The Colour of Love

by Preethi Nair

  My mum lifted up the duvet and practically dragged me out of bed. I went to make a cup of tea and she followed me just in case I got lost.

  My dad was sitting downstairs in his red pyjamas. He was busy drawing up the guest list. Seeing several red marks across people’s names I said, ‘Just invite whoever you want, Dad, don’t worry about my friends.’

  ‘No, Nina. Come, sit, see what I’ve done. These here,’ he pointed, ‘they won’t appreciate Hilton. We’ll have a party for them here later.’

  My Uncle Amit and Auntie Asha were also crossed out.

  ‘Don’t you want them to come?’ I asked. ‘Is it because of –?’

  ‘No, not because of the Raw,’ he interrupted.

  ‘It’s Roy, Dad, Roy.’

  ‘For two dickheads I suffered,’ he shouted.

  Dad went through a phase of picking up phrases on the bus; sometimes he didn’t quite get the gist of what they meant. Anyway, Auntie Asha was inoffensive and my Uncle Amit was lovely; he owned lots of factories and had helped my dad financially when we first came to London. I would never have called them that. Maybe I hadn’t heard him right. ‘What?’

  ‘Two dickheads and they did nothing.’

  Imagining Raj’s mother keeling over upon hearing these words, I thought I’d better check to see if he knew what he was saying. ‘Do you know what that means, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, it means twenty years with no help from them.’

  ‘Oh … decades.’

  ‘Yes, dickheads, what I’m saying. Two of them, struggling to make the ends meet when he could have made me the boss in one of his factories.’

  ‘He did ask if you wanted to be supervisor.’

  ‘They’re not coming,’ he said adamantly.

  We went through everyone on the list and the guests were chosen on the basis of who had done what for my dad and whether they would be significantly impressed with the venue. At some point there was some crossover as some of the guests had wronged my father considerably but he wanted to show them how far he had come and so they were included. My mother just insisted on the key honchos being present.

  ‘All done. You’ll write out invitations when they come?’ he said two hours later.

  I went to buy my PR books and then on my way back I saw a porcelain cat that reminded me of Mrs Onoro so I bought it for her and went around to see her.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t come around sooner. I have been meaning to but it’s been so busy,’ I said as she led me to her sitting room.

  ‘World too busy today,’ she commented as I sat down. ‘You better now? I make you some tea.’

  She came back with a tray.

  ‘This is just something I bought for you to say thank you.’

  ‘Oh, it beautiful,’ she said opening it. ‘You good girl.’

  No, I’m not. I used to be but now I’m turning into this serial liar, is what I wanted to tell her. ‘I saw it in the shop window and I thought of you,’ I said instead.

  Her son, the grocer, came downstairs. ‘Ma, have you seen my …?’

  He stopped when he saw me in the sitting room.

  ‘No, Rooney, why you no marry a girl like this? Look what she bought me.’ The cat was thrust into his hands.

  ‘How’s your research coming along?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, the research, yes. I’ve decided to specialise in Japanese painting at the moment.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about art.’

  It was then I decided that Foruki was not going to be present at his exhibition. The grocer didn’t look right; he had these awful maroon streaks in his hair.

  ‘Ma, do you know where my green shirt is?’

  ‘I ironed and put in your cupboard. It there only.’

  ‘Anyway, nice to see you again.’ He said something in Japanese to his mother and went back up. Probably said something like ‘Why are you letting crazy women into the house bearing gifts of porcelain cats?’

  ‘He good boy really. You marry soon, no?’

  ‘Two months.’

  ‘He good boy?’

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘Only think so?’

  ‘He is. I don’t know him that well. I mean it was sort of arranged but he’s nice. Talks a lot, interrupts me at times, but he’s nice and he’s kind. Mrs Onoro, when you married your husband, did you know he was the one for you?’

  ‘I too young to know anything but now I can tell if person good by looking in eyes. He got good eyes?’

  They were small but that was if I were comparing them to Michael’s eyes, and they didn’t sparkle but there was nothing bad about them.

  ‘I glad when my husband died. He was no good man and now I free. You make wrong choice you no free.’

  She left me to think about that as she went to get the tea. The irony was, despite the fact that I was marrying Raj who was solid and reliable, I had never felt freer or bolder within myself – I was bordering on reckless. It had been me who was solid and reliable with Jean Michel. How was it possible to change in only a matter of months?

  Mrs Onoro came back.

  I enquired after Hikito. She blushed, telling me he was well and then she said, ‘I wait fifty years to find a good man.’

  I wanted to tell her about Michael, how he threw all my feelings into utter confusion, but I looked at my watch. Mum was going to India, I had to take her to the airport.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘You come back soon?’

  ‘I will.’

  My mother and father made it work. Although it wasn’t the best marriage in the world they were still together and in their own way, they loved each other. Raj was a good man and this was the most important thing. He was practical, stable, kind, and he loved me and would never do anything to hurt me.

  He came with us to the airport to see my mum off.

  ‘See you soon, my son,’ she said engulfing him. ‘Look after them both, beta.’

  ‘I will,’ I replied.

  There was no way out of this. I couldn’t break their hearts. I just had to accept that and then maybe things would get easier and then there wouldn’t be such a conflict inside myself.

  The next day I spent with Raj’s family and somehow found myself calling his mother ‘Mummy', just as he did. Surprisingly, it was quite a pleasant day, or maybe that is the way I chose to see it. Either way, I vowed that as soon as the exhibition was over there would be no more lies and I would do my very best to be a good wife.

  It was good that my mum had gone to India because when she wasn’t in the house there was no more talk of weddings and it made it seem less real. I also took my engagement ring off, justifying it to myself by saying that I didn’t want to get paint on it.

  And Michael Hyland, I put him to the back of my mind; that electric thing he did to me whenever he was around. It had no effect on me, it couldn’t – it was wrong, I was marrying Raj, that was that, it was time to focus now on hyping Foruki. All my energy had to go into making this exhibition work – it was only a month away.

  I needed a strategy and a plan. I had read through the PR books. Confidence; it was all about confidence and believing in the hype. I drafted a press release and reread it and then I sat at my desk, psyching myself up to call the list of art correspondents. I dialled the first number and hung up.

  ‘Pitching’ was selling an idea. The more confident you were about a product the easier it was to sell. I believed in Foruki, I just had to make others believe in him. I dialled the number again.

  ‘It’s Nina Savani from Kendal Brown. I have… er … an artist by the name of Foruki who has his first exhibition in London coming up.’

  ‘What makes this one unique?’ the journalist asked abruptly.

  ‘Er, his style.’

  ‘What about it?’

  I froze, not knowing quite what to say about his style and I just wanted to get off the phone, so I said I had another call to attend to and hung up.

  It was a complete disaster and so unprofessional. I
didn’t know quite what to say and the journalist must have known that I was a fraud. It wasn’t working. Maybe I should just call up Michael and ask for the help he offered. It would be good to speak to him and share the experience with someone. No. No Michael. I sat in front of my computer and the words ‘GO NINA’ danced in front of me. I smiled and closed my eyes and imagined Ki laughing at my half-hearted attempts. Inspired by the thought of her splitting her sides, I picked up the phone and started again.

  With each call I made it got easier, and I learned more and more while making them.

  ‘Hello, Nina Savani here from Kendal Brown. We met at the ICA last month and you asked me to let you know as soon as the Japanese painter Foruki was exhibiting.’ This was the first thing I learned. Give them the impression that they already know you; they were much more receptive if they thought they knew you.

  Despite the fact that they had no recollection of the meeting and maybe hadn’t even gone to the ICA, most of them acknowledged me, perhaps embarrassed by their poor memories.

  ‘Well, he has a press launch on the twenty-second of March and he’s specifically asked me to send you an invitation.’

  More often than not, they asked for a press release along with the invite, just to refresh their memories.

  And so it went on like that until I had contacted most of the journalists on the list.

  The most audacious thing I did, surprising even myself, was attending every major opening in London that week despite not having any formal invitations. While at Whitter and Lawson we received invites regularly and more often than not I had to attend these functions to network and build contacts. It was the same arty crowd, mostly talking nonsense; artists making stains on serviettes which some fool would buy for a couple of thousand pounds. There would always be one or two people who looked like they didn’t belong there; they were more often than not the only ones who were worth talking to.

  I put on a smart black dress, caught the tube part-way to the function, then caught a cab so I felt like I hadn’t just walked off the streets. My heart leaped as I prayed that the door person would not turn me away. I acted as if I had misplaced the invite or rummaged in my handbag, and, amazingly, they’d let me through. If I was lucky, someone I knew would call out my name and that didn’t make me feel so bad. At the exhibitions I mingled, handed out my business card, talked about Foruki and his up-and-coming exhibition and sought out the journalists and spoke to them. It was as if I were a different person with an inner strength, poise and social confidence that even I didn’t know I possessed.

  There was a woman at one of the events who I really clicked with and we had a very good conversation about the artists being over-hyped and everything these days being about celebrity and not necessarily about the work. It transpired she was a producer on Radio 4 but had previously been an economist. I was desperate to share my experience of my own career change but instead listened attentively to her. We got on very well on a personal level and before she left, she asked me for my contact details.

  Another thing I did were Simon’s famous ‘whispers’, telling a few artists who I was on good terms with that Foruki was going to be the next big thing and being as elusive as I could. They, no doubt, would make enquiries with their agents, who would in turn make further enquiries. And so it went on like that for the rest of that week, talking to people, hyping to a select few, going to exhibitions until late in the evening, participating in the theatrics that went on behind the scenes. Consumed with the overwhelming desire to turn Foruki into a success, I was absorbed in the world that I was creating for him. Part of me enjoyed the challenge and I wanted to show these people that it was possible to be a nobody and play the game as they did.

  Because I had been so busy I hadn’t seen Raj all week. I was relieved because I didn’t have to think about the wedding plans, Raj, or if my dad was surviving on his frozen-food rations. By the end of the week my wedding invitations were still lying on my desk. On Friday I sat writing out Foruki’s invites and after I had done that, I quickly scribbled out my wedding invitations.

  In the midst of the chaos, Michael called.

  ‘Kendal Brown. Nina speaking.’

  ‘How are you, Nina?’

  I took a deep breath as I recognised his voice. See, he could phone me and there was no electric thing going on.

  ‘I’m fine, just incredibly busy organising everything.’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling. Can you come in this Sunday. We can sample some food for the launch and finalise the details of Foruki’s exhibition. I’ve put Emily onto the PR as well so we need to talk about the best way to handle that too.’

  ‘There was no need for that, we’ve got it all organised,’ I said, not realising that I might have sounded ungrateful – and why had I said ‘we’? This multiple personality thing was being embedded in my psyche.

  ‘I thought you might need a hand.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So one o’clock then?’ he asked.

  Raj and I had planned to go for lunch and then to the cinema that day. ‘It’s a bit short notice.’

  ‘It’s the only time I have available before our launch and we really need to get everything tied up.’

  ‘Sunday it is, then.’

  Before I went home I made one last call, possibly the most important call yet. I spent twenty minutes psyching myself up, convincing myself that it would all work out. I dialled the number and hung up before I actually spoke to Mangetti. After composing myself, I redialled.

  ‘Mr Mangetti, it’s Nina Savani.’

  ‘Nina. How are you?’

  Absolutely sick with nerves, I can’t sleep at night because the level of deceit has just snowballed out of all proportion and now, well now I’m just running with it. That’s how I really was. I sat upright in my chair and said, ‘I’m very well, thank you. How are you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m well.’

  ‘I just wanted to let you know that Foruki’s exhibition is on the twenty-second of March.’

  ‘Let me just check my diary,’ he replied.

  My heart began thumping. Please be free, I thought. I’m doing all of this for you, please tell me you can come.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. I look forward to meeting both you and Foruki.’

  I thanked him and hung up.

  I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to cry with relief and had to leave my desk because I was so overwhelmed. ‘He’s coming, Ki. I’ve done it. He’s going to come.’ I posted both sets of invites on my way home.

  That Saturday morning when I woke up my dad began grumbling about the starvation diet that I had subjected him to.

  ‘Days, I tell you. I haven’t eaten for days. Waiting for you, no sign, no call, nothing. Why didn’t you put me in a home? At least I would have been fed.’

  ‘I told you, Dad, I would be working late, doing overtime so I can have time off for the honeymoon.’

  ‘This is all you are thinking about, the holidays, not if your father is well.’

  ‘Believe me, the holiday is the last thing on my mind. Anyway, when we go to the Hilton today I know there aren’t going to be any rotis, Dad, so don’t start arguing about the food. Raj’s mother is paying for it so we’ll just let her choose.’

  He grumbled something about murdering the guests with the ‘poffs'. Admittedly, Raj’s mother did have a thing about puff pastry but I assured him she wasn’t the one cooking and I managed to convince him to agree with everything she said. The total cost of the wedding if she didn’t pay for it was the key influencing factor.

  Raj and his parents came to collect my father. I wanted to meet them there but Raj had insisted on driving us.

  ‘I’ve missed you, baby. It’s been such a busy week.’

  ‘For me too,’ I replied as he opened the car door for us.

  ‘Raj, we’re going to have to meet up later on tomorrow. It’s just that I’ve got some bits and pieces to do.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘No,
’ I said too quickly. ‘I mean it’s just some things for work and then I’ll meet you after.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ my father shouted. ‘Always working, even in the weekends, very top in her job.’

  Raj parked just across the road from Artusion. Why? I thought. It would be a nightmare if I bumped into Michael while holding Raj’s hand with the whole family in tow.

  ‘Isn’t that the place where your Japanese artist is having his launch?’ Raj asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. It’s almost two o’clock, we’ll be late,’ I said, getting out of the car quickly and trying to hurry everyone up just in case we bumped into anyone.

  ‘What artist?’ Raj’s mother asked.

  ‘Oh no one in particular, just a Japanese artist who I’m representing at the moment.’

  ‘You’ll have a party there for him?’

  ‘It’s not really a party. It’s an exhibition.’

  ‘Lots of interesting people go to these functions, no, Nina? I go to music things you know, when Ravi Shankar has something on, but I’ve never been to an art thing,’ she replied, obviously angling for an invite.

  I ignored her.

  ‘Mummy would really love to go along to something like that. You can get her an invite – it’s not a problem, is it, baby? You are organising it, aren’t you?’

  It was a huge problem, and what was an even bigger problem was we hadn’t seemed to get very far out of the car and the ‘baby’ thing was really starting to annoy me.

  ‘Full of boring art-world types. You’d hate it, Mummy,’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, I only go because I have to for work.’

  ‘Yah, but just for the experience, Nina, I’d love to come.’

  ‘She’ll be fine, baby, I’ll bring her.’

  Raj wasn’t invited either.

  ‘I’m going to be working,’ I said, trying to remain unfazed, ‘so I won’t really get a chance to speak to you. You know how it is when you’re working.’