The Colour of Tea

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  She grins, then looks into the distance, and her voice drops. “All I used to want to do was make money and have nice things. That’s why Frank and everyone, they work in casinos. My mother, she thinks money is the only reason to do anything. She wouldn’t let me study, I know that much. Especially anything to do with cooking. She thinks the restaurant business is a bad investment. You throw the money in and it never comes back out again.”

  I bite my tongue, thinking of Mama. Not being able to study myself. Feeling trapped. I look over at Gigi, her belly so heavy and eyes so dark.

  She keeps talking, as though the macaron has loosened her tongue. “Did I ever tell you about the picture of the Louis Vuitton handbag I had on my wall next to my bed?”

  “No.”

  “It was up there for two whole years,” she says wistfully.

  Those handbags cost an arm and a leg; they are treated like Fabergé eggs in this part of the world. No one would ever put her handbag on the floor by her feet. Some of the finer restaurants even offer tiny chairs to prop your precious cargo on.

  “Did you ever get the bag?”

  “Yup. Bought it with the bonus money the government gave us a few months ago. That and some savings.” She takes a sip of her tea.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Louis Vuitton? Well, good for you. All that work; you must love it.” I have never seen it on the hooks in the kitchen. She and Rilla normally carry scuffed backpacks. Gigi has covered hers in fashionable pins and buttons.

  “Where is it?” I ask.

  “I don’t use it. I was going to once, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it outside. I unwrap it sometimes and look at it. It is gorgeous, but …” She sighs. “It didn’t make me feel how I thought it would. I thought everything’d be perfect when I had that handbag.”

  She glances at her stomach and looks a little sad. She changes the subject. “Anyway, whatever. I need to call those suppliers about the almond flour. It’s not as good, don’t you think? If they are giving us the cheap stuff, I am going to give them hell.”

  She strides into the kitchen, and I follow her with my eyes for a moment. Picking up one of the macarons, I place it lightly on my tongue. The crisp shell dissolves into soft sweetness. But there is something a little bitter about it. Not much, but a thicker taste, like marzipan. Most people wouldn’t even notice. She might act like a careless teenager sometimes, but she sure does have the palate of a chef.

  * * *

  Apart from a few broken branches and ripped tarpaulins, the next morning seems to have amnesia about the storm the day before. The sun is bright and orange, and the air tastes like syrup. I am sapped of energy even before getting to the tennis courts; the wet heat leaves me lethargic and slow. Pete, on the other hand, is raring to go. He leans against the netting and stretches his hamstrings, one, then the other. He is always so competitive. This morning his body hums with a kind of animal scent, spicy and fierce. It makes me feel queasy and undone at the same time. I watch as others arrive, so clearly couples, even when they don’t touch or kiss or hold hands. They glance at each other, carry each other’s bags, speak the same abbreviated language, which never requires further explanation. Pete and I, on the other hand, could be strangers. We barely look at or talk to each other, let alone make love or lie close at night like we used to. I know it is a distance I have mapped out between us. I have turned away from him to immerse myself in work. Lillian’s is a safer world, one that doesn’t ache so much. Because when I do look into his face, the face I know too well, I can see anger and disappointment and then, deeper still, grief. That is the part I cannot bear.

  * * *

  “Hey, you two!” Marjory sings out as the door to the courts clangs shut. She is dressed all in white, topped with a navy blue visor. She springs onto the court with the grace of an antelope, her long arms cradling a silver racquet. “Don will be down in a minute. It’s us and another couple doing a round-robin kind of thing.”

  She starts bouncing a ball on her racquet without looking at it. She has an ease with anything physical, comfort in her own skin. I imagine her dancing onstage; she would have been a sight to behold.

  Pete looks over from his stretch; his eyes squint in the glare of the sun. He gives Marjory a wave.

  “You want some water?” she asks, spying the empty water bottles in my hands.

  “Yes, please. This sun is a killer. I’m melting.”

  “Tell me about it. You better have put on sunscreen this morning or you’ll be burned to a crisp in minutes.”

  I take in her long, tanned limbs and can’t imagine her skin frying or even breaking out in a sweat. I already have widening dark circles staining my T-shirt, the taste of salt on my upper lip. I wish for the dark, cool quiet of Lillian’s on a slow day. We fill up our bottles at the watercooler inside the clubhouse, and as we come back out, I see Celine and Léon on the court chatting with Don. Léon’s silver hair shimmers in the light. Pete stands slightly apart from the group, staring down at his racquet and his shoes.

  Don looks up. “Hey, ladies, we’ve got our work cut out for us. We’re up against the French!”

  “Bonjour!” trills Celine when she sees me.

  She is wearing a light blue dress with white shoes. Léon introduces himself to Marjory and comes over. He kisses my cheeks, despite the wet sheen on my face. I blush and catch Pete looking at us. I’m relieved to notice that Don is sweating more than I am, wet streams trailing down his broad neck and sliding beneath his shirt. As he explains the program, Pete’s gaze slides from Léon and me over to him.

  “Right,” Don says. “So it’s Léon and Celine first, against you two. Then we play the winners, and whoever wins that match goes on to some other round. You should prepare yourself for a whipping. I’m going to tear up the court.”

  He proudly lifts a flabby arm; his biceps seems to have fallen to the underside, and we all laugh. Marjory swats him with her racquet and flashes a grin.

  As we take our place on the court, Pete looks over at me. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. It’s just so damn hot.” I wipe sweat from my brow.

  “Hmmm.” He looks across the net, and Léon waves. Pete doesn’t return it, but gives a tight smile and lift of his head. “I didn’t expect him to be here.”

  “Huh?” I ask, but before he has a chance to respond, Léon calls, “You are both ready?”

  “Yes!” I call back.

  “Bring it on,” Pete mutters, his voice low.

  The first points are fast. Léon and Celine are soon winning. Then I try to serve but botch it up. Watching Léon on the court is distracting; he is so calm and collected. When I finally sort out my serve, the ball heads back Pete’s way. He smacks a perfect shot, outside the singles line but inside the doubles, and Léon grunts to reach it.

  “Nice one!” shouts Marjory from the sideline.

  I keep making awful shots and apologizing.

  Léon just shakes his head and laughs lightly. “Hey, hey, not to worry. Just for fun.”

  Pete and I catch up, and soon we are slightly ahead. Pete is as focused as I have ever seen him, that dark expression on his face.

  “Okay, so who is winning now?” Léon asks.

  “We are,” Pete replies quickly.

  The sun lifts in the sky, swimmy and lurid, like orange cordial.

  It’s Celine’s serve. The ball plonks neatly in the middle of the square, just where it should be. Léon gives her a high five. Finally, after we make some lucky shots, it is Pete’s turn to serve.

  “Don’t wear yourself out, mate, you might have us to play next!” Don calls from the side of the court. We all laugh except Pete, who is staring across at Léon as he serves, hard and fast. Léon returns Pete’s serve, slicing across the ball, adding some weighty topspin. It shoots over the net at high speed, and Pete scrambles to arrange himself, his body still leaning forward from his serve. As he pulls up, the ball connects with the brow above his left eye, and there is a sickening thwock from the contact
of ball and bone. Pete slaps his hand to his face and keens like an animal before falling backward. His legs crumble beneath him, his feet slide to one side, and his body falls to the other. His racquet drops from his hand as he meets the ground; the thud seems to shudder through me as my hand flies up to my mouth.

  “Pete!” Marjory screams from the side of the court and rushes toward us. We both crouch over him.

  “Merde!” Léon curses and jogs around the net to join us. Celine lifts her hand to her eyes, to see beyond the glare of the sun. Don stands up from his chair.

  Marjory looks into Pete’s face, holding it between her hands and saying something to the effect of “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

  Léon, above, offers her a water bottle.

  “Perhaps splash some water onto his face.”

  My mouth has fallen open, but I’m not saying anything.

  Marjory gives me a sharp look. “Grace?”

  The shock of seeing Pete’s body so limp and crumpled has me winded.

  “Is he all right?” I hear myself whisper.

  Pete’s eyes fly open and search around for a few seconds just as Léon sloshes water onto his face. Pete makes a sound somewhere between a yelp and a gargle. He sees Marjory first, as she is leaning close, then me. Finally he sees Léon, now standing back, water bottle in hand.

  “Pete, are you okay?”

  Pete looks back at me. “Shit,” he swears. I imagine the hot pain flooding into his senses. He wipes the water from his face.

  “You’re fine,” Marjory says slowly, soothingly. “You were just hit with the ball.”

  Pete tries to sit up. I put my hand against his back, helping him. His face is twisted in pain. He looks up at Léon, his eyes full of fury.

  “Should I get some ice?” Don calls out.

  Marjory says, “Yes, that would be great. See if the clubhouse has an ice pack in the freezer.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Celine offers.

  As they jog off together, Pete continues to stare at Léon. His gaze is hard.

  “You fucker,” he hisses.

  “Pardon?” Léon leans forward, concern and confusion on his face.

  “I said, You. Fucker.”

  Léon turns to Marjory and me, as if for an explanation. We glance at each other.

  “Bloody hell, Pete,” I whisper, rubbing his back.

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Marjory says gently.

  “Like hell it wasn’t!” Pete growls. He winces and closes his eyes.

  Léon stands up straighter. The tone of Pete’s voice and the look on his face do not need any interpretation now.

  Pete’s eyes spring back open. “He walloped that ball right at my face! If that wasn’t enough, now he’s dumped water all over me!”

  “Pete, I don’t think …” I raise my voice now, hoping to reason with him. Or just shut him up.

  “French prick. You did that on purpose and you know it. First Grace and now this,” he spits.

  Marjory stares at me but says nothing. Léon doesn’t even look at me. I feel like I am being pulled into a sink that is being drained of water. Sucked down and down. I can feel my stomach lurch.

  Léon’s confusion has been replaced with a cool mask. “I’m very sorry, but you are mistaken, Pete. I did not hit you on purpose,” he says.

  “Ha!” Pete cries.

  “Why would I hit you deliberately? That’s … that’s absurd.”

  Marjory looks at me again, caught in the middle of this unexpected conflict.

  “I don’t know why you would hit me. Shit! I don’t know why you hit me, or why you insist on hitting on my wife. How should I know?” Pete is practically snarling now. “You French bastards are all the same.”

  Léon takes another step backward.

  “Pete, I think maybe you have a concussion, I think, ah …” Marjory stumbles to a stop.

  “What are you talking about?” I whisper to Pete urgently. I feel slightly nauseated.

  “Oh God, here we go. You know what I am talking about, Grace!” He throws his hands up toward the sky. “He helps you at the supermarket, he makes macarons with you, he buys champagne, bloody chocolate forks …”

  “What’s going on?” Marjory mouths to me over Pete’s head.

  “You are my wife, Grace,” he spits. “Or did you forget?” His eyes are accusing as they lock with mine.

  I have that tumbling, guilty feeling again in my stomach and try not to look at Léon. Pete leans back against his palm and presses his weight into his legs, trying to stand up. He lets out a weak grunt. The raw emotion makes him look ugly.

  “Hey, what are you doing? Sit down,” I say, grabbing his shoulder. “Please, just sit down and take it easy.”

  “I’m not stupid!” he screams at Léon.

  Léon draws himself up even straighter. He looks a little pale. “I have never … I would never … hit on your wife.” He glances back over his shoulder as if checking for Celine, but she is still at the clubhouse. He picks up his tennis racquet and has turned to walk away when Pete leaps toward him. Pete’s fist plunges into Léon’s stomach, below his rib cage, and Léon doubles over. I hear Léon’s soft bark as his breath escapes his chest. Marjory lets out a shrill cry, and that’s when I notice Don has come up behind us. He grabs Pete’s shoulders and yanks him backward. Léon looks up for a split second, and his blue eyes connect with mine.

  Verre de Mer—Sea Glass

  Pistachio with Buttercream Filling

  The doctor recommends ordinary painkillers and a good spell with an ice pack and sends us on our way, the tension between us seething. We say nothing of the incident. I’m scared to open my mouth in case I say something too terrible, something I can’t take back. I can’t look at him. Pete tells me he will make a roast chicken, perhaps a touch of apology in his voice. I nod but say nothing, heading into the study to complete some online ordering for Lillian’s. One of the specialty pastry goods suppliers in Hong Kong will now ship to Macau. I have been so excited about it but am filled only with guilt and confusion and anger as I scroll through the screens of Microplane zesters, tart molds, sugar thermometers, Mauviel beating bowls.

  Pete pushes his dinner around his plate. Yorkshire puddings, glossy carrots, chunks of crispy-skinned potatoes. The smell is heady. We sit opposite each other at the dining table.

  I clear my throat. “Nothing has happened, Pete. Léon is a friend.”

  Pete puts down his knife and fork and holds his hands together. He looks at his plate rather than at me.

  “He’s … he has helped me. With Lillian’s. There’s nothing going on.”

  I think of the chocolate fork, the blue of Léon’s eyes, my dream. I swallow down a piece of chicken that seems to have swollen with my guilt.

  “I see how you look at him,” Pete says quietly.

  I open my mouth to respond, but I can’t think of an explanation. He is right. I can account for my actions but not my fantasies. My pause reveals my feelings; we both notice it.

  “Nothing has happened between us,” I repeat, holding on to the truth of each word, despite my face feeling warm. “Pete? Nothing.”

  Pete stares at me for a moment, then runs a hand through his hair. He pushes a potato around his plate with his fork. Then he puts the cutlery down slowly and exhales. His breath is long, as if he is breathing out the weight of the world. Then he leans on his elbows and puts his fists to his mouth.

  “We have to talk. I’m sorry, Grace.” The words seem to catch in his throat.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have hit him.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What then?”

  He pauses.

  “Gracie, I had … sex … with …”

  The air seems to go still and hot.

  “What? Who …”

  “A prostitute. At the Lisboa.”

  Now I feel like I have been elbowed in the guts. “At the Lisboa,” I echo. I reach for my wineglass, feel the smooth, cool weight of it against my p
alm.

  Pete looks down. I stare at the top of his head and notice where his hair is thinning.

  “At the Lisboa,” I say again.

  There are a few silvery hairs on his crown, new ones, or at least ones I hadn’t noticed. I imagine this head above someone else, someone else having this same view.

  “God.” The word rushes out like a little prayer. I wonder if I will be sick.

  “Grace, I …” His chin is lifted now so I can see his face, the lines and deep grooves. He looks different to me, foreign somehow. It is as if a mask has been stripped away. His face is a curiosity, like I am seeing it for the first time. The stray hairs between his eyebrows and above his nose, the creases of his neck, the wisps of hair by his collar which need trimming. He doesn’t finish his sentence but looks at me with his mouth open, as if paused to say something further that got lost.

  “When?” My voice sounds like it is coming from far away.

  “March, it was in March. I got drunk … I …”

  I think of the nights he came home late. Maybe drunk. I don’t know. It suddenly feels as though I haven’t really noticed him in a while. My husband. More like a flatmate. Have we really been living like this since March?

  “Grace. It was a mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  And then he says the very thing neither of us has had the guts to say. He brings up the subject that has hovered over us for months. He speaks slowly, tasting each bitter word as it comes out of his mouth.

  “When you said … when the doctor said that we couldn’t have …”

  I think of Pete on our wedding day. The orange shirt. Bali heat. The look on his face. But then I imagine his head above someone else. His face, straining, looking down at another woman’s body. My stomach aches, and it is hard to breathe. I observe it as if outside myself. The odd feeling, the mouthful of meal netted in my throat, my chest tight.

  “Because we can’t have children you had sex with a prostitute?”

  “It wasn’t like that. It’s just that … Shit. We never talk about it, Grace. I mean, babies. The tests. We never talk about any of it.”