I lift Sergei’s hand and hold it for a second to my cheek. He has given me kindness and time. He has given me warm friendship. He has made me feel alive and attractive again. It is a lot to give.
‘Thank you, for everything,’ I say.
Sergei curls his fingers around mine. ‘Do not thank me for loving to be with you. Now we have run out of our time together …’
We get out of the taxi and stand prolonging the moment of goodbye. We both know we will not see each other again.
‘I am bad at goodbyes, my dear Gabriella. I have to make them quick …’
He leans down and envelops me. We hold each other surrounded by people bumping and pushing past us. I whisper, ‘I will never forget you, Sergei.’
Sergei smiles and holds me away. ‘Go! Run … before I ruin my hard image by weeping large Russian tears.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
London, 2010
When I get home I have messages from Hugh, Emily, Kate and Mike. They all want to know if I am home safe and okay. I crawl into the single bed. I am fired up but exhausted. I need to sleep before I have the strength to tell my friends about Mike.
I send quick emails to Birjees and Massima. Safe home. I miss you.
I find my bag and take one of Shahid’s blue pills. I hid a stash in my sponge bag. They are gold dust. It is only nine thirty. I can sleep all day.
Ping. Birjees. Miss you too, Gabby. Ping. Massima. Still can’t believe you are gone.
I turn and curl with my face in sunlight. I think of Sergei. Yesterday seems like a lovely dream. The leaves of the magnolia tree cast familiar shadows across the window and I sleep.
I am woken by the persistent buzz of the phone. As I burrow upwards I realize it is not the phone, it is the doorbell, and the person is not going to go away. I stagger groggily down the stairs in my pyjamas and see a familiar shape behind the coloured glass door.
‘Kate?’ I call.
‘Yes, it’s only me.’
I let her in.
‘Oh, hell, I woke you. Sorry, Gabby, but you didn’t answer any of our messages and I needed to know you are all right.’
I blink at her. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s six thirty in the evening.’ She is staring at me, concern on her face.
‘God. I’ve slept for nine hours …’ I sit down on a kitchen chair and Kate puts the kettle on.
She sits next to me as the kettle boils. ‘Gabby, what’s happened? You’re so thin …’
‘It’s just the heat …’
‘No it isn’t. Take your tea. Go and have a shower, it will wake you up. Have you eaten today?’
‘No.’
‘Right, see you in a bit.’
I turn in the doorway and smile at her. ‘Bossy as ever, I see.’
‘You bet.’
I shower, wash my hair and pull on the jeans and pink shirt I wore yesterday. Happy shirt. I go back downstairs feeling better.
Hugh is fiddling about in my kitchen with a big pan of bolognese.
‘That’s better!’ Kate says. She and Hugh advance towards me and enfold me in a bear hug.
I dissolve. ‘How do you know?’ I ask.
They sit me at the kitchen table. A large glass of red wine and a plate of spaghetti bolognese are put in front of me. I am going to have another hangover.
‘Jacob. I met him in the gym,’ Hugh says. ‘He told me there had been airline rumours about Mike and a Pakistani woman and that it seemed as if he was about to commit professional and personal suicide …’
I wince and tell them the truth about the ignominious and frightening ending to living in Pakistan. I tell them Mike is in Dubai, probably with Zakia Rafi. I tell them that although I feel bitterly betrayed and hurt, his behaviour was so callous and self-serving my heart is somehow intact.
‘Good,’ Kate says, doubtfully. ‘I would like that to be true, but I think you are in shock. Sounds as if you’ve had a hell of a time. It might be a bit early to know how you really feel, Gabby. You were devoted to him …’
‘Thank God your blinkers are off. Make sure you get a good solicitor,’ Hugh says. ‘Absolute bastard.’
I look at them fondly. We have had so many meals together round this table. ‘You always suspected Mike might leave me, didn’t you?’
They glance guiltily at each other and Kate says, ‘Well, we were afraid it was a possibility. You adored him and he was so casual about leaving you and the boys and always so bloody sure you would be there when he returned with his easy charm, presents, and lovely holidays.’
So this is what my marriage looked like from the outside.
‘The worst thing is going to be telling Will and Matteo,’ I say.
‘They are grown up, Gabby,’ Kate says. ‘They have no illusions about Mike and they have their own lives, which are much more important than ours …’
All true. I smile, the wine warming me. ‘Thank you for coming. It means a lot you’re both here. I’m lucky to have you …’
Hugh squeezes my hand and gets up to open another bottle.
‘We’ve been friends for twenty-five years, you know …’ Kate says, softly. She smiles. ‘Everyone will be so pleased to see you back at your desk. Emily is brilliant, but she’s not you …’
I have a moment of panic. I cannot go back and just pick up where I left off.
‘I mean, when you’re ready,’ she adds quickly.
‘I might go to Cornwall for a while and sort myself out,’ I say.
‘Do it. That’s a very good idea. Take the boys with you.’
When they have gone the house feels very empty.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
London, August 2010
Will and Matteo arrive back home from their holiday glowing, sunburnt and happy. I have made them lasagne and got beer in. We are all so pleased to see each other that I decide I will leave telling them about Mike until the morning. But after they have finished devouring the lasagne with greedy relish, Matteo asks, ‘I saw your big suitcase, Mum. Are you home for good?’
I nod.
Will is watching me. ‘What happened to make you come home so suddenly? Dad or Karachi?’
So I tell them and they stare at me, stunned.
‘He’s an arsehole!’ Will shouts. ‘He’s having a pathetic mid-life crisis …’
‘You mean … he wants to … go off with this woman?’ Matt asks.
‘I’ll never ever fucking speak to him again.’ Will pours himself a vat of wine. ‘All these years, you’ve … you’ve … put up with the selfish bastard … and now …’
They are both hurt and shaken. However critical they are of Mike, they love him and it is a betrayal of our lives together and I cannot argue otherwise.
‘He hasn’t stopped loving both of you,’ I tell them, shakily. ‘He just fell in love with someone else. It’s not going to stop him being your dad …’ But of course, it changes everything. As I stand in my kitchen talking to my sons it still feels unreal.
Matteo says, ‘Will was right, in Oman. I didn’t want him to say anything to you, but Will heard him on the phone …’
‘It was pathetic. He was so obviously trying to pull someone. You know, that little movement he does at parties with attractive women, a little circle like a dancing step …’
No, I didn’t know. ‘Will, stop. Please. Don’t let’s do this. It’s pointless and upsetting …’
‘Mum,’ Matteo says. ‘It means he started an affair before you even got to Karachi.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’
Tears start to slide silently down Matteo’s cheeks. ‘All those years of being a family,’ he says. ‘All those memories, all those photos on our computers. How can he just chuck away his whole life with us so easily, Mum?’
‘I don’t know, darling.’ I hug him and Will hugs me. We are all crying.
This is the worst, the very worst, to have them wounded. I love them beyond all things but I can’t protect them from lif
e. So far, Will and Matteo have led a pretty privileged existence inured from real hardship or sadness. So this comes hard and I am glad they are almost adult and beginning their own lives.
‘However angry you both are with him, he still loves you,’ I say, squashing my anger, wishing at this moment Mike could witness their hurt.
Will says, ‘Mum, don’t ask us to be reasonable, like you, because I don’t want to be.’
Matteo says, ‘He’s behaved like a shit to you. I’m not going to forgive him.’
Then they see my face and stop abruptly. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘Of course I will,’ I say briskly.
‘You look … pretty awful. Will you go straight back to work?’
‘No, I think I’m going to go to Cornwall for a while. Emily is doing my job just fine.’
‘It might make you sadder, going back to Cornwall, now the house is sold.’
I smile. ‘You never know. I might buy another house down there and retire.’ As I say this, I think how attractive the idea seems.
‘Buy a house but you can’t retire, you’re not old enough,’ Will says. ‘We’ll use it for holidays.’
‘Will Emily stay on here in the house when you get back from Cornwall?’ Matteo asks.
‘Honestly, I don’t know what I am going to do. I’m not even sure if I want to go back to the office or work in London any more …’
They both stare at me, concerned. ‘You can’t decide anything now, Maman. Why don’t you bugger off somewhere exotic and use Dad’s credit cards?’
‘Very tempting,’ I tell them as they pour me more wine.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
London, 2010
A watery sun comes out. The grass on the banks of the Thames holds shivers of raindrops; the drought is over. The roar of traffic in the background sounds like the ocean, soothing and rhythmical.
As I walk a strange, numb peace descends on me. I enter a belt of trees. There is only the sound of the wind through the branches and my footsteps on the dry path. I have the sensation of entering a tunnel of shadowy leaves and an utter conviction that when I reach the end of this flickering, sunlit tunnel, all will be well, my future somehow revealed.
So strong is the feeling that my heart beats faster, and then I am out on the other side of the trees, back into sunlight and the sound of voices and bicycle bells. Of course, nothing happens on the sunlit path. No epiphany. Nothing waits for me. No answer comes, except this quiet and steady peace, the feeling of something edging my way.
I have been home for a week. Emily is back in London but staying with her boyfriend. She wants me to have time with Matt and Will. I made myself go into the office with her to see everybody. I was bright and cool and blamed Pakistani politics for being home. The warmth of my welcome back touched me, but somehow, I have moved on. I cannot see myself working full time again. When I told Emily this, and that I was going to take time to decide what I wanted to do, her relief was palpable, although she tried not to show it.
Matteo has gone back to Glasgow. He has a job in the Arts Club bar. Will and I had to persuade him that I was fine. He needs the money and he is better working and being with his friends. Will is with me until next week. I buy food for supper and begin to walk back to the car.
Will calls out as soon as I open the front door. ‘Dominique phoned. She wants you to Skype her. I think Aimee’s had her baby.’
I rush for my laptop and there they are. Proud Granny Dom holding a tiny bundle and an exhausted Aimee lying against the pillows with a victorious, wan smile.
Will laughs. ‘What have you been up to, Aimee? Running a marathon?’
Aimee laughs and holds two fingers up to him. ‘Achieved something you can’t, buster.’
She smiles at me. ‘I’ve had a little girl, Gabby.’
‘Oh, you’re so clever, darling,’ I say, pushing Will out of the way. ‘I couldn’t do nice little girls …’
But it is Dominique I am looking at. Her face is full of wonder as she holds the tiny, crumpled face to the screen. Emotion catches at me for the incandescent love shining from my sister. She looks down at the baby with awe as if she holds unimaginable treasure.
‘Gabby, I am going to stay on here for a while to help Aimee get on her feet,’ she says, smiling at the screen.
‘That’s wonderful,’ I tell her.
‘It is.’ Aimee grins. ‘I need my Maman.’
‘Gabby, is it wonderful to be back in London with your boys?’ Dominique asks, coming out of her bubble and peering at me suddenly.
‘It is,’ I say. It is not the moment to tell her about Mike.
When we have said hi to Cecile, congratulated the new father and they have all faded from the screen, Will says, ‘Dad is going to miss all this when Matt and I have children, because he won’t be part of us any more.’
I don’t know what to say. Of course this rift will heal, but it is pointless saying that to Will at the moment. Mike has rung me twice, the first time to check I was home safely. The second was to ask me if I could formalize our separation. He sounded embarrassed.
‘What does that actually mean, Mike?’
‘Well, just to put things in motion …’
I was not going to make this easy. ‘It is pretty obvious we are separated, how does that need formalizing?’
‘Gabby, I am in a difficult position here … I need …’
‘To be unmarried?’
Long silence. ‘Yes.’
‘So what you are actually asking me is to start divorce proceedings as quickly as possible?’
I could feel his discomfort.
‘Well, yes, it all takes time … and …’
And Zakia Rafi is pulling your strings. ‘Well, at the moment my time is spent concentrating on our sons,’ I told him and put the phone down.
‘I think I’m depressed,’ Will says, now. ‘Can we wet Aimee’s baby’s head even though it is the middle of the afternoon?’
I smile at him. ‘We can. Go and pick one of your father’s best wines.’
‘Mum, were you hoping Dominique would be back to go to Cornwall with you?’
‘I was, but I will go anyway. I need to see the sea.’
‘Being on your own is a bad idea at the moment. You need to be with people …’ Will hesitates. ‘I could come with you, Mum, I’ve got time, it’s just that Cassie’s parents have got a family cottage on Shetland and they asked me to go and stay with them …’
‘Will, of course you must go. I might stay here anyway or hop off to Paris. I need thinking time. I have to make some decisions …’ And file for divorce.
I smile at my son. ‘Am I going to be allowed to meet this Cassie?’
‘Of course …’ He grins at me, relieved. ‘I’m going to find that wine …’
I am cooking and Will is chopping vegetables for me when the six o’clock news comes on. I stand, transfixed. PAKISTANI FLOODS flickers across the screen through the opening headlines. Women in brightly coloured shalwar kameez are knee-deep in mud, clinging to trees, clutching babies as torrents of angry water swirl past.
A burst river churns menacingly round small islands of mud and houses, carrying trees, broken bridges, household possessions and the debris of human lives. The camera is looking down from a helicopter, the faces looking up are desperate as men and women try to hang onto pots, pans, animals, mattresses and, with increasing desperation, their terrified children.
Will and I watch a scene of unimagined disaster unfolding. Pakistan has experienced the worst monsoon rain for eighty years. Whole towns and villages have been washed away when the main river broke its banks and flooded the valleys, destroying everything in its way. The destruction is devastating. These are the poor who were already struggling. Pakistan does not deserve this.
Will lets out his breath. ‘God. How terrible. Poor people. Poor Pakistan.’
I think of Naseem and Baseer, of all the young waiters at the Shalimar who send money home to families who had little
to begin with, and now have nothing.
As we eat, I tell Will the stories they told me of fleeing the Taliban and the city life they were left with looking after their families on tiny wages. I tell him of the kindness I found in Karachi and the strength and joy of family life amongst the violence and poverty.
When Will goes off to see friends I watch the late news all over again. I email Shahid and Massima. I go to bed but cannot sleep. I hear an email come in. It is Shahid.
Dear Gabby, thank you so much for your concern and thoughts at this terrible time. The floods are very bad especially in Sindh province. It is one more catastrophe from on high after that plane crash. President Zardari is intent on leaving his people deep in floodwater to go to UK at this awful moment to further his political ambitions and visit his many mansions in Europe. This he will do while his people are swallowed by water and have lost even the small hovels they once owned. Birjees and I feel deeply depressed. Nothing changes, here. Nothing.
We both miss you.
Shahid
I go on the Internet. There are rumours circulating in Pakistan that wealthy politicians, living in the north frontier region, deliberately diverted the main river away from their own houses when it became obvious they were in danger of being flooded. The diverted, swollen river then burst in raging torrents into the villages and valleys below them, destroying everything in its wake. I can believe it. Things like this happen all the time in Pakistan and it’s odd that the houses of the rich and important are, somehow, intact and standing.
I begin to look through charity websites. Appeals for flood victims are already up and running but I’m reluctant to send any money that may be diverted to government agencies in Pakistan. An email from Massima comes in.
Gabby, it is so good to know you think of us. I have been all day with Raif and Afia trying to organize aid for the flood victims within our business community. People want to give but they are afraid to part with their money in case it falls into hands of officials. Someone must come to those poor people’s aid because the government will not do much. I think most help will come from the Pakistani community abroad. I miss you here with us. Say good things about us in England so that people’s hearts will be touched to give help to those who have lost everything.
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