The Colour of Tea

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  “Well?” he demands.

  She remains mute.

  Gigi looks up from her tub of dishes. She flashes me a violent glare. “What an asshole,” she hisses.

  I call out, “We’ll get you a new coffee in a takeaway cup, sir. Won’t be a moment.”

  As I come out of the kitchen, he straightens up and runs his eyes over me. His gaze hovers for a few long seconds on my breasts before drifting back up to my eyes.

  I give him a cocktail-sweet smile. “Take a seat and we’ll bring it over to you. Just a minute, that’s all.”

  “Right.” His breath is warm and sour, stale coffee clinging to his tonsils. He looks pointedly at Rilla, who has not moved, grunting as he lowers himself into a chair. He makes another call, the inconvenienced expression falling easily from his fleshy face. I move around Rilla to fetch a takeaway cup.

  “You okay?” I whisper.

  She nods and takes the paper cup from me, filling the espresso machine with grinds and placing the cup under the spout. Her hands shake. I pat her shoulder and feel her angle her body ever so slightly into the cup of my palm. She looks up at me, an apology in her eyes. “I … it was just that guy. I’m sorry.” She shakes her head like she wants to dislodge something from it.

  Gigi has come out of the kitchen, water dripping from the cloth in her hands. Her face is dark. “That rude bastard. I’m going to go talk to him.”

  “Dammit, Gigi, you’re dripping all over the floor. Go back there and we’ll handle it. It’s okay,” I tell her.

  Gigi shrugs angrily and turns around.

  Rilla murmurs, “Sorry, Grace.”

  “Hey, it’s fine. Don’t you worry,” I whisper.

  Rilla delivers the coffee, holding the cup up for the man to eyeball. He glares at her and lifts his head reluctantly in acknowledgment. Tucking papers and business magazines under a flabby wing, he leaves Lil’s, still bellowing into his phone.

  Rilla sighs as the bell above the door chimes his exit. A quiet peace settles over the café. When she returns to the counter, she quickly changes the subject.

  “Aren’t you going to the circus tonight?”

  “Oh. Yes, you’re right, I am.”

  I had forgotten. Before she’d gone away for a long weekend break with Don, Marjory had won four tickets to Cirque du Soleil at a charity auction and asked me to go with her. She had held them up casually, but her face was tinged with a strange hopefulness. It takes a woman who doesn’t make friends easily to recognize another; Marjory had that look, and I knew it. Besides, Pete and I had spent only about five minutes together in the last month. I look around Lillian’s—the tables need wiping, the cash register has to be balanced, and the espresso machines must be cleaned out. The dishes can dry on the rack overnight, but there is a lot still to be done. Rilla spies me chewing on my lip and staring at the dirty tabletops.

  “Don’t stick around, Grace, we can close up.”

  “No, no, Marjory won’t mind, I can go another day …”

  “No, let us do it. You should go. I know how to do it all, it will be okay.” She touches my back lightly and goes into the kitchen.

  I can hear Gigi complaining about stupid men and how some guys think they are the Kings of Everyone and what she would like to say to That Big Fatso. I take a cloth to the tables, sticky with crumbs of macarons. I tap the side of my trousers, underneath my apron. The familiar bulge of my mobile phone meets my fingertips. I could call Marjory now, see if we could postpone, do it some other time. Rilla’s light laugh comes from the kitchen. Turning back, I can see her framed in the small window to the kitchen.

  I finish the last of the tables and lean into the kitchen. “Rilla?”

  She glances up at me, gloves deep in the sink.

  “I will get you two to close up, if that’s okay.”

  She nods and smiles.

  “Thank you.”

  I walk home briskly, breathing in the cooling dusk air. I love the circus—cotton candy, clowns with painted faces, music too loud, colors too bright. Reminds me of Mama. But I had forgotten all about it until Rilla mentioned it. The day has been a blur of broken cups, supplies to unpack and stack, dishes covered in buttercream and ganache. Gigi has been a saving grace; she seems comfortable managing contractors, anyone who needs bossing about. She also loves the macarons; I can see it in her young face. She asks me a hundred questions about how they are made, where the recipes come from, what they are like in Paris. She and Rilla are starting to form their own little partnership, each doing what she does best. There are still a thousand chores, we are still busy. By the time I leave each day I am coated in a salty film from the roots of my hair to the soles of my aching feet. Lillian’s is swallowing up not only all my time but also all my thoughts. My head is an overstuffed suitcase of recipes, appointments, to-do lists, timetables, a date with Don and Marjory to go to the circus … The last thing to go in often seems to be the first to fall out.

  When I rush through the front door like a whirling dervish, Pete is sitting on the couch, flicking through a magazine. He is wearing jeans, ready to leave. His face, dimly lit, doesn’t give any clues to his mood.

  “Sorry, sorry, busy day—mad. I won’t be long,” I sing out, heading to the bedroom and the wardrobe. On the walk home I’d worked out what to wear tonight, so I only have to squeeze myself into a pair of jeans and throw on a white linen blouse. I give a small thanks to the heavens that the blouse is already ironed. The night air breathes through the linen to my skin, keeping me cool. I curse as deodorant seeps through the cloth, leaving a small stain under each arm, but there isn’t time to change. I find my silver earrings; dig out silver sandals from the back of the wardrobe. I hop into the living room, still slipping on the sandals. I figure it’s taken me about eight minutes to get ready. Nearly the same amount of time it takes to make a smooth ganache for the center of a macaron.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” I smile at my husband.

  As he looks up, I can see there is no resentment in his face, just weariness. His cheeks are ashen, left eye bloodshot; he has obviously been rubbing it. He looks frayed around the edges.

  “Oh good, love. You look nice. Different,” he murmurs.

  “Thanks—it’s probably the jeans, they are getting really tight. I’ve been eating my version of Hermé’s Ispahan macaron all week, trying to get it right. It’s a curse.”

  “Eating what?”

  “Ispahan. It’s a rose macaron, with raspberry insertion … that berry jelly in the middle. It doesn’t matter.”

  The clock distracts me. We have eleven minutes to find a taxi and get to the Venetian Macao, where a theater has been custom-built for the show. Linda and her book club friends have been clucking about it for weeks. “It’s a marvel,” I had heard her gush, while claiming to know the choreographer personally. I wonder what the costumes are like. I have seen the poster of a girl with a long tangerine silk scarf floating behind her trapeze while she sails across a black and starry sky. Sparkling and citrus-colored, she looks like a confection.

  As Pete and I ride down in the elevator, I catch a glimpse of my milky reflection in the unwashed mirrored wall and realize I have no makeup on. I lean forward for a closer inspection. I look terrible. Skin floury white and eyebrows unshaped. Pete reaches for my hand. His is cool and as smooth as stone in my warm, damp palm.

  “No makeup, huh?”

  “That’s why I look different. Shit.” I curse. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He squeezes my hand. “I don’t know. I guess I like it. You look natural.”

  Pete is so quiet I have to listen closely. He looks down at me, his freshly washed hair falling silkily over his forehead, and smiles.

  “Damn, I don’t have time to go back upstairs, do I?”

  “No, stay here. I … Grace, it looks kind of nice, you know?” he says somewhat shyly.

  I am not convinced. My eyelashes are pale; my lips are a washed-out pinkish gray without lipstick. I notice the circles under m
y eyes, new wrinkles spreading from the corners. I lift my head resolutely and hope that Marjory won’t look too much like a movie star tonight, although that is like wishing for the Pope to be a little less Catholic.

  * * *

  Don is not what I expected. I guess I thought someone like Marjory would have a picture-perfect husband. All white teeth and hair and muscles. Don isn’t even as tall as Marjory, who stands, column-like, beside him, her hand gripping his firmly. She wears a white minidress and gleaming golden sandals. Gold earrings swing from her ears. She looks as good as Mama used to look when she dressed up for an evening out. All legs and smile. Men walking past us do double takes, and I know it’s not for me. She’s been to Boracay for a few days, and her skin glows as if she captured the sun in every pore. She catches my elbow and whispers, “So glad you came. Don and I are so excited to get to know you and Pete a little better.” My eyes drift over the crowd of heads, stopping at the silver hair among the throng. Léon passes a glass of champagne to his wife, Celine. Diamonds sparkle in her ears, dimples punctuate her cheeks as she smiles. His hand rests against her bare shoulder while she takes the glass from him. I stare too long; he must feel my gaze as his eyes lift to meet mine. Blue, sparkling in the artificial light. He raises his hand and smiles. I do the same, my cheeks feeling warm.

  Marjory introduces me to Don, who grins and shakes my hand vigorously. He must be a good ten years older than she is. He is short, bald, and has a face like a turtle. Big eyes and a wide smile.

  “I’ve heard so much about you, Grace,” he says warmly. “Marjory says Lillian’s is the best café in Macau.”

  “Oh, well …” Pride flushes through me, although I look at the ground modestly.

  “It’s true,” says Marjory.

  Pete stands awkwardly to one side. There is a strange pause, and I realize I need to introduce him. Normally it is the other way around.

  “This is Pete, my husband. He’s working with the Marvella Resort project.”

  Pete shakes hands, and Don gives him a jovial slap on the arm. He may be older, but he has the energy of a younger man. Sprightly, despite a little flab around the middle. His eyes crinkle up at the corners.

  “Pete Miller! I’ve heard all about you. Good to have another Aussie bloke around, getting things done.”

  Marjory gives her husband a smile and puts her other hand against his arm. “Babe, we’re going to miss the first half if we don’t get in there.”

  She releases Don’s hand, and she and I walk toward the entrance together, while Don and Pete follow behind, chatting about the project. As our tickets are checked, Marjory leans in toward me. “I feel like I’ve been away for weeks. You have to tell me how it’s going with Gigi. And how is Rilla getting along with her? I want to hear everything.”

  Dearest Mama,

  How you would have loved tonight. So strange and beautiful, Mama. My heart still races in my chest, my thoughts crashing into each other. My skin burns, and I cannot sleep.

  Out of the velvety darkness of the theater came a circus show like no other. A dream. A vibrant fantasy. Like one of your stories, Mama. Characters flying through the air, bodies electric and magical, fire seeming to flow directly from throats, illusions and visions.

  The way the performers use their bodies, Mama. The music runs through them, rushes through them, as if it owns their physical beings. Passion, strength, and music coursing through veins and muscles, they move as if they have given themselves over to a power greater than any of us, as if they are surrendered to life force itself. Leaping, rolling, diving, hair flung back, eyes wide, and faces upturned with abandon. It was almost too much to watch. It seemed somehow too personal. Bodies embraced and thrown, the smell of sweat and greasepaint, faces in concentration and ecstasy. I felt my breath catch in my throat and my heart quicken. I longed to be there with them, moving as one, feeling hands on me, catching and tossing me into the dark. Feeling the knots of muscles under those costumes against my body, against my skin; breath in my hair and hot against my neck.

  Then the world went quiet. The stage black as night. A man and a woman appeared as if in the moonlight, the lights against their bodies making them look like snow. Gray and silver and blue and white. They held each other on a pedestal shaped like a floating iceberg, moving together as though in a kind of trance. Languidly lifting and sliding over each other like water. They made a single being, holding each other with their faces pressed close together like Klimt lovers. Each breath tangled with the other’s, fitting into each other’s bodies like a jigsaw. The man’s face was ethereal and silver, strong and perfect, as if carved from marble. I could almost feel the shape of his cheekbone against mine, his cool, thick fingers on my flushed skin. A sweet shiver rippled over my body. The thought of him against me, pressing into me. My breath caught in my throat.

  Pete leaned over as if to say something. He reached for my hand, perhaps looking at me in the dark. But I could not turn to him. My eyes were fixed on that stage, on the being that seemed made of ice. My body quivered with that wonderful feeling. Desire. My skin tingling. The thought of a touch that could make me shiver all over, cool my burning skin and make me feel like I was melting.

  Your loving daughter,

  Grace

  La Fièvre—Fever

  Rose with Dark Chocolate and Hot Ginger Ganache

  Gigi disagrees with Rilla about the placement of the macarons. She leans over the counter, clucking in disapproval.

  “You can’t go putting this macaron with that macaron,” she says, exasperated. Her fingers tap on the glass, pointing out Rêves d’un Ange and Coeurs Curatifs lying next to each other like casual lovers. I glance over Rilla’s shoulder as I spoon froth onto the top of a cappuccino. They are both white, and would look better separated. Marjory doesn’t look up from her magazine and coffee, but I hear her stifle a knowing laugh, so I can tell she is listening.

  Rilla’s face falls, wounded. She gives me a quick look, hoping I’ll rescue her. I shrug; this is not my battle.

  “Well …” Rilla stammers, pulling herself up to her full height, which is still tiny. “Well, thank you. But that’s your opinion.”

  Gigi flicks her eyes skyward and shakes her head. Her eyelids are painted with fashionable charcoal gray; a red, oversize watch swings from her slender wrist. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.” She sighs dramatically.

  Rilla looks back to me, biting her lip. I give her a reassuring wink. She smiles, flushed with new confidence. When the door chimes, they both turn toward it.

  “’Ello!” The voice carries across the café as Léon strides to the counter, carrying a bag in his left hand. There is laughter glittering behind his eyes, a broad smile on his face. Rilla offers him a polite hello, but Gigi stands back, staring suspiciously.

  “Hi, Léon, how are you?”

  “I am well, Grace, and you?” He leans forward to kiss my cheeks, his warm breath whispering across my earlobes.

  “Fine.” I falter slightly and clear my throat.

  Rilla takes the cappuccino from my hands and delivers it to the customer waiting at a table by the window. I can see Marjory lifting her head, glancing between Léon and me.

  “Léon, this is Gigi.”

  Gigi looks at me and then gives Léon her hand. He takes it and shakes it lightly. She gives him a wary stare.

  “Hello, and congratulations,” Léon says, beaming. I wonder how he can tell instantly that Gigi is pregnant; she hides it pretty well. I am always aware of it, the taut barrel of her stomach against the grain of her clothes, but that may be because of my own history. Gigi looks up at him, surprised, and slumps her shoulders so her shirt pools forward. She mumbles something under her breath, her almond-colored cheeks turning pink.

  “Do you know if it is a girl or boy?” he adds.

  She looks up quickly, eyes growing dark. Her embarrassment shifts to haughtiness. “No idea.” She turns on her heel and walks back into the kitchen with a coffee for herself.

  “
I don’t know if so much caffeine is good for the baby,” I murmur.

  “Ah, don’t worry. Celine, she had everything when she was pregnant, even wine. In France we don’t make so much fuss.” He shakes his head with delight. “She reminds me of someone, that girl. Such spirit.”

  “Spirit? She’s a wildcat. Sorry about that, she can be a little … impolite.” I laugh.

  “Oh no,” he replies, voice as soft as butter against hot toast. “It is passion. People like this, they will be the successful ones. She will be okay. After all, she is still young.”

  To that I have to nod.

  “Tell me, how is business?” He leans on the counter.

  “Actually, it’s great. Making a profit now, would you believe it?”

  “Ah, you are a natural for this industry. It must be in your blood.”

  I nod, realizing how accurate he is. The man. The bakery. Mama. It sends a strange sensation down the back of my shoulder blades, tingling at the base of my spine.

  “Can I get you an espresso? On the house, of course.”

  “Oui. With pleasure. I also want to buy a box of these.” He points to the white macarons, red crosses in the centers. “They’re still my favorites, and if I bring some home tonight I’ll be ‘in the good books,’ as you say. Are you still raising a bit of money? Such a marvelous idea.”

  Rilla is back and takes a white takeaway box from the shelves behind the counter.

  “We are, a pretty steady little donation each week. It’s not much, but it’s something. And the idea came from Rilla and that wildcat back there.” I put fresh coffee grinds into the machine. The smell is rich, intoxicating.

  “Ah, well, you see, I knew she was the kind to have talent.”

  Hot water presses through the grinds, squealing with the effort, a dark stream bursting forth into the small cup. Léon turns back, and I catch a flash of his eyes. They are that duck egg blue of an autumn sky before it rains. The whites are clear and bright, the lashes pied, dark and gray. Looking into them makes me feel a bit dizzy.

  “I have a present for you,” he says gently.