The Art of Unpacking Your Life

by Shireen Jilla

  THE ART OF UNPACKING YOUR LIFE

  SHIREEN JILLA

  For my mother

  ‘Every family has its joys and its horrors, but however great they may be, it’s hard for an outsider’s eye to see them; they are a secret.’

  Anton Chekhov

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  Chapter 1

  The sociable weaver bird nest splayed across the acacia thorn tree like an ancient, sun-damaged headdress. Teeming with over three hundred inhabitants, this nest weighed over a ton and had broken most of the lower branches. Brown-capped heads whipped in and out, shrill with gossip. Past weavers had poked in each individual straw in a communal effort to create a dense, cool apartment. This generation had merely moved into their century-old home without even doing renovations, the guide Gus explained to Connie who was eager for every detail.

  The reserve had turned this classic Kalahari feature into their airstrip reception. A thatched roof slid protectively over the nest, leaving the top of the trunk jutting up into the deep blue. Connie had only seen such an unblemished block of sky in children’s paintings.

  A blonde South African, whose badge labelled her a Kimberley, was under the roof, sheltered from the bleaching thirty-five-degree glare. Her make-up was flawless, despite the heat she must have endured to get to the airstrip. She held out a wooden plate of icy face towels neatly wrapped like swaddled babies. A jug of homemade lemonade and two black bowls, one of watermelon cut into cubes and another of glistening date and coconut balls, were on the table beside her. The china was arranged on a silver platter on the yellowwood table. Connie was grateful for the towels, the nibbles and furniture chosen to transition unnerved guests like her friends into this remote environment.

  Connie lowered her camera and nervously reviewed her photo. It was extraordinary to see her five dearest university friends together in the Kalahari. They were all just about in shot. She hadn’t asked them to pose as a group, because every one of them appeared to shrink from the ferocious heat, the wilderness of high spring grass and deformed thorny trees marked by blood-orange Namibian sands. They were nearly at the reserve, yet they seemed to have had enough of travelling and waiting. No one bothered to talk.

  It was her idea to bring them back together on this holiday, yet Connie was stunned. She had imagined herself cool in white cotton like Kristin Scott Thomas, light among an eye-watering desert of dunes. Her MP husband, Julian, was hardly up to the role of Ralph Fiennes. Watching him rub his forehead with one of his vast white handkerchiefs he usually employed on his blocked sinuses, Connie suppressed a smile. He could have been taken hostage from his desk in the Treasury in his work shirt and brown suede slip-ons. His collapsed chinos were the only sartorial marker that he was on holiday.

  Connie looked down at the camera screen again. She knew Julian’s slight sneer masked his extreme discomfort, which Connie could see was mirrored in Sara’s expression. Sara had come straight to Heathrow from her chambers, 2 Bedford Row, in a black suit and off-white silk shirt. Her tailored barrister’s jacket was neatly folded into her large handbag, but the blouse clingfilmed her. She was distracted: alternating between staring at her BlackBerry, eyeing the reserve and hoovering up the date balls.

  Only Matt’s American wife, Katherine, refrained from exhaustedly bingeing. Matt’s marital bulk was coiled around her wicker chair, as she sipped lemonade. True to her title, London editor of Women’s Wear Daily, Katherine had changed at the hangar in Jo’Burg into a barely grey pair of cotton combats, cream canvas shoes and a diaphanous silver shirt. Her translucent face was partially armour-plated by enormous black Chanel sunglasses. Spying the sun darting through the open sides, Katherine sprung up and strode to the centre of the reception. Matt silently followed, carrying her chair.

  His over-protectiveness irritated Connie, because it made her, in turn, feel protective of Matt. After his ex-wife had brutally upgraded him for a partner in their law firm, he had come to dinner at least once a week. Until he met Katherine. Considering he was one of Connie’s old friends and not in politics, Julian was unusually fond of him.

  Connie was abruptly distracted from Matt and Katherine by Lizzie’s voice, which snapped into the silence.

  ‘I had no idea it was going to be this hot. I’m like a beef Bourguignon on a hot stove. Am I red, Luke? I feel purple. I might actually be allergic to this kind of heat. Knowing my luck. How unfair would that be?’

  A blotchy heat rash had formed a patchwork across Lizzie’s neck and face. Luke didn’t reply. Lizzie fanned herself with her rumpled scarf, the fringe of which flicked into her left eye.

  ‘Ow. Have I got a piece of my scarf in my eye? Can you see, Luke? It’s hurting in the corner.’

  Lizzie hadn’t been hopeless when they had all shared a house in their second year though she now moaned to Connie that she would never live in such a lovely house again.

  Lizzie didn’t wait for Luke to examine her eye. ‘I wonder whether Sara’s got a mirror in that gorgeous Mulberry Bayswater handbag of hers. She is lucky to be able to afford it. Eight hundred and ninety-five pounds. You must know that: I haven’t got the money to buy a sock on your website. I can’t believe one of my best friends owns such a posh online shop.’

  Luke stretched his left bicep across his body. Even in this extreme heat, he had this new nervous energy that surprised Connie. Freshly divorced from Emma, Connie was concerned that he might be unhappy on this holiday. Instead, he appeared to have extricated himself without a scar and with custody of his children, a fact that shocked Connie. She hadn’t expected it from him.

  He stretched both his arms above his head, forcing his sporty top to glide up a few inches. Connie couldn’t help staring at the muscles that bound his torso. She had forgotten how handsome he was. She turned away.

  There was no relief. Dan was ignoring Alan, his partner for over a decade. Their silence seemed to be the tail end of an on-going argument. Alan created a second tower of coconut and date balls, before rapidly demolishing them, as if he was determined to upset health-conscious Dan, who ignored him. He meticulously applied suncream to his face from a neat black tube, using the silver platter as a mirror to re-check his coverage, before opening the sketchbook and tin of pencils beside him. Looking up occasionally, Dan started assiduously drawing.

  Connie was worried that there was a distance between all of them that hadn’t existed yesterday at Heathrow, where the excitement of their extraordinary holiday and Sara’s famous case had made the conversation flow easily. The whole of the UK was gripped by the Jade Sutton trial: a photogenic, middle-class couple accused of murdering their only daughter. Sara’s team had successfully got the wife, Joanne Sutton – if Connie remembered her name correct
ly – off. And the group had been eager with questions.

  Time had become elongated on their overnight flight from London. The slow way it passed reminded Connie of sleeping on the floor under Hector’s bed, on Neptune Ward in Chelsea and Westminster hospital, after Flora had absentmindedly dropped that yellow Irish fishing buoy down the stairs on to his head. They flew to Johannesburg, fast tracked with the reserve’s ‘fixer’ through frenzied passport control at O.R. Tambo airport, and then drove in an air-conditioned Mercedes people carrier to a depot-style building, which housed the check-in for their private ten-seater plane.

  The plane was burnished with San bushmen’s watery illustrations in earthy tones of northern Kalahari eland, springbok, abstract shapes and dancing figures. The bushmen’s stories described their landscape in practical terms, though they engraved images from dreams and trance-like states.

  ‘Therefore we are the Stars we must walk the sky,

  for we are the Heavens things Mother is Earth’s thing, she walks the earth

  She must lie sleeping in the ground, we are which must not sleep

  for we walks around, while we sleep not, we are the Stars which sleep not.’

  Connie wanted to absorb everything about this adventure. But the others seemed reluctant to let go of their lives in London.

  After a short flight they had been released into this Kalahari reception. Feeling uncertain and unnerved, Connie looked towards their guide, Gus, who was standing beside a cream safari vehicle with another man, presumably their tracker. Connie had developed a shorthand with Julian and her children, and without it she felt rusty, staid and gauche but she did what she always did: she smiled broadly and talked through the tension.

  ‘We’re here. Really we are. Wow. Can you believe it? We’re in Africa. Well, the Kalahari. How incredible. Unbelievable even.’

  Julian interjected, ‘Self-edit button, Constance.’

  Lizzie giggled. Luke turned away. Dan pursed his lips.

  Julian’s jokes were acerbic, but Connie knew Julian would sense his mistake and quickly re-establish equilibrium. It was what they did well together, what made them a potent husband-and-wife team.

  Julian tucked Connie’s hair behind her ear. ‘Sorry, campers. I appreciate it’s too bloody hot to joke. Can someone please switch on the fucking air con?’

  They all laughed, except Luke.

  Lizzie unhooked the outsized woven bag weighing down her shoulder. ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ Leaning the bag awkwardly on to her hip, she delved inside, struggling to take out a large royal blue photo album. ‘You are all going to love this photo.’

  Nothing measured up to their time together at Bristol University for Lizzie. She hadn’t moved on. Connie looked over at the photo. They were drunk and laughing. They were always drunk and laughing.

  Lizzie dropped the bag on the ground and flicked the thick plastic-covered pages. ‘Look! It’s all of us that weekend we moved into Harley Place. Can you believe it really is us?’

  ‘Who else might it be, dizzy Lizzie?’ Sara said.

  ‘Okay, Sara, but I had this amazing idea.’ She waited dramatically but no one took Lizzie’s obvious bait. ‘We could take the same photo of us in the same position. Twenty years later.’

  ‘Do you have to keep reminding us,’ Sara murmured.

  Lizzie didn’t appear to register her reluctance. ‘Katherine or Alan, maybe one of you can take it? I’d love one of just the six of us back together again.’

  ‘Yeah, course, Lizzie darlin’,’ said Alan, pretending to frame them with his fingers. ‘Shall I airbrush out the decades?’

  Lizzie laughed, ‘If only. Can you airbrush out the fat as well?’

  ‘Lizzie, don’t be banal,’ snapped Sara.

  Katherine looked back at the album. ‘Matt, honey, I can’t believe that’s you with long hair.’

  Matt ruffled his dark, thick hair now layered into a sensible solicitor’s crop. ‘I was always built for comfort not for speed. No change there.’

  Connie looked at him and then back at the photo. He had been an unusually broad, solid man in his late teens.

  ‘You’re not larger,’ Lizzie stated.

  Connie knew she intended it to be a reassuring comment.

  Lizzie continued, ‘Look at me, I was skinny. Do you remember? What I would do to get that body back.’

  In the photo, Lizzie was thin with long straight blond hair, if the same hotch-potch clothes. Lizzie’s arms, legs, bust, hips and waist had inflated, while her hair was frizzy from schizophrenic cutting and colouring sessions, ranging from deep mahogany to bright blond.

  Thankfully, Connie noticed Katherine taking control of the camera. ‘You guys, I need you lounging. Not necessarily on the ground, Lizzie. We don’t have to go that far for authenticity’s sake.’

  She was drawn back to the photo. Connie, Sara, Luke, Matt, Dan and Lizzie on the roof terrace at Harley Place one hazy Sunday afternoon in early September of their second year.

  Alan spoke. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen photos of Dan’s canary before?’ Lizzie asked.

  Squashed next to Matt, Dan looked minute and compact in that vivid yellow V-neck jumper he had always worn, an unsubtle attempt to signal to them he was gay. Connie caught Luke’s eye. He smiled, doubtless remembering how they had dumped it in a bin outside the student union. She couldn’t remember whose idea it was. In those days, their thoughts were interchangeable.

  Sara folded her legs over one of the reception’s wicker chairs. ‘I can manage to strike that pose.’

  Sara had been perched in one of her many A-line vintage wool dresses, on the only chair on the terrace. She was more curvaceous these days, though still beautiful with an old-fashioned elegance that, coupled with her sharp wit, was undoubtedly the reason she intimidated men. Her face was like Grace Kelly’s: liquid green eyes framed by the dark, permanently questioning curve of her eyebrows and her thick wavy blond hair matching her perfectly white complexion.

  Luke caught her eye again. In the photo, their long, lean bodies were parallel; their legs were like chopsticks criss-crossing each other. Luke was tauter then, though he still had the same mid-brown hair cropped close to his narrow head. His brilliant blue eyes made his immaculate face unmissable. Connie felt awkward.

  Sara was on to them. ‘Yes, it would be great if you two could possibly stay unwrapped for this photo. Please.’

  Connie and Luke laughed lightly.

  ‘Okay, guys, let’s take this picture,’ said Katherine impatiently. ‘Ready?’

  They finally moved together, in position.

  ‘One, two, three. Say safari.’ Katherine scrutinised the photo she had taken. ‘Great. One more, for luck. Okay, we’re so done here.’

  Julian was still looking at the original photo. He could hardly be jealous. It was all so long ago.

  Connie, Sara, Luke, Matt, Dan and Lizzie had been residents at Wills Hall in their first year. Connie had a room on the same floor as Lizzie and Sara. Twenty-two years later, their friendships had equity that only time can give.

  The Kalahari? Julian looked incredulous when Connie first tested out the idea. Why? Julian needed a strong argument for any plan that diverted dramatically from their norm, which was, Connie was the first to acknowledge, lovely and fortunate: four teenage children, weekdays in London and weekends in the constituency in Oxfordshire. Julian forcefully pitched for a birthday party at their country house in Adderbury. They could invite everyone they knew, including her university friends.

  Connie’s grandfather had built this hunting lodge, which was currently a privately owned safari reserve. She had known this fact for years and had never acted on it. She had been so busy with the children. Now Connie yearned to experience what her grandfather had created. Once she had thought of the idea, it was impossible to let it go.

  The second time Connie had suggested the Kalahari, Julian gave way. By then, their housekeeper Sally had announced that she was pregnant and Connie wo
ndered whether they would practically be able to go. Julian had suggested the holiday would give Sally some space to pack and get organised for the baby, before leaving to stay with her parents. While they were on holiday, Sally would obviously be in sole charge of the children, so Connie was surprised, but secretly relieved. She wasn’t going to employ another housekeeper – she couldn’t replace a close friend who had lived with them for over a decade. This was her chance to get away for a week without the children.

  Gus approached the group, playing with his brown leather bracelet. ‘Welcome to the Gae. I’m Gus – if we haven’t already met. And I’ll be riding out with you this week.’

  It was time for them to go. Sara slipped her BlackBerry into her bag and Matt put his arm protectively around Katherine’s shoulders.

  ‘I can honestly say that Gae is the most beautiful place on earth. One hundred thousand hectares of the most undisturbed wildlife. George Sanderson’s inspirational vision.’ Gus nodded towards Connie. She was touched he knew about her grandfather.

  ‘Oh, I must tell you. We have been to the Kruger,’ Katherine interrupted, ‘I was covering it for my magazine.’

  Gus nodded. Connie wasn’t sure whether it was in agreement, or merely a reflex.

  ‘Hand on heart that’s a zoo compared with what you will see here. We have only six vehicles on the whole reserve. You will experience something like no other safari. Trust me, eh. This evening, we’ll take our first proper orientation drive out – see some action with the Southern Pride.’

  ‘Southern Pride?’ Julian interjected.

  Connie caught Luke eyeing Julian.

  Gus smiled more easily than they did. ‘The Southern Pride are our young lions, who were spotted this morning at a water hole.’

  Already, Gus seemed able to bind them together in this adventure in a way that Connie had so far failed. His rebellious blond-brown hair had a laid-back shapelessness that reminded Connie of her eldest son, Leo. She wondered how Gus saw them. A lost, pale lot.

  ‘This is Ben, our tracker. We are lucky to have him, eh?’ His slight nod and direct gaze made it clear that ‘we are’. ‘Ben was born here on the northern part of the reserve. He worked in the mines, but made it back here a couple of years ago. Nothing out in the bush escapes him. I trust him with my life.’ Even broader grin. ‘I have trusted him with my life.’