Page 77 of People In Love
And he can’t help it; he laughs. Finds himself easing up, a little, as she rootles around on all fours with her mad hair and grubby hands; wondering, not for the first time, why this woman, of all people, would have kept his message from Nora. Would have stopped her from boarding that plane.
It’s the last thing he’d have expected, from her.
Freya was always badgering them to be unencumbered by societal norms. Let them stay up late. Bought Nora her first packet of condoms and told her to get lucky, but not unlucky, like she had – not that she regretted it, of course, she rather liked having a pal she could paint with, and read to, and teach to cook soshecould make dinner forherone day. And they’d laughed about all that, him and his parents, with affection. Sometimes awe. His dad had delighted in her. His mother, even more so. Freya marched for women’s rights and animal rights and the rights of the planet that was burning up and freezing over and dying, day by day, didn’t they know, didn’t theycare? She had opened his mind in ways that his own mother had not, and for that reason, Bren thinks, as he watches her scurrying about, it is hard to remain fully angry with her.
What’s it do, then, he asks, as he joins her in her rescue attempt.
Tomato feed? Funnily enough, Bren, it feeds my tomatoes.
She wipes her forehead, leaves a brownish streak on her eyebrow.
Such promise, you had, as a boy, she tells him. All that heat abroad must’ve addled your brain.
And the disapproval in her tone throws him right back –Nora’s with your mother,like you should be– and that’s it: he snaps.
I don’t think you’re in a place to tease me here, Freya. After what you did.
She looks up at him, then, over her Tupperware, and their eyes meet. Wild and gold on his steady green.
Well, she says, and she stands, her knees cracking. Give me a minute, will you, before we get into all this.
Why, he says. Is it a greenhouse moment?
A snort, then, because he’s remembered, but she says no, Bren, not quite. But it is a moment for alcohol, I reckon, don’t you?
_
Freya cleans herself up inside while Bren decants the tomato feed back into the bottle. She reappears after a short while wearing fresh dungarees, two glasses of tomato juice clutched in her hands.
Bit early for a cocktail, isn’t it? he asks, as he takes one from her.
Not when it’s a breakfast cocktail, she says. Home-made, of course. My little labour ofLove Apples. That’s what they were called, back in the day, due to their aphrodisiacal qualities. Probably why I can’t get enough of them.
Bren chokes, just slightly, on his drink.
Don’t be a prude! Freya crows, settling on the decking beside him. We all need some spice in our lives! And my punters seem to agree.
Your punters?!
Notthosekind of punters! she says, seeing his face. I sellLove Apple Juiceat farmers’ markets and things. Slap labels on them, charge a fiver a bottle.
That’s terrible.
That’s capitalism.
Not the price, Bren says, the name. Surely people just think they’re buying apple juice?
Exactly, Bren! It’s a crying shame that oranges and apples get all the attention, don’t you think? Imagine opening someone’s mind to the possibilities of a tangy, sweet-as-earth tomato, grown on our very own island, no less. More vitamins, fewer air miles. It’s all part of the plan, Brenavin. Cajole the apple juice bores into expanding their horizons.
Bren decides not to engage on this, knowing she’s playing for time. He takes another sip, mouth tingling. Waits her out.
I suppose we should talk about the elephant in the garden, Freya says, after a swig of her own. And I don’t mean my statue of Ganesha.
How long have you been waiting to saythatsentence?
Oh, a good twenty years.
Traded smiles, then, as they both drink again. Soft clink of ice on their teeth.
