‘So,’ Ivanka stood back admiring her handiwork, ‘you now look beautiful.’
‘I don’t know about beautiful, but certainly better anyway. I used to look like someone covered me in glue and threw me into a charity shop.’ Carmel smiled at her friend. ‘Thanks, Ivanka.’
Sharif asked her to meet him there, as he’d had to go accompany a patient to Bedford Hospital for emergency surgery and wouldn’t get back to accompany her to the lunch. She ordered the cab to pick her up at reception and got several appreciative comments and even a wolf whistle from Kate and Sheila as she passed, which made her blush.
The restaurant was so posh it could hurt itself, as Kit used to say. It was an old country mansion, all banisters and glittering candelabras and chandeliers. A doorman, in full regalia, held the door open for her, ‘Good afternoon, madam, welcome to Grosslyn Court.’
What on earth was she doing here? The urge to bolt threatened to overwhelm her as she stood in the vast entrance hall. Waiting staff flurried about, carrying impossibly heavy silver platters and serving dishes as there appeared to be dining rooms on either side of the grand staircase. She had no idea what to do next, should she try one of the rooms to see if Sharif was there? Or call him maybe? Perhaps people didn’t just whip out mobile phones in places like this. Though she thought she looked okay, inside she felt like little Carmel Murphy, nobody’s child and completely out of place in such opulent surroundings. She debated going back outside, maybe to wait for Sharif there, but as she deliberated, trying not to get in anyone’s way, she spotted him emerging from a taxi outside. Relief flooded through her; it was going to be fine. She smiled and went to meet him, but he didn’t see her. He turned to enter the dining room on the left. When she put her hand on his arm, he spun around and gazed in amazement.
‘Carmel…I didn’t recognize you! You look…Oh, my God, you look absolutely beautiful. That dress, and your hair…I had no idea it was you.’
She beamed with delight. ‘Ivanka did it, really, she and Zane made me buy the dress, even though it cost ninety-five pounds!’ she whispered in his ear.
He grinned, ‘You crack me up. Honestly, you do, the women in here would spend that on a lipstick and not one of them could hold a candle to you. I’m the luckiest man alive. Now, let’s take you in so I can show you off to Tristan and Angelica.’
She picked her way behind him to a table where a couple sat waiting in silence. As they rose to greet Sharif and Carmel, she sensed a coldness in the embrace, especially from Angelica. They were both very rich looking, expensive clothes and shoes, but she was good looking and he definitely was not. He had that high bred look about him, all ruddy cheeks and sticking out ears. His reddish hair was receding, but he had it strategically styled in a not very convincing comb-over, and his voice was nasal and reed thin. She was totally different. All shiny black hair and lots of makeup. The dress was a little too tight and Carmel suspected it was cutting her in half. A lifetime spent in the shadows meant Carmel was good at spotting the things more extroverted people missed, and the tension between this pair was palpable.
Tristan was an oncologist as well, and he and Sharif immediately began discussing another colleague’s upcoming article in The Lancet, leaving her in the full beam of Angelica’s inquisitive stare.
‘So, Carmel, you’re Irish, I understand?’ she raised an impeccably plucked black eyebrow. She might as well have said, ‘I hear you’re a leper,’ for all the warmth in her voice.
‘Yes, Dublin and later County Offaly.’ She tried to sound confident but feared she failed miserably.
‘I’ve never been, Tristan went once, hunting or fishing or something mind-numbing like that but I’ve never felt the urge. It’s terribly green, I believe.’ Her accent could cut glass.
‘Eh, yes, very green alright. In fact, Johnny Cash wrote a song about Ireland called Forty Shades of Green,’ she blurted, feeling instantly imbecilic.
‘Johnny who? Do we know him? Sharif used to know a chap, years ago, second trombone or some such, with the Berlin Philharmonic? …’ she looked perplexed.
Oh, God, did she have to take this conversation to its mortifying conclusion?
‘No, he’s an American country singer, well, was, he’s dead now.’ Carmel could feel the colour creeping up her neck, she took a big gulp of water.
‘An American?’ Angelica wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, no, I don’t know many of those. My father knew some, they were stationed at our country house during the war or something when he was a child, but I tend to avoid Americans where possible. Though it is becoming increasingly more difficult.’ She uttered this broad, racist generalization, and dabbed her lips with the starched napkin, leaving a blood red stain that someone was going to have to scrub to remove. Sharif and Tristan were still deep in conversation, so escape looked unlikely.
‘I’d love to visit there someday,’ she ventured, trying to defend all the Americans she loved to listen to on podcasts and on Ted Talks.
‘Well, why on earth would you not go if that is your wish?’ She fixed Carmel with an icy gaze as if she were a particularly slow five-year-old.
‘Well, it would cost a lot, flights and all of that, I’d have to save up.’ Carmel wasn’t going to try to keep up with her, it would be impossible anyway.
‘Quite.’ Carmel could tell she wasn’t sure if it was a joke.
The huge leatherbound menus arrived, and to Carmel’s dismay, it was written almost entirely in what she thought might be French. She didn’t do French at school, it was only needed if you were going to college and she definitely was not, so she did Geography instead. Kids in care were never considered as university material; it was never said outright, but the inference was that she had cost the state quite enough already without expecting a third level qualification as well. She tried to make out what the words on the menu might mean. Sometimes, French words looked a bit like English words she’d heard. But even the bits that were in English were a mystery. The whole thing was confits of this and veloutés of that, she imagined sweetbreads to be a dessert of some kind, but they were being served with samphire, whatever that was, and potato rosti. The only thing she recognized was potato and that couldn’t be a dessert, could it? Sharif must have noticed her discomfort and asked should he order for her.
‘Yes, please, that would be lovely, I’m just going to the Ladies, you know what I like.’ She dared to rest her hand on his shoulder as she passed, and he reached up and covered it with his, holding her gaze for a second. She walked away, happy that he loved her even if she didn’t fit in with these surroundings or those people.
When she returned, Angelica was halfway through a bottle of white wine and Sharif had barely touched his glass of red. Tristan was driving, so was only on mineral water. The other woman smiled, but Carmel thought she looked like a particularly hungry fox.
‘So, you found it alright? This place is a bit of a maze. I used to come here as a teenager, when the Wesley-Cramptons had it, Old Charlie W.C. as everyone called him, was a frightful goat, one had to keep one’s wits about them if he was on the prowl, but the parties were marvelous. One occasion, I recall Grahame Billingsley, do you know him? Top man at London Bridge Hospital, Sharif knows him, anyway, he was caught in flagrante as it were with Georgia Samsworth’s au pair. Georgia went totally berserk and we all thought she was outraged that he should take advantage of such a girl, but no, it turns out that she herself was involved with Grahame for years and nobody knew. The same night, Grahame’s wife was there as was Georgia’s current husband, Danny Porchion-Wall. They divorced, but her father was a QC, now sits on the appellate bench, so she got everything.’
Carmel looked at Angelica in bewilderment, but she ploughed on regardless. Carmel had absolutely no idea what she was on about. At least she required no input from Carmel. She droned on for several minutes, name dropping double barrels here and there, and everyone she knew was the top of something. Carmel looked around and took in the splendour of the room until Sharif’s voic
e broke through her reverie.
‘Tristan, we have been derelict in our duties to these beautiful ladies, going on about work. Forgive us, we are boring when we get on the subject of molecular mutations in genome sequencing.’
‘One of you is boring no matter what he talks about.’ Angelica’s derisive remark went unheard by the men but not by Carmel.
The afternoon dragged on and Sharif soon saw that Carmel wasn’t enjoying it. Angelica was getting drunker by the second, she’d ordered another bottle of wine, having polished off the first one almost single-handedly, and her sneering remarks about her husband were more audible.
Tristan was alright, but he had nothing to say to women, it would seem. He listened politely whenever Sharif drew her into the conversation, but once she’d finished, he’d raise some totally unrelated topic again with Sharif, inevitably one she couldn’t participate in. After the main course, where Angelica made a huge deal of how she wanted everything served and then ate none of it, the waiter came offering desserts, but Sharif checked his beeper.
‘Oh, I’m sorry folks, we have to go, needed at Aashna.’ He smiled apologetically, but Carmel saw the conspiratorial gleam in his eye.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, can’t the registrar do it?’ Angelica whined, her red-taloned hand on Sharif’s sleeve. ‘We’ve hardly seen you for months and now you’re dashing off. Anybody would think you were trying to get away, but then perhaps you are, after all, there’s only so much scientific drivel a person can listen to without wanting to stab the talking head with a steak knife.’
Sharif looked at her intently, embarrassed for his friend. ‘Perhaps you should cut back on the booze, Angelica, it clearly doesn’t agree with you.’ Sharif’s words were mild but packed a punch all the same.
Angelica reddened with embarrassment. ‘Oh, Sharif, don’t be such a bore, come on, stay and have some fun.’ She tried to recover but it only made everyone else at the table cringe.
Tristan shut his eyes in resignation; he was tired of her constant sniping.
‘Well, you must get on, old boy, thanks for coming. I’ll be in touch about the call for papers, the conference isn’t until the spring, but I’d like to have a strong representation from our end if possible.’ He turned his attention to Carmel, ‘It was lovely to meet you, Caroline,’ he held out his hand to shake hers.
‘Carmel, Tristan, her name is Carmel,’ Sharif said gently.
‘Of course, of course, what did I call you? Something else? I’m so sorry, my dear, I’m a bit…well, you know.’ Tristan at least had the good grace to look embarrassed, but she knew he had no more interest in her than the man in the moon. Sharif was clearly his focus and the ladies were mere decorations. His relationship with his own wife left a lot to be desired, and while Carmel felt sorry for him in the way she sniped constantly, if she had to play second fiddle to his career and listen to him droning on about molecules or whatever all day, maybe she had some reason to be so catty.
In the cab on the way back to Aashna House, Sharif held her hand.
‘I’m sorry, that was a terrible lunch for you and you looked so stunning… I’m really sorry.’
‘Sharif, they’re your friends and they seem nice, I suppose, I just don’t know the set of people she was on about, the Tingly-Melons or the Farthlewaites or whatever.’
He laughed and seemed relieved she wasn’t angry.
‘Honestly, please don’t feel upset, it was a lovely lunch. I’d never been anywhere so fancy in all my life and the food was out of this world. Did you know Angelica used to visit there before it was a hotel? When it was just a private house, can you imagine?’
Sharif chuckled, ‘Don’t be fooled by the cut-glass accent. Angelica comes from a long line of social climbers. Her mother was originally a hairdresser and her father a butcher, but they did well, both retiring with huge chains of shops all over London. The ailing and skint aristocracy are desperate for cash and will marry anyone who has it. Poor old Tristan’s father gambled everything they had, so when Angelica showed up and set her cap at him, it seemed the answer to both their prayers. Angelica gets status and crumbling old piles to call home and the right honourables get the central heating fixed and patch up the roof with their working-class fortunes. Everyone’s a winner, you would think, except that the toffs secretly despise those they need so badly for money and the hairdressers’ daughters resent the uselessness of the lords and ladies. It hardly ever works out in practice.’
‘And which bracket do you fit into?’ she asked with a grin.
‘Oh, neither, I’m just a Paki who done good.’ He chuckled, putting on a cockney accent. ‘Neither group would lower themselves for the likes of me. No, I had to go to The Emerald Isle to find a woman who thankfully wouldn’t know the social ladder from one in her stocking and I love her for it.’
He drew her towards him in the back seat of the cab and kissed her.
‘Careful, Dr Khan, I might start getting notions of upperosity myself now. A doctor is a serious catch for a girl with nothing and no one to her name. Maybe I’ll go for elocution lessons and learn to say ‘simply marvellous’ or ‘what-ho chaps.’ Carmel put on a silly posh accent and Sharif chucked.
‘Please don’t. I don’t ever want you to change, not one single thing. When I was at university, I worked very hard. My mother and father did the same, my father almost worked himself to death when he came here, but he wanted better for me, for my mother. He had corner shops, cliché, I know, but it was a business a young Pakistani immigrant could get a start in, and if you worked hard enough, you could expand it. People see me now, with Aashna House and all of it, but I’m from very humble people, hard-working people, who knew the value of a pound. Their blood is in my veins and yes, now I live in luxury, so does my mother, but it wasn’t always like this and I care very little for the trappings of wealth. I’m not a member of their clubs nor do I own a boat or a horse. I’m a simple man, with simple needs and desires. When Jamilla died, I never imagined I’d ever feel like that about anyone ever again. I knew her all my life, our parents were friends and she got it, you know? Her father and mine emigrated together, we grew up together. Weird as it might sound, she would have loved you. She had no time for that whole social climbing business either. She got that I didn’t want to be a doctor so I could make lots of money; I did it because I really wanted to make a difference to people’s lives.
‘I don’t fit in with those people, Tristan and Angelica and all of them, they just see the clinic and they calculate the money I must be making and decide to befriend me based on that. I normally refuse all those invitations, but I do want to be involved with the conference, there’s some cutting-edge stuff up for discussion there, particularly on the use of cannabis for medicinal purposes. Also, I forgot what a pain Angelica can be and I thought it might be nice for you to make some friends, but they’re not your type of people either. I’m sorry, I just want you to be happy here, I don’t want you to think you made a mistake.’
‘Sharif, I have never been so bloody happy in my life. How can you be worried? I love it here, I love Aashna House, England, the patients, the staff, and I especially love the fact that I can feel closer to my mother here. You’ve saved my life.’
Chapter 7
Carmel’s pager buzzed; Marlena had paged her to come to reception. The head teacher from the local primary school wanted to see the events coordinator. For the first time since she got to Aashna, she felt tired. She wasn’t sleeping. Her mother was on her mind all the time, so many questions just swirling around her head.
Sharif had taken her to Brighton, to where he and his mother had scattered Dolly’s ashes, and showed her the tree they had planted in her memory. ‘Dolly Mullane, mother and friend “Que sera sera”,’ was on the inscription. She asked Sharif to put ‘mother’ on it in case Carmel ever found her, which touched her, but left her with more questions to which nobody had answers.
Who was her father? Was he still alive? Would he want to know her? Why d
id she feel she had to leave? Last night, she barely slept a wink, eventually getting up quietly so as not to disturb Sharif, she watched the dawn creep across the sky as she sipped a cup of tea in the courtyard. Sharif placing his hand on her shoulder startled her.
‘What’s up, you haven’t slept at all?’ He took off his robe, wrapped it around her, and sat down.
She was grateful for the warmth; despite the early summer, it was chilly in the mornings.
‘Not really. just…It’s like all the questions I had as a kid have come back to the surface again, but I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be keeping you up with all of this, you need to rest. I’m sorry…’ He turned to her.
‘Why are you sorry? What for? You have done nothing…Oh, Carmel, my love, I wish I could take some of this burden for you, I really do. And poor Dolly, if only I could have kept her going for another little while, you’d have met her and she would have told you the answers to your questions.’
The Carmel Sheehan Story Page 10
