“This is a time of passion, ofsensuality,” she said.
“Any chance it’s also a time of sleep? What time is it, anyway?”
“Time?” Aunty Karma said, her voice drifting past me accompanied by the sound of bare feet padding across the room. “It’s a time for passion. For vitality. For love.”
“For love!” my mother cried.
“Have you two been foraging for mushrooms in the dark again?”
“The great goddess wants you to find a lover, William.”
I groaned. “Does she?”
“She does. Shespoketo me.”
“Incredible how you and the great goddess share exactly the same opinion. That’s a bit of luck, isn’t it?”
For the past two years, my mother had been obsessed with finding me “a lover” (which is, to be clear, the most horrific word a parent can ever use to describe a son’s potential partner). She was relentless, insisting “every generation for centuries found a true and enduring love match at Buckford Hall” and it was time I had found mine. I’d considered asking Bramley to pretend wewere an item, merely to get her off my back. We’d see if a fifty-year age difference shattered her “love is love” sensibilities.
“The goddess sees a tall, handsome stranger in your future, William,” Mother wailed.
My eyes were still clamped shut. “And how does she suppose I’m going to meet this tall, handsome stranger out here in the middle of nowhere? Did she give you any clues? Are they going to wander in off the street and drift up the stairs to find me drowning in debt and stinking of lavatory water, and fall head over heels in love with me?”
“Open your heart,” Karma wailed across the room, “to the great passion the goddess is sending you.”
“Any chance she could send my breakfast instead?”
I shouted for Bramley.
“Listen, I’m going to open my eyes now, because I need to find my way to the door without stubbing my toe on whatever bits of forest you two geriatric wood nymphs have dragged in along with you, and I’d quite like to start my day without the trauma of seeing whatever’s left of your mouldering carcasses. You’ve had your fun. Go on, shoo.”
Mum made a kissing sound, and her hand tapped against my forehead.
“Very well,” she sighed. “See you at breakfast, darling.”
Two pairs of leaden feet danced their way out the door. I finally opened my eyes.
“You don’t even live here!” I shouted after her. “Why am I feeding you?”
Not half an hour later, I was down in the kitchen, knocking the top off my fourth soft-boiled egg. A newly installed camera hung like a bat from the corner of the ceiling, ready to film Buckford Hall’s celebrity guests. Yesterday’s mail sat unopened in a pile on the table in front of me. A brown envelope markedHis Majesty’s Revenue and Customslay on top, thewordsURGENT: DO NOT IGNOREstamped across it in red ink leaching any joy out of an otherwise beautiful morning, feeding off my spirit like a succubus. I wondered whether the chaps with a financial domination kink enjoyed it when the King’s tax collector came to drain their bank accounts. As my account was already empty, I supposed I’d never find out.
I was idly weighing how hard fin-dom could possibly be as a career choice when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I quickly flipped the stack of letters over and forced a smile. Mother drifted in, freshly showered, wearing her tatty old Chinese silk dressing gown.
“You literally have your own house, why is your robe here? Wait, which bathroom did you use?”
“You have fabulous bed hair this morning, darling,” Mum said, standing behind me to run her hands through it.
“Technically, this is sofa hair.”
She kissed me on the forehead. “I love it when the sun catches the red. It reminds me of your father.”
Sadness, or guilt, or something like it, stabbed through me, and I craned up to peck her on the cheek.
“Ooh, coffee,” Mum said, launching herself towards the pot. She shouted up the hallway for Aunty Karma to come down, then plonked herself in her usual spot, sharing the corner next to me. The lights above our heads flickered. Mum fingered the mail. I picked it up and lobbed the whole stack onto the counter by the butler’s sink before she could spot the notice from HMRC. She reached for the coffee pot and poured the steaming black liquid into her cup.
I told her about fixing the toilet as I cut another piece of toast into soldiers.
“Good for you, darling! That’s a few pennies saved.”
