Read Online The Seed Collectors by Scarlett Thomas - Free Book Online
Authors: Scarlett Thomas
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already. ‘You think we’ll be seen,’ she says to Augustus.
‘It would be very awkward if we were. Cecily’s not fantastic at the moment.’
She follows his eyes as he looks around the large room. A female journalist with a Mulberry Bayswater and old-fashioned Dictaphone is interviewing a young woman at one of the tables, but there’s no one else here. The doorway is on the far side of the room, and beyond that is the hotel lobby and the bar. People don’t come in here; althoughon the other hand, of course, they do. Last time Fleur was here there was a celebrity sitting on the opposite sofa playing Top Trumps with a boy of about ten. Fleur thought this boy was his son, and the large dark woman his wife, until it became clear that the woman was from a charity and the boy was terminally ill. The celebrity pledged £10,000 and rewrote a speech the woman had written all while Fleur was sitting there working out a daily yoga routine for the ex-wife of a rapper called The Zone. But celebrities don’t give a shit about other people; so, really . . .
‘I don’t think my dress is going to make any difference. We can go somewhere else if you’re not comfortable here. Not Blacks though because of Clem, so I don’t really know where else there is. Or maybe this is just a bad idea altogether . . .’ Fleur gets up. She didn’t used to be like this with Augustus but she is now. She feels as if she’s been stuck at the end of the cul-de-sac that is their relationship for a million years.
‘Don’t be silly. Sorry, darling, you know I get over-anxious. It’s on your behalf as well. And Cecily, like I said, isn’t . . . Anyway, sit down. Let’s have tea.’
Fleur sighs, sits down and breathes out some more. She looks at the menu. It’s beautiful. Everything in here is beautiful, which is why she comes. If she was on her own she would probably order a whole afternoon tea with savouries and scones and clotted cream. But Augustus wouldn’t understand her ordering all that and then taking three quarters of it home for the birds, so Fleur simply orders a plate of fruit and thé pétales. Oh, and some macarons, at least two of which she will sneak away for the robin, who is quite partial to them. Augustus orders a slice of fruit cake, an English Breakfast tea and a large glass of Bordeaux. He frowns when Fleur gets out her mini jar of pink Himalayan salt and her special herbs that she adds to everything.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
‘Sad. Very sad. Not surprised, of course. She’s been so ill. I’m still working but everything seems so different. How are you?’
‘The same.’
Augustus is always ‘the same’, whatever that even means. Fleur waits for him to say something about Oleander, but he doesn’t. He won’t. Fleur doesn’t even know why he and Beatrix are planning to come to the funeral, as they haven’t spoken to Oleander since 1989. Does he hope to inherit Namaste House? But that wouldn’t make sense, because . . . She closes her eyes and opens them again. Sees the frankincense tree first, and then for some reason all the cushion covers she and Ketki sewed.
Augustus frowns again. Rubs his eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’ Fleur asks.
‘Oh.’ He pauses. He smiles weakly. ‘Everything. The usual.’
How many years does it take to stop missing your first wife, your sister and your two closest friends who have gone missing in India – or possibly the Pacific – while you stayed at home with a bout of malaria? More than he’s had, that’s for sure.
‘Well . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, darling. How’s the garden?’
He really isn’t going to say anything else about Oleander.
‘Good. A bit bare in places. The poppies are coming up. And I actually remembered your seeds this time.’ Fleur pulls a small brown envelope out of her bag. ‘These are from the best one. Really deep purple. I can’t believe I actually let it seed. But then again . . .’
‘Thank you,
‘It would be very awkward if we were. Cecily’s not fantastic at the moment.’
She follows his eyes as he looks around the large room. A female journalist with a Mulberry Bayswater and old-fashioned Dictaphone is interviewing a young woman at one of the tables, but there’s no one else here. The doorway is on the far side of the room, and beyond that is the hotel lobby and the bar. People don’t come in here; althoughon the other hand, of course, they do. Last time Fleur was here there was a celebrity sitting on the opposite sofa playing Top Trumps with a boy of about ten. Fleur thought this boy was his son, and the large dark woman his wife, until it became clear that the woman was from a charity and the boy was terminally ill. The celebrity pledged £10,000 and rewrote a speech the woman had written all while Fleur was sitting there working out a daily yoga routine for the ex-wife of a rapper called The Zone. But celebrities don’t give a shit about other people; so, really . . .
‘I don’t think my dress is going to make any difference. We can go somewhere else if you’re not comfortable here. Not Blacks though because of Clem, so I don’t really know where else there is. Or maybe this is just a bad idea altogether . . .’ Fleur gets up. She didn’t used to be like this with Augustus but she is now. She feels as if she’s been stuck at the end of the cul-de-sac that is their relationship for a million years.
‘Don’t be silly. Sorry, darling, you know I get over-anxious. It’s on your behalf as well. And Cecily, like I said, isn’t . . . Anyway, sit down. Let’s have tea.’
Fleur sighs, sits down and breathes out some more. She looks at the menu. It’s beautiful. Everything in here is beautiful, which is why she comes. If she was on her own she would probably order a whole afternoon tea with savouries and scones and clotted cream. But Augustus wouldn’t understand her ordering all that and then taking three quarters of it home for the birds, so Fleur simply orders a plate of fruit and thé pétales. Oh, and some macarons, at least two of which she will sneak away for the robin, who is quite partial to them. Augustus orders a slice of fruit cake, an English Breakfast tea and a large glass of Bordeaux. He frowns when Fleur gets out her mini jar of pink Himalayan salt and her special herbs that she adds to everything.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
‘Sad. Very sad. Not surprised, of course. She’s been so ill. I’m still working but everything seems so different. How are you?’
‘The same.’
Augustus is always ‘the same’, whatever that even means. Fleur waits for him to say something about Oleander, but he doesn’t. He won’t. Fleur doesn’t even know why he and Beatrix are planning to come to the funeral, as they haven’t spoken to Oleander since 1989. Does he hope to inherit Namaste House? But that wouldn’t make sense, because . . . She closes her eyes and opens them again. Sees the frankincense tree first, and then for some reason all the cushion covers she and Ketki sewed.
Augustus frowns again. Rubs his eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’ Fleur asks.
‘Oh.’ He pauses. He smiles weakly. ‘Everything. The usual.’
How many years does it take to stop missing your first wife, your sister and your two closest friends who have gone missing in India – or possibly the Pacific – while you stayed at home with a bout of malaria? More than he’s had, that’s for sure.
‘Well . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, darling. How’s the garden?’
He really isn’t going to say anything else about Oleander.
‘Good. A bit bare in places. The poppies are coming up. And I actually remembered your seeds this time.’ Fleur pulls a small brown envelope out of her bag. ‘These are from the best one. Really deep purple. I can’t believe I actually let it seed. But then again . . .’
‘Thank you,
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