by Thérèse
“Sarah, you’re a star. Thank you. This is fantastic,” India said, leaping up from the barstool to hug her. “Fantastic. Thank you.” She beamed.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
If Adam would just call, I could at least explain. India yanked another handful of paperbacks from yet another cardboard storage box and stacked them onto the wall of bookshelves in her sitting room. It’s been more than two weeks now.
She kicked the empty container to the far side of the room, where it landed next to a suitcase spilling over with summer clothes. Then she sat down heavily at the cluttered bleached pine table that doubled as her desk. Opening a copy of the Times Educational Supplement she began flicking through the vacancy pages for substitute teaching posts (“supply teaching” she was back to calling it). Babysitting, more like, India thought, idly wondering who might be covering for her own absence. She circled a few ads then pushed the paper away and turned to a sheath of carefully chosen handmade cards she had bought earlier from Harvey Nichols. The women in her classes were worth more than a cut and pasted e-mail.
I’ll start with Lizzie, she decided, pulling her long gray cashmere cardigan around her shoulders more for comfort than for warmth. She glanced out of the window into the bleak road below. It was drizzling. The trees looked eerily stark in the dismal streetlights, the pavements were cluttered with wet leaves, the cars crammed up against each other. She watched a woman dragging a shopping trolley laden with trash onto the curb.
It all looked so dreary. India sighed, opening a card and taking the lid off her pen. Two hours later, she finally put it down again. She took a quick bath and set her alarm for seven. I have to get a job and not just for the money. I’ll go insane trying to work out why Adam disappeared off the face of the Earth like that, she thought as she climbed into bed.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
India had waited until late afternoon to check in with Annabelle. She closed the drapes and curled up on her sofa. She felt cozy in her old granddad sweater and fleecy Cath Kidston pajamas. The room was glowing from the light of a log fire and the two wall sconces either side of her hand-painted mantel mirror.
“God, I miss you, darling,” Annabelle said, flopping onto her heavy white linen couch.
“Especially in the mornings, don’t tell me,” India laughed, imagining Annabelle in her kitchen, the California sunlight pouring through her French windows. “How are you?”
“Good, but really, darling, I am missing you like crazy,” Annabelle said, tossing off her gold Manolo thongs and tucking her feet underneath her. “So what’s new?”
“Not a lot. I just got some freelance teaching. It’s easy if you’re not picky. I’ve four days next week in Tower Hamlets. Believe me, it’s a rough catchment; forty percent dropout rate,” India said, then hesitating for a second, “Have you talked to Lizzie? I’ve written to her. I’ve written to everyone. They won’t have got the letters yet, I suppose; I only sent them last week.”
“She’s been busy with a part-time contract, so I haven’t seen much of her. But she’s incredibly fond of you, darling. She’ll get over it. Leave it with me.”
“Give her my love. How’s Summer?”
“I’ve not heard from her for a couple of weeks. Last time we spoke she told me she’d lost confidence in her psychic powers. I can see that, I mean, she was a bit blindsided by what happened.”
“How are the girls?” India said, changing the subject quickly.
“They’re fine. Bella got her orthodontics sorted yesterday. The braces are pinching but I think she’s secretly delighted. She looks really cute.”
“Give them my love. Tell them I miss them too.”
“I will.”
“Are you still looking after yourself?” India asked.
“I’m good. I’ve had meetings with some people at CAA and we’re in the beginning stages of looking at a pilot I might direct. It’ll give me a chance to see if I enjoy being on the other side of the camera.”
“That sounds like fun. So Annie, I’ve STILL not heard from Adam. I think he was more offended than you expected him to be.”
There was a long pause during which India immediately sensed Annie was holding back.
“Have you spoken to him at all or seen him?” she probed.
“Darling. I thought you knew. I honestly thought you’d seen it by now…”
India went cold. “Seen what?”
“The tabloids … the day you left. I thought you’d have caught it, maybe at the airport. The picture was on the front page of one of the rags…”
“What was on the front page? What?”
“Darling, it’s probably a load of bull; you know firsthand how these things aren’t true most of the time.”
“Annie. I still have no clue what you’re talking about,” India said, her knuckles getting white clutching the receiver.
“Oh! Well … it was a picture of Adam with someone … I don’t really know.”
“What kind of a picture? Who?”
“Well… I suppose…”
“Annie, just spit it out!” India snapped.
“Well, it was pretty explicit.”
“Okay,” India said, attempting to keep her voice steady. “Look Annie, I’ll track it down and call you back. My imagination’s gone wild here. Bye.”
India leapt off the couch and threw the phone onto the cushions. She grabbed her laptop and opened it with trembling hands. Thirty seconds later she found the picture on TMZ. Yes, it was definitely Adam. But who was the hot blonde straddling him, the one with her arms around his neck? And yes … those were Adam’s hands … underneath her sheer blouse, on her back. She was certain, because in case she might have missed it (which she hadn’t) the tabloid had taken the trouble to enlarge that part of the image and circle it in red.
India felt as if she had been caught around the throat. A wave of nausea flooded over her. She sat rooted to the chair, immobilized with shock.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
India dashed up the steps of the underground station at Green Park and out into the crowded street and lashing rain, where she made several attempts to put up her umbrella. Deciding it was useless against the biting wind, she shook it down and raced the block to Langan’s Restaurant.
“I’m sorry. It’s teeming out there,” she said, handing her dripping Burberry to the young cloakroom attendant.
“No worries. Do you want me to take those, too?” she asked, looking at India’s drenched Scala leather workbag and umbrella.
“Yes, please.” India smiled gratefully.
I look like a drowned rat, she thought, catching sight of herself in a large wall mirror. She ran her hands through her hair and followed the manager to a corner table where a dark-haired man in his early forties was waiting. India took in the pinstripe suit, the Thomas Pink shirt, the white contrast collar, and the tightly knotted silk tie.
“I’m Philip,” he said, standing up and shaking her hand.
India also noticed his monogrammed gold-plated cufflinks.
God, I hate those cuffs, she thought.
“Sorry I’m late…,” she said, smiling. “I had to sit in on detention longer than I was expecting. Honestly, keeping the kids back punishes the teachers and the parents more than the kids – I waited ages for the tube.”
“I have been sitting here for almost twelve minutes,” Philip said stiffly, gesturing to his fake Rolex watch.
“But I texted you,” India said. “I left a message.”
“I’ve never had to wait for an appointment like this before. I’m never late,” he said, folding his napkin into sharp creases.
Omygod he’s serious, India thought.
“Well, there was nothing I could do about it and I’m terribly sorry. Did you not think to order yourself a drink?” she said. Or maybe some wine for the table?
“I don’t drink,” he said.
“Yes. Well, anyway, I’m here now,” she said cheerily. “Lovely to meet you.”
/> “I think being late is very rude.”
“I think you’ve made your point,” India said. “Can we move on now?”
There was an awkward silence. It went on for some time. Philip made no effort to rescue the conversation, and after a few minutes India pushed back her chair.
“You know, Philip,” she said, “I’m new at this dating agency game and I’m sure there’s a protocol for what I’m about to do. But I’m very sorry you had to wait and that you don’t think that I was worth waiting for. Again, I’m sorry. Goodbye.”
With that India stood up, collected her things, and walked out onto the street, where she pulled her cell phone out of her purse.
“Sarah, I’ve just had the blind date from hell. Can you meet me for a drink? Yes… Taj Mahal… Okay, no, that’ll be fine. I need the walk. See you in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you. I’ll have the chicken tikka masala, saffron rice, and a vegetable samosa,” India said, handing back the menu and pouring a Kingfisher beer. “Okay that’s it, Sarah. I’m not doing that again ever. It was awkward and embarrassing and he was a prick.”
“Well, I just thought you needed to get out more. Sorry. That does sound bad,” Sarah said, snapping off a corner of pappadam and dipping it into the onion chutney.
“And he wasn’t worth ruining my Prada boots for either,” she said, looking down at her soaking feet. “I’m just not ready, Sarah. It’s only been a few weeks, and anyway, the school is exhausting and it’s miles away and frankly I’m still in shock.”
“I know. You’re right. Give it a bit longer,” Sarah agreed.
“I think I was almost braced for Angel to move in pretty quickly after I left, but I had no clue he was seeing that woman. I was so wrapped up in my workshops it never occurred to me to ask who he was training with for the film. If I’d taken the trouble to ask … if I’d known it was her, then I’d have had my antennae out.”
“Well, maybe, I suppose, but you said you did spend a lot of time with him and there weren’t any signs.”
“No, but he was on the lot at Universal most days. When did this start? I keep trying to work that bit out. I mean, he invited me to Russia. Do you think she was getting her fur coat out of cold storage around the same time?”
“Well, they’re all shits. I’ve reached that conclusion,” Sarah said, helping herself to another full glass of Cabernet from her carafe. “I wish we were gay. Life would be so much easier if I fancied you, India.
”The minute India was home, she threw off her clothes and ran an extremely hot, deep Jo Malone bath. She put in a Norah Jones CD and turned her stereo on high before sinking into the sudsy water and idly flicking the bubbles with her toes. She began to sob silently… “There was a time when I believed that you belonged to me / And now I know your heart is shackled to a memory / Why can’t I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart.”
When the phone rang, she ignored it the first few times, until the calls became too persistent and she eventually grabbed a towel, climbed out and ran into the kitchen.
“Hello, I have a call from Larry Hertz for Miss Butler; please hold.”
India hung on, dripping her way into the bedroom, struggling into a pink fleecy dressing gown, and turning off the music.
“Hey, India, is that you? How ya doin’? Good. Good. So here’s the thing.”
Larry sounded supercharged, as if he were on speed, which he probably is, India thought. What could he possibly want?
“So here’s the thing. I’ve sold your book. Right now I have two publishers waiting to hear back from me by the end of the day, latest. I need to run this by you. We have to make a decision. Warner’s offering one seventy-five. I think they’re the right ones for this, but…”
India could not take in any more information. He was going far too fast for her. He’s sold my book? He’s sold my book? He’s sold it?
“I want to get this tied down. I need you to tell me if we should go with that figure or if we should hang out and see if we can get them up a bit.”
“Larry,” India said, “Larry, slow down. I’m not getting this. I just assumed … I didn’t know you were … I’m sorry, could you please say all that again?”
India was trembling now. How could he have sold my book? How? Who could possibly want to read it after all that’s happened?
“I sold your book and I’ve sold it for a six figure number. Is that making it clear enough now?” he said, very slowly picking out each word as if India had a learning disorder. He seemed to be enjoying this.
“Yes. Oh my God … this is for real? But how?”
“India, I think I told you. Nothing sells like a profile and you have one hell of a fucking profile.”
“But I blew it. I seriously blew it.”
“India, the proposal is funny. You’re funny. You’re up front. You’re bitchy and funny – that sells. Look, I’ll call you back, just tell me do you want me to keep pitching?”
“How much is the offer, did you say?”
“A hundred and seventy-five. I take ten percent of that. We get a third on manuscript delivery, a third on publication, and a third when we go to paperback.”
“This is wonderful. Larry. Thank you. This is incredible. What do you think we should do? I’ll leave it with you, whatever you think.”
“Okay. I’ll make a few calls and get back to you. Don’t go away.”
The line went dead and India stood frozen to the spot.
“I’ve sold my book. I’m writing a book,” she announced to the Countess, who looked up from her curled position before promptly going back to sleep. “I’ve actually sold my book!” she shouted. “I’ve sold my book. I’ve sold my book…” she repeated, dancing around the room, leaping on and off her sofa, twirling around. “A little shake here and a little shake there! One hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars!” she said several more times. Then she speed-dialed Sarah.
“Sarah, you’re not going to believe the news I have,” she said.
“India? Are you okay?” Sarah was at a loss to know what could possibly be happening now.
“Sarah, you are speaking to India Butler, AUTHOR. I’ve sold my book!”
Sarah let out a scream. “Oh my God! Congratulations! Can I be in it?”
As India relayed the conversation with Larry, she began to realize how badly she had wanted to publish her book. How she had pushed it to the back of her mind. She’d been in her element writing the proposal, devising her own programs, and running her classes. Now her ideas would be in print, her very own ideas. She had written the proposal. She had earned this. She was “India Butler, author and teacher.”
India put down the phone. This calls for a celebration, she decided, pulling a bottle of Sancerre out of a wooden wine rack and putting it into the tiny freezer compartment of her Frigidaire.
Omygod … I should call Annie, I should quit my job, I should… I should just take a minute to let this sink in. She lifted a crystal wineglass from her French dresser and rooted around in a drawer for a corkscrew.
The phone rang as she was opening the freezer again. She closed it. That might be Larry’s assistant…, she thought. I’ll be my own assistant…
“Miss Butler’s residence,” she said haughtily.
But it wasn’t a Brooklyn accent this time.
“Hi, India. Is this a good time to talk?”
“Adam…” she started, her knees buckling slightly.
“I didn’t know you were going to leave town so quickly,” he said, his voice huskier than she remembered it. “I didn’t know what to say, how to explain … and then you were gone.”
“I left you a couple of messages,” she said quietly, “but that was to explain why I was leaving and what had happened to me … and I only saw the picture of you and … well, it was after I got back to London.”
India went into her sitting room. She sank down in an old armchair and pulled a chenille throw around herself. “So why the phone call now?” she said st
iffly.
“India. I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” she said coldly.
“India, we were going so fast, you and I…”
Were? she thought.
“Honestly, there was a moment, and yes, I should have seen it coming. It’s not an excuse, but I get scared at a certain point, ever since Chloe left. I’ve just been … well, scared. I didn’t see that coming and I’ve never worked out how to trust again, I suppose.”
“Yes. Well, you didn’t look too scared in that picture.”
“Look India, I’m doing my best here. I miss you. It’s lame to say I’m sorry, but I am. I’m sorry. It’s such a cliché – you’re on set, there’s chemistry, things happen, but you can believe this or not believe it, I wish it hadn’t happened. I could lie and say nothing happened, when it did, but it was like an old reflex. I can’t explain.”
“So are you two playing happy families?” India asked curtly.
“No. India, if the press hadn’t got hold of that picture, I probably would have told you at some point … well,” he said wryly, “I can’t say I would for sure, but I can say it still would have been a one-off. I suppose I didn’t realize how much you meant to me until you’d gone. What happened, India?” he asked, confused. “I thought you were franchising your workshops here.”
India was conscious that he was using her full name. She had always loved how he had called her “Indie.”
“Well…” she said, getting up, going into the kitchen and pulling the wine from the freezer. “Turns out I wasn’t the real deal either.”
“How do you mean?”
India wrestled off the cork, poured a large glass of wine, and took several swift mouthfuls.
“Well…” she said, “do you want the part where I pretended to have a glamorous job or the part where I bitched about everybody, or the part where I said you were stupid?”
“Max sent me the YouTube link, and I have to say, I saw another side of you, but what do you mean?”
India took a deep breath as she walked back to her armchair, carrying the bottle and her glass. “Okay Adam… I teach twelfth graders, or at least I DID, when I met you. I don’t have a glamorous life, I don’t have teams of coaches, and, until about five minutes ago, I didn’t have my own Stanislavsky-based ‘method.’ I have no money, no amazing career, and when I was with you I pretended to be something I wasn’t.”
