Honey(102)
The side of the car brushes up against the hedgerow.
Mary’s shoulders are slumped. The lanes wind on blind bends.
“I didn’t cry after my Grandmother died. Not once.” Yrsa can’t say why she’s speaking aloud.
There’s a smell in the car and she winds down the window.
“I started therapy, you know. It’s not like I haven’t tried.”
She slows further and drops her hand out, fingers in the wind.
“I asked my dad once, what I used to do as a kid when I was out in the garden playing. I asked him like I couldn’t remember, but I do.” She brings her hand back into the car.
It was hours spent laying lines of sweet things in the long grass. Watching the insects swarm before enclosing them in glass. Flapping wings turning still.
The smell is urine. Mary has wet herself.
They haven’t seen buildings or lights for a while now. Yrsa pulls into a rest stop and switches the engine off. Outside, birds fly.
“Please.” It is hard to know if Mary spoke.
Yrsa rests her head against the seat. It is so quiet now. She takes the keys out of the ignition and looks back on Stephen, looks through him and out.
The darkness has urgency. She touches the needle in her pocket. She will have to go for the soft skin. She may only have one chance.
Yrsa touches Mary’s shoulder.
The marsh. The insects, lurid on sugar. Or her Grandmother, that last day in the garden; the way the dusk settled around her. And how she had turned and looked at her; past liberation, past forgiveness. Palms open to the sky.
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without my mum. Thank you for always being my first reader, biggest encourager, and teacher. Thank you for your countless plot points, character ideas, and titles. From reading to me when I was little to checking every comma, you have shaped both my work and my belief that it was possible. Simply put, you have been everything, and I could not say a large enough thank-you to capture my gratitude.
A big thank-you to early readers of this novel. Especially Rachel, Rosa, Mish, Michal, Mojola, Frances, Jemima—and your book club—for your feedback. Olivia, thank you for all your advice, and Imogen and JJ, for your encouragement and friendship. Thank you, Becca and Meg, for being such wonderful friends and flatmates while I wrote this.
Dad, I have a world of gratitude for all that you do for me. Thank you for so enthusiastically reading every draft, and for always being there with excitement and love. My brother told me that I must thank him for “coming up with the idea that altered the ending and actually made the book a worthwhile read,” but beyond this, thank you for being my favorite person. Thank you to Bryony for reading, and to my grandparents for all your generosity, support, and kindness over the years. Gama, the food in this novel is inspired by you. Thank you also to my stepparents, Pete and Julie. Pete, your seven pages of early thoughts were spot-on.
Thank you to my agents, Niki, Anna, and David, and to Emmanuel. Niki, I will never stop being grateful for your belief in this novel. And thank you, Ore, for taking the time to talk to me; your advice encouraged me to submit where I did. To my editors, Jo, Marie, Kelly, and Anita, thank you for pushing me to make the work better and for making the process joyful. And to everyone, from editing, design, publicity, sales, distribution, and translation, thank you for making the book real.
A thank-you also to my university supervisors, especially Ali Meghji (I promise Syed is not you); and to my English teachers who taught me so much: Miss Atyeo, Miss Casson, and Miss Barrett. Thank you, James, for being my drug advisor—now I know how to kill people; and to Melissa Thompson, whose recipes I lifted. Thank you, Jo, Tracy, and Helen, for all your advice.
To all the people who have gifted me ideas, encouragement, and advice over the years, thank you for helping me weave this story.
And to Fran?ois, you have supported me in more ways than I can say. I met you early in the writing process and am a better person by the end because of you. Thank you for it all.