Yes, that should work.Pomegranate.
Okay...
So, no point in thinking about thepomegranate, there would be plenty of time for that. Nine months – no, not nine months at all. This, thepomegranate, must have started some time ago. When? How? We’ve always been so careful.
Except for once, August Bank Holiday. The memory is painful because we’d been so happy. Kissing in the shower and things…escalated.
I breathe through the ache of remembering. So, this means – I calculate in my head –situation pomegranatehas been going on for two months and nine days.
Was it that long? Since that day in the shower? Nostalgia wars with anxiety in my heart. I shake my head. Neither is going to help me today.
For now, focus on what I can control. Find this George person, ask him to grease the wheels to help me find a flat to rent until it’s the right time to tell Clive.
“Glad you could make it.” A man in Wellies and a Barbour greets us from the first tent. Trestle tables are piled high with pumpkins and squashes of all kinds, orange, yellow, green.
Brandon waves back. “Nice day for it.”
“If you and your young lady fancy a flutter, I’m running the sweepstakes.”
“Maybe later.” Brandon declines good naturedly and steers me along the well-trodden grass into the heart of the fair.
It looks like a country market-cum-fairground. A group of kids queue for a chance to ride a donkey around a water feature.
“Mornin’ Brandon.” A fat woman in an apron walks closer. “And this must be your young lady, Lessa isn’t it?” She offers me a hand.
Before I can respond, Brandon asks the woman “Have you seen the Seigneur this morning? Is he here?”
“He’ll be with his wife at Blue Sage.” There’s a shouted commotion because a girl fell off the donkey into the pond. The fat woman in the apron shouts, “Bessy, ‘reg at ye! Be the laugh of the Lotoman Nutting.”
Brandon puts a hand in the small of my back and urges me away.
“I’d really like to know what that means, Lotoman Nutting.”
“If you work it out, I’ll buy you a drink.” He grins down at me. “Come on, let’s find the Blue Sage.”
Everyone seems to know Brandon. Many wave or call out a greeting.
“I’ll buyyoua drink of your choice if you can find out why everyone keeps calling me your young lady.”
He laughs. “You just lost this one. I can tell you right now. They’ve probably never – Aha!” He suddenly points.
There’s a stall made to look like a stage, with puppets hanging from strings. But above and behind the stall, just visible, is a sign BLUE SAGE CAFÉ POP-UP. The word pop-up is an oddly modern touch in this otherwise old-fashioned fairground.
It’s a larger tent. A young woman, her hands full of plates, welcomes us. “Brandon. Glad you could make it. Choose a table, I’ll be over in a sec.”
I make sure to choose a table near the entrance, as far away as possible from the food.
“That’s Millie. She’s George’s wife.” Bandon says quietly.
The woman is busy serving a couple who buy a box of biscuits, very similar to the one from last night. “This is where you bought the lavender honey biscuits?”
“Yes,” then he shakes his head. “I mean, no. I mean I didn’t buy it. It was a gift from…” He tips his head toward Millie.
“You seem very popular, here.”
“Not me. My brother.”
“Twins?”
