rather fuck a fireman or an anaesthetist and looking at pictures of holidays on someone’s phone. Holly’s insides now feel a bit gluey. And the thought of the butter she ate – yellow shiny poo – makes her want to vomit.
‘How many cakes does Fleur eat, Mummy, do you think, in a typical day? Or a typical week. Would you guess at closer to ten, fifty or a hundred? Mummy?’
‘As if anyone would eat a hundred cakes a day, you total spaz,’ says Ash.
‘Mummy?’
‘What? Oh, who knows? I think she makes a lot more than she eats. I think she likes the way they look more than the way they taste.’
‘Mummy?’ says Holly. ‘Is that why Fleur’s so thin in that case, if she only looks at cakes but doesn’t eat them?’
‘Who knows? Maybe she’s just got lucky genes. She’s always been thin.’
Lucky genes. Is that what it comes down to? Or maybe Fleur doesn’t eat family packs of Kettle Chips when no one is watching. Maybe she doesn’t add half a bottle of olive oil to a pot of ‘healthy’ vegetable soup like James and Bryony do, or use three tins of coconut milk (600 calories per can) in a family curry as James does. Maybe she’s still on the Hay diet, like Bryony’s grandmother Beatrix, who always talks of ‘taking’ food, never ‘eating’ it, and has given Bryony some kind of food-combining cookbook for the last three Christmases. Food combining means not eating protein and carbohydrates together. That would mean no Brie with crusty bread, no poached egg and smoked salmon on toast, no roast chicken and potatoes. Bryony feels hungry just thinking about it.
‘Mummy? Have I got lucky genes?’
‘Depends what you think is lucky.’
They have left Deal and are driving on the main road back towards Sandwich. It’s a warm day, and very bright. Spring is certainly coming. On the right, somewhere beyond the flat fields and the country park built on the old colliery slagheap, is the English Channel, with its wind turbines and ferries and migrating birds. On the left, more fields, full of scarecrows. In the distance Bryony sees the reassuring old Richborough Power Station cooling towers huddled together like three fat women on an eternal tea break. Then, in one of the fields on the left, she suddenly sees something hovering, perfectly balanced above the scarecrows.
‘Mummy, why are we stopping? Arrrgh . . .’
‘Oh. My. God. Mummy, you are even worse than Daddy.’
Both children wave their arms and legs about, pretending they are having a car crash, as Bryony pulls into a farm’s small driveway.
‘Look at that,’ she says softly.
‘At what exactly, Mummy?’
A huge bird of prey. Swooping. It’s beautiful, and it’s just . . . there. Bryony struggles to remember the names of local raptors that James has told her. Could it be a hen harrier? A marsh something-or-other? A kestrel? Or do you only see kestrels in Scotland? It doesn’t matter; she can look it up in the bird book when she gets home. Maybe they can all look together.
‘Oh, I must tell Daddy . . .’
She begins noting its features. And then she sees the wire holding it up.
‘What are we supposed to be looking at?’
‘Nothing.’ Bryony restarts the engine. How stupid. How could she not have seen the wire from the road? The raptor is a fake, like the scarecrows. Even the starlings aren’t fooled; hundreds of them are flying around everywhere.
‘Mummy, did you think that was a real bird?’
Ash and Holly start to giggle.
‘Mummy, you’re a right wally.’
Which is exactly what James will say.
‘So how was your swim today?’
‘Fucking awful.’
Clem is rooting around in the drawer for something. They have finished listening to the repeat of her radio programme and the kitchen is suddenly very quiet. Ollie is not going to try asking about Oleander again. Or if he does he will make sure he does not mention the inheritance, which made him sound like a total cunt before.
‘What have you lost?’
‘My vegetable peeler.’
Despite being married, they have separate vegetable peelers, just as they have separate gym memberships at separate gyms with different swimming pools.
Ollie shrugs. ‘I haven’t had it.’
Clem sighs. ‘What went wrong at the swimming pool this time?’
‘This time.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you say it as if I’m some kind of twat who can’t even go to the swimming pool without some major drama, and . . . What?’
‘Nothing.’ She has now found her vegetable peeler, that minimalist piece of stainless steel that looks as if it would slash your wrists in an instant. Ollie’s peeler has a sensible rubber grip. With Clem’s you can peel every which way, as if you were fencing, or literally doing battle with your vegetable, really fucking killing it. Ollie’s just peels sensibly. Clem starts killing something. It’s a butternut squash.
‘Anyway . . . ?’
‘Well, OK, so basically I’d just finished in the gym when the bus turned up. And – don’t look at me like that – I know this is going to sound cruel but I totally wasn’t in the mood for twenty – yes, twenty – and no, I’m not going to say the word “spaz”, or “flid”, OK? – people with “learning difficulties”. Obviously I’m sure they are all lovely and wonderful and I’d fucking hate their lives but they don’t have enough helpers. And they don’t wash them before they put them in the swimming pool. And that pool is disgusting enough to begin with, as you know. Like, for example, the clump of hair is still there. After a YEAR. Stop looking at me like that. And try not to slash your wrists with that thing. You think I’m exaggerating? OK. Right. One of them was literally a woman with a hunchback – WHICH I AM NOT JUDGING, OK – but she was also covered in hair. I mean she looked like a yeti. A hunchback woman yeti in my swimming pool. The guys are also all perfectly lovely, I’m sure, although my personal preference would be to have them wash before getting into a pool with me, but one of them not only does not wash, he wears these huge corduroy shorts that probably still have things – like used tissues, if he actually used tissues – in the pockets, and he goes to the deep end and just bobs up and down picking his nose while I’m trying to swim. And then there’s this other one who is huge and black – YES, I KNOW IT DOESN’T MATTER BUT I AM TRYING TO PAINT A PICTURE FOR YOU – who does this superfast front crawl which is quite impressive really, but he keeps his eyes shut and his head entirely underwater so he spends his whole time mowing down babies and the elderly while the yeti shakes with fear and sort of moos in the shallow end. I mean, can’t they just shave her?’
‘Can you pass me the Le Creuset roasting tin?’
Ollie
