This Is Fine, page 23
‘Uncle Hugo?’ Myra says sleepily from the top of the stairs. The moment passes.
‘Breakfast in ten,’ he says.
‘Can you stay tonight too?’ she asks. ‘We didn’t really get to hang out.’ He looks at me and I nod.
‘Sure,’ he says, and she pads back up to her room.
‘She’s different around you,’ I say. ‘Softer, more like a child.’
‘Are you jealous?’ he says, smiling.
‘What? No.’
But I am jealous. Myra didn’t hesitate to hug Hugo. I’d had to work for that. If Wallace and I stayed together, it struck me she would never be like that with him.
‘She told me she was embarrassed,’ I say. ‘You know – about when she was admitted to hospital. I can’t stop thinking about what a terrible word that was for what happened. This big, enormous thing … and what she’s most worried about is looking silly?’
The smell of frying bacon fills the house; there’s a soft pop and sizzle as he flips it over. ‘I haven’t spoken to her about any of it, but I don’t think that’s what she meant. It’s that you saw her like that. At her lowest point. And now she must deal with the consequences of that. But for what it’s worth, she seems content. I haven’t seen her like that in a long while.’
‘You think she’s happy?’
‘Happy is a strong word. I think she feels like she can be herself.’ He calls Myra down.
When she eventually joins us, as we eat, I look at her more closely. The shadows under her eyes are lighter, and she hums while she serves herself food. Her long skinny arms stick through a cut-off Evil Dead vest and she looks so young without make-up. Every time she bends down to feed Tara a bit of bacon, her expression turns molten with love.
After breakfast, I start washing up, feeling the slipperiness of suds on my hands. I allow my mind to relax and blur with the motion of rinsing out the pans, scrubbing away at caked-on rice grains. Fresh air and birdsong ribbon through the open back door. It’s already a beautiful day – cloudless and warm. I turn my head so that my eyes close against a bright beam of sunlight.
It is a peaceful moment that I could live in forever. Until my phone rings.
It’s Daisy.
‘Why is Myra asking if she can meet her granddad?’
*
‘I didn’t realise you hadn’t told her,’ I say defensively. ‘It just came out.’
‘It’s now created a situation I really could have done without,’ Daisy snaps.
‘I’m sorry.’ I genuinely am. Siblings may grow up in the same household but experience things so differently. I was only three when Dad left but he is still a memory, a faint coming together of smell, sound and emotion. A will o’ the wisp, but a presence nonetheless. Daisy has none of that because he didn’t leave on a random day, but the one on which she was born. When you are told that your birth is generally considered to be the best day of your parents’ lives, and yet one of them took it as an opportunity to escape, it must rip a hole in your existence.
‘I know it must have brought up some difficult stuff,’ I say. ‘I know we’ve never really talked about it …’
‘It’s fine,’ she says brusquely, in the decisive tone of someone who has scooped all her feelings into a box and snapped the lid shut.
‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Don’t. You’ll just make things worse. Just … don’t tell her anything more.’
‘Hugo is here,’ I say, keeping my voice light, trying to change the subject.
‘Oh, is he?’ Daisy says with interest.
‘Stop.’
‘What?’ she says innocently. ‘I’m just saying …’
Hugo calls from the kitchen with epically bad timing: ‘Padma, shall we go blackberry picking? There are some bushes just beyond the back of the garden.’
‘Ooh, blackberry picking …’ Daisy croons down the phone.
‘Daisy, STOP!’
‘Is that Daisy? Let me say hello.’ He takes my phone off me and they chat, about putting the house on the market, about Henry’s trip to New York. Not so long ago I couldn’t even remember who Hugo was, and now we are at his seaside home about to pick blackberries while he talks to my sister on the phone. Deep guilt floods through me.
When he’s done, he hands my phone back to me and coughs awkwardly. ‘You’ve got a message from Wallace.’
It’s a text asking if I have time for a chat. I let out an elongated groan and run my hands over my face. ‘He’s slightly jealous of you coming over.’
‘Oh. Oh, dear. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have come if I’d thought it would create problems.’
‘No … it’s not you, Hugo. Stop being so … Hugh Grant about it all. He’s doesn’t have the right to say that. Or to be jealous.’
As he’s about to say: Are you sure it’s fine, I can leave, honestly, I open the door and head into the garden. He follows. The back garden gate opens onto a path that meanders into the woods. The temperature drops slightly. When we reach the line of bushes, thick thorny brambles with tiny black jewels growing from the remains of their bright white flowers, he wordlessly hands me a basket to put berries into. It’s a good blackberry season, round dark globes thick with juice, the skin breaking against our fingers, staining them purple.
‘How long have you been together?’ he asks eventually.
‘Ten years,’ I reply. ‘Daisy can’t stand him, so there’s that.’
‘Do you and Henry get on?’ he asks. I don’t answer and pretend to examine the bushes for berries. ‘It’s okay, I won’t tell him.’
‘It’s not that we don’t get on,’ I say. ‘I just didn’t think he should have married my sister when she was that young. And I think he looks down on me.’
‘I understand,’ says Hugo. ‘No, really, I do,’ when he catches my glare. ‘An eleven-year age difference is odd. But I also remember your sister when they decided to marry. I’d never met anyone so sure of what she wanted.’
‘Really?’ I’d always viewed Daisy’s decision to get married young as weakness – showing her as someone too afraid to be alone and so she chose the rich white man. I hadn’t considered there may have been strength and certainty in her character that made her choose Henry.
‘Oh, yes. She was young, but so determined. You’re actually more similar than you realise.’
I laugh. ‘I don’t know if anyone would describe me as determined.’
‘I would,’ he says with a smile. A comfortable silence settles between us. ‘Henry’s not all bad, you know.’
‘I know but … it’s complicated.’
Perhaps it is because Hugo looks so amiable, and his features so soft in the sunlight, that I don’t at first register how sharp and insightful his next comment is.
‘Do you feel like he took Daisy away from you?’ he asks.
‘I feel like my relationship with my sister would be different if it weren’t for him.’ It’s the most I’m willing to admit. ‘She changed her name when she met him. And then everything else changed too.’
‘What was her name before it was Daisy?’ he says, surprised.
‘Dhara.’
He exhales loudly. ‘Oof! It’s such a beautiful name.’
‘I know. A daisy is a flower that grows in the earth. Dhara is a god of the physical cosmos, and represents the entire Earth as an element.’
Something about Hugo’s presence makes me feel as if I am held in balance. Around him, the walls soften. For the first time in a long time, I feel like myself. But with things still unclear with Wallace, this feels like dangerous ground to be treading. ‘We should go,’ I say abruptly. Hugo nods and pops the last berry into his mouth.
‘I know this might be hard to hear,’ he says as we walk, ‘but Daisy made the choice to marry Henry. He may not be the easiest and he can sometimes be pompous …’ At that I snort in agreement. ‘But he cares about her, a lot. He doesn’t have affairs, he loves Myra. He constantly thinks about what will make them happy. What I’m trying to say is – she chose to go. And … the choice she made could have been worse.’
We walk towards an opening in the trees, becoming aware of long, pearly strands hanging from the branches. The trees are covered with them. A light breeze lifts them in a soft wave that catches the light, turning them into a curtain of white and silver.
‘Caterpillars,’ he says. He looks at me and stands so close, the smell of lime shower gel rising from his skin. I’m aware of the architecture of his body, how it is framed against mine. He lifts his hand slowly and cups my face. For some reason I can’t remember how to breathe.
‘See?’ he says and plucks something off my cheek, holding it up. It is so small, barely a centimetre across, bright green and wriggling.
‘AUNTIE! UNCLE HUGO!’ Myra yells in the distance, with Tara sprinting ahead towards us. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were heading out?’ she says, huffing with the effort of trying to keep up with her dog.
‘You are way too young to be this out of breath.’ Hugo affectionately ruffles Myra’s hair as she says ‘ugh’ and smooths it back down. ‘I’m planning to head into the village – would you both like to come with me?’ he says.
I hold back awkwardly. ‘Are you sure you two don’t want to spend some time together?’
‘Don’t be weird, Auntie,’ Myra says, and seizes a handful of berries before Hugo can snatch them out of her reach.
‘Yes, don’t be weird, Auntie,’ he says.
I look at him square in the eyes. ‘Don’t ever call me Auntie.’
*
Myra abandons us the moment we hit the Beach Road, saying she’s going to find Greg and Lucky. It’s late Sunday morning and already people are streaming in for another hot, cloudless day on the beach, carrying enormous rattan bags with parasols and towels poking from the top.
Selena waves to us from the door of the Green Goddess. She is wearing a 1950s fuchsia-coloured dress with a full skirt. Her skin is dark bronze and shiny with cocoa butter, and her smile is broad and welcoming, the kind that makes you feel warm merely witnessing it. Hugo gives a small wave back.
‘Thank you for dinner last night,’ she says, kissing me on the cheek. ‘That Victoria-Violet kid, though – what a piece of work!’
When I don’t follow them into the café, she looks at me.
‘Why don’t you both catch up, and I’ll meet you back here? I should make a call. Honestly – it’s fine,’ I say. I need time and space to speak to Wallace and find out what he wants. I hated how we had left things the last time we talked.
A short walk takes me to a quiet bench on the concrete walkway, where I sit staring out at the tide as it gradually recedes.
Wallace answers on the second ring. ‘Thanks for calling me,’ he says. ‘I’m back in England, by the way.’ Even his tone irritates me. Clearly the anger I felt the last time we spoke hasn’t fully abated.
‘Good to hear,’ I say. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m just finding out how you are. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To have contact again?’
I sigh, deeply, madly, exhausted to my bones. He just doesn’t get it. I want him to want to call, not call me because he’s afraid of the repercussions if he doesn’t.
‘And this has nothing to do with the fact that Hugo is visiting this weekend?’ I ask.
‘Of course not.’
‘So you don’t mind that he’s staying more than one night?’
‘What? He’s staying two nights? Padma …’ Wallace is indignant, his voice rising an octave.
‘It’s his house, Wallace. And Myra asked him to – she’s his god-daughter.’
‘Oh, that again,’ he snaps. ‘I’m not happy about this at all.’
‘Why?’ I snap back. ‘What exactly is the situation with us? One minute you’re giving me an ultimatum, the next you say we’ve been together for ten years. Yet you can’t seem to name a single reason why that is.’
‘I don’t know what’s going on with you, Padma,’ he says slowly, ‘but this doesn’t sound like you. You’ve changed.’ It’s true, I have changed. Or am changing. But the things that are changing aren’t hurting anyone, and they are long overdue and are all in the name of happiness. Anyone who loved me, in that pure way Myra does, would want this for me.
‘Well then,’ he says, galled by the fact that I’m not rising to his comment. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Why do you want to be with me?’ he says.
‘Because …’ As I search the list of things I love about Wallace, I realise most of it has been struck off and all that is left behind is the fear of being alone. Even that is lessening. I do love him, but by instigating this break, he’s forced me to confront my fears, only for me to realise there is love in my life in the form of my family, and a sense of purpose if I want it. And it has shone a light on the long-time neglect in our relationship. We don’t champion each other, we don’t witness each other’s joy. We are each merely vessels into which the other pours the inventory of their day.
‘You can’t think of one thing?’ he says incredulously.
‘I love you,’ I say, ‘isn’t that enough?’ Anger threatens to sweep over me. Wallace is the one who issued the ultimatum. He is the one who asked for a break.
‘Padma!’ Hugo says from across the road. Is he some sort of homing pigeon for bad timing?
‘I’d better go,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ Wallace replies tightly. ‘You’d better.’
*
On the walk back home, Myra and Greg dawdle in front of us at an excruciating pace while the dogs take their own time sniffing every flower and twig they come across. As Hugo and I overtake them, I ask how things were with Selena, as nonchalantly as possible. ‘I hear you had quite the romance back in the day?’
‘Romance?’ Hugo snorts. ‘We were very young, in a place where nothing happened and we were bored. Why do you ask?’
‘Selena is an amazing person, so if you wanted to … you know. You should.’ There. I’d said it.
‘Thank you,’ he says, trying not to laugh. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
I look at him out of the corner of my eye and take a sip of my coffee. ‘Are you dating anyone?’
‘Not really,’ he says, frowning, trying to figure out what has inspired this line of questioning. ‘Why do you ask?’
Before I can reply, he says: ‘Please don’t set me up with Selena. I get enough of that from Daisy and Henry.’
‘They do that?’
‘Daisy set me up with a colleague of hers. Defence lawyer. Had a few too many martinis and then told me she wanted me to tie her up and whack her with a paddle.’
‘Oh, wow,’ I say. ‘And did you?’
‘Did I what?’ he laughs. ‘Whack her with a paddle? No, Padma, I did not.’ At that moment, an elderly woman walks past, her head snapping back to look at Hugo as if he is a deviant.
‘Sorry, madam,’ he says to her, ‘it’s not what it sounds like.’ It only makes her glare even harder, and I can’t help but laugh.
My phone pings with a message from Wallace. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’d love to send you flowers – what’s your address?
I start typing that he doesn’t have to send anything, that we’re fine and we’ll talk when I come home. But it’s too hard juggling my coffee and constructing a nuanced, sensitive reply. It’s easier to send the address and leave him to it.
*
In the early evening, the smell of pepperoni, herbs and cheese fills the air as Hugo takes out pizzas, requested by Myra, made by Pizza Express. He burns his hand on the edge of the baking tray, and while he runs it under the cold tap, I wrap a few ice cubes in a kitchen towel. ‘How’s the movie selection going?’ I ask Myra.
‘I don’t want to watch The Goonies,’ she says, padding into the kitchen. ‘I’ve looked it up and I think there are some bad things in it.’
‘What?’ Hugo yells. ‘It’s not scary, you wimp. It’s a classic.’
Myra rolls her eyes. ‘I eat horror for breakfast, Uncle Hugo,’ she says. ‘I’m talking about Sloth and Chunk – it doesn’t seem right.’
Hugo and I look at each other. ‘Oh, god,’ I say to him in a low voice, ‘she’s right. Remember truffle shuffle?’ Hugo wiggles his torso ever so slightly. ‘Stop it,’ I whisper, trying not to laugh.
‘Okay, okay,’ he says to her, ‘pick whatever you like. NOT horror.’ I hand the ice cubes to him and set the table with some inoffensive IKEA plates. The sun is softer now, turning the sand-coloured flagstones in the kitchen to gold. ‘I just need to change,’ he says, wiping his hands dry.
‘Into what? This isn’t Downton Abbey.’
‘I can’t wear shorts while eating,’ he says apologetically. ‘Boarding-school thing.’
‘Is it okay that I’m wearing shorts?’
‘You can wear what you want,’ he says. ‘A budgie smuggler, if the mood takes you.’
‘Hmm, sadly my budgie smuggler is in the wash,’ I say, laughing.
Just as Hugo sets foot on the first step, there’s a knock on the door. This had better not be Greg. Or Esme. I volunteer to get it while Myra sets up the TV. I open the door and gasp. I know then the answer to something I have been avoiding. This is not the reaction anyone should have to seeing their partner for the first time in four weeks.
15
‘Hello, Pads,’ Wallace says. He is carrying a bunch of station flowers in his hands, chrysanthemums wilted under fluorescent lighting. The last time I saw him he was clean-shaven; now he is sporting the gentle fuzzy start of a beard. He looks good with it. He’s wearing a half-sleeved white T-shirt that shows the lean muscle he has gained through playing football. The sunset catches the hazel in his eyes against the warm brown of his skin, and as he pulls me towards him, the flowers are crushed between our bodies, staining his shirt pink. I’m still angry at him, but there is also relief at seeing someone again who represents home and comfort.
It would be a nice-enough embrace if I couldn’t feel his gaze fixed on Hugo for the duration of it.
