bathrooms in her hotel suite. There were handbags everywhere, about £30,000 worth, that Skye had been sent for free just that morning. She didn’t want any of them because one of them was named after a celebrity more famous than her. The stylist was going to take the lime green one for herself, but offered Fleur the yellow one. Fleur didn’t want it. Being surrounded by Hindus all the time makes leather kind of awkward. ‘Are you mad?’ the stylist said. ‘Take it and put it on eBay.’ But Fleur couldn’t be bothered. She probably should have got it for Bryony, though. Now she wants to stop this awkward conversation Augustus is planning to have before it even starts. Cecily, presumably, has her own ideas about clothes. Fleur sees her gardening painfully in white nightdresses at midnight, or visiting the doctor in linen trousers that sag around the arse, or grey asymmetrical dresses that make her look about twenty years older than she is. Fleur hears bits and pieces about her from Clem, who doesn’t really feel comfortable having a stepmother only five years older than she is, especially one who can barely walk and so must be pitied a little.
‘Really, fashion isn’t worth trying to keep up with.’
‘Well, you certainly seem to keep up with it.’
‘I don’t. I just wear what random stylists give me, or what gets left behind at the house. Honestly, being around celebrities all the time would turn anyone off fashion.’
‘How is the business?’ asks Augustus.
‘Good. Great, really. Although who knows what’s going to happen now that . . .’
‘But the place is making enough money?’
‘Yes, of course. For now. With Oleander gone I’m having to do a lot more of the one-to-one stuff, you know, like the therapy and the yoga and . . .’
And helping the Prophet make his parcels now that his one arm isn’t so good.
A bit of watering sometimes in the room above the orangery where no one goes.
Because if the universe didn’t want her to do this, then the universe would not have set it all up like this, and her mother would not have gone on that trip to meet the Lost People and would presumably not have become such a Lost Person herself. Although in some way she was always lost, which was what started it all. Fleur doesn’t know where the Prophet’s packages go; he has spared her that. But she’s been happy to bank the proceeds. But will they be enough? Because if Namaste House is sold then . . .
‘Don’t they say people aren’t spending money any more? I mean luxury spas and designer gurus are a bit, well . . . With the credit crunch and everything, surely people are cutting back?’
‘Celebrities will always spend money on feeling better about being sent thirty grand’s worth of handbags that are named after another celebrity.’
Augustus snorts. He’s not poor himself – far from it – but he looks down on people who make money from singing about having sex on the floor, or on the beach, even though he has had sex on lots of floors and also on the beach. In fact, sex on the beach was almost certainly what got him into this situation with Fleur in the first place.
‘No, I’m serious. It’s really hard to cope with a life that’s so absurd,’ Fleur says. ‘Imagine this. You’ve grown up on an estate in Folkestone, dirt-poor but beautiful. You’ve never had any money. You’ve been on one holiday with your mates to Ibiza that cost under a hundred quid and it was the best time you’ve had in your life. Your friends become hairdressers and waitresses. You get some work doing backing singing and save up to buy yourself one of those’ – Fleur points at the journalist’s Mulberry – ‘which costs eight hundred quid but then you realise that more famous models and actresses and pop stars are being given these things for free, because the companies want their stuff pictured with celebrities. Anyway, to cut a long story short, you make it. You become famous. You release an acclaimed album and you’re savvy enough to pick up a stylist as soon as possible and before you know it you’re walking for Dior even though you’re not a model. You do a duet with the most famous indie singer in the country. Now you get sent bags. You get flown first class. You stay in five-star suites. It’s great, but you realise you can never go back to Ibiza with your mates again. You can never get excited about earning enough money for a handbag again. The more money you earn, the less things you actually pay for. Everything becomes worthless. Meaningless. But you have to stay famous because the only thing worse than your current life would be to go back: back to poverty and having to take buses and buy frozen food and make your own doctor’s appointments. But nobody stays famous. Some people are famous for three years, but that’s about it unless you’re actually Tom Cruise.’
Augustus puts three, no, four, lumps of sugar in his tea. Fleur continues.
‘So one day your assistant books you an economy plane ticket by mistake and they won’t let you in the executive lounge. You protest and are removed. You try to upgrade but there are no available seats left on that flight. You don’t even know how to buy a plane ticket any more. You actually use the dreaded words that you used to joke about with your mother: “Do you know who I am?” They don’t. Well, they do, but they’re not going to upgrade you now your mascara is running. And there was that thing in Grazia last week, and you’ve put on a couple of stone since you stopped touring. You want to kill your assistant, really kill her, but instead you fire her by text message. You sit in the economy cabin sobbing because for the next three hours you are going to be normal. You may as well be dead. Your lowest point is when you go to use the business-class toilet – because that’s the one you’ve always used before– and the cabin crew politely but firmly steer you back to economy.’ Fleur pauses. ‘That’s where you find spirituality. Right in that moment. That’s when you are most ready to be filled with light.’
‘You are so like her.’ Augustus shakes his head. ‘It’s uncanny. But be careful, though, darling. Make sure you’re prepared for all the stories to surface again now that she’s dead.’
Fleur almost says, ‘Yes, Daddy.’ But she’s never called him that.
‘Anyway, how’s everything in Bath? How’s the malaria?’
Augustus frowns. ‘Painful. Unpredictable. The same. My mother sent me to an acupuncturist last week. It didn’t help. It just hurt.’
‘I don’t think it’s supposed to hurt. Did you say something?’
‘No. That kind of thing never works on me anyway. There’s no point.’
‘So why did you go?’
‘You know my mother . . .’ Actually, Fleur did not. But she knew all about her.
‘How’s Cecily? And the girls?’
‘Cecily’s the same. On a new medication, but can’t get up before midday and still won’t speak to my mother. Beatrix has made quite an effort lately, but it hasn’t made any difference. And the girls, well, Plum’s delightful. Reminds me a lot of Clem when she was that age. Lavender’s dreadful. I don’t know what to do any more. She wants things all the time and sulks if she doesn’t get them. Sometimes I wish we’d stopped with Plum. I mean, in terms of Cecily’s health, we should have stopped at Plum, or even before.’
‘It must be a phase,’ Fleur says. ‘I’m sure Holly went through something similar. Didn’t Plum? I mean, marketing to children is such a huge industry now.’
‘It’s the way Lavender asks for things, though. That’s what gets me. She sits on my lap and looks into my eyes like some sort of
