by Sonya Lalli
Oh, baby.
Conversation came so naturally between us, and as we walked over to the café, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d known her for years. Were we capable of going the distance? Becoming true friends and transcending our work friendship built on convenience, common ground, and office space?
It hadn’t taken me long to figure out that I’d misjudged Ainsley. Even though she was married and had a family, she continued to march to the beat of her own drum and make space in her life for other things. Other people.
I wondered . . . No. I shook my head, pushing out the fantasy that she and I might be perfect for each other. I was getting way ahead of myself. I had a tendency to do that.
Kismet was unusually packed for a weekday evening, but Ainsley managed to find a free table in the back while I ordered us London Fogs at the front counter. I brought them over, and just as I set them down, I felt my phone buzz in my back pocket. It was Becket, asking me if I wanted to come over. I texted to say that I was out with Ainsley and would be a few hours, and suggested that I come over the following night.
“Was that the boyfriend?” Ainsley asked as I sat down.
I nodded. “Yeah. Becket.”
“Solid name. So what’s he like?” She put her elbow on the table, leaning forward. Apparently, we were jumping straight into the personal questions portion of the date. “All you’ve said is he’s a photographer and cute and fun and . . . nice. So except for the photographer part, he could basically be a golden retriever.”
I laughed. “I don’t know. What else is there to say?”
“Does he make you happy?”
I nodded, slowly. “Things are great. We have a lot of fun together. But it’s still early, you know.”
“How long have you been dating?”
“I met him at my sister’s wedding. Wow. So it’s been more than two months already.”
Over London Fogs, I gave Ainsley a synopsis of Becket and our relationship so far, how he was a very dutiful boyfriend and how I was the one taking things at a slower pace, keeping our lives and a lot of our time separate.
“Do you want to get married?” she asked me afterward, bluntly. “Have a family and all that expensive jazz? Feel free to ignore the question. It’s a personal one.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “And no. I don’t want all that ‘jazz.’ I don’t want to marry or have my own children.”
Ainsley smiled. I was surprised by the lack of judgment on her face. It was nice.
“That must have been a fun conversation with your parents.”
I snorted. “It was like going to Disneyland.”
“Have you told Becket, though?” I shook my head, and she continued. “Because maybe it’s something you should talk about before you—”
“It’s early still,” I said briskly. “There’s no need yet.” I looked around the café. It was filling up even more now, and I could see one of the baristas setting up a podium. I wondered if a live band was about to play.
“So what about you?” I said, turning back to Ainsley. That was definitely enough about me. It was her turn for the grilling. “Did you always know you wanted to get married?”
“I knew I wanted to get married once, but not twice.” She chuckled. “But life happened, and here we are.”
“Nikesh seems great, though.”
“He is. He really is.” She laughed. “It’s so funny that he knew you before I did. He’d actually mentioned you. He would talk about an Indian woman who came almost every Saturday with short, short hair and a tattoo on her neck.”
I laughed. “Not a lot of us out there.”
“He admired you. He called you brave.”
Brave.
Only for a woman, an Indian woman in particular, would just being herself be considered brave. Ainsley looked like she was about to say something else, but realizing she’d switched back to me as the subject of conversation, I cut her off.
“So tell me more about your in-laws,” I said. “I gather that they aren’t exactly supportive of your marriage?”
“Ha!” She stretched her arms up and back and then brought them down quickly. “Unsupportive is the same thing as actively trying to destroy it, right?”
“No way . . .”
“Feels like it.” Ainsley sipped her drink. “Actually, my mother-in-law is fine. She’s wonderful, but she’s fed up with her husband and now spends half the year in India.”
My eyes widened.
“I know, right? Good for her. They’re still together, technically, but she’s off Eat Pray Love–ing her best life, meaning my father-in-law has no life, so when he’s not working, he’s over at our house telling Nikesh to ‘be a man,’ not a nanny, that he should make his wife stay home and be a ‘real mother.’”
I scoffed, enraged on her behalf. Not all Indian men were the sexist stereotypes they were often portrayed to be, but some of them certainly were.
“And to him,” Ainsley continued, “a real mother shouldn’t be the breadwinner. She should be home raising her son. Can you believe it?” She shook her head. “And he never says that stuff to my face, but I know that’s what he’s saying to Nikesh.”
“They speak in Punjabi together?”
“Yeah, but even if I don’t understand all the words, I just know what he’s saying. Is that crazy?”
I shook my head. “More than half of communication is through body language.”
“And all his comments to me about how easy it is for ‘computer people’ to go freelance and work remotely—I just know he wants me to quit. Stay home.” She rolled her eyes. “Roll round rotis.”
I smiled, although it was a sad smile. Rolling round rotis was traditionally considered the measure of a woman’s domestic skills, her abilities, her worth, and it was surprising to hear Ainsley use the phrase. To fall victim to all this shit I’d taken pains to avoid. It didn’t matter how hard we tried to be the perfect woman or daughter or daughter-in-law; it would never be good enough. Our rotis would never be round enough, and I was very tempted to tell her she shouldn’t even bother to try.
“It doesn’t matter what he wants, Ainsley,” I said softly. “He wants you to quit your job? Fuck that. What do you want?”
“I . . .” She caught my eye, and all the milk and honey in my stomach seemed to sour. My question was meant to be rhetorical, but she’d taken it otherwise, and I was worried now about the response.
“Wait, are you thinking about quitting?” I shook my head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that—”
“No,” she said quickly. “It’s fine. I don’t want to go freelance, but . . .”
“But you’re thinking about it.”
“I would be lying to say I hadn’t thought about it, but I have been with Deborah since the beginning. So sometimes I do wonder what the next step should be. When it should be.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. Although I understood where she was coming from, I was suddenly saddened by the prospect that Ainsley might quit. As a friend—well, work friend—I was happy for her. But on a personal level, it freaking sucked. We were just starting to really click. If she changed jobs, except for the occasional run-in at the farmers market, I’d never see her again.
Shit. I had been getting my hopes up. And I kicked myself for it.
“I’m sorry you have to deal with all that cultural baggage,” I said finally. “It’s not fair, especially because you’re not even Indian yourself.”
“We both knew it would be hard when we got married. And Nikesh is worth it, but sometimes I wonder . . .” She sighed. “If it would be easier to just listen to my father-in-law and do what he wanted.”
“It wouldn’t make anything easier, and on top of that you’d be unhappy.” I sipped my drink, wiping the foam from my top lip. “That’s what I hear, at least. I wouldn’t know. I never obeyed my pare
nts. My sister did, though. I guess that’s why she’s the favorite.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
I didn’t answer, realizing the conversation had veered back in my direction.
“Random question,” I said, thinking about the Evite in my inbox. “Did you have a gender reveal party for MacKenzie?”
Ainsley looked at me strangely. “Nope. Why? Oh, is your sister having one or something?”
“Yeah, and I’m definitely a believer that women should do whatever makes them happy, but I find the whole thing a bit strange.”
“Preach,” Ainsley said, raising her voice. The café was getting louder. “Are you close with your sister?”
We used to be close. I basically planned her wedding for her, and now I’ve been demoted to the ranks of an Evited guest.
I was about to open my mouth to reply, without knowing quite how to answer the question, when I was saved by a loud screech coming from a speaker somewhere behind me. We all winced, turning. One of the baristas was standing behind the podium, a microphone in his hand, his cheeks burning red.
“Sorry about that,” he said, his voice booming from the microphone. “I’m Tom. And thank you for coming to our bimonthly Poetry Night at Kismet.” He grinned at the room, pulling his baseball cap farther back onto his head. “We’re going to start in five minutes. Sign-up sheet is by the register. Cheers!”
I turned back, smiling. “Poetry night? Wow. I didn’t know they did that here.”
“Me neither . . .” Ainsley said nonchalantly. “I’ll get us another round. Same thing?”
I smiled. Ainsley wasn’t using the event as an excuse to rush home to her family but wanted to keep hanging out.
“Sure, thanks. But do you want to go somewhere quieter?”
Ainsley shook her head, disappearing into the crowd, and I took a minute to check in with myself. We’d been at the café for more than an hour, but it felt like no time had passed at all—it felt exactly how it should feel with a really good friend.
How it had felt so many times before. Here I was again. Getting ahead of myself.
There was a lineup at the front counters, and Ainsley didn’t return with the London Fogs until the poetry night had already started. She slid my drink toward me on the table as the third poet of the evening took the stage. He looked to be in his early twenties, and his forehead was shiny, his voice shaking. I felt bad for him yet was impressed by his courage. To me, the poem he read sounded like a bunch of pretty words strung together, but everyone seemed to think it was great. At least they applauded at the end.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I whispered to Ainsley, after the clapping died down.
“Hmm?” she asked, vaguely.
“I feel awkward. We can’t really talk with this going on, no?”
“Maybe in a minute?” She didn’t meet my eye as she rifled around in her purse.
“OK . . .” I leaned back in my chair, and just then, the strangest thing happened.
The barista announced my name.
I didn’t quite believe it at first. It was as if I were watching myself, the whole scene, on television. The back of my neck heated up, and I could feel the blood rushing in my head. A beat later, I felt someone shaking my arm.
“Serena Singh?” I heard the barista call out again. “Is there a Serena Singh in the building?”
“Serena,” Ainsley said. I looked over at her, and she had a shit-eating grin on her face, and I realized what she’d done.
Oh dear god.
“Over here!” Ainsley yelled, standing up and pulling me with her. Everyone in the vicinity turned to look.
“What are you doing?” I whispered harshly.
“Serena, come on!” Ainsley said loudly so everyone could hear. “Someone’s being a bit shy over here . . .”
“We’re all friends here, Serena,” the barista said, as I tried to squirm away from Ainsley’s grip. “We’re here to support one another.”
“Thanks.” I cleared my throat, giving him a quick glance. “But, actually, tonight I’m not—”
“I think our friend Serena needs some encouragement, hey guys?” Ainsley yelled, clapping her hands together. “Let’s give it up for Serena Singh!”
Shaking, I looked around the café. Everyone was looking at me. Clapping for me. I threw dagger eyes at Ainsley, but she just smiled, cheered harder. A moment passed, and then another, and panic rose in my chest. Should I just leave? Up and go?
“You can do it!” I heard someone say from behind me and then another to my left, their voices earnest, encouraging. I couldn’t leave, and I was definitely going to murder Ainsley. Slowly, one foot after the other, I dragged myself toward the podium. The barista handed me the microphone as I reached him and then gave me a big pat on the back, like he was my scout leader. Taking a deep breath, I turned to face the crowd.
“Hi, guys . . .”
“Serena!” A holler from the crowd. I knew exactly where it came from.
“I’m a little nervous.” I coughed, swallowed the bile. “Give me a minute.”
Did I even know a poem? I’d taken a few English lit classes in university, but that was nearly fifteen years ago. I couldn’t even remember who I’d studied, let alone the poems.
But maybe I could read some random poem from the Internet and pass it off as my own. Someone like Rupi Kaur but less well-known. I pulled out my phone from my back pocket and clicked through to Google, but I didn’t have any bars. Shit. There was no reception in the back of the café.
“Come on, girl. You got this!”
Ainsley again. Seriously, remind me to murder her.
I was about to put my phone away, open my mouth, and just see what came out, when I spotted my notes app in the corner of the screen.
I clicked on it. I was a religious notetaker, immediately jotting down whatever thoughts or words or ideas popped into my head, in case it was useful for one work campaign or another. Without thinking, I clicked randomly on a file and just started . . . reading.
“Morning,” I said, my lips trembling. I barely recognized my voice. Why was I so nervous? I could speak in a boardroom. Surely, I could speak here.
“Morning,” I repeated, giving my voice authority. “Afternoon. Knight in shining armor.”
I paused, gathering my nerves.
“Lipstick,” I said. “Licking, sticking, picking one out.”
I chanced a look up, feeling ridiculous, but then realized the café was completely silent. So silent, I literally could have heard a pin drop.
They were staring at me. They were listening to me, and for whatever reason, it gave me a boost of confidence. Ainsley wanted a show. I was going to give her a show.
“Pharmaceuticals,” I said vigorously, reading again from my phone. I must have been thinking about the Stuart pitch when I wrote that word, a company that was looking to branch into a drinkable daily vitamin. “Don’t pop the pills or they’ll pop you.”
“Pop!” I said.
“POP!” I screamed.
“Why not drink it?”
I paused, for effect, staring into a random person’s eyes.
“Just drink it, girl. Drink, drink it up!”
“Sweet, salty apples. Maybe oranges. But not bananas.” I laughed, throwing my hair back. “Because that shit is ba-na-nas!”
I kept going. I kept reading from my phone in various intonations. There was no rhyme or reason to my notes—they were just words, ideas, stupid notes that I’d needed to jot down to remind me of something, trigger a memory, an idea. I couldn’t even remember why I had written some of this down.
“Lavender. Lust. Lily of the valley.” I licked my lips and shook my head like I had just heard the most terrible of news. And then I whispered, ever so gently, “Is the end.”
Graciously, dramatically, I cur
tsied, and the applause sounded. I looked up at the crowd and saw Ainsley shaking her head at me, laughing.
“What the fuck was that?” I saw her mouth at me, and I shrugged and, ever so discreetly, gave her the middle finger.
“Wow. Just wow.” The barista was beside me onstage, adjusting and readjusting his baseball cap. “For a first-timer, that was so brave.”
I coughed, trying not to laugh. “Thank you,” I deadpanned. “Thank you so much. What a crowd.”
“We all have so much to learn from you.” He crossed his arms, shaking his head at me. “Please, tell us about your piece.”
“It’s a meditation on consumerism,” I said without missing a beat.
He nodded vigorously. “I could feel it. I think we all could. Consumer culture. It’s killing our planet!”
Out loud, I told him I agreed, although in my head, I was wondering if it would break his heart if he knew my industry fed into the planet-killing culture.
“What’s your process? Where do you find your inspiration?” He patted his chest with four fingers. “Here?”
I sighed. “If you really want to know, my inspiration comes from a very dear friend of mine. Ainsley Woods.”
I heard a tiny yelp coming from the crowd.
“You’re in for a treat tonight, folks,” I said, finding my dear friend in the audience and looking her squarely in the eye. “Because she is performing next.”
14
Too dressy?” I came out of the closet, twirling my black skirt. “Does this say I like books and therefore you should be friends with me?”
“It’s saying . . .” Becket paused, scrutinizing my outfit. “I’m smoking hot. Let me be your hot friend.”
I rolled my eyes and went back in the closet, unzipping my black skirt. “It’s too dressy.”
“So what happened next?” Becket said from my bedroom, going back to our earlier conversation in which I’d been recapping that bloody poetry night. “Did Ainsley go up there?”
“I would have killed her if she didn’t.” I picked up my pair of high-waisted jeans from the floor, pulling them on. “Yeah, she came up and started performing the lyrics to a Taylor Swift song.”