She eventually finds Ketki folding towels in Treatment Room 3. It’s almost as if the old woman has been avoiding her.
‘There’s still time to get it catered,’ Fleur says. ‘We’ve got the money.’
Indeed. Those packages that the Prophet still sends off. And Fleur’s big ideas, like those huge clouds floating above everyone until suddenly, splat, you are covered in rain. There’s absolutely no shortage of money. Even after the Inland Revenue came round a couple of years ago. Especially when one of them went away with his own mantra, a yin/yang necklace, a shaved head and a fondness for chickpeas.
‘I want to do this for Oleander,’ says Ketki. ‘She would have liked . . .’
‘She would have liked you to be able to relax and grieve for her in peace. We’ve got no idea who’s going to turn up for this. There’ll be the press as well. I mean, not in the house, obviously, but causing trouble around the place. You know what they’re like. I mean, let’s face it, Paul McCartney might come. He probably won’t, but . . .’
‘Paul McCartney.’ Ketki bobbles her head and almost smiles. She and her family arrived at Namaste House not long after George Harrison had been there, at least according to the tabloids, for a two-week meditation and yoga retreat with Oleander and some notorious wise-woman Fleur barely remembers but who used to live in the rooms looking down on the orangery that the Prophet now has. Fleur has a dim memory of patchouli oil, guitars and smoke, although most of her childhood was like that, especially before her mother disappeared. But by then there were mixing desks and DJs as well. The wise-woman grew the rare, impossible frankincense tree from seed, Fleur remembers. She put a spell on it, or said she did. If someone sold this place then what would happen to the frankincense tree? No one else would know how to look after it. Perhaps a botanical garden would take it, although moving it would probably kill it. Fleur will have to ask Charlie.
‘Well . . .’ says Ketki.
‘And I’ll have some people back to the cottage afterwards.’
‘What people?’
‘You know, Clem, Bryony, Charlie, if he comes. Pi. I guess just anyone who’s around and wants to stay up late chatting. I’ll do a small supper. That way we won’t disturb you, Bluebell and Ish.’
Ketki knows that ‘chatting’ means drinking too much, and ‘staying up late’ means having sex and taking drugs. She’s read her nephew’s novels. She knows what Fleur does in that cottage. She turns back to the towels.
The room smells of the oils Ketki uses in her massages. For a long time she made her own essential oils from flowers in the garden and grew marigolds to use in her aromatic face packs. In fact, once upon a time Fleur was her assistant, and learned how to make all the classic Ayurvedic plant remedies, massage oils and balms. Together they used to grind sandalwood and cinnamon sticks, and make their own besan flour from chickpeas, although Bluebell often insisted they use her flour, which was a bit more lumpy. They grew and harvested hibiscus flowers, marshmallow roots and chamomile. They even grew their own turmeric in one of the greenhouses. Now Fleur runs the whole show and insists that most of the oils and dried plants come by mail order, although she does still let Ketki help collect the rosebuds, lavender and rosemary. The only thing Fleur harvests is the opium which, yes, Ketki also knows about.
‘I suppose there’s James,’ Fleur says. ‘He’d probably help. He’s a good cook.’
‘Who is James?’
‘You know. James Croft. Bryony’s husband.’
James is just one of several people Ketki believes Fleur to be involved with, secretly.
‘Help with what?’
‘Make curries for the wake, if that’s what you really want to do.’
‘I just think that we should.’
Oleander always said that the word ‘should’ should always be ignored. Then she laughed until whoever she was talking to noticed the paradox.
‘OK,’ says Fleur. ‘I’ll do a big soup, then, as well.’
‘Lentil soup I think,’ says Ketki. ‘And several carrot cakes.’ She bobbles her head again, which means it’s all settled.
When Fleur leaves the room she thinks of going to see Oleander, and then remembers that Oleander isn’t there any more. She sighs. Ketki’s husband Ish is in the meditation area, reading the Observer. Fleur half tries to catch his eye, but he doesn’t look up. Ish doesn’t hear very well now, and it’s possible that he just has not sensed her in the room. Then he does look up.
‘Go easy on her,’ he says. ‘She has lost her oldest friend.’
‘I know,’ says Fleur. She does not add that she has now lost almost everyone, and is probably about to lose almost everything.
Here’s what Fleur’s ego says, stirred by these thoughts. It says, What about me? What about what I’ve lost? It also says, Lentil soup and carrot cake? But that’s what they make for the retreats. That’s what they make for the spa weekends. That’s what they always make, even though basically everyone who comes to Namaste House now requests a low-carb diet, and absolutely no one eats pulses of their own accord any more apart from Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow. And anyway, Oleander is dead. She is dead. Can they not, just this once, do something different? Can they not have . . . (even the ego sometimes needs to pause and think, although this is often just for effect) cocktails and canapés? No. Of course not. Well, Fleur will have cocktails and canapés over at the cottage. She’ll cook aubergine and homemade paneer wrapped in poppy leaves and intricately flavoured with her homemade black spice blend, and then a fragrant pistachio korma with soft white rice, and little mousses made from bitter chocolate and quail’s eggs. In the cottage they will see off Oleander in style, whatever Ketki wants to do in the house. Fleur tells her ego to shut up. Of course she does. But she has to acknowledge that it has come up with a lovely menu. And it would be good to make the thing in the cottage different from the thing in the house. And have something for all the gluten-free, low-carb people like Skye Turner – if she comes – and Charlie – if he comes. She will hand-make some chocolates too. Rose creams, and hibiscus truffles.
Back in the cottage, she starts making a list, remembering what Oleander has been saying so much recently: on the level of form, nothing matters. In this world, you can do what you like. Doing is not what makes you enlightened. This is good, after all the things Fleur has done. She may have put off enlightenment for now, but she hasn’t put it off forever.
On Monday morning there’s a knock at Clem’s door. It’s Zoe.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘You busy?’
‘I wish the university server would explode again,’ says Clem. ‘Or whatever it did last time it lost all my emails. Come in.’
Zoe comes in but doesn’t sit down. She is very tall and always has her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail that would make anyone else look eight, or a bit backward. Today she is wearing ripped jeans, cheap pink flip flops (even though it is only thirteen degrees outside) and a faded yellow Sonic Youth T-shirt. She has a ring through one nostril and never wears make-up unless there’s something official going on, like her job interview, for which she wore black eyeliner only on her top lids, sheer red lipstick and an oddly intoxicating perfume that smelled like a bag of sweets left in a men’s locker room for too long. She teaches screenwriting.
‘I’m just on my way to staff development,’ Zoe says. ‘Do you want me to steal you some Jammie Dodgers?’
‘What is it this time?’
‘Dignity in the workplace.’
‘How can anyone be dignified in any workplace?’
‘Yeah. I’ll definitely make that point.’
‘God.’ Clem stretches languidly and slowly spins her chair away from her computer. ‘I’m being smothered in family.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, sorry, don’t worry.’ She smiles, and shakes her head as if she had water in her ears. ‘Thinking out loud.’
‘No, go on. Your family is always interesting.’
‘Oh, OK, well, my great-aunt just died –
no, don’t worry, it’s all right, I barely knew her. She’s the one who took in my cousin and my best friend when our mothers went missing – you know about that, right? And she used to hang out with the Beatles and everything . . . ? Anyway, my grandmother Beatrix, who’s about a hundred and fifty and should not know how to use email, is basically driving us all mad making arrangements for her and my father to come to the funeral, even though they totally hated her. They thought, or think, that Oleander – that’s my great-aunt – was responsible for the deaths of my mother, my aunt, my uncle and my best friend’s mother.’
‘Why? What did she do to them?’
‘No one knows. Back in the late eighties they went off to find a miracle plant and never came back. We think the plant has this seed pod that looks like vanilla and has supposedly magical or mystical properties – only no one knows how to get the good effects without dropping dead. Oleander wasn’t even there.’
‘Wow. Now there’s a screenplay.’
‘Or a nature documentary.’
Clem’s office smells lovely, but in a way that Zoe can’t quite fathom. It’s not any particular one of the lavender candles, or the large succulent plants, or even all of them together, although they probably contribute to it. Today there’s also a scuffed cardboard box containing small plants with white flowers, but they are new and the smell is always there. What is it? It could be Clem herself, perhaps. It’s damp forests, but in a good way. Perhaps a touch of the tropics. Clem is the only person in the department to have bare floorboards in her office instead of the institutional carpet. She has also had all the fluorescent lights removed from the office. Yes, removed, which is about a thousand times more weird and interesting than just deciding not to turn them on, which is what a normal person would do. Instead of the lights she has various old Anglepoise floor lamps that she says she found in a forgotten cupboard somewhere in the basement. And instead of having an institutional computer whirring away all day, she has a silent, beautiful, tiny laptop that she brings from home in a thin canvas bag. Sometimes she even puts it away in a drawer and works in sketchbooks instead. Zoe only started working at the university in September, and so far her office contains not much apart from the desk, chair and beige computer the department gave her. She has a bright orange carpet that, apparently, her predecessor actually chose. She aspires to something like Clem’s office, but with an iMac and a bit less sadness.
‘This place would be improved if there were fewer emails in general – like a ban on any emails from family, friends and partners, for a start. And, of course, students.’
‘Don’t let them hear you say that,’ Zoe says. ‘They love you.’
It’s true. The students do love Clem. They love the fact that she directs real documentaries, and therefore can tell them how to do it. Clem also replies to their emails, even if she often takes a couple of days – OK, sometimes a week – to get around to it. But some lecturers never reply to emails at all, which is pretty shit when you’re paying over three grand a year to do a course. Clem never tells anyone off for anything. She makes low-key jokes. She doesn’t patronise them. When she hears them talking about sex instead of lighting (‘Oh. My. God. You actually slept with her and no one told me? I don’t care. I’m SO happy for you’) she simply raises an eyebrow and watches them all explode into giggles. She has never been late for a class, and always gives them fun things to do, like those spoof nature documentaries where they get to do the worst possible voiceover to go with their footage of rabbits or blackbirds on campus (‘The blackbird is now surely thinking, Why is that Emo tosser pointing a camera at me?’). She’s old enough for them not to be aroused by her. She certainly doesn’t freak them out as much as Zoe, who is much closer to them in age and appearance and has worked on things they actually watch. Most of the students know that Clem was nominated for an Oscar, but they haven’t seen any of her documentaries, not even Palm. But several of the boys in the class have wanked themselves silly to things Zoe has written, especially that teen lesbian drama set in Wandsworth. It’s pretty crazy, being taught by someone whose words have made you, well, do that.
‘How have you even got time for staff development?’ Clem asks Zoe. ‘I mean, I hope you’re not being too stretched. I don’t remember this coming up in your probation plan.’
Zoe shrugs. ‘It’s new. Different. Defamiliarising, probably. I might get something to put in a screenplay. Also, of course, I’m working towards my Very Important Equal Opportunities Certificate.’
‘We should probably add that to your next probation report. It’ll look good.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, I just wanted to see if you’re maybe around for coffee later.’
‘What time does it finish?’
‘Four thirty, I think.’
‘A whole day?’
‘I believe there are case studies. And role play.’
‘OK, well, knock on my door when you get back. I’m sure I’ll still be here. At this moment I feel like I’ll be here forever.’
‘Cool. By the way, what’s in the box?’ Zoe asks.
‘Chilli plants. Do you want one?’
Zoe shrugs. ‘Sure. Well, I mean, are they hard? I so do not have green fingers.’
‘They’re easy. They’re just annuals, as well, so . . .’
‘What’s an annual?’
‘They just have one growing season and then they die. One of my PhD students needed them for his film so I brought some in. Now they’re looking for homes. They grow really nice chillies. Quite hot.’
‘I do love chillies.’
‘Yeah, I’m kind of addicted too. I’ll bring you one later.’
Cocks.
Hundreds and hundreds of cocks. Perhaps three of them are in fact birds with feathers and beaks and so on, looking rather ridiculous in this context. But the rest . . . Some of them are in men’s mouths. Some of them are in women’s mouths. Some of them are in teenagers’ mouths. Some of them are in men’s anuses. Some of them are in women’s anuses, hands, or stuffed between their breasts. Most of them are in women’s vaginas. Some women have one cock in their vagina and another in their mouth. Some have yet another cock in their anus. The images are accompanied by captions, for example, ‘Young teen gags on hot cock’ or ‘MILF takes it both ways’. Beatrix meant to type ‘clocks’ into Google Images, but here she is, looking at cocks. To be properly accurate, it was last month that Beatrix meant to type ‘clocks’ but actually typed ‘cocks’, at which point she was prompted about what level of safety mode she wanted. Since Beatrix has never much cared for being protected from things, she switched safety mode, whatever that even was, off. And. Well. That was a strange afternoon.
Today she meant to type ‘cocks’ (although if she was discovered, then, of course, ‘clocks’ was what she really meant . . . Very shocked indeed . . . Can’t imagine what sort of perverts would actually choose . . . Unmitigated filth . . . etc. etc.). In fact, for the last month she has been doing this almost every morning after early trading is over. It’s not ideal, though, now that she’s used to the images. She wants something more, but she doesn’t know what. There are too many black cocks on Google Images. Beatrix liked them at first, but now they seem vulgar, and she has realised that at least some of them must be fakes. Some of them are as long as an arm. Beatrix has discovered that she likes medium-sized white cocks: the kind of cock she imagines her husband would have had. She never saw it erect in all the years they were married. She felt it enter her and withdraw from her but she knew she shouldn’t touch it or acknowledge it in any other way. He did the minimal amount of touching needed to get it into her. She tried to manually stimulate him once, but he moved her hand away and she had the impression for some weeks afterwards that he thought she was some sort of . . . Well, some sort of whore.
Black whore. Asian Whore. Teenage whore. Whores gagging for it.
Cartoon whore.
Now they are strange.
Beatrix’s orgasm flutters through her like a tired goldcres
t. Afterwards, she gets up and makes herself a pre-lunch gin and tonic. In the kitchen, the laptop showing one of her ADVFN stock-market monitors flickers blue, red and green. Mostly blue today, which is good, although that often means red tomorrow. Once the blood goes back to wherever it came from, Beatrix finds she can’t quite believe that she just looked at all those pictures of miserable looking people being, frankly, violated (she has to be honest with herself and admit that ‘in the moment’ she likes the miserable ones best, but anyway). Beatrix feels very flat at this time of day, around about the time she used to take Archie for his walk. She could still go on her own of course, but she doesn’t. At first she enjoyed seeing other people out with their dogs, but now she doesn’t. She used to feel like a dog-owner who had lost her dog (in relation to Archie she can’t say the word died, and even the word death, used so frequently about friends, relatives and even a husband, a word that she previously felt was clean, to-the-point and brave, is so wrong in this situation; just as it was about her beautiful daughter Plum) in some sort of temporary way, but now she doesn’t; now she’s just an old woman doddering about on her own, and it’s as if she never had a dog. It was two years ago when he . . . Well, anyway, it was not long after that when she began scrapbooking her investments (a strategy taught by that incredibly tall man at that strange seminar she went to in London), which was why she was looking for pictures of clocks, sort of, but never mind that. Beatrix can’t possibly hold the thought of what she just did at the same time as thinking, however fleetingly, about Archie. She sips from her drink and gets one of the scrapbooks down from the shelf. The tall man (what was his name?) had suggested scrapbooks based on sectors: travel and leisure, perhaps, or food and drug retailers. But grandchildren works for Beatrix. Not precisely as they are in real life, but . . .
This is her favourite one, really. In Clem’s scrapbook she is not married to ghastly Ollie. Clem is married to Bill Gates, who is not just rich and powerful but surprisingly easy to cut out. This gives Clem a potential budget of billions. What would she do with all that money? Quite clearly, she’d change her life completely. Of course she wouldn’t want simply to be Bill Gates’s trophy wife. In the scrapbook, Clem has decided to leave her lecturing job in London, get a PhD in Botany and set up her own botanical garden somewhere in the West Country. Her father Augustus, alone again after the sudden death of his young second wife Cecily – from something viral, Beatrix imagines, something old-fashioned and messy like Spanish flu – will pick up his gardening gloves again and become Chief Botanist. Yes, it’s based on the Eden Project, and that’s what Beatrix has used for her scrapbook, but in her mind it is much more beautiful, and is closed to the public on one day a week when Clem gives tea parties and talks about science and the latest plant research projects. Instead of going off to silly places in JEANS to film palm trees wandering about (which Beatrix doesn’t really believe in) Clem spends her days floating around orchid houses in perfect white dresses. She never has periods. Occasionally she gives press conferences in lemon Capri pants. The Capri pants are from Dior, of course. And from about 1982. But that doesn’t really matter. Sometimes Beatrix puts things in her scrapbooks simply because she likes them.