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
