The Colour of Love

by Preethi Nair

  ‘You don’t say nothing, you good girl, Nina,’ Mrs Onoro said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rooney added. ‘One of the nicest people I’ve met.’

  Gina was silent. I looked at her and tears streamed down my face. ‘Thank you for believing in me,’ I whispered as I held her. ‘This is for you and Rooney, open it when I go.’ I wanted them to have half the Turner Prize money because without them both, none of it would have been possible.

  Tastudi Mangetti called to say that for everything I had put him through the least I could do was to sell him the buddha painting. He offered me £60,000.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Mangetti, but “our sort” have some things that are not for sale.’

  ‘I will make sure you are unable to exhibit anywhere – I promise you.’

  ‘You go ahead and do that.’ I hung up on him. If the Mafia ever knocked on the semi it was my dad they had to fear.

  Gina, Rooney and Mrs Onoro waved me off. I went to see Ki’s mum.

  ‘Auntie, open the door, it’s me, Nina.’

  She came to the door.

  ‘What happened, Nina? I saw you on the news.’

  I told her the story about Ki’s name being mistaken and she began to laugh and then she cried.

  ‘She’s always here with us, Auntie.’

  ‘I know, beta.’

  ‘There’s something I want you to have.’

  I went into the van and got out the picture of the buddha. She tore off the brown paper and studied it curiously, just the same way she looked at the pictures I handed her as a child.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ she lied.

  She came up to Ki’s room with me. We hung the picture of the buddha on the wall and her mum said maybe she needed to paint the walls and wash the curtains. Then she left me alone in the room.

  ‘I still miss you, you know, but I can still hear you laughing. Are you laughing now? Only you could have orchestrated this, it’s got your name written all over it. All I asked for was a sign not to win the bloody Turner.’ I blew her a kiss, ‘I love you, Ki,’ and then I went downstairs.

  ‘Take care of yourself, beta.’ Ki’s mum kissed me as I left.

  ‘I will, Auntie, and you take care of yourself too.’

  The phone rang – it was Raj. I picked it up because that was the least I owed him.

  ‘Congratulations, Nina, I saw it all on the news.’

  ‘Thank you. How are you? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m engaged,’ he said.

  ‘That’s fantastic news.’

  ‘To Pinkie, you remember her? She was brilliant after what happened with … with us, and then one thing led to another.’

  ‘I’m really happy for you, truly I am.’ Pinkie would make a far better wife than I possibly could have.

  ‘Mummy’s not happy about it but Pinkie and I have decided to go away and get married.’

  ‘Be happy, Raj. I really do wish you the very best.’

  ‘Stay in touch, Nina.’

  ‘I will.’

  I drove around the corner to my parents’ house, checked that no one was waiting for me there and knocked on the door, unafraid if my dad would slam it in my face or not.

  My dad answered it.

  ‘Dad.’

  He smiled at me, welcomed me in and patted me on the back. ‘Nina, I am the celebrity in the depot.’

  ‘That’s great, Dad, really great.’

  ‘All day yesterday we had the crews filming us. You see six o’clock news?’

  My mum came out. I went to hug her and she was inert, like the biggest tidal wave had knocked her over and washed away everything she had left.

  ‘You’re still with the Jeannie?’ my dad asked.

  ‘It’s not Jean, it’s Michael, and no, I’m not with him.’

  ‘These things, they never last.’

  An enormous smile spread across my mum’s face. ‘Raj,’ she gasped. ‘I prayed to Bhagavan and I knew it would work in the end.’

  ‘I’m not with him either. There’s no one, and you know what? I’m happy.’

  ‘People will be queuing for you now that you are famous. Queuing I tells you. We might even be able to get the Kapadias’ son.’

  The honchos considered the Kapadias to be the crème of the community. Their son, Hiten, was a barrister.

  ‘You can move back today,’ my mum added.

  ‘I’m not coming home.’

  ‘What?’ my dad shouted.

  ‘I’m going away for a few months to paint.’

  ‘We will let you do the painting in your room,’ my dad said.

  ‘No, Dad.’

  My mum took her sari end out and sobbed.

  ‘I only ever wanted you to be proud of me,’ I began to cry.

  ‘Don’t cry, Nina. You made us very proud. Who can say they have been on the news at six? Who can say they are going to meet the Cilla Black?’

  ‘Cilla?’

  ‘Yah, part of ITV deal for first exclusive interview. I tells them, nothing comes for free, I do this if you let me meet the Cilla.’

  He held out his arms to hug me. He never did that.

  I held on to him and wept and then my mum did something I never thought she was capable of. She put her arms around both of us.

  ‘Better go now, I’ll call when I get there.’

  ‘I knew that there was no artist and it was you,’ my dad said on seeing the van. ‘I cannot be the fooled.’

  ‘You’ll eat properly, no, beta?’

  ‘Yes, Ma,’ I said, leaving.

  My phone began ringing. I parked the van and answered it.

  ‘Nina Savani?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Frances Evans, Mail on Sunday. We’ve spoken to a Mrs Malika Mehta with a story on how you duped her son Raj into marriage. She said that this is a pattern that seems to be recurrent with you. I just wanted to give you an opportunity to put across your side of the story.’

  I threw the phone out of the van and continued driving.

  6th March 2001

  I travelled to the west of Ireland and settled for a few months in Galway. The landscape and beauty that surrounded me was even more spectacular than Michael had described and though the winter months made everything appear moodier that’s not what I saw. I captured the energy of the roughness of the seas in vibrant reds. Beneath the grey clouds were piercing shafts of white light that made me look beyond them and see blue skies. Though the landscape was wet and damp with the rain, the raindrops glistened against luscious hues of green and when the snow came to settle I could still see the greens. Every day of these months, I painted. Solitude became part of my life and when I wasn’t scared by it any more or trying to run away from it I knew it was time to go home – back to my flat and my studio.

  Contrary to what Tastudi Mangetti said he would do, several gallery owners were interested in exhibiting my work. Contractually my first exhibition was supposed to be with Artusion and I wanted to exhibit there as Michael had risked so much for me.

  Emanuel Hikatari had left Artusion to go back to New York and the gallery was run by a man named Stephen McCabe. We had arranged a date when he would come to my studio and go through the paintings with me. The same day I was supposed to be meeting him my mum called me to say that they had ‘a very, very big surprise’ for me and I had to go round as soon as possible.

  ‘Can’t we do it later this evening,’ I said, thinking that I would be pushing it for my meeting with Stephen.

  ‘No, now, beta, come now because it is a big, big surprise.’

  ‘Ma, I thought things had changed, please don’t put me through this again,’ I pleaded, thinking she had arranged a meeting with Hiten Kapadia, the barrister. The excitement in my mother’s voice could mean only this.

  ‘Kavitha, get off the line before you tells her,’ my dad bellowed.

  ‘Just come soon, beta. It’s urgent,’ she said hanging up.

  There was a black Fiesta parked right outside the door of the semi. It was an
understated car for the Kapadias. It had to be them because although the space was permit free, my dad never allowed anyone else to park outside his front door.

  ‘Get off,’ he would shout, holding a traffic cone he had taken from a crime scene and placing it in his space.

  I knocked on the front door and instead of my mum or dad coming to answer it, a girl of about ten or eleven opened it.

  ‘Hello Auntie,’ she beamed.

  I thought it was one of the Kapadias’ relatives. ‘Hello,’ I replied.

  She grabbed me and began hugging me tightly. I was slightly taken aback by this child who was showing me so much affection – did she think I was going to marry her uncle or whoever Hiten Kapadia was to her? Affectionate child was sorely mistaken.

  ‘Bring your auntie in here, Nina,’ my father shouted from the sitting room.

  Nina? She had the same name as me.

  My mother had the end of her sari out and was sobbing. My dad was sitting with his best red shirt on with a smile from ear to ear; the little girl went and sat beside him. There, engulfed by the sofa, was a woman with curly hair. It was no longer jet black as I recollected but had streaks of white. She was still beautiful; beautiful and elegant as I remembered her. It was my sister, Jana.

  She got up. Tears streamed down her face. ‘Nina,’ she whispered.

  I was unable to speak.

  When we managed to disentangle ourselves she sat holding my hand. Jana told me she read all about me winning the Turner Prize and made contact with Ki’s mum, who convinced her to call Mum and Dad.

  She phoned Dad and instead of Dad claiming no relation to her, he asked to meet her again. They had met for the first time when I had been in Ireland and she had returned this morning from Germany where she was living, and was going to stay for the week.

  ‘Why did you stop writing to me?’

  ‘So many things happened, Nina, I will sit and explain it all.’

  Jana looked over at her daughter.

  ‘Did you give your Auntie Nina a big kiss?’

  ‘I hugged her,’ Nina said shyly.

  ‘This girl,’ my dad said, pinching her cheeks.

  I did not want to leave my sister but I realised that Stephen McCabe would be on his way to the studio.

  ‘Go and see him,’ Jana said. ‘We’re not going anywhere.’

  Reluctantly, I rushed off, saying that I would be back as soon as I could.

  My thoughts were elsewhere when I got to the studio. I hadn’t even arranged the pictures as I’d intended. The ones I wanted to exhibit were the ones on flowers that I’d done prior to the Turner Prize exhibition work. I was also debating whether to put in some of the paintings done in Ireland. I hadn’t even taken off my coat when the door buzzer went.

  ‘It’s open,’ I called out, removing my coat, trying to get my head together.

  ‘You shouldn’t leave the door open, it could be anyone.’

  ‘Michael!’ It couldn’t be. I looked up and saw him standing by the door. I wanted to run towards him and throw my arms around him. He walked towards me without his hand outstretched.

  ‘Nina,’ he said very calmly, ‘I know that you are doing an exhibition for us. I was in town and I’ve come to help select the paintings.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said, trying not to sound disappointed that he was there for purely professional motives. ‘I didn’t expect you to come.’

  ‘Of course I would be here – I had to be, I mean look what happened the last time you had an exhibition.’

  ‘How are you? Are you well?’ I asked. He looked incredibly well; his eyes still sparkled and his face was as warm as ever.

  ‘Yes, very well, and you?’

  ‘My sister’s back,’ I blurted. ‘I’ve just seen her now for the first time in years, it’s crazy. I have a niece; they’re both waiting for me at home.’

  ‘Right… I mustn’t keep you.’

  That wasn’t what I’d meant. There was an awkward silence. ‘The ones I thought about exhibiting were the ones I’ve put out over here,’ I said, attempting to sound professional.

  ‘Have you got over the shock of winning the Turner?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for helping me.’

  ‘No, we have to thank you. Since your win, business has rocketed and Emanuel is revelling in the publicity.’

  ‘Right. Well, that’s good, then.’

  ‘Is it all working out for you? What have you been up to?’ he asked, studying the various paintings.

  ‘I’ve spent some time in Ireland.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘About what happened …’ I began.

  ‘It’s in the past,’ he said. ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

  Why had he come then? Was he married? Had he come to tell me that he had got married? I searched his fingers for a ring.

  ‘So show me the work you did in Ireland, you must have done some.’

  ‘Over there.’

  He went over to the canvases. ‘It’s Galway. You went to Galway.’

  ‘I’ve been there for the last three months sorting myself out.’

  ‘God, Nina,’ his face softened.

  ‘I didn’t marry Raj, I tried calling to explain but you never answered any of my calls, you never once let me explain. I know I made a real mess but I wanted to put it all right …’

  ‘I called you a few days after you’d won the Turner and an old man picked up, saying he didn’t know you.’

  ‘Was it my dad?’

  ‘No, some old man who said he’d found the phone.’

  ‘What did you want to say to me?’

  ‘That I’m really proud of what you did.’

  Was that it, was that all he wanted to say?

  He looked away from me and began studying one of the paintings again. It was Cashla Bay. I had gone there late in the afternoon before the sun was about to disappear; the sea was green and although it was cold, and the sky was turning black, it was still lit with possibility. I captured this with indigo – colours that were there; colours that lay beyond.

  ‘That’s where I would go to make some of my biggest decisions. When I decided to go to America I sat there for hours, thinking. When Emanuel asked me to set up Artusion with him; when I was nine and mustering the courage to ask Lisa Flynn out.’ He smiled. ‘It’s the only place I’ve found where you can really hear the silence of your own voice.’

  I knew what he meant. After I’d painted, I had sat there in the cold just listening.

  ‘And so do you think that this is a sign?’ Michael asked, taking his gaze off the canvas. He came towards me and held out his hand.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ I said, taking it.

  Thank you to whoever is responsible for making flowers pop up when I most needed them. To my family and friends, especially to Avni, Esperenza and Tricia whose constant support, encouragement and enthusiasm cannot help but inspire me. To my friend and agent Diana Holmes for believing in me and finally a big ‘thank you’ to all the team at HarperCollins.

  By the same author

  One Hundred Shades of White

  Gypsy Masala

  Copyright

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2004

  Copyright © Preethi Nair 2004

  Preethi Nair asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and r
ead the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition © August 2012 ISBN: 9780007387984

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

  Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

  Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

  http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au

  Canada

  HarperCollins Canada

  2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor

  Toronto, ON, M4W 1A8, Canada

  http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca

  New Zealand

  HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited

  P.O. Box 1

  Auckland, New Zealand

  http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz

  United Kingdom

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  77-85 Fulham Palace Road

  London, W6 8JB, UK

  http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk

  United States

  HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  10 East 53rd Street

  New York, NY 10022

  http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com