s seen you.’
‘No. But he will. They hack your phone, apparently.’
‘Look. Let’s just get a room and a bottle of wine and work this out. I’ll pay.’
‘Are you propositioning me? Because I think I’ve had all the . . .’
‘Of course I’m not propositioning you. Don’t be stupid. It’s just practical. Where else are we going to go if you’ve got press trailing around after you?’
‘I suppose I do need somewhere to stay since I’ve been thrown out of both my house and my office.’
Bryony breathes hard as she climbs the stairs ten minutes after Ollie. She feels light-headed, as if her mind is climbing the stairs faster than her body. It’s similar to the way she felt running that 5k, when this all started. Or maybe it started long before that. She thinks about her landing strip and her toenails and how they were all for him. But not really. Well, only sort of. Only sort of for the fantasy version of all this. But it’s OK because the reality now is that they are going to sit in the
privacy of a hotel room for a while and then . . . Bryony looks at her watch. It’s 4 p.m. She has one hour max. Maybe an hour and a half. And she mustn’t drink too much before driving home. One more large glass.
In the room there is nowhere comfortable to sit except the bed, so Bryony and Ollie sit next to one another with their legs stretched out. Bryony pours wine. It’s a blah blah Merlot that turns out to be a rather nice deep red when poured. The same colour as her dress.
‘Things aren’t great for me at home either,’ she says. ‘If that makes you feel any better. I don’t really know what to do about Holly, and . . .’
‘I’m not sure I’m going to be a great listener, but . . .’
‘No, don’t worry. I’m not going to offload. Just didn’t want you to feel alone.’
For a moment there is just the hum of something. Probably a mini-bar.
‘When did you last have sex?’
‘Me and James?’
‘Yes.’
Bryony thinks about it. ‘I think maybe July. On Jura. We had a massive row and . . .’
‘I haven’t had sex for over a year.’
‘Oh God. That’s . . .’
‘Part of the YouTube experience is a close-up of my erection.’
‘What?’
‘Through my jeans. But you can see it. Well, just.’
‘But why . . . ? I mean . . . ?’
‘I am a man. A beautiful girl was jiggling her tits at me. Even if she had been my daughter, I . . .’
‘God.’
‘But don’t you think after a year, I mean, it’s not that weird to . . .?’
‘No, no, of course. It’s completely understandable. So what’s wrong with Clem?’
‘She just doesn’t love me any more.’
‘But that’s no reason not to have sex with someone.’
‘Really?’
‘Sex can be about different things.’
‘Can it?’ His hand moves from his lap to her leg.
She gulps. ‘Yes. Um . . .’
‘Hmm?’ He has his eyes closed.
‘Ollie, this probably isn’t a good idea.’
‘Isn’t this why you’re here?’
‘No! I mean, well . . .’
‘I feel as if no one in the whole world wants me.’
‘That’s not true. I do want you. You know that.’ Bryony touches his bicep. ‘It’s just I’m sort of trying to patch a few things up with James, and . . .’
‘I am a bad person.’
‘Maybe I am a bad person too.’
‘So we’re two bad people in a hotel room. My life is fucked anyway . . .’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Undo your dress. I want to see a real woman’s tits.’
‘Ollie . . .’
‘And I want to see your bum.’
He pulls up her dress and strokes the inside of her leg. Finds the edge of her stocking and gasps ever so slightly. Here’s the problem. Bryony can no longer resist this and . . . Her phone rings. What now? She gets it out of her bag. It’s James.
‘Tell whoever it is to fuck off.’
She flicks the decline button, which is hard to see now that Ollie has his hand . . .
‘You bastard,’ she says, giggling.
‘Am I? What are you?’
‘Call me a bitch,’ she says. ‘Call me anything you like.’ His finger slips inside her. ‘Call me a whore.’
‘What am I? Say it again.’
‘You’re a bastard.’ Bryony struggles out of her dress. Every single thing she is wearing, from her silk underwear to the red crêpe de chine dress, which she now drops on the floor, was chosen with this man in mind. Or, not exactly this actual man but the fantasy version for whom the real Bryony would never really undress. Only the fantasy Bryony would ever . . . But here she is. And here he is.
‘You can leave those on.’ He nods at her stockings.
‘Bastard,’ she says again, raising an eyebrow. But she does leave them on. She did that French thing of putting her knickers on after her stockings, which sort of means that . . .
‘What else?’ He unzips his fly and pulls down his boxers and his jeans. Bryony is now naked apart from her stockings and suspender belt, but he doesn’t seem to want to take any of his clothes off. He holds onto a tit with one hand while fingering her with the other. He doesn’t seem to have noticed her toenails, but he may have seen her landing strip and . . . ‘What else?’
‘You’re a disgusting bastard.’
He enters her. Which he can do without her having to go on all-fours, which is something she wishes the fitness instructor could see. Or maybe not. He keeps his thumb on her clit. She gasps.
‘You’re a cheating bitch.’
‘You lie and you fuck everything up and no one trusts you because . . .’
‘Shut up, whore.’
‘Is that the best you can do, cunt?’
‘Fat bitch.’
‘Sad wanker.’
‘Fat slag.’
‘Pathetic, ridiculous, small-dicked loser . . .’
They both come.
When Fleur gets back to the cottage, Pi is already packing.
‘I thought . . .’ he says.
Fleur frowns and sighs. ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘You should go.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Go and find yourself. You deserve that.’
‘At the beginning I was so fucking angry with you because of your mother. Even though you were so kind . . . I haven’t always been very nice to you. I’m sorry. If it helps, I did love you, despite everything. Although that made me hate you a bit too. But I know that you don’t love me, at least not now.’
‘I did love you once. Sort of. I mean, when we were kids here in the house, having to survive, never having any money. All those scams. Your massages . . .’ Fleur smiles. ‘But then of course there was Kam. I couldn’t forgive you for that. I have now though.’
‘Do you remember when you used to tell the celebrities’ fortunes?’
‘Yeah. Although in those days the celebrities had no sodding money either.’
‘And our market stall . . . All those little lavender bags that you sewed.’
Pi sits on the bed. Fleur sits next to him. Takes his hand in hers.
Above them the portrait of Gita hangs in its ebony frame. Pi never seemed to notice that Gita and Fleur were so similar. Fleur’s skin is paler, of course, all these generations on, but that is the only difference.
‘You earned this place,’ says Pi. ‘You worked for it. Harder than I ever did.’
‘Well . . .’
‘I went to see the Prophet earlier. He’s given me money for the trip. Said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘It’s his money. But of course I don’t mind.’
‘He says it’s your money. Your inheritance.’
‘Well, I still don’t mind.’
Outside, one of the churches strikes six o’ clock. It’s getting dark.
‘But you can’t go now,’ Fleur says.
‘I’ve booked a taxi. I arrived here in the dark. I may as well leave the same way. My flight’s first thing tomorrow. I’ll stay at Heathrow overnight. Better than waking up at two in the morning or whatever.’
So Fleur’s last night with Pi has already happened. It is over. It passed without her even knowing that’s what it was. What would they have done if they had known? Would they have made love? Would they have cried? As it was she went to sleep early while he read the Upanishads on his Kindle. But of course he did know. He’d already bought the tickets.
Pumpkins. Everywhere. Thousands of pumpkins.
Is there nothing you cannot PYO now?
Bryony’s hair is still wet from the hotel shower as she steps out of the car into the cool blue October twilight outside the Old Lorry Farm Shop. She has driven beyond Ash, beyond home, trying to dry her hair because it didn’t really rain that hard today, and how do you explain . . . And of course she couldn’t use
the hotel hairdryer, can never use a hairdryer on this frizzy mop that needs particularly gentle teasing and stroking and finger drying . . . She can hear the chainsaws going out the back where the men cut firewood all winter long while an Alsatian barks at everyone who walks past. But at least Holly will have her pumpkin. Quite why it became Bryony’s job to get the pumpkin on her graduation day is still a mystery. But it is a reason to be late. Is pumpkin something Holly would even eat? Perhaps in a nice, thick creamy soup, or in a pie. But how can Bryony think about pie now, after what she has done? But of course she is actually thinking about Holly, and Holly is the important thing in all this . . . Holly must have her pumpkin for school, and James will make something out of the insides. Maybe cake. Can she undo what she has just done with Ollie? No. But maybe she can unthink it. Tonight she will be a good wife and a good mother, and . . .
But she can feel the sting from where Ollie was inside her, and of course she can still hear the things he said. But she asked him to say them. Perhaps she should have asked for something else instead. ‘I love you, my darling’ would have been nicer. But what they did was real and brutal and dangerous, which is how life is sometimes. It just doesn’t feel much like that when you are in a field full of pumpkins, and it’s getting too dark to see anything, and . . .
‘Are you all right, love?’ calls one of the chainsaw men.
‘Yes, thanks. Just trying to work out how to pick one.’
‘Have one of these. Just picked this evening.’ He gestures at a table full of pumpkins.
Bryony should pick one herself. It is more real, and will help deflect attention from the fact that she is home very late from a lunchtime drink. But actually what’s the difference between a pumpkin you picked yourself and one that someone else picked? She can always say she picked it anyway, and . . .
‘Thanks,’ she says. After she has paid for it she puts the pumpkin on the seat next to her, like the head of a lover in a horrible car-accident story. She puts her handbag on the floor.
She almost doesn’t recognise Clem’s car in the driveway when she gets home. Why would Clem be here? Of course. She has left Ollie. She must have come to stay or something. Which is awkward, of course, but . . . She remembers the message she didn’t listen to before. Oh well, too late now. It probably just says what she knows already and . . . Should she say she saw Ollie? Yes. She had a drink with him and the others, and she got the impression that something was wrong, but she doesn’t know all the details and . . .