by Matt Dunn
Ash reaches a hand up to his face anxiously. ‘Where?’
‘Your percentage, I mean. Of my sales. You want to negotiate.’
‘I do?’
‘I mean, I really appreciate you letting me show my work in the restaurant, and all that, but it works both ways, doesn’t it? Otherwise, you’d have to go out and get some other paintings to cover the walls, which you’d have to pay for, and . . .’ I stop talking, because Ash still hasn’t said anything, and then start to feel a little sick. Maybe that’s what’s happening. Perhaps his mum and dad have decided they don’t like my stuff any more, and want to replace it with something a bit more, well, Indian. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You want to replace my work with some rubbish prints from IKEA, don’t you? Well, what’s it going to take? Fifteen per cent? Twenty? My firstborn child? Because . . .’
Ash suddenly holds both hands up, as if he’s trying to fend off a beach-ball. ‘Your firstborn child? I can’t wait that long. And, anyway, it’s nothing like that. I’m getting married.’
‘What?’
Ash nods. ‘Yes. Can you believe it?’ he says, evidently not quite believing it himself.
For a moment, I can’t think what the appropriate response should be, my relief at not losing my only exhibition space overshadowed by my complete and utter astonishment. ‘When? Why?’ I start to say, then fortunately manage to turn them into a hurried ‘Who to?’, before draining most of my beer in one gulp. ‘I mean, I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend.’ I shake my head, and then realize that as surprised as I am at his news, Ash is even more stunned at my reaction. ‘I’m sorry, Ash. What I mean to say is “Congratulations”, of course.’
He breaks into a relieved grin. ‘Thanks.’
We clink our beer glasses together, then regard each other across the table, grinning like idiots, until I actually have to ask. ‘But seriously, who is this woman? And what’s she like?’
‘Priti,’ he says, glancing at his watch again, and then at the door.
‘Is she?’
Ash frowns. ‘Is she what?’
‘Pretty.’
‘No, that’s her name. It’s spelt P-R-I-T-I.’ Ash reaches into his wallet, then hands me a photograph of an extremely attractive girl dressed in a sari. ‘Although as a matter of fact, she is.’
I whistle appreciatively. ‘You’re telling me. She’s Indian, right?’ I say, studying the photo closely.
‘No, Ben. That’s her at a fancy dress party. Of course she’s Indian.’
I shake my head incredulously. ‘Well, you certainly managed to keep that quiet. And why haven’t I met her?’
Ash shrugs, then adjusts his tie. ‘I’ve only met her a couple of times myself, to be honest.’
I nearly drop the photo into my beer glass. ‘What? And you’re getting married?’
Ash snatches Priti’s picture from me and carefully slides it back into his wallet. ‘Well, okay, maybe more than a couple.’
‘How many more than a couple, exactly?’
‘Including today?’
‘Yes, Ash,’ I say, finally understanding who today’s mystery guest is going to be, and why Ash is so nervous. ‘Including today.’
‘Well . . . Three.’
‘Three? And when was the last time you saw her?’
Ash frowns into his glass, as if the answer’s in there. ‘I dunno. Must have been five or six . . .’
‘What? Days ago? Weeks?’
‘No. I must have been five. Or six. I can’t remember. But that’s not so surprising, seeing as we don’t live in the same country.’ He takes another sip of his beer. ‘But my mum and dad have been planning this for ages – they were friends with her parents before we moved here – and we’ve been emailing and speaking on the phone for the last few months, so it’s not as if we’re complete strangers.’
As Ash’s voice tails off, I stare across the table at him, still trying to get my head around the whole concept of what I assume is his mum and dad shipping a girl in from India for him to marry. ‘So your parents have . . . arranged the whole thing?’
Ash nods. ‘Well, yes. That’s why it’s called an arranged marriage. She’s arriving today for a visit – to see where I live, and everything. And assuming we get on face-to-face, then we probably will. Get married, I mean,’ he says, matter-of-factly.
‘And you don’t think it’s a bit . . . Weird?’
‘Nah. My lot do it all the time.’
It’s my turn to glance nervously at the door. ‘And she’s on her way here? Now?’
Ash unbuttons his jacket, then does it up again, obviously preferring to keep his stomach covered. ‘Yup. My folks picked her up from the airport this afternoon. We’ve got a big family meal planned this evening, then she gets to meet the cousins tomorrow.’
‘But you haven’t seen her yourself yet?’
‘Nope. But she’ll be along any minute.’
‘Hang on. So you haven’t seen her for the best part of, what, twenty-five years?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’ve arranged to meet her here? This evening?’
‘Yup.’
‘With me?’
‘Well, I wanted to make a good impression.’
‘Don’t you think you’d have made a better one by picking her up from the airport yourself?’
‘Nah. She thinks I’m a businessman. So I said I had a
client meeting.’
‘With your only client.’
Ash grins. ‘I may have neglected to mention that particular fact. But you’re a famous artist around these parts.’
‘Well, that’s very nice of you to say so,’ I say, swelling a little with pride, ‘but I hardly think that’s true.’
‘Maybe not,’ says Ash, immediately bursting my bubble. ‘But she doesn’t know that, does she?’
‘And what does she know about you? That you’re . . .’
‘Like I said, a businessman,’ repeats Ash. ‘And a
successful one.’
‘I was going to say “fat’’,’ I counter.
Ash pats his stomach self-consciously. ‘Yes, well, I’ve been trying those diet milkshake things, and they don’t work.’
‘That’s because you’re supposed to have them instead of meals. Not as well as.’
‘I was hungry.’ Ash sighs. ‘Besides, I’m not fat. I’m big-boned.’
‘I hope you haven’t told Priti that.’
‘Why not?’
‘You don’t want her to be disappointed on her wedding night.’
‘Very funny.’
As Ash fixes his gaze on the pub door, I don’t quite know what to say. For all his outward anxiety, Ash seems to be treating this as a pretty normal sequence of events. ‘Listen. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to be meeting her on your own?’
‘You’re joking. I’d be a nervous wreck.’
‘As opposed to the cool, calm, collected person sitting in front of me?’
Ash grabs a serviette from the dispenser on the table and dabs at the sweat on his upper lip. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘No, Ash. You look fine.’
‘Great, because this is important, you know? And I’d hate to mess it . . .’ He suddenly stops talking and breaks into a huge smile, and when I look over my shoulder, I can see the reason why. Priti looks just like her photo – although she’s not dressed in a sari this time, but a pair of jeans and a duffel coat – and to Ash’s obvious delight, she certainly lives up to her name.
Ash waves at her – a pretty unnecessary gesture, seeing as he’s the only other Indian in the pub, and in fact, apart from me and the barman, the only other person in the pub – and as she walks over to our table, he leaps out of his chair with an unusual athleticism.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hi, Ashif,’ replies Priti, smiling shyly up at him. Her accent’s quite strong, and a little hard to place, although of course, having never been to India, it wouldn’t make any difference to me even if I could
place it.
Ash half holds a hand out, not sure what the correct greeting is – although I have to say I’d be just as clueless given the circumstances – and they do an awkward little dance, before Priti grabs his arm and kisses him lightly on the cheek. I can’t help feeling like I’m intruding, and wonder whether I should just sneak away, but don’t think I’d be able to get past Ash, so instead, after I’ve left a suitable pause, just clear my throat awkwardly.
‘Oh yes. Sorry,’ says Ash, looking round suddenly, as if he’s just remembered that I’m here, ‘Ben, this is Priti. Priti, this is Ben.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ I shake her outstretched hand, and concentrate on speaking very slowly, in the hope she’ll understand me. I know that they’re bilingual in a lot of India, but Ash doesn’t always speak to his parents in English, so I can’t just assume that Priti’s going to be fluent.
‘Hello,’ says Priti, breaking into a broad smile, and almost immediately I can see why Ash is so smitten. ‘Nice to meet you too.’
‘Let me get you a drink,’ says Ash, looking like he’s in need of another one himself.
‘Thanks. A half of lager, please.’
‘Lager?’ says Ash in an impressed tone, as if Priti’s just admitted to being a fan of the same football team as him. ‘Right,’ he adds, winking at me, before scampering off to the bar like an excited puppy, albeit a rather well-fed one.
As Priti watches him go, I find myself staring at her, wondering what kind of woman would up sticks and move halfway round the world to marry someone she’s only met a couple of times. But Priti doesn’t look desperate – far from it, in fact. As she sits down in the seat opposite, I’m conscious that I’m still staring, so I quickly sit back down myself.
‘Not too chilly for you, is it?’ I ask, noticing she hasn’t taken her coat off. ‘Here in England, I mean, rather than this particular pub.’ Great. Thirty seconds after meeting her, and I’m already talking about the weather. And I wonder why I’m single.
‘Oh no,’ says Priti, sitting down at the table. ‘I’m used to it being colder, actually. Plus, it’s nice to get away from all that rain.’
‘Ah yes,’ I say, assuming she must mean the monsoons. ‘So are you finding it weird? Being in England, I mean? And in Margate.’ For some reason, I adopt a funny voice when I pronounce the town’s name, maybe to make it sound exotic.
Priti shrugs. ‘No. Although is it always this quiet here?’
I peer around the pub’s gloomy interior. Even though there’s just the four of us in the place, Ash still seems be having trouble attracting the barman’s attention away from whatever minority sport he’s watching on the big-screen TV in the corner.
‘This is actually quite busy for a Friday night,’ I say, realizing it must contrast somewhat with the billion or so in Priti’s homeland.
Priti laughs. ‘You’re kidding?’
I suddenly realize that I shouldn’t be saying anything that might put Priti off – after all, it’s not just Ash she’s come here to check out – so decide to change the subject. ‘That’s a lovely accent, by the way,’ I say. ‘Where exactly are you from?’ But when she replies, her answer is somewhere I’ve never heard of.
‘Dhundhi?’ I try to pronounce it in the same way she just has. ‘Whereabouts is that?’
‘On the east coast.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been to India.’
‘Oh?’ Priti looks a little surprised. ‘Well, Ash and I might visit for our honeymoon. Assuming he’ll have me, of course,’ she adds, more for the returning Ash’s benefit than mine.
‘What are you two talking about?’ he says, carefully placing a half of lager down on the table in front of her.
‘I was telling Ben we might go to India. On honeymoon. After we’re, you know, married,’ she says, as if testing out the last word to see how it feels.
Ash picks his pint up, and regards her over the top of it. ‘So, the wedding’s still on, is it?’
‘For now,’ says Priti, nervously holding her glass out for him to clink his against. ‘Although you’ve still got to get through the rest of the weekend.’
As the two of them gaze shyly at each other over the tops of their respective drinks, and although surely it should be Priti who’s jet-lagged, it’s me who’s more than a little confused. And I must be looking like I’m feeling, because Ash puts his beer down and frowns across the table at me. ‘Something the matter, Ben?’
‘No, I’m sorry. It’s just . . .’ I’m wondering where to start, when Priti interrupts me.
‘Ben was just asking me about home. And how it compared to Margate,’ says Priti, giving the word the same emphasis that I did.
Ash shrugs. ‘Well, that’s one of the reasons you’re here this weekend. To see if you like it.’
‘We could always live there,’ suggests Priti. ‘Move in with my parents.’
‘And leave my favourite client, just when he’s on the verge of the big time?’ Ash digs me in the ribs. ‘Besides, I wouldn’t understand a word anyone said.’
I’m even more confused now – although admittedly, that’s partly because I didn’t know I was on the verge of the big time. ‘But I thought you spoke . . .’ I stop talking again. What’s the language called? ‘Indian?’
Ash smiles. ‘Ben, for the millionth time, there’s no such thing as “Indian”. It could be Gujarati, or Urdu, or Hindi, but technically . . .’
‘Okay, okay. Sorry.’
Ash turns back to Priti. ‘And it’s not as if your parents live a million miles away, is it? I mean, they’re even planning to drive here next month for the party.’
I look at the two of them in turn. ‘Party?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Ash. ‘We’re planning a big engagement party next month. At the restaurant. Which you’ll be coming to, of course.’
‘And your parents are going to drive?’ I ask, ignoring Ash’s kind invitation. ‘All the way?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Priti. ‘You can do it in a day.’
Ash swallows a mouthful of beer. ‘As long as you don’t take the scenic route, and use the bridge. Which your parents are happy to do, now that it’s free.’
Priti pokes him playfully on the arm. ‘They’re not that tight. After all, they’ll be paying for the wedding.’
‘Which is going to be here too, right?’ I say, still wondering what I’m more astonished about – the fact that anyone would consider driving here from India, and that they could do it in a day – or that someone’s gone and built a bridge.
‘Oh yes,’ says Ash. ‘Who wants to get married in Scotland? It rains all the time, for one thing.’
‘Like I was telling Ben,’ says Priti.
‘In . . . Scotland?’
Ash shakes his head. ‘Keep up, Ben. Where Priti’s from?’
‘But . . . Dhundhi?’
‘Dundee,’ says Ash. ‘That’s right.’
‘Of course,’ I say, finally recognizing her accent as from north of the border. ‘And the bridge would be . . .’
‘The Forth Road Bridge,’ says Priti.
‘Right. That’s, er, what I thought. Obviously.’
Priti looks at me for a second, then starts to laugh.
‘You didn’t . . . India?’ she says, in between gasps. ‘A bridge?’
I feel myself start to redden. ‘No. I mean, yes. But Ash hadn’t mentioned, well, anything about you until about five minutes ago. And I thought these arranged marriages were all about . . . Well, I don’t know what I thought, to be honest,’ I say, to no one in particular, before picking my beer up and pretending to be interested in something floating in the glass.
Ash smiles. ‘Think of it like an introduction service,’ he says. ‘Like I said, we knew each other as kids, and our families have kept in touch over the years, and they get on well . . .’
Priti nods. ‘And so it’s natural to see whether we might hit it off as adults.’
‘Exactly,’ says Ash, smiling across the table at her.
‘Plus, Ash’s parents made it worth my while,’ adds Priti. ‘Financially. Which is really where the arrangement part comes from.’
‘What?’ I stare at the two of them in disbelief. ‘So Ash’s mum and dad paid you to . . .’
‘Of course they didn’t,’ says Ash quickly, as Priti starts sniggering.
‘You should have seen your face,’ she says, although I’m not sure whether she’s referring to me or Ash.
‘I’m sorry about Ben,’ he says. ‘He’s an artist. He doesn’t know much about the real world.’
‘Of course. You’re the painter,’ says Priti, struggling to regain her composure. ‘Perhaps you could paint me?’
‘In the nude, maybe?’ says Ash. ‘Sorry. Bad taste joke,’ he adds quickly, when he sees Priti’s expression.
I excuse myself and head off to the toilet, leaving an embarrassed Ash to explain what he meant, hoping for his sake that he hasn’t fallen at the first hurdle. But my fears are unfounded, as by the time I come back, they’re gazing into each other’s eyes like lovestruck teenagers.
I finish the rest of my beer quickly, then clear my throat. ‘Well, as much as I’d like to stay here and play gooseberry, my art class beckons. Priti, it was lovely to meet you. Ash, thanks for the beer. And congratulations. Both of you.’
‘Thanks, Ben,’ says Priti, standing up, and giving me a peck on the cheek. ‘Great to meet you too. And I’d love to see your work sometime. Maybe you could do a picture of the two of us?’ She smiles down at Ash.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘A wedding portrait, maybe?’
‘Thanks, Ben,’ says Ash, as I make my way towards the door. ‘But I was kind of assuming we’d get a photographer.’
Chapter 3
Still a little stunned at Ash’s news, I pull the pub door shut behind me, then make my way up the High Street, and I’m taking a short cut through Boots – not because I want to take advantage of the fact that it’s late-night shopping, but because I could do with a blast from their heating – when I spot an attractive girl about to walk in through the opposite door. And when I say attractive, I don’t mean in a pretty, er, Priti kind of way – even though she’s Asian too – but rather jaw-droppingly stopme-in-my-tracks attractive; long dark hair that offsets her coffee-coloured skin, a cute nose, and full, kissable lips. For a moment, I don’t know what to do. I could hold the door open for her, of course, but she might turn out to be one of those raging feminists who then decides to punch me in the face for being sexist enough to imagine she couldn’t possibly manage this big heavy door without male assistance. Alternatively, I could just walk on through, thus making her wait, which would give me longer to stare at her. But by the looks of her, she’s in a bit of a hurry, and whilst I quite enjoy bumping into attractive women on the street – especially since it’s the only physical contact I get with the opposite sex at the moment – given the speed she’s going, I might come off worse.