I took in Prof’s last cup of tea as usual about ten to five and found him rooting through one of his overflowing desk drawers. He stopped when I came in and ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up in the most endearing manner, before picking up his mug. ‘Sorry about earlier,’ he said, taking a biscuit from the plate I had brought in for him.
‘It’s fine. I got the tube back here no problem.’ I had completely forgiven him and had spent the afternoon going over the delicious divorce news in my mind, trying to work out how long it would be before he was free to be with me.
‘Oh yes, me rushing off to meet Lola.’ He paused and frowned and then a curious look crossed his face which I couldn’t fathom. ‘No, I actually meant sorry about offloading on you about Martha. It’s just that I think it’s only fair you know what’s going on, as we work together and so on.’ He opened another drawer as I considered the hideous possibility that he had told me about the divorce for purely professional reasons. It had to be more than that, and then there was the hint of a trip to Rome. I opened my mouth to reassure him, but he was already immersed in the contents of the new drawer.
‘Too much stuff, Sylvia, that’s the trouble,’ he said, dragging out a pile of yellowing papers and dumping them in the bin.
‘Can I help? What are you looking for?’ I asked, snapping out of my reverie and fighting the urge to tidy the mess up for him.
‘Just that article about … oh, here it is.’ He held up an ancient magazine in triumph.
‘Good,’ I smiled, happy he had found what he wanted.
He continued sorting through the drawer and pulled out a blue velvet-covered lined notebook that I recalled him receiving as a secret Santa present several Christmases ago at the staff party. The very same party, in fact, where he had kissed me passionately under the mistletoe in the corridor, away from prying eyes, before running his hands down my back and murmuring in my ear that I smelt wonderful. By the time I had regained my composure he had disappeared back into the festive fray and we have never spoken of it since. We both know, though, that the connection was there and that it is only a matter of time before we will begin our love affair in earnest.
‘Do you want this? It’s rather nice’ he said, turning it over in his hands and then holding it out to me, ‘and I’m not going to use it.’
I was torn between my desire not to hurt Prof’s feelings and my deep disappointment that this appeared to be as close to a birthday present that I was going to get from him this year. In the end I nodded, unable to refuse any offering, however small, that came from him.
‘Here you go, then, you can write down all your secrets in it. Happy birthday!’ He laughed and passed it into my open hands. I felt the brush of his suit cuff on my wrist, sending tingles all along my arm. ‘Thank you,’ I mouthed, although, to my humiliation, no sound would come out. ‘You might as well have this as well to go with it,’ he said as an afterthought, passing me a shabby plastic box with a picture of a ballpoint pen on the lid. I bit my lip and took it from him with another meek ‘thank you’ and slunk back to my desk to lick my wounds.
I put the journal and the pen box on my desk and kept glancing at them as I finished up for the day. I couldn’t understand how Prof could be so cruel as to think that a second-hand journal and a cheap pen would suffice as my gift, especially given the countless hours I spend searching the shops for perfect presents for him, and I experienced the familiar confusion that he so often provokes in me. I could barely bring myself to be civil as he walked past me and out of the office with a cheery ‘Bye, Sylvia, see you tomorrow.’ He even had the audacity to wink at me as he pulled on his coat.
I sat for a little while longer assimilating the events of the day, trying to decide whether I should feel hopeful or utterly dejected. Eventually I picked up the box and opened it, intending at least to get some use out of the pen. I gasped when I saw what was inside. An exquisite gold bracelet with charms of diamond-studded stars lay on a bed of white and pink rose petals. I picked it up with shaking hands and tears sprung to my eyes. I grabbed the blue velvet notebook and opened it at the first page.
‘Sylvia, you are my absolute star.’ Prof had written in his flourishing style, ‘Wishing you a very happy birthday. Carl x’.
I held it to my chest as pure elation flowed through me. My Prof, my darling Prof.
So here it is, my personal journal gifted to me by Prof. Starting today I am going to write down everything that happens between us and everything about myself that I never get the chance to tell him. I like to think that when we are in our dotage we can sit and read it, laugh a little, perhaps, at the capricious nature of love, and remember our journey and how we finally ended up having a life together.
Saturday 5 September
I met Millie for coffee in town this morning to talk about arrangements for Mother’s eightieth birthday dinner, Kamal’s aunties’ upcoming visit from India, and a few other inconsequential things. Crystal came too, a bit later – she was shopping for an outfit for her start-of-year prom. This is now the thing for sixteen-year-olds – very American – and Kamal had given her a small fortune to buy the perfect dress. I felt the familiar discomfort when Crystal arrived and shifted as subtly as I could in my seat to extend the space between us by a few inches. Millie may have picked up on it, though, as she shot me a puzzled look.
‘Let’s see the dress then,’ Millie trilled, pulling at the carrier bag her daughter had shoved under the table as she slouched down into her seat. I knew it wouldn’t go well. Crystal is a much more conservative dresser than her mother and cringes with embarrassment at some of Millie’s more outlandish outfits, such as the lime-green dungarees and work boots she had on today.
‘It doesn’t matter, Mum, you won’t like it.’ But Crystal’s protests were no match for my sister’s determination. I had to suppress a smirk as Millie held up a three-quarter length brown nylon shift with long sleeves and a round neck. She looked confused and then hopeful.
‘That’s a bit plain, darling, are you going to jazz it up a bit?’
‘No,’ Crystal replied sulkily.
‘Oh, well I’m sure it’s all the rage; I must be out of touch with teenage fashion.’ Millie looked at me for support and I raised my eyebrows noncommittally and took a sip of my black coffee.
‘Did you spend all the money Daddy gave you on it?’
Crystal shook her head and rummaged in her bag handing Millie back four of the five twenty-pound notes Kamal had given her.
‘Keep it, darling, buy some fabulous shoes or something to go with it,’ Millie urged.
Crystal sighed and put the money back in her purse. We sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute until Crystal’s phone beeped and she snatched it off the table as if someone had thrown her a lifeline. ‘It’s Lewis; he wants me to meet him at the library.’
‘OK, but please be back by seven for dinner, darling. Daddy is doing a roast.’ Crystal wrinkled her nose in distaste at the thought and Millie, with an anxious expression on her face, watched her leave. Then she shifted gear, back on to more comfortable child-boasting ground as she stirred another sugar into her Frappuccino. ‘Exciting news, darling. Crystal’s had one of her drawings chosen for an exhibition of talented teenage artists.’ I feigned interest as she told me about it at length, wondering who on earth would want to look at one of Crystal’s gloomy compositions.
It was only when we were leaving ourselves that we realised Crystal had left her carrier bag under the table. ‘I do worry about her,’ said Millie pulling out the top of the dress and rubbing the cheap nylon fabric between her fingers. ‘And this Lewis boy she spends all her time with? I’m sorry, but he is such a nerd. Can you use that word any more or does it have some awful connotation? And he’s so dull, darling, you can’t get two words out of him.’
I held back from saying he sounds perfect for Crystal. Millie still seems to be under the impression that her daughter will one day transform into an exuberant, flamboyant socialite,
a younger version of herself, ready to set the world alight with her sparkling wit and verve.
‘And what sixteen-year-olds meet at a library in this day and age? I thought all the libraries had closed, anyway. What are they going to do there? Everything they could want to read is online, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe they just want to be somewhere quiet?’ I suggested mildly.
‘And she’s got a lovely figure under all those baggy shirts she wears. At her age I wanted to be part of the action, meeting different people, having fun, being impulsive …’
‘I know, Millie, I remember it well.’
‘You can’t get these years back again. Being young and beautiful doesn’t last forever.’
I nodded sagely in agreement, trying to look like I cared about Crystal’s wasted youth as I held the door open for her. She finally noticed my bracelet and her fingers reached out to touch it as it sparkled in the light.
‘That’s so pretty. Where did you get it?’
‘I treated myself, for my birthday.’ I have never let on to Millie how special Prof is to me. I couldn’t bear her pragmatic opinions or, worse, constant teasing.
‘Well, good for you, darling. You deserve nice things,’ Millie said absently as she looked for where she had parked the car.
Kamal was holding the fort in the deli for the afternoon and looked hassled and dishevelled when we got back. He was serving a tall Nigerian woman in traditional dress and headgear whose three children were running riot round the shop as he tried to get her complicated requirements right. ‘No, not those – I want to try the peppery ones. My husband likes the chicken you do – no, not that much, he can’t have everything he wants,’ the woman laughed and Kamal scowled as he caught sight of me behind Millie.
‘Hi, baby, how’s it going?’ Millie is eternally cheerful, as a counterfoil to Kamal’s terminal grumpiness, but she knows just how to handle him. He ignored her as he finished serving the customer and when she and her children had gone he took off his apron and threw it on the counter.
‘You said you’d be back by three.’ He held up three fingers for emphasis.
‘I know, darling, sorry. We got chatting and Crystal took ages choosing her dress.’
He glared at me accusingly, as if it was my fault, as Millie turned towards the counter to check out the cash register.
‘You have done so well, though,’ she said as she lifted out a wad of tens. ‘My lovely husband.’ She took his face in her left hand and gently stroked his cheek. All the tension seeped from him in the wake of her loving admiration.
‘My God, woman, you take the piss. You really do.’ He flicked a tea towel at her bottom and she jumped out the way. Then he grabbed her in a hug and they kissed like teenagers. As usual, I felt like I was invisible and backed out the door. I was eager to get home anyway to proofread Prof’s latest journal article on inequalities in the secondary school system in England and Wales.
Friday 11 September
It was Mother’s eightieth birthday dinner at Millie and Kamal’s this evening and we all had to pretend to be happy about it.
I had come in the side way and came across Kamal and Millie in the garden. They didn’t see me at first. They were sitting on the swinging bench together, Millie with her legs to the side under her paisley shawl, curled against Kamal who sat face on with his arm protectively around her. They were talking softly to each other, looking ahead across the garden towards the beech trees at the far end which were gently swaying in the warm evening breeze. The kitchen door was open and the radio was on, a delicious spicy smell drifting out along with Jazz FM. For a moment I just watched them, feeling their togetherness and intimacy as if I was somehow wedged between them, part of their muted words and entwined lives. Then came the stab of being apart from that, alone, as usual and a wave of melancholy swept over me. I had to shake myself out of it, of course. There is no place for maudlin at a supper party.
I packed the painful feelings away and composed a cheerful expression on my face as I strode towards them, saying, ‘Gosh, you two look cosy! Room for a little one?’
Kamal’s face was a picture. He still is never quite sure with English humour, not knowing whether we are joking or not. After all these years, I suppose some things are unlearnable. Plus, I think he is always silently terrified that I am going to blow his cover and reveal our horrible little secret to Millie, but truly, that is something that I would never ever do.
Millie, as always, was pleased to see me and jumped up, taking me by the hand into the kitchen to show me what they’d made, desperate as usual for Mother’s approval. A feast of coconut fish curry, raita, rice, fresh light naans, a dish with okra and cauliflower pakoras. Millie and Crystal had also rather impressively made a cake in the shape of a West Highland Terrier with chocolate buttons for eyes and a slice of strawberry for a tongue in honour of Mother’s snappy little dog, Hamish.
Mother arrived soon after and seemed quietly pleased with the effort. Dressed in cream linen, as usual she looked immaculate, belying a trip to the beauty salon earlier for hair, nails and eyebrow grooming. I marvelled at how she sat dead straight in her garden chair, as if she had a broom up her back, with her ankles neatly crossed and a benign expression arranged on her face. She nibbled at the food and said the right things about the cake, but she always manages to give the impression of being slightly disappointed in all of us – or perhaps with life in general. I have never been able to work it out. Millie and I have talked about it at length and I have to say that it seems to bother her a lot more than it does me. But that’s Millie all over, she’s a people-pleaser. She just wants everybody to be happy and I think, in a way, Mother has always let her take responsibility for that so she doesn’t have to.
It was warm enough to eat outside (I had two small spoonfuls of rice and one of fish curry) and it was beautiful, really, until the bats started fluttering across the garden and Crystal got scared.
‘Silly girl! We used to have bats inside our house in Kochi,’ Kamal teased her. ‘Uncle Prakash used to catch them and put them up my shirt – so tickly!’ He laughed his rolling hearty laugh and Millie looked lovingly at him. She likes him to share stories from his childhood in India with Crystal, for him to try and make it real for her.
Millie worries that Crystal is not ‘in touch’ enough with her heritage and is always trying to encourage the girl to email her relatives in Kerala and wear a sari and learn Indian dancing. As far as I can see, the more she pushes, the more Crystal stubbornly digs her heels in. Even tonight she refused to eat the curry and had an avocado salad instead that Millie made her quietly in the kitchen when everyone was talking. I also saw her feed Hamish her pakoras under the table and that was naughty, because Kamal makes them especially for her because they’re supposed to be her favourite. Utterly spoilt in my view. Who cares if she feels Indian or not? She lives in South London, for goodness’ sake; being mixed race is hardly something unusual or worth making a fuss about.
It’s not Crystal’s fault that I don’t like her. I have tried, over the years, not to let the past affect my relationship with her (the last thing I want is Millie picking up on it) but I know she knows there is a problem there. I can’t quite hide my lack of genuine enthusiasm about Crystal’s many and varied achievements over the years. Her first steps, first words, writing her name, passing her ballet exams – the list goes on and on – and with each occasion the news has been delivered to me like a special present that I am invited to share in the joy of opening. And no matter how hard I have tried, and still try, to look pleased and say the right things, there is a note of discord in my voice and in my reactions that chills and often kills the moment. To Millie’s credit, she still includes me in everything the damn child ever does or plans to do, or wants to do. We have detailed discussions about what I can get her for birthdays and Christmas and Crystal writes gushing thank-you cards for Auntie Sylvia that are, I suspect, dictated by Millie. It is an orchestrated relationship, I suppose, not a real one.
It may sound cruel, but I wouldn’t care if I never saw Crystal again and I suspect she feels the same way about me. But we both hang in there for Millie’s sake.
Anyway, Mother seemed to like her presents. Millie had made her a complicated hand-embroidered cushion cover that had all sorts of meanings related to her life that she did explain to me at some point but which I have now totally forgotten. I gave her a silver-framed picture of her and Father at their pearl anniversary, which was only about three months before he died and it’s the last nice picture we have of him before the cancer made him lose all that weight and his face went waxy. She always loved Father more than she did us, so there was no point giving her a picture of her with me and Millie. Crystal gave her some floral soap and a set of bath salts that I thought was a bit weak and thoughtless but I said nothing.
The doorbell rang around ten and Crystal rushed to answer it. She slunk back into the garden with Lewis standing behind her like a shadow, his long brown hair hanging lankly over the shoulders of his leather biker jacket.
‘Is it OK if we go up to my room to listen to music?’ Crystal asked, staring at her feet in embarrassment. Mother sniffed loudly in disgust as Millie agreed. I think Millie wanted to make a point to Mother that, unlike her, she is a liberal, accepting parent, because I know she can’t stand Lewis under normal circumstances. Kamal went up after about twenty minutes anyway and ushered Lewis out. I heard Crystal slam her bedroom door and took that as my cue to leave. I was halfway out the door when I remembered I had left my wrap on one of the garden chairs and Millie offered to go out the back and fetch it. I was standing in the hall when Kamal came out the lounge.
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