How to Kill Your Family(21)

I had to think up a reason to talk to him, and as asking advice on how to properly clean the minuscule kitchen wasn’t really going to cut it, I waited until everybody stopped for lunch and took my sandwiches over to where he sat, eyes closed, soaking up the spring sun.

‘It’s so lovely to work outside,’ I ventured, ‘I’m so tired of working in an office just chasing profits and cynically duping clients.’ OK it was a bit too on the nose, but it got the right reaction. People so often just want you to hold up a mirror for their own opinions. This is especially true of men, and Andrew might have presented himself as a woke eco-warrior but he wasn’t immune.

‘God, that’s so TRUE,’ he said, turning towards me and smiling. ‘This place is my sanctuary. I can’t bear the way we, as a society, have been tricked by those with everything into chasing impossible gains, just so that big corporations can make more off their labour.’

OK, so this was going to be easier than I thought. After fifteen minutes of chat about capitalism and the evils of the empire, I told him a bit about ‘my’ family, the Latimers. Of course, I didn’t use their real names or explain that Sophie and John weren’t my real parents, but I hedged that, telling him about my liberal family who marched against climate change and voted Labour might get him to open up about his own relatives.

‘I guess your family was the same growing up?’ I said, as I helped myself to his Waitrose olive pot. His body slightly shifted, and he scratched at his neck with his pinky finger.

‘No, actually. I figured all this stuff out by myself. My parents didn’t bestow me with much in the way of ideological direction. Too busy enjoying themselves, making money – well, spending money, I guess. I had the best private education, lovely nannies, a good home, and for a while, I guess I drifted down that road – interned at a wealth fund at 16, enjoyed all the nice things that my family had. But uni changed me – it made me see proper inequality for the first time. People think that Brighton’s wealthy you know? But it’s got really poor pockets and the other students … well, they were all so engaged and connected to the real world y’know? It made me ashamed of myself, you know?’

I charitably assumed the constant ‘you knows’ were a nervous tic and tried to see beyond them.

‘Good on you,’ I said and squeezed his arm. ‘Takes guts to really open your eyes.’ Well, not really, if there’s a multi-million-pound trust fund to fall back on when you get tired of living like the common people, but he seemed to appreciate it, absent-mindedly rubbing the spot I’d just touched.

From then on, I was in. It took a couple more weeks of weeding to suggest a drink after work, but he was keen. Unfortunately so was Lucy. And, even worse, Roger. We ended up in a dismal pub near the centre which I guess could’ve been nice if a roundabout hadn’t encircled it at some point in the recent past (and, let’s be honest, if the clientele had been completely different and the wine list had offered more than a lukewarm chardonnay from Australia). The talk was mainly about fucking frogs, with Andrew keen to tell us about his own private collection.

Roger rolled his eyes. ‘This chap thinks the local ones aren’t interesting enough, don’t you, fella? Always looking for something a bit more … exotic.’ He said it as though a foreign frog was dangerous, enticing Andrew away from the decent hardworking types found in the marshes. Roger definitely voted to leave the EU. I feigned interest, and encouraged my cousin to say more, while Roger turned to Lucy and attempted to engage her on the topic of topsoil. Andrew lowered his voice and tilted his head towards me slightly.

‘The centre is a lovely place, and Roger means well. But he’s right, I am interested in the more “exotic” ones, just as he says. It might sound mad …’ he trailed off as I looked at him with interest, ‘but I’ve been researching what frogs can do for depression. Have you heard of Kambo?’

No, Andrew, of course I fucking haven’t. Normal people don’t think about frogs and depression. Normal people don’t spend their days in dingy marshes off a dual carriageway waiting for visitors who never come. But then, normal people don’t try to annihilate their entire families so I really should learn to judge less and listen more. I opened my eyes wide.

‘It’s a secretion from a type of frog and there’s a ton of research on how it helps to cure depression and addiction. We’re all so dependent on western medicine pushed on us by big pharma, but it’s becoming so clear that nature offers us better ways to tackle our human struggles. Kambo, man …’ he paused. ‘It’s worked miracles on so many people.’ He glanced over at Roger to make sure he wasn’t listening and turned back to me. ‘That’s why I’ve got these frogs at home. I’m trying to perfect the dosage. Too much and you vomit uncontrollably. It’s a tricky process. And I’m breeding them so that I can increase my supply and help more people.’

I didn’t need to fake interest by now. What a weird path for Andrew to take, doping himself up with frog juice. Surely there must be a nice Harley Street therapist available to deal with his issues in a less bonkers way? Then again, rich kids have always tried to forge their own path, stymied by a lack of drive and comfort levels that make hard work seem unnecessary. Some become club promoters. Some weed-smoking artists. Why not a frog dealer?

I bombarded him with questions, and told him I thought he was brave. I’m not ashamed to say I opened up about my own personal struggle with depression and made myself vulnerable in front of him. Didn’t matter that it was all tosh and that despite having very good reason to experience deep sadness, I had been lucky enough to swerve it. Men like women being vulnerable. They like to feel that we might need help, despite any surface-level confidence.