by Elaine Chong
“Ready for what?”
“Ready for her to sleep in. Until she’s independently mobile, she’s going to need help with everything.”
“How can it be any more ready than it is now?” I say. “It’s got a bed in it, hasn’t it?”
“Of course, it has! But Maggie stripped off the bed linen last week and it wasn’t made up again when I last checked.”
“Well, can’t you call her?”
“I haven’t got her number.”
I don’t want to leave the hotel, but I also don’t want to stay here now I know that Colin will be checking in. The absurdity of the situation strikes me forcefully and I find myself laughing out loud.
“What’s funny about that?” Richard demands.
I hesitate for moment, not sure if I should confide my misgivings to my brother, but then I realise that having Colin here will allow me to spend one more night at the hotel and on reflection it’s probably worth it. I’m going to have to face him at some point and at least this way I can genuinely plead the excuse of leaving tomorrow to look after my mother.
I say, “I’m just surprised. You’re usually much better organised than this.”
“I can’t do everything!” he exclaims angrily. “I have to work, Julia.”
“So, do I,” I say. “And yet here I am in London, when it’s the last place on earth I want to be.” The truth of this statement could never be more heartily felt than at this very moment.
I hear him take a deep, calming breath before he speaks again. “Please get yourself to Hillcrest before the end of tomorrow afternoon. I’m picking Mum up from the hospital around half past two. If I have time I’ll go shopping first. If I run out of time, I’ll order online, but you’ll still need to be there, Julia. There’s no point in getting food delivered if nobody’s going to be at the house to take it in.”
“Oh, stop fussing!” I tell him. “I’ve said I’ll be there, haven’t I?”
When he answers, I can tell that I’ve exhausted his usual patient forbearance. He says hotly, “I have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with you acting like a rebellious teenager. Grow up, Julia! If you can’t do that, pack your bags and go home. I really don’t need you here and Mum definitely doesn’t need you here if you can’t for once in your vacuous existence act like the responsible adult you’re supposed to be.” Then he hangs up on me.
That was quite a speech, I think to myself. I dare say he’ll be bragging to Silvio tonight that he’s told me a few home truths.
It does, however, give me pause for thought because I’ve always relied on him to bear the burden of care for our mother; always used the excuse that I’m too busy, too far away, too important to be able to tear myself away from the gallery.
Well, first things first, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I’ll assume the mantle of responsibility for my mother, but today I have to deal with my husband.
To cheer myself up, I spend the afternoon browsing in my favourite stores. It’s a pleasant enough way to while away the hours and at least it’s not raining. I buy Colin a cashmere jumper – not something I would ever think to do if I were shopping in one of the malls back home – but it’s a tactical purchase.
Singapore’s reputation as the place to shop has changed over the years. When I first moved there, you could buy practically anything you wanted, and it was fifty per cent cheaper than anywhere else in the world. Everyone who travelled there had heard of Lucky Plaza and the department store C K Tang. Today, you can still buy anything you want but now it’s designer goods, which people crave, and Singapore’s Orchard Road doesn’t disappoint.
I miss my life in Singapore so much.
When I get back to the hotel around half past five, Colin is waiting for me. They wouldn’t let him into the room because his name isn’t on the reservation, so I’m greeted with a scowl.
“Where the hell have you been, Julia?” he barks at me.
“Hallo to you too,” I say.
“What?”
“Hallo Colin. Welcome to London.” I pass him the bag with the cashmere jumper wrapped in white tissue paper.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a little gift. I’m guessing Siti packed your suitcase for you?” He nods, but still looks confused. “Well, the weather here is about fifteen degrees cooler than it is in Singapore so I thought you might appreciate having something to wear that keeps you warm in the evenings.” I reach up and brush his cheek with my lips. “You don’t have to thank me, darling.”
I quickly move away from him to the reception desk and before he has a chance to further voice complaint, I explain who is and that he’ll be sharing my room.
In the lift, I keep talking, I don’t give him an opportunity to tell me why he’s here, and by the time we reach the room, much of his unexploded anger appears to have evaporated.
“Would you like me to order you something from room service?” I ask.
“I’m not hungry.”
I point to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room. “Something to drink?”
“I don’t want food or alcohol, Julia. What I want is an explanation.”
I give what I know is a rather hollow-sounding laugh. “I rather think you’re the one, who needs to give the explanation. Why on earth are you here?”
He slumps onto the bed. “I know all about it, this affair you’ve been having.”
I take my time to reply. I keep thinking, ‘Damage limitation, Julia’. I don’t do the obvious thing and fling myself onto the bed next him promising that it’s all over. Instead, I walk away from him and seat myself on an upright chair in front of the window so that my face is in shadow. I’m a good liar, but I don’t think even I could look him directly in the eye and not expose my true feelings.
“What is it that you think you know,” I ask him.
“John Tan. You’ve been seeing John Tan. How could you, Julia?”
The look of surprise on my face is real because I’ve never heard anyone call Jian by that name before, although it isn’t unusual for Singaporeans to adopt a western name, especially when they do business with the expat community. “I don’t know anyone called John Tan.”
“Yes, you bloody well do!”
“No, I don’t!”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Tan Techtronix?” he says.
“Of course, I have.” And this is where thinking on one’s feet is crucial. I assume an air of shocked incredulity. “Surely you don’t mean Tan Wenjian?”
“Don’t pretend, Julia!” he shouts at me.
“I’m not pretending anything. Mr Tan is one of my best customers. He collects Victorian Wrythenware. I’ve sold him dozens of pieces over the last eight years or so. He’s been hugely supportive of my business and yes, we are in regular contact, and yes, we do meet for dinner on occasion.”
“Regular contact?” Colin sneers. “I’ve seen your last phone bill. I’d call four or five times a week a bit more than regular contact.”
So that’s what he’s found on my desk at the gallery, I think. But there has to be more. I wrack my brain to think what else I left there, but I can’t think of anything, so I say, “I’ve been helping him find something special.”
Colin’s face is now suffused with anger. His eyes have shrunk to hate-filled slits and his top lip is turned upwards in a furious snarl. “Something special?” he roars. “You must take me for a complete and utter fool. Well, I’m not! Not so bloody foolish that I don’t now see what’s been going on right under my own nose.”
A burst of hysterical laughter threatens to erupt, for how many years have I been seeing Jian? Eight years, and all of them while Colin has stupidly been looking in the opposite direction. I want to tell him. I want to spill my guts and never, ever again have to play this ridiculous game.
But I can’t, not yet, so instead I ask him, “Have you met his wife at The Americanas Club recently? Her name’s Lì Húa. They’re expecting a baby.” Oh, how much it hurts to say that, but I quic
kly go on. “He wants to find something special to give her. It’s their first child … a boy … yes, a boy, I think.” The words stick in my throat, the sour taste of vomit fills my mouth, tears flow unchecked down my face. I can’t do this. I run to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
Who’s the fool now? I chide myself. Never was there a more obvious admission of guilt.
Colin waits half an hour before he knocks on the door. “You have to let me in, Julia. I need to take a shower and get changed.”
Reluctantly I open the door and we change places. He doesn’t say anything, just strips off his clothes and climbs into the cubicle. I resume my seat in front of the window.
When he comes out of the bathroom he says, “I’m going to assume that you’re not coming to dinner with me.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say. “I don’t want food or alcohol. I just want an explanation.”
A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth but it doesn’t reach as far as his eyes. “You want to know why I’m really here? I’ll tell you. I’ve been offered early retirement. It isn’t a great package, but fortunately I still have useful contacts and dinner this evening is an interview of sorts. All being well, I’m going to be able to carry on some consultancy work.”
I can hardly bear to ask, but I have to know. “You’re leaving Singapore, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he says. “From April next year, I’ll be working out of Felixstowe. That’s Suffolk, Julia, in case you’ve forgotten your ‘O’ level geography of the British Isles.” He finishes getting dressed, checks his appearance in the mirror. “It looks like I’ll be coming home much sooner than I expected. I have absolutely no idea what you intend to do and at this precise moment, well, frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!” And he slams out of the room without a backward glance.
Richard
When I wake this morning and remember that it’s Friday, I immediately experience a feeling of nervous anticipation for the day ahead, but not in a bad way – for a change.
I’ve wrung a promise from Julia that she’ll move out of the Marriott hotel and as a consequence I’m able to eat breakfast, get showered and dressed and not feel an overwhelming sense of dark foreboding. To further enhance my good mood, my mother’s consultant has declared himself happy to discharge her this afternoon and confirmed his opinion that she isn’t showing any obvious signs of dementia.
I’ve already arranged with the office to take a day off work so when I set off for the supermarket en route to Hillcrest, I’m beginning to feel a cautious optimism. It’s early and the car park isn’t full; I find everything I want without having to ask, and in no time at all I’m wheeling a trolley with a bag of essentials back to the car.
Even the traffic on the A12 is flowing freely so when I finally pull onto the drive at Hillcrest, I’m whistling a happy tune.
I let myself into the house and immediately hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner buzzing from one of the bedrooms upstairs. I think to myself this isn’t Monday but perhaps my mother has thought to phone Maggie and ask her to make up the bed.
The vacuuming continues unabated, so I put away the food I’ve bought and fill the kettle – I’m certain Maggie will appreciate a cup of tea before she leaves. I think, it’s the least I can do under the circumstances.
When the vacuuming stops, I make my way upstairs. A woman I don’t know meets me in the doorway of my mother’s bedroom. She looks a bit surprised to see me, but as she’s wearing a pink polo shirt with the words Hutton Home Help embroidered in large black letters on the front pocket, I don’t immediately jump to the conclusion that she’s someone who’s broken into the house to open the safe.
“Who are you?” I ask her.
“I’m Jackie,” she says and then points to the logo on the pocket of the uniform. “Hutton Home Help. Maggie sent me.”
“Oh, I see.” I glance into the room and notice at once that the duvet and pillows are still piled in the middle of the bed so I say in a jovial tone, “I’m not sure where the clean bed linen is either but I’m sure we can find it between the two of us.”
A small frown cleaves her brow. “Maggie didn’t say anything about making up the bed.”
“Oh, really?” Now I’m confused. “Why are you here then?”
“She asked me to clean up the broken glass. I’ve done the best I can. I’ve wrapped up all the bits I could pick up with my hands in newspaper, but I’ve had to use the vacuum cleaner to pick up the rest of it. Didn’t have a choice really with the long pile on this carpet, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She pushes her way past me. “I have to get off now.”
Now I’m really confused. “What broken glass?”
Her expression is a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. “Look, I’m just doing what Maggie told me to do. I don’t know how it happened. You’ll have to ask her.”
“What broken glass?” I say again. “You mean a window? A mirror?” She shakes her head. She quickly heads for the stairs and I follow her. “I need to know what you’re talking about,” I say in my sternest voice. “How did something get broken when there’s nobody here and the house is locked up?”
She halts at the top of the stairs and swings round to face me. Her eyes flash defiance when she says, “I came here to do a job and now I’ve done it. I didn’t come here to get interrogated. You’ve got a problem? Talk to the boss.” She sprints down the stairs and is out the front door and pulling it closed behind her before I can stop her.
I slowly walk back to the bedroom, trying to digest what’s just happened. There isn’t a single speck of glass on the carpet as far as I can tell, and no sign of any broken glass wrapped in newspaper. The window and the mirror are both still intact so it has to be something that was sitting in the bedroom – an ornament or a vase perhaps – although that still doesn’t explain why this Jackie and not Maggie came here to clean it up, or how it got broken.
As a precaution, I walk around the house checking all the windows and all the mirrors. Nothing has been damaged, but when I enter the dining-room I know that something has changed: something is missing that’s usually here. It’s the crystal decanter and whiskey glasses. They’re gone.
I find them – or rather what’s left of them – wrapped in newspaper at the bottom of the bin in the kitchen. How the hell, I think to myself, did a bottle of whiskey and two glasses get from the dining room to the bedroom? It just doesn’t make sense.
What makes even less sense is that the twenty-year-old malt whiskey must have disappeared as well because there isn’t a trace of it anywhere, not even the faintest whiff. Logic dictates that whoever broke the bottle drank the whiskey first and Maggie must have known about it.
Determined to get some answers, I grab my phone and search for ‘Hutton Home Help’. The website soon pops up in the browser. It doesn’t say who owns or runs the business, just lists the kinds of domestic help it offers, but there’s a number to call and I call it. A recorded voice asks me to leave a message and a contact number. The voice sounds a lot like Maggie. I briefly consider leaving a message but decide on reflection that this is a conversation she and I need to have face to face.
What the hell’s been going on here, I think to myself angrily. Has she been using the place for parties? For secret, romantic trysts? Whatever it is, I think perhaps her services are going to have to be terminated.
Lenora
When Frankie the physio arrived early this morning for a second round of staircase gymnastics, I thought, no hoped, he’d changed his mind about me being discharged. He stood at the foot of the bed and gave me a long, penetrating look. I offered in return an unwavering stare: our eyes were locked together for several increasingly uncomfortable seconds before he asked me, “How are you feeling this morning? Ready to go home?”
“If I say ‘no’, will it make any difference?”
“Why don’t you want to go home? Is something worrying you?”
“Worrying me?” I said. Of course, I couldn’t tell hi
m the real reason so I made up the best excuse that I could think of on the spur of the moment. “I don’t want to go home because I’m not convinced that I can walk safely with crutches never mind negotiate the stairs on my own.”
“But you were fine yesterday,” he said. “You were a superstar, Lenora.”
“If you’re going to use that kind of language, I can tell you right now I won’t be moving from this chair.”
He looked puzzled. “What kind of language?”
“The kind of patronising language people use when they want small children to cooperate.”
He gave me a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
“It’s degrading.”
“I know it is.”
“No, you don’t know! If you were sitting in this chair instead of me, would the staff talk to you like you had the functioning brain cells of a five-year-old? I don’t think so!”
He heaved a sigh. “I know exactly what you’re saying and I’m sorry, okay? I promise I won’t do it again.” He handed me the crutches. “One more time, up the stairs and down again. Just to make completely sure.”
After Frankie had gone, the doctor stopped by my bed for a final consultation. He told me Richard wants him to refer me to the Memory Clinic. I told him there was nothing wrong with my memory and he said I was probably right, but it wouldn’t hurt to check, especially as I can’t remember how I came to fall down the stairs. Well, that shut me up.
I dream about falling down the stairs. In my dreams, I feel Aggie’s breath on my cheek, smell her perfume; I feel the pressure of her hand on my shoulder. As I fall, I turn and see her clearly at the top of the stairs. She’s already walking away. The dark curtain of hair swings from side to side; her hand glides over the wooden rail; the red dress slides over her thighs: it’s a confident, sinuous movement. She has become the consummate ‘Girl in the Red Dress’.
When I wake, I remember that it didn’t happen quite like that.