by Julie Caplin
For most of the journey, he worked through his email on his phone catching up with correspondence. Fiona tried to listen to her podcast but couldn’t concentrate; she could smell the faint traces of Yumi’s perfume on Gabe’s shirt – the same one from yesterday. Why was it that the walk of shame left a man looking rumpled and sexy? And how could she possibly think he was sexy when he’d come from another woman’s bed? That horrible jealousy coiled and slithered inside her and she steadfastly stared out of the window, horrified to find that a lone traitorous tear had escaped and was sliding down her face. Angrily, she dashed it away and sniffed, wishing she had the nerve to blow her nose but knowing from Gabe’s warning it was considered extremely rude.
‘You all right?’ mouthed Gabe glancing up from his emails.
‘Fine,’ Fiona mouthed back.
He leaned closer and mercifully the tang of his aftershave overpowered the light perfume but nothing could dilute the sudden longing that tripped her pulse as he murmured in her ear.
‘I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have ditched you. It was rude. But … Yumi’s quite fragile just now. She doesn’t have many friends. We’ve known each other for a long time. I feel desperately sorry for her. Her husband’s away all the time, doesn’t pay her much attention. She’s on her own a lot.’
‘You don’t need to justify it to me, Gabe,’ she whispered back fiercely, unable to hide her anger at his excuses. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’
His eyes narrowed as he grasped her meaning. ‘I’m not sleeping with her,’ he growled.
‘You’re a grown man.’ Her whisper sounded accusing but the thought of him and Yumi together was more painful than she could have imagined. ‘Like I said, it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘I. Am. Not. Sleeping with her.’
She shrugged and his blue eyes blazed.
He held her gaze and she had to drop her eyes.
Throwing himself back into his seat, he went back to his phone and she checked her watch. They were cutting it fine for her to get back in time for the tea ceremony. Suddenly she longed for the quiet calm of the older woman’s house.
***
Setsuko’s solemn attention as she folded Fiona into the kimono and her gentle chatter was calming in a way she wouldn’t have believed possible. Her anger at Gabe had lasted the whole way back from the station. Couldn’t the stupid man see how Yumi manipulated him? Her fingers clenched, but then softened. There was something about the steady ritual and the order as each garment went on. Something about being in the pared-down room with the sun pouring in and the sound of birdsong outside. Focusing on each element of the costume and Setsuko’s gentle chatter, she ran a finger over one of the embroidered cranes on the fabric of the kimono.
Finally dressed, her hair piled in a lose bun secured by ornate bamboo slides, Fiona and Setsuko took their kimono-constricted steps down to the teashop. Elegant though it was, the restrictive dress ensured a leisurely and measured journey along the engawa, the wooden veranda, skirting the garden and into Haruka’s chashitsu. Fiona wondered if this, like so much else in Japanese culture, was deliberate and another form of mindfulness Slowing the pace, taking your time. You couldn’t hurry in a kimono, that was for sure, and the slow steps as they’d walked down through the garden had brought a sense of peace. She was glad she’d agreed to wear the kimono at Setsuko’s suggestion on her return. Had the other woman guessed how cross and upset she was?
There was a Western couple and another woman in the room and, to her astonishment, Gabe. What was he doing here? He hadn’t mentioned anything about coming along. The last thing he’d said was ‘Why don’t you come over to the studio later to see the pictures of Ken?’
And that created its own dilemma. Part of her longed to see them and enjoy again that professional intimacy that they’d shared before Yumi had turned up, the other – the sensible – part knew it would be a terrible mistake. It would exacerbate that sense of hopelessness and heartache. Gabe was as far from reach as he had been when she was eighteen, except then, at least it had been just a silly crush. Not like this depth of emotion where the thoughts of what it would be like to kiss him kept creeping into her head like spidery cracks intent on forcing their way through. She was also terrified she might give herself away – on the train she’d had to limit herself to sneaking periodic peeps his way, scared she might get caught studying those cheekbones or staring hungrily at his lips. Yesterday, in the blink of an eye, she’d turned into some crazy person, desperate to capture his attention. Wanting him to notice her.
Despite the turmoil of her thoughts, she stared at him, and he responded with a nod. Haruka acknowledged her with a simple bow and if Fiona had to label it, the faintest smirk of triumph, as Setsuko escorted her into the room and guided her to one of the tatami mats. Fiona bowed to the other occupants of the room and lowered herself into a sitting position; she’d been warned not to attempt the kneeling position that Haruka had adopted as apparently that took years of practice to sustain.
Ignoring Gabe, who was unfortunately positioned opposite her, she sat down on her mat and concentrated on Haruka kneeling behind a small tea station which was surprising in its simplicity, although by now, Fiona thought, she ought to have been used to the streamlined Japanese approach where less was definitely more. She felt able to breathe more deeply in the uncluttered, pared-back room, as if her emotions had room to expand into the space. The steaming black pot positioned on a small gas ring drew her attention and she studied the neat arrangement of several assorted pots of differing sizes.
There was a quiet hush of almost breathless anticipation in the room and Fiona settled more comfortably, looking out beyond Haruka through the wide-open window to the greens, pinks, and reds of the garden which made the perfect backdrop. With a rush of happiness, Fiona smoothed down the soft silk, doubly glad she’d worn the kimono when she caught a quick approving gleam from the otherwise impassive Haruka. Now she’d started, it was very serious business. From what she’d picked up from Mayu, who was clearly very proud of both her grandmother and mother, it took years of study and practice to become a master of tea.
Inadvertently she caught Gabe’s eye and prayed the rush of heat wasn’t obvious to him. It was as if every sense were suddenly tuned into him even though she was still fuming at him. He was studying her face with quiet intensity which made her nerve endings tingle, almost as if he were touching her. Breathe, she told herself, focusing on Haruka, relieved when all the earlier agitation she’d felt began to dissipate.
Haruka took a little red napkin that had been tucked into her obi and flicked it out with a no-nonsense, audible click that signalled the ceremony had begun. With long, elegant fingers she smoothed down its length before folding it with careful exact movements. It was quickly apparent that every last part of the ceremony had been judiciously choreographed and that precision dominated each fluid transition.
Fiona watched, totally absorbed in the painstaking details as the ritual unfolded. The silence in the room made her aware of her own blood pumping around her body, the weight of her limbs pressed into the floor, and the rhythm of her breath.
Everyone’s attention was on Haruka as she scooped up steaming water in the long-handled bamboo cup, which, once the water was poured into the chawan, was put down at a very precise angle. Next, she carefully wiped the long stick that was used to scoop out the matcha powder into the chawan. Once hot water was tipped into the cup and whisked with the delicate, spidery bamboo whisk, Haruka turned the cup several times before offering it up to Setsuko who took it to the woman nearest her. Before it was handed over, the bowl was turned several times and the woman accepted it with a bow.
There was a universal intake of breath as the woman took the bowl and lifted it to her mouth, sipping the liquid, and then a collective exhale when she nodded appreciatively.
Then Haruka began the whole painstaking process all over again. Fiona watched each regimented move, marvelling at Haruka’s stoli
d patience and assiduous attention to every last detail. There was an almost balletic discipline and rigour to her movements and Fiona found her thoughts were not drifting so much as concentrating in one place. Where earlier her brain had been full of resignation, anger and despair, now she could see things more clearly, as if the calm environment allowed her thoughts to be filtered and rationalised.
The boiling water steamed gently into the air and Fiona imagined her pain dissipating like water vapour. She couldn’t change the way she felt about Gabe but the feelings were something that should be cherished. She should enjoy the brief time she had with him and make the most of it, celebrate the things she loved about him: his gentle respect for Haruka and her family, the care he’d taken with her at the tempura bar, the way he’d treated her like an equal at the shoot, his passion for photography which, although well-hidden, was still there. The way he made her senses sing when he touched her and how he’d championed her so quickly against her mother. How he’d made her feel beautiful that night in the studio. How he’d given her back some self-esteem. If he couldn’t see how Yumi’s manipulation for what it was, that was his problem.
The quick shushing of the whisk in the tea brought Fiona’s attention back as Haruka fluffed up the water into a deep, dark green, foamy froth with quick, firm strokes. Agitation, she thought. Sometimes you needed to shake things up. She had another week here and she was going to embrace every moment.
Setsuko approached with her small slow steps, turned the bowl, and with a bow offered it to Fiona – and with it came an insight. By taking the bowl, she was accepting what was offered and although she felt a little crack in her heart – it was going to take more than golden glue to mend it – she smiled to herself. She knew herself now. Knew who she was and what she was capable of. At eighteen she’d thought she was in love but it was only a facsimile of love. At eighteen she’d lost her self-esteem and sense of self-worth; now it was gradually coming back and that was something to celebrate.
She took a sip of the tea and nodded, making a silent toast inside to herself; a sense of wellbeing flooded her as if she’d completed a circle. This evening she would go over to Gabe’s studio.
***
Gabe was fascinated by the play of emotions that danced across Fiona’s face as she sat in a shaft of sunlight, so regal and elegant in the sumptuous kimono. That glorious hair … he remembered the silkiness of it sliding through his fingers and the clutch of his stomach when he’d nearly kissed her. God, he wished he had his camera. He could have taken a dozen shots, each seconds apart, and every one would have been different. Regret chafed at him. For not kissing her, as much as for not having his camera. It was a long time since he’d felt like that.
It was also a long time since he’d been to a tea ceremony, his overriding memory being boredom. He’d gone with Yumi and a couple of other people – he couldn’t even remember their names now, even though he’d partied regularly with them – and they’d fidgeted, tugging at their clothes, whispering in undertones the whole way through. Today he’d come on a whim, wanting perhaps to show Fiona that there was more to him than she thought. That he wasn’t the sort of shallow guy that slept with other people’s wives.
With a touch of shame at his previous behaviour, he watched Haruka carefully placing the bamboo cup back at exactly the same angle. She took great pride in what she did; there were centuries of learning here and it deserved respect. The person he’d been, when he was with Yumi back then, wasn’t someone he was particularly proud of. His mum and dad wouldn’t be particularly proud of him either if they knew what his life was really like. Suburban Sally and Jim in Esher with a marriage as durable and reliable as Tupperware. Unlike them, he’d been going places with a heady, exciting, glamorous career. It had been easy to impress them with his success, his early achievements, but somewhere along the way he’d lost sight of the values he’d grown up with. He downplayed things in his regular calls, talked about work and the latest movie star he’d photographed, instead of that he’d lost his passion for photography and how tired and bored of life he was. They were sad for him when he split up with Yumi and he didn’t reveal how low he’d sunk in that time. Upbeat, endlessly cheerful Sally and pragmatic Jim didn’t have much truck with self-pity. They’d never met her and he knew in his heart of hearts that although they never would have breathed a word to him, they wouldn’t have approved of his choice. And until now he’d never really understood just how great Tupperware was.
Haruka polished the wooden bamboo stick, spooning out a perfectly level serving of matcha tea. With every movement, there was clear purpose in what she was doing. She had trained for this for years and was totally in control. Absolutely assured in every element of the ceremony. She knew with bone-deep certainty exactly what came next. A certainty, he reflected that was rather reassuring.
And it made him question what his purpose was.
What was he doing with his life? Dinner with Yumi had been a disaster. She’d been cross that Ken hadn’t joined them and he’d quickly realised that had been the real reason for her trip to Kyoto. When was he going to stop chasing after her? Did he even love her anymore? He cared about her and he worried about her. Despite her marriage, she was so unhappy. She put on a brave face in public but in private to him, she let the truth spill out. How lonely she was, how Meiko never had any time for her, how mean with money he was.
Across the room, Fiona accepted her tea from Setsuko, a sweet smile transforming the solemn concentration on her face. It pierced him with sudden awareness. In the last couple of days with Fiona he’d been … more human. Like he was coming back to life. She challenged him, made him angry, made him laugh, made him think. He knew with certainty that the pictures he’d taken of Ken Akito were the best he’d taken in over a year. Was that down to her? And he’d taken some great shots of her which he was dying to take a closer look at. There was something about her expressive face that called to him.
Right now there was a look of unbearable sadness on her face, quickly followed by resignation. What had caused them? What on earth would she say if she knew about the unaccountable urge he had to put his arms around her and reassure her that everything would be all right?
***
‘Hi, come on in.’ He jumped up, eager to please and relieved to see her when Fiona tentatively rapped on the rice-paper screen of the shoji door to his studio workroom. He realised he’d been checking the clock rather a lot in the last hour, worried she might not turn up.
‘I wanted to see Ken’s pictures,’ she said, surprising him slightly by sliding into the seat next to him. On the train she’d given him the impression she’d rather sit with a skunk than with him, staring out of the window for most of the journey.
‘We’ve got some good ones,’ he leaned towards the screen and, clicking away on the mouse, brought up a selection.
‘We?’
His hand froze over the mouse. We. He’d said it without thinking. ‘Yes. Teamwork. I’ve not had an assistant before. You were a big help.’ Not wanting to analyse the slip, he covered it quickly. ‘What do you think?’
She scanned the images and he watched her face, strangely anxious to hear her opinion. In his mind there was no doubt about it that the standout shot was the one of Ken, elbows on his knees, hands on his face, his mouth wide open with an unselfconscious laugh. It had been one of those rare unguarded moments that Gabe would have kicked himself forever if he’d missed.
‘That one.’ She pointed and immediately lowered her finger. ‘Rude to point but definitely that one,’ she added with uncharacteristic self-confidence. A bubble of pride swelled under his sternum. She had a very good eye and she understood what made a picture, what made it something above the ordinary.
‘I think so too. And I think Ken will love it. I’m also thinking about sending these ones.’ He clicked through a couple more pictures, one of Ken smiling at the camera in the same position, a little more sober than the laughing shot but still full of personality, kind
, knowing eyes looking right into the lens, and one of Ken leaning back with his arm draped across the back of the sofa, relaxed and comfortable, as if he were waiting for a friend to join him at any minute.
‘They’re very good.’
‘I think so. You must have inspired me.’ Although he said it with a teasing smile, he realised he meant it. Her steady interest in the process as they set up in the suite and her easy compliance when he’d asked her to pose had given him new impetus. He’d actually wanted to do more than a good job. Yeah, it helped that Ken was a stand-up guy but Fiona’s bright-eyed interest had made him care that little bit more. With a jolt he realised he hadn’t cared about work properly for a long time – he was lucky enough to have the talent to get away with faking it. Was that shame curling around the edges of his thoughts?
‘Yeah, right.’ Fiona’s voice rang with scepticism.
‘No, seriously.’ He reached out and laid a hand on her forearm, for some reason needing the contact, unsure whether he was reassuring her or himself. ‘These are the best portrait shots I’ve taken for a while.’ Clicking on the programme, he enlarged the picture so it filled the screen. ‘There. Isn’t Ken a man you’d want to be friends with?’
Fiona nodded.
‘Which is exactly what I wanted. They’ve come out far better than I’d hoped. Look at that one. The way he’s looking right at us. Open, warm, friendly.’
‘Probably because all those people weren’t hanging around,’ said Fiona, pulling her arm away and cradling it to her chest as if his touch were dangerous.
‘I always try to get rid of them,’ said Gabe, swallowing down his odd sense of disappointment. ‘Otherwise it destroys the intimacy.’ He thought back to the brief half hour they’d shared in the suite before everyone had arrived, when there’d been that easy camaraderie between them. When she’d posed for him and when he’d had that urge to kiss her. Things were different now – what would she say if he did kiss her? Would she be as horrified as she was last time? He glanced at her face. The blue eyes were guarded and distant. If he kissed her would they soften and smile at him as they had done in the suite? A strange sense of longing like an ache coiled in his gut and he had to fight the urge to put a hand up to her face and trace that oddly attractive wide mouth. Fiona was avoiding his gaze and he realised he was in danger of doing something stupid.
