I remember Dominique unfolding it from a little cloud of tissue and holding up the thin silver bracelet circled by two tiny hearts. She had been saving up for it ever since she had seen it in a silversmith in Mousehole. My parents had laughed at her squeals of delight and her fierce hugs of thanks.
Later that day I had gone upstairs to watch Dominique get ready for the parade. Maman was doing her hair in a complicated French plait. It took ages and I slipped into the window seat and watched.
Dominique’s thick dark hair gleamed as blue-black as a raven’s wing. Maman’s small hands weaved in and out gathering strands and creating a perfect thick plait that framed Dominique’s heart-shaped face.
Their eyes met in the mirror as Maman teased the final stray strands into place. Her hands rested lightly on Dominique’s shoulders.
‘You are a very beautiful girl, Dominique.’ Maman rarely paid compliments in case we got above ourselves.
Dominique smiled and said, looking back at Maman in the mirror, ‘I am like you, Maman. But do I also look like my father?’
I held my breath for a ruined moment but it did not come. Maman said quietly, ‘Yes, you are very like him. He was a beautiful man and I think a good one, but he was … unobtainable, irresponsible, unknowable, and he hurt me beyond all things by his rejection of me and of you, Dominique. That is all I will ever say to you.’
Dominique turned round in her chair. ‘Maman, I will never mention him again.’
I thought Maman might cry, but she said, ‘Right, it’s time the May Queen was leaving for St Ives …’ And she left the room calling for Papa.
Dominique sat on a large float on a throne surrounded by garlands of flowers and fairies as I stood in the crowd bursting with pride. Dominique looked so radiantly beautiful that people were clapping and cheering. Papa ran beside the float taking photos, but Maman, silently walking beside me, watched my sister with such a mixture of love and pride and longing that it made me ache for what I did not understand.
I thought the truce between Maman and my sister would last. I thought, as children do, that everything would be different and the arguments between them would end. But Dominique was a typical teenager; she went out and bought mask-like make-up, iridescent pink lipstick and covered her eyes in thick, flicky eyeliner and black mascara. She wanted to go out in totally inappropriate dresses pinched from Maman or mini-skirts she had designed herself from castoffs. Hormones flew around her changing body and she pushed boundaries constantly. I was awed by her sudden tantrums; they were spectacular and rocked the house. Papa would roll his eyes and head for the pub and I longed to go with him.
My sister had asked to move up to the attic room to have more space. But it seemed to me she ate up all the space in the house that summer, the summer before Maman became ill.
Two years later Maman sent her away to Aunt Laura. How could she bear to do it? How could this possibly have happened to our family?
I close the lid of the little box but I leave my sister’s bracelet on my wrist. I wore it every day for years and years, like a talisman, to keep her close. Mike gently slid it off when he bought me an expensive smooth rope of silver. A grown-up bracelet, he said. Sometimes, when he was away, I would slip the slim childish bracelet back on my wrist because it felt part of me, part of Dominique.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Karachi, 2010
As I come out of the shower one evening I hear the ping of an email. I open my laptop, thinking it might be Will or Matteo, but it is a message on my website from Sergei Orlov.
Dear Gabriella,
It was good to meet you at the Deputy High Commissioner’s party. I hope you remember? We talked about the possibility of you doing some work for IDARA. I am sorry not to have been in touch before. As soon as I got back from leave I had three weeks lecturing and fund raising in the UK. If you are still interested in helping, please let me know and I will contact you when I am back in Karachi. I will be working in North Pakistan for the next two weeks. Please do not worry if you are too busy with your translating, I will quite understand.
Best wishes to you,
Sergei Orlov
I feel a little thrill of excitement. People say a lot of things after a drink and I thought Sergei Orlov had probably gone on leave and forgotten all about our conversation, but he had not. I smile to myself. Of course I remember; he was the only person I talked with. I don’t even hesitate. I reply straight away. Sergei, I would still love to do some work with IDARA.
Wonderful, the Russian replies. I will be in touch soon, Gabriella.
I feel so exhilarated at the thought of my world opening up outside the hotel that I put some music on and dance about the large room. I don’t hear Mike come in but I suddenly see him standing leaning against the door, grinning. I stop abruptly and laugh, embarrassed.
‘Don’t stop. I spoilt your fun, I’m sorry, darling.’
‘I can’t go running, so I’m dancing,’ I tell him.
‘So I see,’ he says, coming over and suddenly taking my face in his hands and kissing my nose. ‘You looked very sweet and young jigging about with abandon …’
He holds me away and stretches. ‘Let’s eat on the roof terrace tonight. It’ll be nice to get some air, I’ve been stuck in a stuffy conference room all day.’ Mike is back early and seems more relaxed than usual.
We take the lift to the top of the hotel and walk past the Japanese restaurant and out onto the roof terrace. There are little tables with check tablecloths and two barbecues and large hot plate set into a corner. Below us Karachi is a spread of benign twinkling lights and intersections, mosques and mausoleums, old buildings and half-finished, flat-roofed houses.
The middle-aged, moustached Fahad who runs the rooftop restaurant ushers us to a corner away from the barbecue. Mike orders a biryani and I have barbecued chicken and vegetables.
‘Jacob might come out to do some consultancy work for me in a few weeks so I’ll ask him to bring a few bottles of wine and get them cleared through customs,’ Mike says, longingly.
‘Can you do that?’
Mike laughs. ‘Half of PAA do it, apparently. How was your day? Are you still struggling with your dull French novelist?’
‘Afraid so.’ I smile. ‘But I’m having a break. Emily wants me to edit an Italian travel writer who handed in late. I’m enjoying it.’
Fahad brings our food and Mike says, ‘I’m sorry. I know you’ve been stuck in the hotel lately, but I shouldn’t be quite so busy after this Islamabad conference, and Shahid’s uncles won’t be there forever …’
‘I’m busy too,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve become an auntie to the young waiters downstairs. They come and tell me their problems, hoping I might find a way to magic them to the UK one day … It’s a bit like being in a fascinating little bubble, living in a hotel …’
I do not tell Mike I get the running dream, or that some days I ache with missing Will and Matteo. Or, that I miss Emily and the office. I miss the end-of-the-day glasses of wine with Kate and Hugh. I don’t tell him about Sergei’s email either. It has given me a sense of purpose but I suspect Mike won’t approve.
Mike is watching me. His hazel eyes hold mine and I am taken aback to see his look of guilt, as if I had spoken out loud. I put my hand out and take his fingers. They curl round mine. He clears his throat and says, ‘I’m sorry, Gabby, I think I might have forgotten the art of being with you when I’m working. You’ve always been so independent of me that I think I underestimated the feeling of isolation you might feel away from your friends and your work …’
He hesitates. ‘I do know myself. I’m not always pleasant to be with when I’m working flat out. It’s why I’ve always worked away from home …’
He lets my hand go and takes a deep breath as if he is about to dive into deep water.
‘It’s time we both got out of Karachi, went off somewhere together. I have one long weekend before Islamabad. I thought I would find out if it’s possible for us to travel north �
��’
‘That would be fantastic, Mike.’
Mike laughs. ‘I promise that I’ll try not to be so surly …’
I laugh too, wanting things to be better, but I know we have avoided something that lies at the centre of this conversation. Neither of us is being honest or brave or quite true. It is like a note of music slightly off-key.
‘Before I forget,’ Mike says. ‘On Wednesday I’m having dinner with an advertising firm. I hope they’ll win the contract to do the video for our relaunch. You’re invited, Gabby, and it’s sure to be somewhere nice.’
‘Will there just be men talking business?’ I ask warily.
‘No, a young couple, Raif and Afia, run the advertising company together. Afia is British-born and Raif grew up in Karachi. I think you’ll like them. There will be our humourless accountant and a software manager, but Afia is fun and will dilute them …’
‘Okay, great.’ It will be good to go out and meet people.
The lights of Karachi are spread out below us like a map I do not yet know. The night is humid and way below us on the grass by the pool an old workman is finishing constructing an arbour of flowers for a wedding tonight. This afternoon I watched him delicately picking flowers from huge vases and weaving them into beautifully ornate patterns around the throne where the bridal couple will sit. I cannot see down to the garden but I can hear the clatter of chairs and the music is beginning to drift up to the roof.
Charlie comes out of the Japanese restaurant for a smoke on the roof and tries to persuade Mike into the restaurant for a nightcap with his guests.
‘Tempting, Charlie,’ Mike says, ‘but it’s a weekday and I have to get up early in the morning …’
In the lift down to our room there are two young men in jewelled and ornate sherwani with high collars. I cannot take my eyes off them. One wears a turban and they are both impossibly haughty and beautiful.
Mike and I stay in the lift with them and go down to the ground floor and hover for a moment on the steps to the garden, watching. It is like stepping into a Bollywood film set. The garden is packed with beautiful people milling about to loud music. Decorated trestle tables have been laid with white tablecloths and huge silver dishes of food.
The bride and groom sit isolated on their velvet throne in a transformed, magical arbour of flowers. They look bored, as well they might, since everyone else is gossiping and having a wonderful time eating the mountains of food.
‘Everything will be dismantled again tomorrow. Pakistani weddings go on for days,’ Mike says, ‘but in different places. God knows how anyone can afford them …’
We head back up to our room and Mike keeps his hand lightly on the small of my back. I am so acutely aware of his fingers touching me that I realize I have almost forgotten what it feels like.
I wake in the night and listen to the clack-clack of the palms outside. I think about our rare companionable evening on the roof, feel again the warmth of Mike’s fingers on my back. I move across the gap between us in the bed. He is facing away from me and I nestle cautiously in to him to feel the familiar warmth of his body.
Mike stirs and tucks my hand under his. Like a habit he has not yet forgotten. I smile, warmed and comforted, and drift back to sleep.
I am still half asleep when the call to prayer soars like a shadowy echo across the city. I feel Mike wake and yawn. There is a moment’s pause as he becomes aware of me lying against him. I press my lips to his neck and press myself into his back. I feel him stiffen and jump. Then, in one smooth movement, he throws my arm off him and leaps out of bed and goes straight into the bathroom without looking at me.
My arm lies in the warmth his body has left and my heart flutters like a bird. Mike comes out of the bathroom and strides into the kitchen. He brings a mug of tea and places it on the bedside table.
‘Cup of tea, Gabby. Did you sleep okay?’
I look at him but cannot trust myself to speak. He looks wretched and seems unnerved by my silence.
Eventually, I whisper, ‘You might as well have slapped me. Has it come to this, Mike, that you cannot even bear me to touch you?’
Mike sits heavily on the edge of the bed. ‘Don’t be silly, Gabby. I’m sorry, I know how it must have seemed. I was half-asleep … taken by surprise. I guess I’ve got used to living alone …’
It sounds pretty pathetic, even to him.
‘Mike, I don’t understand what is going on with you but something is. I don’t know where I am.. You come to bed after me. You no longer want to touch me or for me to touch you …’ I sit up shakily. ‘Yet, last night, we were planning a holiday together …’
Infuriatingly, I can feel tears. I never cry.
‘Gabby, please … don’t …’ Mike looks cornered but he meets my eyes. ‘Why would I deliberately hurt you? It was a reflex action before I was awake. I come to bed after you because I’m always working. There’s a gap in the bed because I don’t want to wake you. Also …’ He smiles. ‘I’m getting older, Gabs. I can’t … manage sex during a working week any more, though it’s hard to admit …’
‘You know it’s not about sex, it’s about curling up together at the end of the day.’
Mike closes his fingers over mine. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Look, please, try to make allowances. I meant what I said last night. I’m aware that I’m … preoccupied. I’m aware that I’ve misjudged how confined you might feel, or how much you might miss your job …’ He sighs. ‘I promise, we’ll try to get away together, but give me a bit of a break here, try not to think the worst of me all the time. This constant … sensitivity to my every move isn’t like you, Gabby. I realize this is the first time you’ve ever felt dependent on me … It’s a hard adjustment for both of us, but after Islamabad things should get easier …’
He glances at his watch and says gently, ‘I have to get to work …’
I look at his face. It is a weary face. We stare at each other for a moment and then I nod. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to think the worst of you all the time.’
Mike closes his eyes. ‘You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, darling.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Karachi, 2010
Mike rings me at lunchtime on Wednesday. ‘We need to be ready by seven thirty. Noor will pick us up. By the way, I gather the restaurant is very trendy so wear something stunning …’
I go to the wardrobe to choose a shalwar kameez. Thanks to Birjees and her tailor I now have a colourful range of styles in beautiful materials. They are a dream to wear; it is going to be hard when I have to go back to a shirt and jeans.
Noor drives us to the other side of town. He seems very pleased that we are venturing forth on our own tonight.
The restaurant is a large colonial house on a wide tree-lined road. Noor drops us off outside. He looks impressed.
‘You ring, boss, when you need pick up. Have good evening, mem. Very lovely shalwar kameez you wear,’ he adds proudly, as if I am his mum.
Mike looks at me. ‘You look great. I’ve never seen you in anything red before, have I?’
‘No, you haven’t. The colour is called poppy. Birjees chose it.’
Mike takes my elbow. ‘It suits you.’
Young Pakistani couples are flocking into the entrance. Most are clutching smart carrier bags that clink. At the door they hand them to the waiter who marks them with a table number and whisks them away.
In a dark-panelled room there are crowds of people slumped self-consciously on squishy chintz sofas or sitting drinking at heavy, old-fashioned tables.
Large Victorian oil paintings of stoic women of the Raj hang on the wooden walls. So do stuffed birds in cages and the antlers of some deer or antelope. There are lined bookcases stuffed with old faded bound books.
The whole effect is like stepping into a large private house in between the wars, which is obviously the aim, but the result is schizophrenically claustrophobic, like Alice in Wonderland.
‘So this is Pakistani trendy, is it?’ Mike
mutters, amused. ‘It’s certainly different.’
There are three middle-aged male colleagues waiting for Mike at the bottom of the stairs. They shake my hand but hardly glance at me. I am merely an appendage. Raif and Afia have been held up, they tell Mike. My heart sinks. I find the whole place oddly disturbing.
We go up the stairs and I am relieved that it is quieter and cooler. I pray that I am not going to have to endure another business dinner dressed up as a social evening. The three men indicate one table for me and they sit at another. Mike glances at me anxiously and asks, ‘Do you know what’s happened to Raif and Afia?’
‘There’s been a demonstration and they are caught up in traffic. It can’t be helped. Let us order some drinks. We can go through a few figures while we wait …’
‘I am sure Afia and Raif won’t be long, Gabby,’ Mike whispers. ‘Then, we’ll all eat together.’
I sit for an hour with my glass of fresh orange and sparkling water. I get up to examine the bookshelves. Go to the loo. As I move around looking at the dark portraits of stiff Victorian women the stares of the waiters follow me around the room. This is not a bit like the Shalimar and I go back to my table wishing I had brought some work or a book.
Mike is so wrapped up in a discussion he has forgotten I am here. It’s happened before. One night, he asked me to join him and some colleagues in the hotel restaurant after a meeting. Guilt, I think. It was the most horrible experience. Everyone completely ignored me and carried on talking about work issues for an hour and a half. I had to sit there invisible and it felt like a selective form of cruelty. I am wondering why he thought it was a good idea for me to come tonight.
There is a commotion on the stairs and a bubbly woman bounds into the room followed by a tall man with a serious face and glasses. Raif and Afia: what a relief.
‘Sorry everyone!’ Raif calls. ‘We got caught right in the middle of that wretched demonstration.’
‘This country …’ Afia beams at me. ‘Hi, Gabriella.’ She holds out her hand and turns to introduce a girl I had not seen come up the stairs behind them.
In a Kingdom by the Sea Page 12
