and may I say how much I am looking forward to working with you on your mother’s last wishes.’ He picked up his laptop and briefcase and gave us a slight bow. ‘Until later.’
*
‘And may I say how much I am looking forward to working with you,’ said Fleur in a perfect impression of Daniel’s south London accent after the door had closed behind him. She’d always been a good mimic, another talent to add to her already long list.
‘I take it you didn’t like him?’ I asked.
Fleur gave me a look to say, isn’t that obvious? ‘Too silky smooth. I bet you do, though. He’s just your type.’
‘He is not. Why do you say that?’
‘I know you. He’s Mr Touchy-Feely.’ She went into her Daniel impression again. ‘I’m an emotionally intelligent man. Oh, I understand, let me give you some privacy, I am so sympathetic. Your type.’
‘You were the one flirting with him.’
‘It’s always good to keep in practice but, seriously, not interested.’
‘Sounds like the lady doth protest too much.’
‘No, really. I mean, did you see those rubber wristbands? So pretentious. You don’t even have to believe in the cause because your bracelet says it for you. They say I support charities. I support meaningful causes. Right on, brother, and all that.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I think the people that really do something don’t flaunt it. They just do it, quietly, sans bracelet, sans advertisement to the world that says they are one of the good guys.’
I didn’t tell her that up until a month ago I’d worn two bracelets from charities I supported. ‘No more than wearing a pink ribbon for breast cancer awareness or a poppy on Remembrance Day.’
‘Oh knock it off you two,’ said Rose. ‘What does it matter if he wears bracelets? As Mum said, don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘What did you think of him, Rose?’ I asked.
‘It doesn’t really matter what I think, does it? We’re doing this for Mum, though I did think he was a bit full of himself. Smug. Probably because he knows what we’re in for.’
‘Your type?’ asked Fleur.
Rose gave her a withering look by way of reply.
‘And what about Mum’s programme of events?’ I asked.
‘Ridiculous. Colonic irrigation as a way to explore happiness? Seriously?’ said Rose. ‘I think perhaps Mum was on some weird medication when she thought this up, because frankly it’s bordering on insane. I mean, come on, a dead woman sends her three daughters to have colonic irrigation as one of the conditions of her will. It’s mad.’
Fleur laughed. ‘I agree, it does sound a bit bonkers when you put it like that. I thought we’d be doing happy things, seeing as it’s supposed to be an exploration of how to be happy.’
‘Like what?’ I asked.
‘What makes anyone happy? Looking at flowers. Skipping in sunlit fields. Eating cupcakes. Drinking champagne. Buying shoes.’
Rose looked at her as if she was deranged. ‘Buying shoes?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, but having a colonic would definitely not be top of my “how to be happy” list.’
‘Maybe she’s punishing us for not seeing each other?’ I suggested.
Fleur suddenly burst out laughing.
Rose turned to her. ‘Why is that funny?’
‘I’ve just realized the inference. Why she’s done it. Mum was saying we’re full of shit.’
Fair point, I thought.
‘In that case, our mother might have been eighty-seven but she was surprisingly immature,’ said Rose. ‘I suppose she thought it was funny too.’
‘She probably did,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Fleur. ‘I’ve had colonics. They’re not so bad. Your skin will glow and your eyes will sparkle. Doesn’t hurt. Might even do us some good.’
‘And this is supposed to bring us together how?’ asked Rose.
‘I can see the sense of it, sort of,’ I said. ‘A clear-out is always a good thing. Like clearing the leaves out of drains, get rid of the rubbish and you get to the clear water underneath.’
Rose raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Typical of you to say something like that. Did you hear it at one of your New Age workshops down in Cornwall?’
‘No, but I do tell my art students that when they feel that their work isn’t going well. In any creative venture, you always have to clear the gunk first. Don’t you tell your writers that?’
‘No. I tell them to rewrite.’
‘Same thing, sort of.’
But I’d lost Rose’s attention. As far as she was concerned, she was the only one whose opinion mattered when it came to being creative. She glanced at her watch. ‘There are so many other things I could be doing with this weekend. I’m going to my room. I’ll see you for the first session at eleven.’
With that, she turned and walked off.
Fleur sighed and took the paper from me. ‘Ah. Happy days,’ she said as she glanced at it, then left the room and took off in the direction of the bar.
Saturday 10 October
At 11 a.m., the three of us trooped back to the library for the first session, where our counsellor was already waiting. She looked to be in her sixties, a large woman with silver hair past her shoulders, chunky amber jewellery, layered clothes the colours of autumn: ochre, brown and orange, and a pair of wide, comfy shoes, the kind bought by older people with bunions. Fleur would probably comment later on her bosom and need for a good bra – an over-shoulder boulder-holder, she used to call them.
The counsellor introduced herself as Beverly. She spoke with an American accent, East Coast – possibly a New Yorker. ‘I met your mother on several occasions when she came and stayed here in her younger days,’ she said.
‘Our mother actually came here?’ asked Rose.
Beverly nodded. ‘She did. She attended a few of the workshops I ran over the years. She contacted me earlier in the year and told me she was putting together a list of activities for you and asked if I would meet with you as part if it. I suggest that we begin by introducing ourselves. Would one of you like to start?’
‘We’re
