The Seed Collectors (48 page)

And another sweet thing about James is that he never, ever mentions the eBay room. Bryony has hardly even been into the eBay room for about three years, but however much she ignores it, it never decides to just disappear, or clean itself up. Isn’t there some theory that if you don’t look at something it doesn’t exist? Surely shame must trump quantum physics at some point? But Bryony is, unfortunately, quite sure that behind the door is the same mess of stuff that was there last time she looked. There’s the sewing machine, on which, admittedly, she did make one quilt, when she was trying to get over her PND after Ash was born. There’s all her quilting stuff: a big rubber mat for cutting out octagons, squares, triangles etc., and a sharp knife, and a ruler, and serrated scissors – but all this was before Bryony discovered that you could order quilting squares PRE-CUT from eBay. Mind you, all the pre-cut squares she ordered ended up smelling of cigarette smoke, and some were covered in pet hair, so they went off into their own zone in the eBay room. They could be thrown out without any problems, but to get to them Bryony would have to wade through all kinds of stuff she just can’t handle yet.

For example there is all the yarn that she bought so that she could knit clothes for Ash in a last attempt to bond with him and love him like a real mother from a glossy children’s picture book or
Sainsbury’s Magazine
. And all the yarn she bought to knit clothes for herself to make her feel better about still not being able to wish she hadn’t had him when he was ONE. But in the end buying cashmere cardigans is
much easier than making them, even though Bryony went through a phase of walking around shops saying ‘But you could make that!’ You could, but she didn’t. Still, in the weeks and months she spent thinking about knitting she invested a lot of time and money in choosing some really wonderful yarns, including some from a black alpaca called Santos. The balls of yarn came with a picture of Santos and his pedigree and details of the prizes he’d won. Sometimes Bryony gets a bit tearful thinking about Santos. But she will do something with his wool, she will. And in the meantime it will stay in the eBay room.

James did suggest getting a skip at one point. But there is no way that Bryony could ever throw Santos’s wool in a skip! Surely it’s more realistic for her to become a better person and eventually tidy the room and maybe buy a rocking chair and a wood burner and sit there on winter nights making a lovely big blanket for the whole family to use to snuggle under to watch films or on long car journeys. But the skip conversation led to the moving-house conversation which led to Emmy coming round and in fact THAT was what cured Bryony’s PND. She bought some high heels and some blusher and went to work. But of course being an estate agent is not 100 per cent fulfilling all the time, which is why she also goes to uni. But she is definitely not depressed any more. The eBay room, however, still smells of depression. Not just any old depression, but that exact depression. If Bryony ever had to go back there, then . . .

But she is there, now. And there’s another smell as well as depression.

Pear drops mixed with ripe lilies.

‘Holly?’

She is under the old desk, beyond the still new-looking ironing board and the iron that are there purely for quilting, and pressing darts.

‘Holly? What are you doing under there?’

‘Reading.’

‘We’re going to be late. You’re going to Aunt Fleur’s, remember?’

You can’t get cross with Holly any more, because if you do she doesn’t eat. Of course, it turns out that she’s always been prone to fits of starvation, but Bryony never properly took account of it until recently. Of course now that she has been actually hospitalised . . . Holly goes quite well in the eBay room, actually. Another project that Bryony thought would work but didn’t. Something she thought would always be shiny and new, or at least artistically distressed, a bit like a cobwebby shawl made from Kidsilk Haze in a colour like ‘Hurricane’ or ‘Ghost’ hanging over an antique doorknob in a contemporary pattern book. But you can’t think like that about your own child, and anyway, everything in the eBay room, including Holly, is Bryony’s fault. They are things Bryony fucked up. Which is why . . .

‘What are you reading?’

‘Granddad’s journal.’

‘And why exactly are you reading Granddad’s journal, Holly?’

A sigh. ‘Because you won’t. And Daddy won’t.’

‘But it might be private.’

‘Mummy, he’s probably dead. But if he isn’t dead then maybe there are clues about why he and Grandma and Great-Aunt Plum disappeared. I don’t think he’d mind. He probably wants us to read it. Although . . .’

‘What?’

‘There is quite a lot of sexing in it, Mummy.’

‘Oh, Holly. You’d better give me . . .’

‘Well, I’ve read it now so it’s too late.’

‘Well, who exactly is being sexed?’

‘Everyone! But mainly someone called Briar Rose.’

‘Fleur’s mother.’

‘Yes. And she had a baby. With Grandpa.’

‘Grandpa?’

‘Grandpa Augustus.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘That’s actually quite interesting. What else is in there?’

‘Lots and lots of stuff about a tribe called the Lost People, who also do a lot of sexing. And praying. Plus, I don’t know how to tell you this, Mummy, but you know the seed pod that you made Daddy throw away?’

‘Yes?’

‘And you know how it’s really deadly and terrible and everything?’

‘Yes, of course. That’s why we threw it away.’

‘Well, it was worth ten thousand pounds.’

Fleur has not just baked a cake especially for Holly, she seems to have provided her with a famous tennis player as well. Bryony’s going to be late if she does not leave now, but this is actually quite . . .

‘Do you know what a money shot is?’

Holly shakes her head.

‘OK, well, in pornography it’s . . .’

Bryony’s look is a high topspin forehand to the famous tennis player’s deuce corner. The tennis player can reach it, just, but he has not planted his back foot properly and . . .

‘It’s basically like your best shot. And it’s got to be a two-handed backhand down the line. Money shot for everyone, according to Brad Gilbert, who is like a famous coach who worked with Andre Agassi and Andy Murray.’

‘I’ve got a one-handed backhand.’

‘Who taught you that?’

‘My uncle. Well, my dad.’

‘And he thinks you’re who? Billie Jean King? Margaret Court? Gotta get with the times, girlie. You seen any woman on the tour
with a one-handed backhand? Doesn’t exist nowadays. I mean you gotta have a slice, but for your drive you need two hands.’

His blond hair is like something from a fairy tale. The way he talks is like . . .

‘Can you show me? Please? Please, please, please?’

The tennis player looks at Bryony. Bryony looks at Holly.

‘Do you remember the deal?’

‘Yes, Mummy.’

Bryony explains to the tennis player about Holly needing to put on three more pounds before she is allowed to play tennis again.

‘Pretty harsh. Can she not just drink a couple big bottles of Evian?’

‘That’s so not the point.’

‘We could weigh her in the morning, perhaps, and decide then?’ says Fleur.

‘You’d let her go anyway, whatever she weighs.’

‘Well . . .’

‘I’m going to be late. I think it’s probably a no for now, Holls. You haven’t even got your stuff here. And anyway, I’m sure that famous tennis players have better things to do than knock around with twelve-year-old girls.’ Bryony smiles thinly. Remembers to kiss Fleur goodbye, although Fleur suddenly seems . . . Anyway, it’s almost time for a drink. Beautiful, relaxing, restoring. Well, it would be normally. Instead . . .

The drinks menu is at the back. Pages and pages of wine, fine wine, champagne, dessert wine, liqueurs, brandy, port. But this evening Bryony is looking for the soft drinks. She has promised James that for this one meal with his parents she will not drink alcohol. And maybe this will be the start of something amazing. She feels that if only she can prove to herself that she can go just one night,
then . . . And if she can just order something as quickly as possible, then . . .

‘I see she’s gone straight to the back pages,’ says the waiter, twinkling. ‘Got her priorities right.’

What is it, what the fuck is it, about the simple act of choosing to spend a small amount of your available cash on a glass or bottle of fermented vegetable matter that gets people so excited? Why is it so remarkable, so naughty, so
outré
, to do this, especially when every other woman – fat, highlighted, high-heeled – in this restaurant will be doing exactly the same thing? Look at
her
. Isn’t she a one? Isn’t she terrible? Ooh, missus, why not have another? She’s just like her aunty Trace, she is . . .

‘I’m actually looking for a soft drink,’ Bryony says.

James gives her a supportive look. He and his dad order a beer each. His mother Lyn orders an orange juice. Bryony wants sparkling mineral water, but . . .

‘Do you only do Badoit?’ she asks.

‘Ah,’ says the waiter. ‘The finest mineral water.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Bryony says. ‘But it’s not very sparkly. Do you do anything else?’

‘We do Highland Spring, but only in small bottles.’

‘Great. I’ll have one of those, thanks.’

‘Badoit is lightly sparkling because it’s natural, of course.’

‘I know. Thanks. But I really prefer something more carbonated.’

An eyebrow. An ironic little smile. ‘Like to really scour the tongue, do you?’

‘Um, I just like quite fizzy things.’

‘What you want then,’ says the waiter, ‘is a nice bottle of champagne.’

‘Right.’ Bryony sighs.

James nudges her. Something in her tone or body language is presumably not quite . . . But actually, fuck this . . .

‘I’m sorry, but have you not heard of the concept of an alcoholic?’ says Bryony to the waiter. ‘Or driving? Or Islam? Or Buddhism, Or WeightWatchers?’

‘Bryony . . .’ says James.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ she says again, although she is not sorry. ‘I didn’t realise that this is a place in which drinking alcohol is mandatory. I didn’t notice the sign on the door saying that it is impossible to order a glass of fizzy water here without being bullied into drinking something with a percentage symbol next to it. Perhaps it doesn’t occur to waiters in places like this that people might not be drinking for a good reason, and that they might be feeling a little fragile or delicate and not want to incessantly
banter
about it. But fine, OK. You win. What’s your most expensive champagne?’ She starts flicking through the laminated pages of the menu. ‘All that fuss, and the most expensive champagne you have is thirty-two pounds fifty. We’ll have two bottles, please.’

‘Bryony . . .’

‘You’ll join me in scouring my tongue, won’t you, Greg and Lyn? On me, of course.’ Bryony looks back at the waiter. ‘And you may as well open a bottle of the 2007 Graves too, and let it breathe. If we’re going to have to drink alcohol we may as well do it properly.’

‘What is enlightenment?’

Fleur laughs. ‘How long have you got? What time is your mother picking you up in the morning?’