Mama, do you remember the front desk manager at that hotel? You know—that god-awful place that smelled of wet dogs and old carpet. How we ate sandwiches in our room that night and watched French television while you stroked my hair? It was so ghastly that place, Mama; I can’t believe we stayed there. Even though it had a pizza-slice view of the Eiffel Tower. You always were too much of a romantic.
But that front desk manager, maybe he was the first love of my life. Antoine. Beautiful, soft, sweet Antoine. Do you remember? With the coffee brown eyes? Maybe you don’t remember. He excused us that last night when we couldn’t quite pay the bill. Must have taken pity on us two red-haired English girls. He was so kind to us, and he even held my hand for a second when he kissed us goodbye and I thought I was going to faint or wet my pants or something equally dreadful and embarrassing. Léon and Antoine. French men. Their souls have been crafted from the same rainbow.
Mama, I am married to a good man, and I must stop thinking such thoughts.
Your loving daughter,
Grace
P.S. Mama, he is a chef.
Raiponce—Rapunzel
Bergamot and Cardamom with White Chocolate Ganache
Grace Miller owns a café. My signature is on the papers; I put it there, it is done. It all happened so much quicker than I expected, and I have that strange smarting feeling, like the one you get when someone pulls out your tooth or rips off a Band-Aid really fast. Is it shock? I wanted this, didn’t I? Some days it is hard to remember. Here I am with a café. Or here I am, I should say, with a big dusty mess that used to be a Portuguese restaurant and somehow has to become a café in the next couple of weeks. I need a glass of wine.
Outside the window a thick mist swims between the apartment blocks. It fills your throat and settles on your skin like a sweat, strange and disconcerting. I watch it drift milkily in the spaces between and around things. Inside, the microwave clock reads 17:38, in a sickly lime green. Pete has become accustomed to twenty-four-hour clocks after working in casinos for so long. Twenty to six. The lease papers are a thick bundle inside a white envelope on the kitchen bench. My name is typewritten in daunting black letters. Is it too early to be drinking? I pour myself a glass of the chardonnay Pete has left on the bench. Its warm, small bubbles prickle down my throat. I stroll through the apartment with my glass in hand, looking at each of the rooms. They could all do with a tidying-up, but I can’t be bothered. My muscles ache; hell, even my bones ache.
Today the builders came to remove a wall in the café so there is an easy view from the front counter to the kitchen. My ears still thunder with the echo of the jackhammers, cracking through old plaster and wood. The floors are now covered in gray muck, stepped through and kicked about. My shirtless builders left a different color from when they arrived, sweat turning the floury plaster dust on their bodies to a sticky ash. It is days like these I wish I could speak Chinese. The team leader, the one whose number Paul gave me after I rang him to ask for any contacts he might have, speaks English perfectly, but he is hardly ever around. Cantonese would be best, but even Mandarin would do. It feels like a disability, speaking only English. I have tried to encourage the builders to wear earplugs or hard hats, miming hopelessly with my hands, but I was met with confused glares and shrugs. I imagine that when I am not watching they smirk at me behind their drooping cigarettes. I quickly came to realize it was best for us all if I just got out of the way. So now I only watch, and then come home to my empty apartment, ears ringing. Tonight Pete has sent me a text message to let me know he is going out for dinner and then to karaoke with his workmates. Bonding over off-key singing and drinking green tea with whiskey. I’m a little relieved that he doesn’t invite me to join him.
I settle in our study, turning the chair to face the window. The glass is freckled with rain, and there is a smudge where one of us has leaned against it, looking out to the street below. My head is still full of floor plans, wallpapers, light shades, and napkin colors. Soon, too soon, I have to decide about the espresso machine and the walls. Perhaps the cheaper espresso machine will have to do, although the one I really want is silver and topped with a bronze eagle, like the hood of an expensive car. Deliciously Italian-looking but out of my price range. I bite my lip. I wonder if Pete will be right about this venture; a ridiculous expense that will come to nothing. It seems that waitressing all your life and opening a café are two such different things, I feel exhausted just thinking about it.
We’ve been lazy about unpacking our boxes since the move. I notice there is a box untouched by the desk, still sealed with wide brown tape. I slice off the tape and open the box. The papers inside are a complete muddle. Pete’s, I assume; old reports and project plans and a flotsam of boring corporate debris. But as I start thumbing through, my fingers connect with the stiff edges of a bundle of photos. They’re old; they still have those rounded corners, the colors bled to oranges and ambers, the focus soft and hazy.
The first shot is of me, standing in front of our apartment block in Islington. I’m wearing my waitress uniform, from the first real job I ever had. And I look embarrassed. It’s not hard to imagine Mama behind the camera, proud and giggling. The next one I’m in France, teenage and sullen, on a bridge, again being forced to pose. The weather is grim and the sky slate gray. Yet another wild, last-minute trip. I sink down into the reading chair, flicking through the pile. They are all pictures of me. Me and a chocolate cake with candles, eyes wide and dreamy; me sitting on a picnic blanket, squinting up at the camera; me and the Houses of Parliament. Here I am skinny and frightened in my high school uniform and then, years later, sulking at the kitchen table with my hair cropped short. I take a big sip of the chardonnay and lean my head back against the chair. The wine crawls through the rivers and inlets of my blood.
The last pictures are of Mama and me together. She has a terrifically bad hairdo in one, with two distinct layers, short on top, long underneath. Luckily for her she had wonderful, glossy hair that looked pretty in just about any kind of cut. She’s smiling so wide in that photo, a toddler-size me pressed back against her legs. I think I’m dressed as a fairy—I have wings made from coat hangers and kitchen foil. I don’t look very happy about it; probably not the girlie, gauzy number I had been hoping for. But Mama—Mama looks like she just built the Eiffel Tower.
Mama’s not smiling in all the pictures, though. Sometimes she looks off into the distance, or seems to be gazing through the camera. She has that faraway look she used to get, like she’s hovering between this world and another. These are the photos I stare and stare at. Bringing them up close to my face, reviewing every line in her forehead, the way her mouth is hanging, the tension in her shoulders. I am looking for something in her face that I cannot find, a clue or a sign. When my vision starts to get fuzzy, I put down the photos and stare out the window.
The light is fading quickly now, turning mauve. The lights in the apartments opposite ours flicker on, one by one. Across from us a dark-haired woman washes dishes, a long, thick braid over her shoulder. Her head faces down toward the sink, and she doesn’t lift it, working quickly through pots and woks and bowls and tongs. The braid hangs like a snake down her front and swings into her armpit as she moves. Then she glances up and leans forward toward the window. Her face looks small and pale. She reaches her hand between the security bars. I imagine her, like a girl in a fairy tale, tying her hair to a rail and climbing out and down between the silvery bars. She empties her palm, which was probably full of crumbs or scraps, before plunging it back into the sink.
I place my empty glass on the floor and lean back. My bones sink into the softness and I close my eyes.
* * *
I am wearing a dress with a print of elephants linked, tails to trunks, along the hem. I run my finger along the edge, imagining them trumpeting and stomping their feet. Mama has my other hand, and she is squeezing it tight. I’m pulled along, my feet lifting up and skidding along the ground. I look from her long legs to my short
ones, feet tucked into new black boots with shiny buttons. I love these boots; they remind me of Little Orphan Annie, just like in the movie when she sings “It’s the Hard Knock Life” and jumps on the bed. That is the very best part of the whole movie. To be honest, they pinch my skin a bit, the boots, but I don’t tell Mama because they cost her a fortune.
Mama’s red handbag is tucked into her side, under her arm, which is bent like a wing. She clears her throat, pauses, and clears her throat again. I look up to see if she is going to say something, but she doesn’t; just keeps her chin stuck out and round eyes looking forward. Now we are on a high street, walking past a corner store and then a post office and a bank and a charity shop. I turn my head to see the mannequins, half dressed in coats and hats, a gray-haired woman wriggling on trousers and skirts. I giggle at the pale statues, lower halves exposed to the street. They have smooth, neutral rude bits, not like rude bits at all, and staring, painted eyes. The gray-haired lady catches my grin and shoots me a disapproving look. Mama tugs on my hand again to scoot me along. Finally, she stops. She swallows and licks her lips and brushes hairs from her coat that aren’t really there. Her hand twitches in mine.
“Where are we, Mama?”
She looks at me, like she forgot I was attached to one of her hands. As she crouches down, her hair falls across her forehead. She lines up her eyes with mine. Underneath hers are dark smudges from not getting enough sleep, but she has put makeup over the top.
“Just wait out here for a minute, okay? This is really important. Mama won’t be long. Afterward you can have a doughnut.”
She smiles then, and pinches my cheek. This is going to be a good day. I think of the crackle of chocolate as I bite through to the soft guts of the doughnut, and sugar on my lips. I’m going to eat right around the edge, the whole wheel of it, until I get to the hole. Only that tiny little belly button in the middle will be left.
“Can it be a chocolate doughnut?”
She nods, pats the top of my hair. “Sure. Be good, okay? I won’t be long.”
We’re outside a bakery, warm, sweet smells drifting from the interior. I take in a sniff of flour and hot butter, soft sugar. The bottom half of the window is painted, so I can’t really see inside, except for the tops of heads and the light on the ceiling. Minutes go by that feel like hours; I brush the ground and sit down. Gravel gets stuck on my tights, and when I tug at it, the tar sticks and makes a hole. I put my finger against it so I can feel the cold, bumpy skin underneath. Mama is going to have a fit.
Noises come from the shop now, a woman screaming and yelling and carrying on. It sounds like Mama, and my heart stops like it is frozen. A man with a moustache comes out shaking his head slowly, gathering his coat around him. The bag he carries away in one fist smells like a hot mince pie. Something inside the shop must have fallen down, because there is a clattering sound. I stay as still as possible. Pretty soon after that Mama comes out. Her face is gray and tight.
“Come on, Grace, let’s go.”
She breathes in, puffing her chest out, and takes my hand. She glances down at my dusty tights.
“What about my doughnut?” I whisper. It’s a stupid thing to ask, but I am so hungry my tummy is hurting.
“What?”
“My doughnut …”
I brace myself as she brushes me down. Her hand is hard and efficient.
A man in a white apron rushes out of the shop. He starts to plead with Mama.
“Hell, you’ve got to give me a few seconds to get used to the idea.” His cheeks are red like apples; he smells like hot sugar. “You can’t come waltzing in with that kind of news right in the middle of a shift.” He shakes his head. “Why d’you always have to be so bloody crazy, so—” He stops speaking as his gaze drops to take me in. He sucks in a good long look at my face, and his mouth falls open. His eyes are soft, as blue as painted china. I notice his hands are covered in flour, but underneath they are wide and square with nails cut short and neat. “Is this …” He is still staring at me with his eyes as round as saucers.
The way he is staring makes me nervous, so I stop looking at his face and notice a tattoo peeking out from beneath his sleeve. It is a baby bluebird carrying a pink ribbon. I always wished for ballet shoes with pink ribbon like that. My feet are really sore and swollen in my boots and I want to cry, but Mama is so mad I keep it inside. Instead I will ask one last time. Just in case she forgot and it is sitting on the counter. Mama doesn’t like to buy something and then forget it; it would be a waste of money. I imagine the lonely paper bag, darkening with grease, waiting to be remembered. I tug at the hem of her pretty coat.
“The doughnut, Mama?”
Mama looks down at me with a look like I will stay quiet if I know what is good for me.
“Forget the bloody doughnut,” she hisses through her glossy red lips, turning away.
“Hey! Hey, wait …” croaks the baker, his hands hanging limply at his sides, face as fallen as a half-cooked sponge cake.
I am half dragged and half carried back down the street. Past the charity shop with the partially clad mannequins and the bank and the post office. The man is still yelling for Mama to stop, but he doesn’t move to follow us. I twist back to see his face before we are too far away and it is white and sad, but he just stands there, like a statue. Before long he and my doughnut and the bakery are small and in the distance, and we are across a park and around a corner and back at a train station.
* * *
I am woken by a metallic jingling. Pete is struggling to get in, his keys rattling as he tries to force one into the lock. I imagine him swearing on the other side of the door. I think about getting up to help him, but the wine running through my veins keeps me rooted dumbly to the spot, legs curled up into the chair and blinking to see in the darkness. I guess it is late; my feet are cold. I scrunch up tighter to conserve warmth. Pete gets the door unlocked and swings it forward. He staggers like a drunken sailor in the bright square of light. From here he is only a silhouette. I wait for him to call to me, but he stays there, huffing out air. When he closes the door, the room is once again in a deep, velvety darkness.
He moves into the bathroom, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. I can’t see him from where I am lying, but I can hear the tap being turned on and water being splashed. There is the whipping sound of a belt coming off and grunting as shoes thud to the tiled floor. Awake now, I stretch, my toes pressed out and back arched like a cat’s. I walk past the bathroom, but the door is closed. I put on one of his old T-shirts and climb into bed, grateful for the soft sheets. My head is thumping, perhaps from the wine, perhaps from being hunched up in the chair. I lay a hand over my forehead but don’t will the headache to stop, knowing I will fall asleep soon anyway, with one foot still in the world of my past.
Someone comes into the room, and it takes a second or two to remember it is Pete. When I open an eye, I can see him standing at the end of the bed, the light from a window casting him in and out of shadow. He is naked, facing me. He sways a little on his feet. The sour smell of alcohol reaches my nostrils across the cool night air. Just before I fall asleep I realize he is searching for my face in the dark.
* * *
On Sunday, Pete offers to help me in the café. I’m surprised; he’s been so wary of the whole idea. Perhaps he is just curious. He helps me clean up, stealing glances at the kitchen, around the walls, light fixtures, and window frames. He is soon covered from head to toe in plaster dust; it settles in his thick head of hair like snow, turning it a dirty gray. He leans forward and tries to shake it out.
“This stuff is unbelievable,” he grumbles.
I shrug and pass him a heavy box of teacups.
“Where d’you want these?”
“Just somewhere out the back; I’ll sort them later. No point getting them out now with all the—”
“Dust,” he finishes for me, standing with hands on hips. His mouth is a thin, grim line.
“Yeah.” I can’t help but smile
when I turn away from him.
I lean forward onto a chair; all of my muscles are singing with use. My whole body feels electric, as if all the currents have been switched on. I bounce from leg to leg, surveying the front room and figuring out what needs to be done next.
Pete comes up behind me and drops a hand onto my shoulder companionably. “Oven looks good back there.”
“Yeah, isn’t it a monster?”
Outside, an old lady with a hunched back pauses to peer in through the film of dust on the front windows. I wonder how old she is—perhaps eighty?—and I wave. She stares back at me.
“Reckon it’s time we cleaned up. When are the guys coming to put up the wallpaper?” Pete gathers the muscle across my shoulder blades with his palm. He gives a couple of absentminded, meaty squeezes. The old lady behind the glass doesn’t return my wave but hobbles on.
“Uh, four o’clock, I think they said.”
“Which means six,” Pete murmurs sarcastically. “All right, brooms in the back?”
We tackle the front room from left to right. The dust makes us cough and splutter. I can taste it bitter in my saliva even after I throw back a can of Coke. It falls into Pete’s eyes as he works. He mutters and swears, gray dust raining down from his curls. The sun starts to slip away from the sky as we brush up the ashy piles and then begin mopping. I catch him watching me as I refill the buckets of hot, soapy water. My hair is damp with sweat, my sleeves covered in suds. The lemony smell of detergent fills the room as the last splashes of sunlight hit the freshly washed tiles.
“One more mop?” I ask.
He nods an okay.
When we are finished, we sit against opposite walls and look across at each other. We’re too exhausted to make conversation and instead watch the sun leave us and darkness come in. The heat of the day is still thick and moist in the air, our hard work stretched out shiny in front of us. The glossy tiles remind me of black-and-white-striped boiled sweets. I hadn’t expected them to be so beautiful underneath all that grime.
The Colour of Tea Page 8
