Claire Fuller - Bitter Orange

Praise for Swimming Lessons by Claire Fuller

Claire Fuller is such an elegant writer and this book is incredibly atmospheric, vivid, and intriguing. I had to keep reminding myself that I wasnt reading a forgotten classic.

EMMA HEALEY , author of Elizabeth is Missing

Like Daphne du Mauriers Rebecca, Bitter Orange sings, enchants, haunts. If not for Claire Fullers stunning language and mastery of control, Id have succumbed to the temptation to blaze through these pages just to see how the suspense resolves. A beautiful novel.

DANIEL MAGARIEL , author of One of the Boys

Bitter Orange is a twisty, thorny, darkly atmospheric page-turner about loneliness and belonging, a book that delves into its protagonists mind and heart even as she explores the secret-filled mansion at the novels center.

GABRIEL TALLENT , author of My Absolute Darling

Extraordinarily smart and psychologically shrewd... You will be kept guessing until the final penetrating sentence.

PAULA McLAIN, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Wife

A deeply moving read, with a mystery that keeps you turning pages.

OPRAH.COM, Editors Pick

Delicious! Claire Fullers Swimming Lessons is a kind of anti-cozy cozy mystery.

NPR, Best Books of 2017

A perfect book club pick.

BOOK RIOT

A choose your own adventure story for adults... A haunting, motivating, and fantastic read.

STEPH OPITZ, Book of the Month Club

Eloquent, harrowing, raw... sure to keep readers inching off their seats.

KIRKUS

A tantalizing mystery.

NYLON

Beautiful... [Fuller] delves deeply to examine the legacies of a flawed and passionate marriage.

BOOKLIST , Starred Review

Saving the best for last with revelations and surprises, Fullers well-crafted, intricate tale captures the strengths and shortcomings of ordinary people to show how healing is possible by confronting the darkest places.

LIBRARY Journal, Starred Review

BITTER
ORANGE

claire fuller

TIN HOUSE BOOKS / Portland, Oregon & Brooklyn, New York

Copyright 2018 Claire Fuller

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact: Tin House Books, 2617 NW Thurman St., Portland, OR 97210.

Published by Tin House Books, Portland, Oregon, and Brooklyn, New York

Distributed by W. W. Norton and Company.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

Names: Fuller, Claire, author.

Title: Bitter orange / by Claire Fuller.

Description: First U.S. edition. | Portland, Oregon ; Brooklyn, New York :

Tin House Books, 2018.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018024161| ISBN 9781947793156 (hardcover) |

ISBN 9781947793163 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Psychological fiction.

Classification: LCC PR6106.U45 B58 2019 | DDC 823/.92--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018024161

ISBN: 978-1-94779-316-3 (EBK.)

First US Edition 2018

Printed in the USA

Interior design by Diane Chonette

www.tinhouse.com

In memory of

Joyce Grubb
(9 August 1910 to 4 July 2004)

&

Joyce Grubb
(8 April 1907 to 26 June 1982)

ONE

They must think I dont have long left because today they allow the vicar in. Perhaps they are right, although this day feels no different from yesterday, and I imagine tomorrow will go on much the same. The vicarno, not vicar, he has a different title, I forgetis older than me by a good few years, his hair is grey, and his skin is flaky and red, sore-looking. I didnt ask for him; what faith I once had was tested and found lacking at Lyntons, and before that, my church attendance was a habit, a routine for Mother and me to arrange our week around. I know all about routine and habit in this place. It is what we live, and what we die, by.

The vicar, or whatever he is called, is sitting beside my bed with a book on his lap, turning the pages too fast to be reading. When he sees Im awake he takes my hand, and Im surprised to find that it is a comfort: a hand in mine. I cant remember when I was last touchednot the quick wash-over with a warm cloth, or the flick of a comb through my hair, these dont count. I mean properly touched, held by someone. Peter, possibly. Yes, it must have been Peter. Twenty years ago this August. Twenty years. What else is there to do in this place except count time and remember?

How are you feeling, Miss Jellico? the vicar says. I dont think Ive told him my name. I take in Miss Jellico, roll it around inside my head like a silver ball in a game of bagatelle, letting it bounce from one pin to the next until it drops into the central enclosure and rings the bell. I know exactly who he is, but his title, that remains elusive.

Where do you think I will go? Afterwards? I spring the question on him. I am a difficult old bird. Although perhaps not so old.

He shuffles on his chair as though he has an itch in his pants. Maybe the flake extends under his clothes. I dont want to think.

Well, he starts, bending over his book. That depends... that depends on what you...

On what I?

On what you...

Where I end up depends on what I confess, is what he means. Heaven or hell. Although I dont think he believes in those places, not any more. And anyway, were talking at cross purposes. I could drag out the conversation, tease him, but I decide for now not to play.

What I mean, I say, is where will I be buried? Where do they put us when we leave this place for the last time?

He slumps with disappointment and then he asks, Do you have somewhere in mind? I can make sure your wishes are passed on. Is there anyone youd like me to tell, anyone in particular you want at the service?

I am quiet for a time, pretending to consider it. No need to hire a crowd, I say. You, me, and the gravedigger will be enough.

He pulls a faceembarrassment? awkwardness?because he can tell I know he isnt a real vicar. He is only wearing the get-upthe dog collarso they will allow him to visit. He has asked to see me before and I have refused. Now, though, with our talk of graves, I am thinking about bodies: those which are below the ground and those which are above. Cara and I, sunning ourselves at the end of the jetty on the lake at Lyntons. She in a bikiniId never seen that much of someone elses skin all at onceand me daring to lift my woollen skirt above my knees. She reached out until her fingers touched my face, and she told me I was beautiful. I was thirty-nine when I sat on the jetty, and in my whole life no one had ever said I was beautiful. Later, when Cara was folding the tablecloth and putting away her cigarettes, I leaned over the green water of the lake and was disappointed to see that my reflection hadnt changed, I was the same woman, although for a while that summer, twenty years ago, I came to believe her.

More images come then, one superimposed on the next. And I abandon chronology in favour of waves of memory, overlapping and merging. My final look through the judas hole: I am kneeling on the bare boards of my attic bathroom at Lyntons, one eye pressed to the lens that sticks up from the floor, a hand covering the other to keep it closed. In the room below mine, a body lies in the pinking bathwater, the open eyes staring up at me for too long. The floor is puddled and the shine of wet footprints leading away is already disappearing. I am a voyeur, the person who stands at the police tape watching someones life unravel, I am in the car slowing beside the accident but not stopping, I am the perpetrator returning to the scene of the crime. I am the lone mourner.