by Preethi Nair
‘Thank you,’ I said as I put the phone down.
And that was the first time that I really warmed to him, because practicality brought a certain amount of stability that did not require much of me.
It was time to get a new mobile phone as I was finding it increasingly hard not to listen to the daily messages from Jean. After buying the phone I went back to the Tate and back to Matisse.
The blonde girl from the cafeteria was there again, studying the paintings. She smiled when she saw me. I smiled back and wandered off into the next room before she could ask me for the sofa. She followed swiftly behind me.
‘Excuse me,’ she whispered.
I pretended not to hear her.
‘Excuse me,’ she repeated.
I turned around.
‘You dropped this.’ She handed me my Matisse book.
‘Thank you,’ I said, taking it. ‘I didn’t even hear it drop.’
‘It’s what Matisse does to you. Sometimes you can just be lost in his colours.’
That’s exactly what I had thought. ‘I know what you mean,’ I replied. ‘Is he one of your favourite artists?’ I found myself asking.
She nodded.
‘Mine too,’ I said, wanting her to ask me another question.
But she didn’t ask me anything else, just smiled politely and left.
My feet took me effortlessly around the room as I tried to see the flowers in his paintings. Even in his down-times he painted light, he painted with bold colours. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said ‘Creativity takes courage', that every day he showed up and painted no matter what else was happening in his life.
The cafeteria wasn’t that busy as it was late afternoon. I could see the blonde girl sitting and eating a sandwich and although there were other empty seats I could have sat at, I went up to her and asked if the seat beside her was taken.
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘My name’s Gina by the way.’
‘I’m Nina.’
‘Nina, Gina,’ she laughed. ‘Pleased to meet you, Nina,’ she said, shaking my hand.
‘I liked that quote too,’ I found myself saying out of nowhere, trying to make up for my previous unfriendliness.
‘The one about seeing flowers?’ she asked. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It reminds me of my mum.’
‘Is she in Australia?’
‘No, she’s dead.’
I put my own sandwich down. ‘I’m so sorry, I really am, I didn’t mean to –’
‘No, it’s OK, really. That’s why that quote means so much.’
I wanted to ask her if she spoke to her, if her mother responded, if she looked for signs.
Instead, I asked, ‘Are you on holiday?’
‘No, I live here now. I’m an artist. How about you?’
‘I am – was – a lawyer but I’m thinking about painting again.’
‘Well, if you need a studio, I know of one going. Or if you know of anyone who needs one, let me know. I’m desperate to find someone who’ll take mine for three months so I can go back to Australia.’
She said she wanted to surprise her family and escape the winter months but hadn’t managed to find anyone who was interested in subletting her studio despite placing several ads. We talked some more, mainly about Matisse, and I took her number just in case I came across anyone who needed a studio.
Later, I sat in Green Park trying to convince myself that it was not meant for me.
‘Ki, Matisse talks about seeing flowers when there are none. I want to see them. Even if you’re not there and you’re not listening it doesn’t matter. I want to believe you are. Sorry about what I said to you the other day. There’s a studio that has become free. Do you think it’s meant for me?’
Silence.
‘That’s what I thought too. What if I just tried it out for three months tops? Haven’t really got anything else to lose.’
I began to feel almost excited when I thought about the possibility of having my own studio and being able to paint. The only problem with having a studio was that the level of deceit would escalate even further. I had never intended to lie so blatantly to my parents. I didn’t want to, the days I was going to the Tate were just to get my head straight. Perhaps I would try broaching the subject of renting a studio with my dad. I would say that the firm had given me a three-month sabbatical so I could understand the work of my artists better. It wasn’t that far from the truth, really.
My dad was upstairs in the spare room, fiddling with one of the many television sets he had, when I arrived home.
‘Can sell this one for fifty pounds. Newsagent wants it for tomorrow.’
‘Right. That’s great.’ I thought the best way of bringing up the studio subject was by telling him what Matisse said and then at least I could start talking about painting and lead on from there. ‘Dad, what do you think of this quote?’
‘What?’ he shouted.
I had to rephrase the sentence. ‘An artist who is worth a lot of money said that there are always flowers for those who want to see them. What do you think about that?’
‘He’s your client?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Very good quote.’
‘Really, do you think so?’
‘Yes, that is why he is the rich. Wastes no money buying the expensive flowers from the petrol shops and saves the money that the flowers are taking. Not giving the peoples the flowers every time he is seeing them.’
I wanted to bury my head in my hands in despair. He would never understand. Even if I sat down with him and explained in great detail why it was so important to me, he just wouldn’t get it.
‘Thought about what you are going to wear to see Raj?’ my mother asked later at dinner.
‘No, I have had other things on my mind.’
She made some suggestions that I pretended to listen to. The only way I could possibly escape it all was to paint. My decision was made.
The next morning I phoned Gina to tell her that I was interested in looking at her studio. She told me to come by whenever I could that day.
It was located at the back of London Bridge, in an alley with cobbled stones that led nowhere in particular. The sign read ‘Forget the dog, just beware if you disturb the artist at work'. I knocked on the door and Gina pulled it open.
‘Good to see you again, Nina. Well, this is it.’
The studio was a converted garage, bright and airy as it had a skylight. There was an enormous table in the centre of the room and a smaller one on the side which had a kettle, a toaster and a blow heater that were all attached to one adapter.
‘It’s safe,’ Gina said as she saw my eyes rest on that spot.
The walls were covered with pictures of Sydney Harbour in different sizes and forms.
‘Homesick?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think there’s anywhere more beautiful than that view.’
The floor was concrete grey, splattered with colours that had managed to jump off Sydney Harbour.
‘What do you paint?’
Where was I supposed to start? I couldn’t say I didn’t know so I said, ‘Birds.’
‘Any particular kind?’
‘Just the flying ones.’
She laughed and moved towards her easel, remarking that that was where the light fell best. ‘I’m leaving that here but if you’ve got your own and you want me to put it away then that’s fine.’
‘You mean I can really rent this studio from you?’ I asked.
‘If you want it, it’s yours. The only thing is can you give me cash instead of a cheque. Other than that, you can have it from Monday. That gives me time to pack up my stuff but if you want to drop your things by before then, just give me a call.’
When I got home there was complete chaos. The garments my mum had made were stuffed into black binliners and there were about twenty television sets on the landing. My dad was up a ladder, screaming at my mum, telling her to pass the sets to him quicker so he could put them in the attic. She was hu
ffing and puffing and looking as though she was going to pass out.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘Inland Revenue man is outside. He’s been watching the house for the last two hours. Fukkus, Kavitha, fukkus.’
‘It’s focus, Dad, focus.’
‘Yes, I know this, this is what I am saying to her. Why you telling me, tell Kavitha, she is almost dropping the television. She doesn’t know what a big problem this is.’
I looked outside the window and to my horror saw Jean’s car. Jean was making his way towards our house.
‘Oh God,’ I muttered.
‘I know, I know, that’s what I thought. Help us, Bhagavan. Hurry up, hurry up, Kavitha,’ he shouted.
‘I’ll get rid of him, Dad,’ I said, running down the stairs.
As I opened the door, Jean was standing on the doorstep. I closed the door behind me and pulled him away from the house.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Nina, I had to see you, your phone is dead and you haven’t answered any of my letters.’
‘There’s nothing to say except it’s over.’
‘Can’t we at least talk about it?’
‘No, not here, not now.’
‘When, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Come round to the flat.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Just go, Jean.’
‘I won’t let you go,’ he said, ‘not like this. I love you.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll call, please just leave.’
I went back into the house.
‘I’ve got rid of him, Dad.’
‘Thank Bhagavan.’
‘I told him he wasn’t within his rights to wait in his car and watch out for illegal activity as there was nothing illegal going on, and if he continued to wait in his car I would make an official complaint. I don’t think he’ll be coming back.’ The lies were getting bigger, and the frightening thing was they were getting easier to tell.
‘See, Kavitha, all those years to make Nina study “the love”, all worth it,’ he said coming down from his ladder. Then he hugged me.
Dad never hugged me. I could count the times he had on one hand. When I went to hold him he would do this ninety-degree rotation so I got the back of him and then he would walk out of my embrace. My mum never knew how to respond when I held her and would stand there like a statue, waiting for the hug to pass like it was some massive tidal-wave that would knock her over.
The next morning, I went to the bank. My dad took £300 a month from me as part of my wedding contribution. I always thought that if I married Jean this fund would cushion the blow slightly as he could keep the amount he had built up and console himself and my mother with a holiday or a new car. Mind you, they never went on holiday, but they would have had to go somewhere for a couple of weeks until the scandal died down. When my Uncle Amit’s daughter began living with Roy who was black, ‘the honchos’ had endless rounds of secret talks to confer so they could sort out the situation. Pressure was put on my Uncle Amit and his wife; they were bombarded with CVs of every single male specimen on the planet who could be a possible replacement. When this didn’t work, one of the honchos leaked the news to the wider community. I thought Uncle Amit and Auntie Asha would have to emigrate but they stood firm, attending family functions, ignoring the whispering and gossip and being shunned by certain members of the community; but they never managed to live it down. But Uncle Amit was different from my father, he didn’t need the approval of the community or that sense of belonging.
‘Parents taking modern approach, what can you expect?’ had been my dad’s first reaction to the news. Though in my dad’s case this wasn’t strictly true: he hadn’t had a modern approach but my sister had still left. I didn’t correct him. ‘This is not looking after the children. What will happen to this girl? He will leave her, she will have baby, nobody will want her. Parents will die, she will live alone, nobody wants her or baby.’
So a happy life, then. ‘He might not ever leave, Dad, they probably really love each other,’ I replied.
‘Two years I gives them. The love is not enough, Nina, you must understand this. Everyday living with someone is hard. See your mother and me, she knows me, I knows her. She is not thinking that she will one day wake up and find the Bra Pitt.’
‘Brad?’
‘Yah, yah, him. I knows I will not wake up and find the Cilla Black. This is life. Kavitha understands me, I understands her. We have the family, the culture, the traditions, the security. This is what is making the marriage. This is why I am working for you, I want you to have what I have with Kavitha.’
Thinking about him doing two jobs for me made me feel incredibly guilty for taking money from the bank to pay for the studio. It would only be for a month or two, just to sort my head out, just to get it out of my system. The man at the art shop was of no help to me as I stood looking at the rows and rows of brushes and paints, and the different types of paper and canvases. When I used to paint I painted in oils best, so I went over to the oils section only to be confronted by more tubes in different colours and sizes. I hesitated for a moment. Painting with oils was not going to be practical. My mum had a nose like a bloodhound and she would smell the linseed and turpentine on me. I walked over to the acrylic section and chose the paints that I needed, and bought a dozen primed, stretched canvases and brushes. I called Gina to see if the material could be delivered to the studio later that day. She told me to come by whenever I wanted.
When I arrived she was taking down her paintings and wrapping them in brown paper.
‘So have you been painting long, Nina?’
‘No. I’m just experimenting. I’m not an artist or anything. I used to paint when I was younger and then I had to stop.’
‘Why?’
‘Family stuff,’ I replied. ‘But I’m taking time off just to find out what it is I’m supposed to be doing.’ I didn’t know why I was divulging such information but she had something about her that made you want to tell her things.
I desperately wanted to ask her about her mother. ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked instead.
‘Eight months. I went to art school in Sydney, did a few exhibitions over there and have been going to college here, but it’s hard to break into the circuit, unless you know someone or you get spotted. I do love London but sometimes it can be a really cold and lonely place.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘You got family here?’ Gina asked.
I nodded.
‘See, that makes all the difference,’ she said. ‘You’ve always got them to fall back on if things don’t work out.’
‘Not if you have a family like mine,’ I said. ‘What about you?’
‘My dad is back home with my little sister. I want to surprise them for Christmas.’
‘Do you believe in signs?’ I suddenly blurted.
Instead of giving me the strange look of incomprehension I expected, she answered, ‘Why do you think I said the quote aloud?’
There was an instant understanding that passed between us at that moment, and we didn’t even have to say what it was.
‘How did she die?’ I asked.
‘Skin cancer,’ Gina replied.
‘I’m sorry. My best friend died of cancer too.’
‘It’s the pits, isn’t it? I promised my mum that I’d come to England. What did you promise?’
‘That I’d paint again and everything I did I would do passionately.’
‘This would be the work of my mum, you know.’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Getting you and me together. It’s got her name all over it. Maybe your friend and my mum have got together up there and said, “These two, they need to meet.” What’s your friend’s name?’
‘Ki.’
She looked up at her skylight. ‘Ki… Mum … Thank you.’
And when she did that it was the first time that I thought I wasn’t losin
g my mind. There was someone else in the world as crazy as I was.
Gina told me she had been teaching English in Japan before her mother had fallen ill. She wasn’t told how bad it was so didn’t hurry home until the final stages, and then when she got home she couldn’t bring herself to leave Australia again. It had taken a huge leap of faith to come to England, and she said with leaps of faith came the call to adventure. I wouldn’t know about that – the biggest leap of faith before my foray into painting was going out with Jean Michel and look where that had landed me.
She said she wasn’t giving up on England, just needed a rest from the rain and from trying so hard to make things work. I understood this: if I had had an Australia to go to, I would have gone there too.
The delivery men came with my paints and canvases later that day and as Gina helped me unpack we talked about death, not in a morbid way but in a way that both of us understood. I didn’t want to leave the warmth of her studio. I wanted to tell her more, tell her about the Guru and what had happened, but it was getting late and she still had lots to do.
‘Nearly done,’ she said, unwrapping the last canvas.
‘Thank you, thank you so much.’
‘I’ve hardly done anything. If you need to use any of my stuff, like brushes or whatever else you need, just go through those boxes.’
And though I hardly knew Gina it felt as if she had always been my friend. I wanted to hug her and tell her that it would all be all right, and that she would come back to London and find that it wasn’t such a lonely place. As I was thinking this she wrapped her arms around me and told me that she was sure I would find what I wanted through my paintings. She was as generous as Ki was and I desperately wanted to believe that our meeting had been orchestrated by the two people we loved.
On the way back home, I thought of the money spent on renting the studio and buying canvases and paint, of how one thing had led to another. Then I thought about managing the deceit. Perhaps it was better to say nothing, to stop adding new clients and blatantly lying.
As I walked in the door, my dad put down his paper and pointed to a box.
‘Nina, why your work send you this big box?’