Your Truth or Mine?

by Trisha Sakhlecha

  ‘Yes . . . I . . . Your writing . . . it’s—’

  ‘Personal.’

  ‘Oh. Of course. I – I didn’t . . . I found it on the display table and I—’

  She snatched the notebook out of my hands and turned to the first page. She held it up for me to see.

  PRIVATE. PLEASE CALL 07598 636544 IF FOUND.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t see that,’ I said.

  She regarded me for a minute, then turned around and walked off towards the staircase, stuffing her notebook in her bag as she went.

  I found myself rushing after her.

  ‘Are – are you following me?’ she demanded, spinning around to face me before I could say anything.

  It took me a second to grasp what she was insinuating.

  ‘What? No,’ I said. ‘Of course not. Look, I’m really sorry I read your work without your permission, but your writing . . . it’s sublime. I – I couldn’t stop myself.’

  ‘Well, you should have,’ she snapped back.

  ‘Have you published anything?’ I persisted.

  ‘Just – please just back off.’

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m a writer too, and I was just curious,’ I said, taking a step back, hoping that would put her at ease. Something passed over her face and I added, a bit more softly, ‘Have you showed these to anyone? An agent or publisher?’

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I only started writing last year.’

  I nodded, fixing my gaze on her pale face. I was amazed at how deeply this woman’s writing had touched me, at how much I cared. She started walking down the stairs and I followed. ‘It’s hard. I was the same when I first started writing. But you’re a natural. And these poems . . . you really should get them out there.’

  I walked with her all the way to the ground floor, talking at her, telling her about my own experiences from when I was starting out, and with every step, I could sense her softening towards me.

  ‘Do you really think people would like these? My poems?’ she asked, incredulous, as we stepped out of the bookshop.

  ‘Yes! Anyway, it can’t hurt to try, can it?’ I smiled, strangely satisfied.

  Outside, a light rain had begun to fall, no more than a slight spray, but enough to turn the quickly dampening pavement dark. I pulled up the collar of my jacket as we lingered under the awning, talking about poetry competitions and readings. It was still bright but lamps had started flickering on up and down the street. My gaze settled on a young couple seated at the window seat of the cafe across the road. They were sitting quite close together, each lost in their own world, the woman staring out of the window and the man looking at his phone. There was a detached intimacy between them that can only come from years together. I caught broken glimpses of them through the steady stream of traffic in front of me until the stark red of a bus obscured them from my view. I sought them out again a few seconds later when the bus moved. They were sitting in the exact same position, doing the exact same things, not touching but still connected, stuck in a single moment of their lives that would stretch on forever. I turned my attention back to the woman standing beside me. Despite the chill in the air, I unwrapped my scarf and stuffed it into my pocket, finding the soft wool oddly suffocating.

  ‘Well, it was nice to meet you,’ she said, hesitating.

  ‘Which way are you headed?’ I said. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew her from somewhere.

  ‘Waterloo.’

  ‘Ditto. Shall we walk?’

  She nodded and we fell into step together.

  ‘Why did you start writing poetry?’

  ‘I’m not sure, really,’ she said. ‘It happened quite organically, I think. I sat down with my notebook one day and the poems just started writing themselves.’ She smiled, looking straight at me. The stark contrast between her pale skin and black hair rendered her otherwise ordinary face striking. ‘Is that strange?’

  I smiled. ‘That’s how the best poems are written. It’s a dying art.’

  She nodded. ‘Sad, isn’t it? The most evocative form of writing yet the most often overlooked.’

  ‘Most people skim through one poem in thirty seconds and dismiss the entire genre.’

  ‘People dismiss what they don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I have a friend that I sometimes exchange books with. I loaned her a copy of this new anthology a couple of weeks ago and the next time we met, she was frantic. What does it mean? she kept asking me. The words are beautiful, but what do they mean?’ She paused as we crossed the road, and then carried on. ‘You see, for me the beauty of a poem is that it’s unfinished. I love that its meaning lives in the space between words. But for her, and she’s an accountant, it was incomplete. It asked a question but didn’t provide the answer. Do you know what I mean?’

  I regarded her for a minute. I had never before had such a conversation with a stranger. I decided to go with it.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, ‘that’s what I’m always telling my wife. You can’t fit poetry in a neat little box, you don’t read it the way you would a novel. You hear a poem; you feel it, smell it. And then you find your own truth in it.’

  ‘What does your wife say?’

  ‘Usually, it’s something like, all right, sweetie, let me just finish my Stephen King and I’ll give Dickinson a shot.’

  ‘And does she?’

  ‘Never.’

  She laughed.

  We walked along the Strand and turned right towards Waterloo Bridge, passing the dimly lit Somerset House on our left, quietly reclaiming its stature after the madness of fashion week.

  ‘So what about you? Have you always wanted to be a travel writer?’

  ‘More or less,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Aha, and do you love every minute of it?’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘You sound convincing,’ she smiled.

  ‘It’s just hard,’ I found myself saying, after a few moments. ‘For me, travel has always been about freedom, and curiosity, and even when I’m on assignment, I like taking my time, and slowing down to experience things. But we live in an age of endless choices. And even before I’ve achieved one thing, I’m hankering after the next. It can be disorientating.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Wanting something, whether it’s a new book or a career or intimacy, is terrifying, but it’s also beautiful. I want to be content, but also, I would worry if I didn’t crave new experiences from time to time. It would make me feel, I don’t know, numb in a way.’

  I nodded. We were walking side by side, the conversation flowing so naturally it felt like we had known each other for years. I found myself compelled to speak to this woman with an honesty that astonished me. And yet we hadn’t even introduced ourselves. Or perhaps it was because we hadn’t introduced ourselves.

  It was strange.

  It felt like I was talking after an eternity of silence.

  The night had started to settle in. Across the river, the London Eye buzzed with activity, its lit-up pods turning slowly in an incomplete circle, disappearing into the black clouds that floated above us. I glanced at the woman walking alongside me as we crossed the bridge and the sensation returned that I knew her from somewhere.

  ‘I’m sorry, this is going to sound strange, but have we met before?’ I ventured.

  ‘No, I don’t believe we have.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Well, anyway, this is me,’ she said, pointing to the bus stop across the street. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ I said with a small wave.

  I watched her walk to the bus stop, looking twice at everyone around her as she queued up for the bus, clutching her wallet in one hand, and holding on to her handbag with the other. It was just as she was disappearing into the bus, her movements peppered with a strange mix of grace and fear, that I remembered where I knew her from.

  On the way home, I found my thoughts returning to Emily. I knew what I had done was wrong. Everywhere I looked there was evidence to
that effect. But I found it hard to associate the image of a cheating husband or a sordid affair with what had happened in the park that day. And wasn’t it like the woman said, I reasoned, craving new experiences was what made us human, alive? I had spent so long trying to fit myself into the mould of the perfect husband, I had forgotten why I’d moved to London in the first place. I had given up on my dreams and convinced myself that the stability that marriage brought was more important. But weren’t the ability and the means to savour every moment a necessary condition for happiness? It seemed naive to expect any long-term relationship to remain perfect throughout when the people in it were constantly evolving. Shouldn’t we expect instead that, like in life, there would be mistakes made, times when one or the other partner would go off course? Why should it even matter as long as no one got hurt? The more I thought about it, the more obvious it seemed that not only was it unfair to expect Mia to be everything, it was impossible. There was nothing wrong with seeing Emily as long as it didn’t hurt my marriage.

  As long as Mia never found out.

  MIA

  Tuesday, 6th October

  Mike was waiting for me in my office clutching a pint-sized Starbucks cup when I walked in.

  ‘You’re late.’

  I checked my watch. ‘It’s six minutes past nine, Mike,’ I sighed. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Jo didn’t call back, did she?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  I must have checked my phone a thousand times since yesterday. Nothing. I had all but convinced myself it was because her meeting had run late until I saw her tweet at half six last night.

  Isn’t it great when everything just falls into place? Best sign-off ever. Can’t wait for our X-mas range to hit the stores!

  Did that mean she had dropped our style? Or worse, placed it with someone else?

  I reached around Mike to put my bag and my own regular-sized coffee on my desk. I shrugged off my leather jacket, waiting for him to move so I could sit down.

  ‘You need to stop being so goddamn arrogant and just call her. Give her what she wants. Harvey will not be happy if we lose this order.’ Mike stormed out of my office and into his own across the floor, cutting through the maze of open-plan desks that stood between us. Every trained Sourcing and Merchandizing eye darted from him to me. I closed the heavy glass door, which provided little more than a false sense of privacy, and reached for my phone. It was time to eat humble pie.

  Voicemail.

  By lunchtime, I had reviewed my spring-summer sales projections, emailed three potential new buyers and pulled up two factories on inflated prices. I still hadn’t heard back from Jo. I didn’t think my stress levels could shoot up any further until I saw Roy’s mother’s name flashing on my phone. Just what I needed.

  ‘Mia, I’ve tried calling Siddhant but his phone goes straight to voicemail. Do you know where he is?’ her voice crackled in my ear.

  ‘He’s on a press trip in the Atlas Mountains, Ma. He probably doesn’t have mobile signal. How are you?’

  Somehow, over the years, lying to Roy’s mother had become so natural I didn’t even pause to think of excuses anymore. Roy had travelled far more in these phone calls than he had in real life.

  ‘I need to speak to my son.’

  ‘He’ll be away all week. Can I help?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Hello? Ma, can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’ve been invited to chair a seminar at Oxford University next month.’

  ‘That’s great. Congratulations.’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you. Papa and I will be in Oxford for three days. We’ll visit Siddhant and you for a few days afterwards.’

  Shit. This was not something I was prepared for. Roy and I were finally in a good place again and his parents visiting . . . that would screw everything up. But Ma wasn’t asking. I saw Chris hovering outside my office and waved him in.

  ‘Of course, that’ll be lovely. Do you know your dates yet?’

  ‘The fifth to the eighth of November.’

  ‘Let me just put that in my diary.’ I paused and audibly flicked through some papers. ‘Oh no, Ma. We’re away at a wedding that week. It’s such a shame, we would’ve loved to—’

  ‘We’ll be in England for a few days. We can plan around your dates. Get Siddhant to call me as soon as he’s back.’

  ‘Kill me now,’ I said to Chris when I hung up.

  ‘Roy’s mum?’ he asked, leaning on the door frame.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I don’t know why you put up with her. She sounds like a right bitch.’

  ‘I wish I had an option.’

  He opened his mouth to say something but I beat him to it. I knew what was coming. Chris thought Roy used me as a buffer with his mother, which Roy totally did, I just didn’t want to hear about it right now.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m going to go pick up lunch. Want anything?’

  ‘Ooh, yes please,’ I said, digging around in my bag for my purse. My hand brushed up against something hard and I pulled it out. It had been sitting in there for days. ‘Actually, I’ll come with you . . . Do you mind if we take a slight detour?’ I asked, waving Roy’s iPad at Chris.

  We stepped out of the office and into the steady stream of shoppers on Oxford Street.

  ‘Madness, isn’t it? Who even knew there were so many people in London?’ Chris said whilst we waited at the four-way crossing at Oxford Circus.

  I laughed and nodded. Kylie Minogue had switched on the Christmas lights last week and people kept stopping to look at them. They weren’t even on yet. Wait a few hours, will you, I felt like saying to the woman who was struggling to hold on to a baby buggy full of shopping bags with one hand while taking a picture with the other. The crowd thinned as we crossed over onto Regent Street.

  ‘How are things with Alanna?’

  ‘Fucked. She’s at her sister’s. Or so she says. I can’t be bothered anymore, to be honest.’

  ‘Oh Chris.’ I reached out and squeezed his arm.

  ‘I’m leaving her, Mia. Can’t be with a woman I don’t trust. I was going to wait until next week, but I might as well tell you now. I’ve made up my mind about Istanbul.’

  ‘Are you sure about this? I—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll speak to Harvey once we know what’s happening with the Eastside order.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Chris said, pulling out a cigarette. ‘What were you going to say earlier?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘What? Go on.’

  I let out a small sigh. ‘I don’t want to overstep, Chris, and what Alanna did . . . I can imagine how devastating that must be . . . but people make mistakes. And they can come back from those mistakes if they’re given the chance. You both took vows. In good times and bad, remember? If you leave now, you may not have a wife to come back to.’ We stopped outside the Apple Store and I turned to look at Chris. ‘She might move on.’

  ‘We also vowed to be faithful. Those are just words, Mia. Not everyone looks at marriage the way you do. And as far as having a wife waiting for me, I don’t care. I’m done.’

  Chris waited outside whilst I went into the Apple Store to drop off the iPad. Roy had been working in the kitchen last week when I’d walked in with the groceries. I’d placed the bags on the table and, in doing so, knocked over a glass of water that had proceeded to seep into the iPad. It had died quietly while we unpacked the Sainsbury’s bags.

  ‘It can take between eight and ten weeks and even then, I don’t know if we’ll be able to fix it. The damage is pretty extensive,’ the Apple guy said, handing me a sheet of paper. ‘Fill that in clearly, please. How did you get water on the device again?’ He looked at me like I was an imbecile. I checked his name tag. Rick.

  I smiled at him.

  Working at the genius bar doesn’t make you a genius, Rick. Accidents happen.

  ‘That’s okay, just do your best,’ I said, scribbl
ing down my name and address on the form.

  We were in the queue at Pret when my phone rang. Finally.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, popping my head into Mike’s office. He was chin-deep in a burrito. ‘Jo called. We’ve got the order. Fifteen pounds.’

  ‘That’s – that’s great. Well done.’ Even the salsa smeared on his face couldn’t mask his sour expression.

  ‘Thanks,’ I smiled, turning to leave.

  ‘Have you told Harvey?’

  ‘I’m going to see him now.’

  ‘Wait, I’ll come with you,’ he said, reaching for a napkin and wiping his mouth. In my five years here, I had never seen him abandon his lunch.

  We took the short flight of stairs up to the management floor. The muffled sound of our footsteps as we walked to Harvey’s office filled the silence that had fallen between us. I had only been up here twice since the refurbishment earlier this year; they had really gone for it – floor-to-ceiling glass windows, plush carpets, leather upholstery, the lot.

  Harvey waved us in as soon as he saw us. I smiled at his secretary, Yvonne, on my way in. She must have told him why we were coming up.

  ‘Mia, Mike, I hear you have some good news?’ Harvey beamed.

  Mike rushed in before I could say anything, speaking through the perma-smile he reserved for board members. ‘We’ve sealed the Eastside deal, Harvey. Half a million. Forty per cent.’

  ‘Excellent, that’s a good few quid!’

  ‘Thanks, Harvey,’ I stepped in. ‘It was touch and go for a moment there but I spoke to the buyer this morning and, thankfully, we’ve clinched it. The official orders should be with us in a few hours.’

  ‘Just what I like to hear, well done.’

  Harvey gestured towards the leather swivel chairs across from him.

  ‘And we’ve got plenty of time for the shipment so it should be all smooth sailing from here on,’ Mike said once we had both sat down.

  ‘Well, not quite. They were keen on a pre-Christmas launch so I’ve had to agree a quicker lead time. End November ex-factory for hit one and mid-Jan for hit two,’ I said.

  Mike’s eyes focused on me. ‘I didn’t realize you had amended the terms,’ he said, his smile still in place. ‘That’s cutting it quite close.’