by Joanna Rees
‘Shut the door. It’s freezing in here,’ he growled in his clipped accent.
Jess walked in and propped her bike up against the wall inside, then shut the door with an unnecessary slam to show Angel just how pissed off she was.
‘You got the job?’ Angel asked, a cruelty in her voice Jess hadn’t heard before.
‘Don’t know yet. I have to be accepted onto the training course first,’ she said, infuriated that Angel clearly hadn’t listened to a word Jess had told her about the whole process she had to go through before she could fly. She’d been waiting every day for news of her cabin-crew training course. She’d passed the initial interviews, but now came the real test. Her nerves were completely shattered, the ‘what if?’s churning round and round her head. A few sympathetic or encouraging words from her best friend would have been appreciated, but she saw now in the slightly triumphant eye roll Angel gave Weasel that her friend couldn’t care less. If anything, she wanted her to fail.
It was ironic, Jess thought, because when they’d been kids, it had been Angel who’d been the ambitious one, Angel who dreamt of being a TV presenter, Angel with the big plans, who was going to do something with her life. But now all she did was spend her dole money on lottery tickets and online bingo, each loss further sapping her self-esteem.
She looked a mess too. As Jess walked round the sofa, she saw that Angel was wearing stained leggings that had once been Jess’s and an oversized hoody. Her badly dyed blonde hair was scraped back into a ponytail, and there were dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept for days. She shoved her hands into her hoody pockets, but not before Jess had seen that she’d bitten her nails right down.
‘So. Look who it is,’ Weasel said, turning his attention momentarily away from the TV towards Jess, as if she were some errant teenager. Jess stared at the full horror of the mess on the coffee table and the detritus of joint-rolling and cigarettes. ‘The fire exits are here and here,’ he said, laughing at his own joke as he fanned out his arms. Angel had obviously told him about Jess’s airline training.
Seeing that he’d annoyed Jess, he laughed nastily again, putting his feet up on the table. His boots were dirty and little crescents of mud were all over the blue rug. He took a sip from the can of cheap lager he was drinking and gave a loud burp.
Jess stared at Angel, her look saying, ‘What the fuck?’ and Angel’s return look saying it straight back. Jess picked up her bag and stomped down the lino-covered hallway to her bedroom, trying to calm her fury. She heard Angel following.
She pushed open the door to her room. Her single bed was neatly made, with its white-and-blue duvet cover complemented by the soft beige throw she’d bought. One wall was covered in white cupboards and shelves she’d built herself to house her college books, and another large wall was filled by a huge picture of a desert island scene.
‘Why are you being weird?’ Angel demanded. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me. You left enough messages telling me to come back.’
‘What is he doing here?’ Jess hissed.
‘Why shouldn’t he be? I told you – we’re together. He’s ditched that skank Maisie.’
‘She has a baby. They have a baby.’
‘So?’
‘So?’ Jess stared at Angel, exasperated. Where had her moral compass gone? Angel had always been better. Better than this.
How could she describe Maisie as a ‘skank’? That was Weasel talking. Didn’t she care at all? What about the baby? Because Angel more than anyone knew what it was like to grow up without functional parents. She’d been taken into care at three years old after her mother had broken down, unable to cope alone. And now history was repeating itself.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. And that’s when Jess noticed that Angel’s eyes were flickering, her gaze darting around the room.
‘Oh my God,’ Jess gasped, the realization hitting. ‘Are you using? Please don’t tell me you’re using.’ She grabbed Angel’s arm, trying to force her to look directly at her, but Angel’s gaze flitted away. Everyone knew that Weasel smoked crack. Oh Jesus. He hadn’t got to Angel, had he?
‘Stop being so judgemental,’ Angel snapped, shaking off Jess’s grip. ‘I can do what I want.’
Jess bit her lip, feeling furious tears rising. Angel had been her entire family for as long as she could remember. Her rock. The one she’d always relied on. But it was like looking at a stranger now.
‘Has he made you start?’ Jess demanded.
‘Oh. Oh,’ Angel countered, grasping for excuses. ‘That’s rich. You don’t know him.’
‘I don’t want to know him. You know who he is. Who he hangs out with. He’s bad news. Look what he’s doing to you.’
‘At least he’s someone. At least I’ve got someone. At least I’m not frigid like you.’ Angel thumped her chest with her fist, and as her eyes, with their dark yellow shadows, met Jess’s, she saw that Angel was desperate. ‘Take a look at yourself, Jess. Ever since we were kids you’ve been saving yourself to walk along that stupid beach with Mr Right.’ She flung her arm out at the poster. ‘But let me tell you – he doesn’t exist, OK? That’s a myth. Especially for people like us. From where we come from.’
Jess felt Angel’s words sting, but the betrayal in Angel’s attitude was worse. How could she have given up just when life was starting? When it should be starting for both of them?
‘You don’t have to settle for him. You are so much better than that.’
‘How?’ Angel spat back. ‘How am I better than that? I’m unemployed, unemployable. Nothing I’ve ever wanted has happened. Nothing.’
That’s because you haven’t worked for it, Jess wanted to shout. That’s because you’ve given up whenever it got tough. That’s because you expect life to hand you everything you want on a plate and it doesn’t work like that . . .
Instead, she took a deep breath. ‘You’re making a big mistake. We can make a better life.’
‘There’s no “we”, Jess. Not anymore.’
‘Angel, please. Listen—’ she started.
‘Fuck you. Don’t lecture me, OK? You think you’re so much better than everyone around here, but you’re not. You’re delusional,’ Angel shouted, and Jess backed away, scared by her tone and the cold look in her eyes.
CHAPTER THREE
Lace Island, 1989
In the cool of the house’s dark, wooden hallway, Leila picked off a small yellow banana from the bunch in the basket on the carved mahogany dresser, desperate to tell Bibi about Tusker and how Rasa’s ball had nearly hit the old elephant and how the mahout had said the elephant was ill and needed a vet. Leila had promised that Bibi would sort it out. Nobody went sick for long on Lace Island. Old Maliba, Rasa’s grandmother, usually ground up herbs and plants from her Ayurvedic garden to make potions, but this time she had failed to cure the elephant. They’d have to send for a vet from Cochin. With a bit of luck, Bibi would let Leila use the telex machine in her office.
Full of plans and munching on her banana, Leila skipped along the corridor, the muslin curtains blowing in against the old teak boards, the black-and-white framed pictures of Leila’s maharaja relatives staring down from the wall and through the screen with its old mosquito netting out onto the terrace.
The back terrace was where Bibi preferred to entertain, when guests left the comfort of their bungalows and visited the house on her invitation, the dining room often being too formal and stuffy. It was covered by a canopy from which electric lights looped, and in the corner was the bamboo bar area that Chan had built and of which he was particularly proud. The polished floorboards stretched further to a wooden balustrade, which looked down into the blue mosaicked pool below.
Dotted around were a few fan-backed wicker armchairs, some squashy beanbag seats and a hanging swing seat, which was Leila’s favourite. Through the huge palms in the garden, there was a view down towards the lagoon, and in the distance, the sea, changed now to a deep blue in the late-afternoon light. There w
ould be a lovely sunset later.
Chan, Leila’s stepfather, was a small-boned man with a mane of glossy black hair, a thin moustache and twinkling brown eyes. Parva said he was the spitting image of her favourite Bollywood star, and he certainly knew it, Leila thought. It was Chan’s star quality that had charmed grief-stricken Bibi back to life after Leila’s father had been killed in a shark attack when Leila had been barely two. That’s what Old Maliba had always said.
Leila couldn’t blame Bibi for falling for Chan. He was good-looking and suave and more than willing to run Lace Island with Bibi. Now, his face lit up with a grin when he saw Leila and he threw his arms out wide.
‘There’s my girl,’ he said, and as she went to him, he grabbed her and spun her round in a hug. Leila felt the familiar tingle of shame that she felt each time he greeted her when he’d been away. She couldn’t quite find it in her heart to love him like she knew she ought to. Not that she’d ever tell anyone – even Rasa – how she felt. But the fact remained that Chan wasn’t her father. She wasn’t ‘his girl’, and him laying claim like this, like he always did, just made her more aware that something was missing.
‘Leila, mind out,’ her mother said. Bibi was standing watering her collection of spider plants in their circular holder with a small copper watering can. She was wearing one of her pink-and-orange kaftans, which she often wafted about in during the afternoons, but despite the shapeless garment, she still exuded glamour and a sort of regal air, her long black hair wound into a shell clip at the nape of her neck, her skin flawless. But it was Bibi’s pale aquamarine eyes with their dark rings round the irises that captivated everyone. They smiled at Leila now.
‘She’s fine,’ Chan said, putting his arm round Leila’s shoulder and snuggling her in close. ‘Look at our girl, Bibi,’ he said. ‘I go away for less than a week and she gets so big. Almost a grown woman. Let me see . . .’ He held Leila’s face for a moment and she breathed in his particular sweet smell, of cigarette smoke mingled with the pomade he wore in his hair and the lavender water Parva always sprayed on his shirts. ‘Nearly as beautiful as your mother. Not quite yet.’
‘Look at the state of you, child,’ Bibi scolded, blushing at Chan’s compliment and trying to smooth Leila’s hair before rubbing her cheek to remove some dirt. ‘You’ve been playing with those boys in the grove again,’ she said with a tut. Leila glanced at Chan, who winked. They both knew that Bibi’s attempts to make Leila ladylike were wasted. ‘Go and clean up. We have guests. Tina and Teddy Everdene. They’re all the way from England. As well as their friends Martin and Christopher Barber. They work in the theatre, apparently. Oh, and Christopher’s . . . fiancée?’ Bibi checked with Chan.
‘She probably will be by the time they leave here if he’s got any sense,’ Chan chuckled. ‘She’s a bombshell all right.’
Bibi gave him a sharp look, then turned to Leila. ‘You must be polite to them.’
Leila shrugged in tacit acknowledgement, annoyed that her mother was so openly impressed by total strangers. Personally, she couldn’t care less about these new guests or where they were from, her attention now caught by all the packages next to the armchair.
‘What did you bring?’ she asked Chan.
‘Go ahead,’ he said, pulling up the creases of his light blue trousers and sitting down on the chair. He lit a cigarette using the large amethyst lighter Bibi reserved for the guests. ‘Take a look. There’s plenty of treasures.’
Leila unwrapped the packages and Bibi joined her, standing over her as she emptied the bags.
‘Did you remember saffron? Was Mr Singh at the market?’ Bibi asked.
‘Of course,’ Chan said. ‘He sends his regards. Oh, Bibi, look at this,’ he said, leaning forward and passing her a package wrapped in thin pink paper.
Bibi looked warily at him as she unwrapped the silk shawl and gasped. ‘How much did that cost?’
‘Never you mind. Tell me you don’t love it,’ he said, standing now and going to her and wrapping it round her shoulders. Leila watched her mother cupping the soft, looping fringing along the edge of the scarf.
‘We can’t afford these luxuries, Chan,’ she said, but Leila could tell that she loved the scarf and loved her husband for buying it.
‘What are these?’ Leila asked, pulling out a large colourful box.
‘Ahh. Those are fireworks,’ Chan said, rubbing his knees and crouching down next to her. ‘I got them on special offer. We can have them next Christmas.’ He opened the box and pulled out one of the paper-wrapped fireworks inside. ‘Full of gunpowder.’
‘Then don’t put your cigarette near it,’ Bibi scolded. ‘You’ll send the whole place up.’
Chan put back the firework. ‘Good point. In fact, Leila, don’t you ever think of playing with these. They are highly flammable,’ he said, his tone slightly mocking. ‘You know how paranoid your mother is about fire.’
‘With good reason,’ Bibi said. ‘You should be too,’ she continued, taking the cigarette from Chan’s mouth and stubbing it in the glass ashtray.
‘Run and put them in the cupboard in the hall,’ Chan said. ‘You’ll have to remember to dig them out.’
Leila packed up the fireworks and carried them back through the screen into the hall. She knelt by one of the large mahogany sideboards and slid back the door. Inside, the shelves were lined with yellowing newspaper from a different era, and they smelt of musty joss sticks. She tried to clear a space on the top shelf, which was filled with an odd assortment of objects, including a steel helmet that had belonged to a guest, candlesticks, coconut shells and some photo albums. Leila flicked one of them open now, pulling aside the brown tissue-paper leaves to see the formal black-and-white pictures of Lace Island twenty years ago.
There was her father, Ranjidan, on the beach, making a pose in his 1950s swimming trunks next to a long wooden surfboard. How could a man who had so clearly loved the water come to such an awful end? For a year afterwards, nobody had swum on the beach where he had disappeared and his bloodied shorts had been found. She looked at his grinning face, running her fingertips over the line of his cheekbones, a likeness in his face to hers she was proud to share.
Behind her, she heard voices in the hall. She peeped round the edge of the desk and saw a tall man and a woman by the front door, admiring the photos on the wall. The woman was wearing a light blue sundress with padded shoulders, a large pair of sunglasses perched on her frizzy hair.
The man had a purple checked shirt with a large patch of sweat down the back. He walked over and started flicking through the visitors book.
‘Tina, darling, you must come and see this,’ the man said. ‘It makes very interesting reading.’
Like many of the guests on Lace Island, he looked rich, Leila thought. But he was pale, like he hadn’t been in the sun for a while.
‘Look at that,’ he continued, pointing to an entry. She could hear the awe in his voice as he flipped over the pages, his wife peering over his shoulder. ‘We’re certainly in rarefied company. All sorts in here.’
The foreign guests were always the same with the visitors book, Leila thought, although she couldn’t understand why. They were just names. People. Fine when they were here. Even better when they left.
But the guests seemed to love the guessing game with the visitors book and its unspoken connections. Because that was Bibi’s rule: you could only visit if you knew someone who had been before and had recommended you. Lace Island wasn’t in any brochures or advertised anywhere, and Bibi had banned the few journalists who’d visited from writing about it. That’s what made it special and so safe. Only lovely people came, according to Bibi, as if loveliness were a secret thread that connected all the guests.
‘Hello,’ Leila said, shoving the photo album back next to the fireworks and standing up.
The woman, Tina, put her hand on her chest. ‘Oh, my, you scared me,’ she said with a laugh.
‘You must be young Leila,’ the man said, peering at her thr
ough his round glasses like she was a rare monkey. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Oh, Leila, I think you must be the luckiest girl in the world, if you ask me,’ Tina said, stepping forward to take Leila’s arm. ‘Living here. It really is paradise, isn’t it. Oh look, there’s Vanessa,’ she said, spotting someone coming through the open front door into the hall. Leila turned and saw a woman in a pink-and-white spotted halter-neck dress sashaying in. She had a mane of long, curly blonde hair and exuded a sort of glamorous film-star quality, as if she was lit up from inside. ‘Nessa, darling,’ Tina continued, ‘come and meet Chan’s daughter, Leila. She’s just as lovely as he promised.’
Now the woman took off her sunglasses and smiled, and as Leila stared at her bright green eyes, she thought she was possibly the most exotic creature she’d ever seen.
CHAPTER FOUR
London, present day
The three glasses chinked together and Tony grinned at Jess and Kai across the scuffed wooden table. They were in their local pub celebrating Jess starting her training course. Angel should have been here too, but despite texting her, Jess had heard nothing for days.
Their row still weighed heavily on Jess’s mind. She should hate Angel for all the things she’d said, but instead, she felt a gnawing sorrow and a sense of abject failure.
She should have seen the signs before, but she’d been so busy working that she hadn’t noticed just how depressed Angel had become. And right now, after starting her cabin-crew training course and meeting so many interesting people, she felt as if the gap between them had just widened even more.
‘It’ll be hard work, but six weeks and then, hopefully, I’ll be in the air,’ Jess told Tony now.
‘At least being thirty-five thousand feet in the air will keep you out of trouble,’ he said, taking a sip of his pint.
‘I wouldn’t guarantee it,’ Jess said.
‘You’ll have to look after that ugly mug of yours. No more fights. You listening, you two?’ he said with a grin.
