by Nora Valters
I’m a little taken aback, but he’s asked so innocently, as if asking me where the dining table is from (Ikea, of course).
“It’s Daisy by Marc Jacobs,” I reply.
He nods and then hovers the cursor over a folder labelled ‘Lauren’s Desktop’ and says, “Your, ahem, personal folder is now in here.”
He stumbles over the word ‘personal’, as it’s against company policy to use our work laptops for personal use. But everyone does. My own personal laptop is ancient, and I can’t actually remember the last time I turned it on.
“So all my documents are definitely fine? All my photos?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And it’s working again as usual?”
“Yes. In fact, it should all work a lot quicker as I got rid of some redundant programs that were clogging up the memory.”
“Wonderful,” I reply and attempt to shift my seat back to hint that it’s time for Rob to leave, but he’s still lingering behind me. I feel hemmed in by his presence.
Rob has done me a massive favour and an excellent job, and I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but… Akshay will be home any minute. And that is pretty much all I can think about.
Trying not to sound impatient, I ask, “Is there something else?”
“Yes.” He clicks a few things and then indicates a box. “Can you put in a new password.”
He makes a point of turning his back on me while I type it in like some servers do at restaurants when you tap in your bank card’s pin code to their handheld card machines. He turns back when he hears I’ve stopped typing.
“All done,” I say.
“Perfect.” He peels off the Post-it note and screws it up in his hand and puts the squashed paper on the dining table. “Please bin that.”
“Yes, of course,” I reply with a hint of sarcasm. “Thought you were going to ask me to eat it or flush it down the toilet or burn it dramatically in an ashtray. Or maybe tell me that it’s about to self-destruct.” I laugh at my joke, but Rob is baffled. “Like in spy movies. No?”
He clearly has no idea what I’m referring to and says, “To ensure you don’t download any more viruses, you need to make sure you don’t click on any links in suspicious emails—”
But his voice trails off as the front door opens, and I hear Akshay’s cheery, “Hey.”
“Don’t click links in dodgy emails. Got it,” I quickly say to Rob. “Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Amazing. Thank you so, so much for dropping it over on a Sunday. I owe you big time. I’ll show you out.”
I stand and Rob backs away. He picks up his coat, gloves and scarf, and I usher him from the lounge into the hallway, where Akshay is rolling his suitcase in through the front door.
Akshay looks up. “Oh, hi.”
“Akshay, this is Rob from the IT department at work. Rob, this is Akshay.”
A curious energy crackles between them. For a moment I think they might know each other, but it’s not that. Akshay looks directly at Rob, attempting to make eye contact, to suss him out, but Rob stares intensely at the floor and looks everywhere but at Akshay. It makes Rob look guilty. Of what? I don’t know.
Akshay’s hand twitches to shake Rob’s, but he holds it back. My fiancé must sense Rob’s severe discomfort at this situation and realises a handshake might tip the poor guy over the edge.
Rob’s hands are firmly planted by his sides, and he almost looks as if he’s cowering from Akshay. Which is odd. My fiancé is agreeable, personable, and not in any way intimidating.
I didn’t realise quite how shy Rob is and have an urge to protect him. To explain Rob’s presence to Akshay and help ease Rob’s obviously crippling social anxiety at the same time, I continue brightly, “My laptop got a virus on Friday, and Rob fixed it. I need it for tomorrow.”
“Right.” Akshay smiles his big warm smile.
Rob nods and squeezes past Akshay, who takes up most of the hallway, by turning sideways and sliding his back along the wall. He hurriedly dashes out the front door, still clutching his coat, gloves, and scarf. Akshay watches him go and then closes the front door.
He turns back to me and frowns. “Not the welcome I was expecting, that’s for sure.”
3
I run towards Akshay and practically leap onto him. He’s about an inch taller than me with a lean, athletic build and just about holds up my less-than-petite frame.
“Oh, my love,” I say as I pepper him with little kisses, “it’s been sooooo long. I’ve missed you so much. That’s the longest time we’ve ever been apart. Don’t ever go away for that long again, promise?”
He chuckles but gently extricates himself from me, a hint of frown still lingering across his brow.
“Gosh, I’m shattered after that long flight. I need to sit down.” He makes sure my feet touch down and then wanders into the lounge and sinks onto the sofa.
I follow him, not able to keep my hands off him, touching his back, arms, neck. As if my hands need to remind themselves of every little bit of his form. And my eyes are locked on him, greedily taking in every little detail once again: his thick black hair with barely any grey is gelled up and over, as usual, but I know that when its freshly washed, it’s floppy and enviably silky.
He has clear, smooth brown skin on his long slim face with a slight double chin. His long nose is a touch wonky at the tip, bending to the left. It’s set off by his heart-shaped mouth with a lower lip that is marginally thicker on the right side. I find this little zigzag of his face endearing, but it’s his deep brown eyes that get me every time. I fully believe they’re the definition of ‘smouldering’.
I kneel on the sofa next to him, beaming from ear to ear and pawing at him like a kitten kneading its mother. I swear I’d purr if I could. This man renewed my faith in men. I called it off with my first fiancé. I just knew in my gut he wasn’t the one even though everything seemed perfect on the surface. It was painful at the time, but thank goodness I did it because more than ten years later I met the love of my life.
I fancied Akshay the moment I set eyes on his Hinge online dating profile, and we had an instant connection, messaging for a couple of weeks before having a Zoom date and then meeting in person. And the rest, as they say, is history.
“Do you know how long it is until the wedding?” I ask.
Akshay looks to the ceiling, calculating, but I can’t wait.
“Eight months and three days,” I squeal excitedly, his presence making me giddy.
“Wow, that’s precise.”
“I have a countdown app. It also tells you how long to go in heartbeats.”
“Hmm,” he replies, unimpressed.
“Hmm?” I tickle him. “Aren’t you excited?”
He yawns and looks away from me.
“Akshay, what’s the matter? Come on, out with it.”
“Okay, fine. You’re all dolled up, and I come in to another man in the house. That was… well… weird.”
Akshay and I have never once doubted one another. We have had full-on trust since day one. I grin at him.
“Babe, number one – if I were having an affair, do you think I’d have the man in the house when you were due home? And two, do you honestly think I’d be having an affair with the geeky IT guy?”
I laugh and snuggle into him, and his frostiness melts.
I continue, “You are the most handsomest, sexiest, kindest, funniest, most awesomest man in the whole wide world. I haven’t seen you in two long months, and all this—” I slowly unzip my cashmere hoodie to reveal my new sexy bra “—is for you, you idiot.”
Akshay’s face transforms; his frown dissolves to be replaced with a lusty grin and a twinkle in his eyes. One of my favourite looks of his.
He kisses me and trails a slow fingertip from behind my ear, down my neck and to between my cleavage. “Suddenly I don’t feel so tired anymore.”
I hold him away. “Oh yes, I forgot. You’re shattered. I don’t want to tire you out any mor
e…” I fake-turn away from him, but he takes the bait.
“Come here, you.” He spins me onto my back on the sofa and edges on top, nuzzling my neck.
After some mind-blowing sex, we cuddle until the sun goes down, and my stomach gurgles.
“I’ll fix us some dinner,” Akshay says. “And then we need to sort everything out for tomorrow.”
I nod. My mother’s funeral is finally upon us. When mum died, Akshay was away, but we spent hours on the phone, me grieving and him being my support, my rock. No matter the time in New York, he listened to me babble about my childhood and happy memories of Mum and asked questions that showed he was paying attention. His unconditional, unwavering emotional support made me love him even more. And it bodes well for our marriage – for better or for worse, we’ll get through anything together.
As Akshay clatters pans and bustles around the kitchen – his favourite domain in the house – I go to the dining table and tap a key on my laptop to wake it up. The screensaver disappears to reveal my desktop. I find the folder with all the photos of my mum that I’d spent hours finding in old albums, scanning and saving.
It had been traumatic going to her apartment after she died to find the box of albums and the few USB sticks that she’d organised. And I haven’t gone back. I’ll sort it out after the funeral, when I’m ready. She put all her affairs in order before she passed, talking me through the details – I inherited my organisational tendencies from her, that much is clear. She left everything to me, her only child, so there’s no rush to do anything, thank goodness.
“Saag paneer sound good to you?” Akshay calls from the kitchen area.
The dining room, lounge area, and kitchen are open plan with a sliding glass door out to our small garden. Akshay and I purchased this semi-detached house shortly after he asked me to marry him six months ago. It’s our dream first house. I sold my city-centre apartment, and Akshay sold his small terrace house to afford it. As soon as we walked inside at the first viewing, we both knew: it was home. Our home. We have plans to upsize, of course, when we have the money and when we’ve outgrown it by filling the place with children, but for now these four walls are a safe, comfortable, wonderful place to live.
“Sounds delicious,” I reply. “I’ve seriously missed your cooking.”
I hear him rummaging in cupboards.
“Have we got any ghee?”
“Yup. In the usual place,” I reply. Akshay, for all his incredible qualities, is not so great when it comes to looking for things in obvious places.
“Ah yeah, here we go.”
I stocked up on Thursday with all his favourite ingredients to cook with, as well as his favourite orange juice and coffee beans. I’ve pretty much been living on pasta and tomato sauce for two months, too shattered and overcome with sadness to make myself anything more demanding.
I print out all my favourite photos of Mum and all the photos she’d made me promise to have out at her funeral. Photos of my uncles and aunts, my grandparents, her best friends, me as a baby and her in happier times with my father, Keith, in his seventies flares. And lots of hilarious pictures over the years of her and her twin sister, Joyce, in matching outfits. Including more recently when, much to everyone’s surprise, they wore the same dress to their sixtieth birthday party just for a laugh.
After pressing print on the last few photos, I pop into the small front room, which we use as an office slash dumping ground, as we don’t have a garage. The printer is busy whirring away, and I thank the tech gods that it has decided to work today. Although I know Akshay would be able to coax it back to life; he’s a lot savvier with gadgets than me.
I head back to the dining table, kissing Akshay on the cheek as I pass through the kitchen and pinching his pert bum.
“Cheeky,” he says as he chops onions as fast as a professional chef.
I print out my reading and go through it again on the screen. My heart hitches, and I fret for the umpteenth time that I’ll clam up with grief and won’t be able to get my words out.
For you, Mum, I whisper, I’ll do it for you.
I spent a few hours writing and rewriting this speech, wanting it to tell my mum’s story in just the right way – with the appropriate humour, as she was known for her sense of humour and funny stories, but with the right amount of respect for the occasion too. It was hard. With every sentence, fresh grief speared my soul. But I’m happy with it now.
Tears come to my eyes as I look again at a photo of Mum and her twin sister. Judy and Joyce. When Mum had been diagnosed with breast cancer five years earlier, she’d been determined to live her life to the fullest and had made many trips to Portugal in between chemo treatments to stay with Joyce and her husband at their holiday home. But near the end, she’d been in the hospital. She was about to be moved to a hospice when she passed, with me holding one hand and Auntie Joyce holding the other.
Her last words to us before she slipped away: “I’ve had so much fun.”
The memory pushes up a great sob, and before I know it, I’m bawling. Great floods spill from my eyes and stream down my face.
Akshay is at my side in an instant, his comforting arms tightly wrap around me. He pulls me up from the chair so he can hug me, and I cry into his shoulder. He soothingly rubs my back. But this small gesture reminds me of Mum rubbing my back as a child, night after night, when I was convinced a monster lived under my bed.
“She was the best mum,” I sob.
“I know, Lauren. I only knew her briefly, but she was a very special woman and so welcoming of me.”
“I just wish she could’ve made it to our wedding.” I sob harder.
“She’ll be there in spirit, my love.”
Something in the kitchen sizzles and spits.
“It’s the rice boiling over,” Akshay continues but makes no move to leave me.
I pull away from his embrace. “Go and deal with it. I’ll be okay.”
He gives me a look as if to say, are you sure, it’s only rice.
I continue with a weak smile, “And besides, I’m desperate to eat some of your incredible cooking after two months. Go.”
He smiles, kisses my forehead, and goes to rescue his rice.
I wipe my eyes and find a tissue to blow my nose. I head back into the front room to find the Blu Tack and grab the printouts, checking all are there. I spread them out on the dining table.
“I was thinking we could stick these up around the walls and leave a few on the coffee table,” I say.
“Sounds like a perfect idea.”
Akshay turns on the extractor fan above the hob and starts noisily frying the onions, ginger, and garlic. I head to the window, pull up the blind and open it a crack to let the smell out and take a long, calming breath of cool air.
I walk to the kitchen and watch Akshay cooking for a while, fidgeting and huffing, until he turns to me and says, “Do you want to sort out my laundry?”
“OMG, I thought you’d never ask!”
He laughs. “I thought that might cheer you up a bit. Everything in my suitcase needs a wash. I’ll take my suit to the dry cleaners later in the week.”
I clap my hands and head into the hallway where Akshay’s luggage is. I love doing laundry – especially an entire suitcase full after a trip away. I find it strangely therapeutic sorting the contents of the linen basket into piles and can happily stand watching clothes spinning around in the washing machine drum for minutes at a time.
I settle Akshay’s suitcase on the floor, unlock it with the same pin code as I use for my suitcase lock, unzip it and start organising into whites, colours, darks on the hallway floor, putting aside his suit jacket and trousers that are neatly folded on top.
As I pull out a white shirt, I notice a splodge of something just under the collar at the front. I sniff at it, but it has no scent. It looks like make-up, a smear of foundation or concealer. But it can’t be that. He’s probably dropped his dinner down him or splashed himself with sauce from a sloppy sandwich
.
I decide to do the white pile first, gather it up and take it through to the washing machine. I spritz the stain with stain remover and give it a good massage. In a stain-versus-Lauren contest, it’s very rare that the stain wins.
After I start the washing machine, I wander back through to the kitchen.
“First load on,” I say.
“Thank you, my wonderful laundry fairy.” Akshay kisses me on the cheek and then asks Alexa to play some music. He loves to cook with a soundtrack.
I begin to set the table at the end not covered with printouts while he sings to ‘Mr Brightside’ by The Killers. A mobile phone rings. It’s not a ringtone I recognise. I see Akshay’s phone on the coffee table, and grab it. But it’s silent. Oh no, has Rob left his here by mistake? Or dropped it when he dashed past Akshay? I listen for the ring and track it to the hallway and pinpoint it to Akshay’s hand luggage. I pick up the bag and take it through to the kitchen, holding it in front of Akshay.
“Babe, your bag’s ringing.”
He waves the bag away. “It’s nothing. It’s my second phone.”
“Second phone?” I repeat. This is the first I’ve heard about a second phone.
“Yeah. Work gave me another one with a US SIM card in it. Some of my US colleagues can’t get their head around calling my UK number.”
“Do you want me to see who it is, in case it’s urgent? Otherwise why would anyone call you on a Sunday?”
“Honestly, the working hours are insane over there. They work every day, no matter if it’s the weekend. It’ll be nothing.”
This response surprises me. Akshay is the epitome of hard-working – another reason we get on, both of us career-driven and conscientious – and it’s not like him to ignore a work call. He probably feels he needs to be watchful of me after my little wobble. So, ever helpful and not wanting him to get into trouble with his work, I fish the phone out of the side pocket and look at the screen. Maya.
“Are you sure you don’t want to answer it? It’s Maya.”
“No,” Akshay replies a little too fast for my liking.