The Colour of Tea

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  “Don’s,” Marjory explains simply. She sits on the end of the bed. I glance around and see that almost everything is white. White curtains, white bedspread; there are just a few colored cushions and a chic mocha-toned rug to relieve the blinding color scheme. My eyes hurt, so I close them. I remember looking into Tom’s face and noticing that mole.

  “What happened?” My eyes spring back open, and I feel so dizzy I have to hold on to the side of the bed.

  “We got drunk,” she replies. “Well, you got really drunk.” She is looking down at her hands, which are resting on her knees.

  “Did … anything, you know, happen?”

  She turns to me and frowns.

  “That guy? Tom?” I say slowly, my stomach feeling twisted.

  “Oh. Right. No.” She looks back down at her fingers. “Unless you count throwing up on his shoes.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s okay. He was okay about it. We came home after that. He still wanted me to give him your number. Had to tell him a million times you were married.”

  “Oh.” Guilt laces through my relief.

  “Grace,” she says awkwardly, “what’s going on? You and me, we’re both private people; I know that. Maybe that’s why we’ve become friends. But with what happened at the tennis, and Rilla, and then last night …” She looks up at me with a grim expression. “You’re not yourself. Or at least you’re not who I thought you were.”

  I put my head back against the wall. I wish it would stop aching. I close my eyes and place my hands over my forehead. They smell of tobacco and wine. My nose curls up involuntarily. Silence rolls out between us for a few minutes, until I open my eyes.

  “Is it Rilla?” she asks.

  “No. Well, yes, but no.”

  Marjory waits.

  My throat is dry. “Pete slept with someone. One of those women from the Lisboa.” The words hurt. I didn’t expect them to hurt so much.

  Marjory moves up the bed and puts her arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  I nod. Then I start to cry. Again. Silently at first and then loud. Heavy and wet. It hurts my poor head even more, and that makes it worse. Crying and hurting, crying and hurting. Marjory whispers “shush, shush, shush,” but I can’t stop; her shoulder becomes wet with my tears.

  * * *

  She drives me home with my clothes from the night before in a bag. They are folded neatly with my shoes facing each other. I am wearing a pair of her tracksuit pants and her flip-flops. I have told her about the premature menopause, our hopes and dreams dashed, the silence, the slow growing apart. It all tumbled out faster than I thought possible, and she listened and said little. Now she pats my knee.

  “It’s going to be okay, you know,” she says in a hushed voice.

  “You think?” I look down at my feet; the nail on my big toe is broken. I must have done it last night. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me to leave the cheating bastard?”

  Marjory turns the car off and leans forward onto the steering wheel. The sun has started to set, and the colors are rich. Sunsets like these don’t come often in Macau. We stare out at it and not at each other. Blues blush to apricots burn to rusty oranges. Great big smears of clouds ice the view.

  “Nah. I’m not going to tell you that,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a fool for what he’s done. But he loves you, Grace.”

  I let out a snort. Strange way of showing it. The anger crawls up my insides like those champagne bubbles in the glass.

  “He does, Grace. I know because I care too, so I can tell.”

  I turn to face her.

  “Sleazy, no-good blokes came to watch us dance all the time. The kinds of guys who cheat on their wives, their girlfriends. Not once or twice but all the time, like the worst kind of habit. I’ve been pretty close to that seedy world, and I can tell you—yes, Pete screwed up. He made a mistake. But he’s not one of those men.” Her eyes are firmly set on the sunset, the warm colors reflected on her. “C’mon, Grace, he wouldn’t have hit Léon if he didn’t care about you.”

  “He was just jealous. He acted like a bloody Neanderthal.”

  “Exactly,” she says. “He was jealous, because he could sense that you liked Léon and he couldn’t bear to think of you loving someone else.”

  “Couldn’t bear to think of me sleeping with another man, more like. But now …” I shake my head at the sky, urging myself not to cry. “Now I have to think of him with another woman.”

  Marjory puts her head to one side. “Maybe it wasn’t thinking of you sleeping with Léon that got him so bloody mad. It was the thought of you sharing yourself with him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Letting him in, Grace. To what makes you tick. The in-here part.” She stares into my eyes and taps her collarbone.

  The in-here part.

  “Look, I’m no counselor. Hell, I’m far from perfect myself.” She sighs. “Just … just think about it, hon.”

  A few moments of silence pass. We watch the clouds crawl by. I take a couple of long breaths. Marjory straightens up against the back of her seat.

  “Come on,” she says. “You need to get home and I need to do a DVD workout with Cindy Crawford.”

  She reaches over and squeezes my hand before I slide out of the passenger seat to stand on the curb.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she promises.

  Waving as the car does a U-turn, I see her give me a sweet smile, lifting one palm from the wheel. The night is coming in and the light is disappearing. The sky turns inky and soft around the edges. I take a big mouthful of the cold air and step inside.

  * * *

  I stand like a shadow by the door. Pete is in the lounge room, the laptop propped up on a stack of books on the coffee table in front of him. He’s wearing the reading glasses I bought him a year or so ago. Another sign that we are both getting older. He doesn’t notice me for a few moments, flicking through the papers next to him while I stare at the curls on the back of his neck. It makes me remember cool summer nights in London, sitting in the beer garden of a local pub. Talking about the babies we would have. He wanted them to have my lips and my red hair, and I wanted them to have his hazel eyes, fringed with those long lashes. Those nights he’d reach over and squeeze one of my hands and tell me that he loved me—to the moon and back—and I would believe him. Those nights we decided on favorite names: Rose or maybe Eva; Dylan, Matthew, or Jack. We were so happy then.

  He frowns at his papers, covered in graphs, black lines leaping up into peaks and falling into valleys. He sees me by the door when he looks over the top of his glasses at his screen. He breathes in sharply.

  “You gave me a fright.” He takes in the T-shirt and flip-flops. “You didn’t come home. Are you okay?”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t reply. I just keep looking at him. I feel as if there are birds trapped in my chest, beating their small wings to get out.

  “Grace?”

  I put my bag down on the floor.

  “Where have you been?”

  I take a deep breath, urging the racing feeling to leave my body. I don’t know why it is so hard to talk to my own husband.

  “I was at Marjory’s. I stayed over.” I sound like a teenager.

  “Okay.”

  We stare at each other like strangers. I come closer to the couch, sit down a few feet away from him, and speak softly. “I was just thinking about the Approach Tavern. The pub. Do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember.” I can see his face relax.

  “The tables out front, you know? And those great nachos.”

  “London Pride on tap.”

  “Yeah.”

  He pushes the coffee table away from us and sighs.

  “I’m still angry at you, Pete.”

  “That’s more than fair.” His voice is thick with remorse.

  “I feel sick when I think about you being with someone else. I can barely think about it
.”

  “I’m so sorry, Gracie. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  When he looks into my face, I realize how long it’s been since I have really seen him. The color of his eyes, the curve of his lips. He has not shaved today; stubble shadows his chin. His eyes are wide, and from all the years we have known each other I know he is telling the truth.

  I take a deep breath. “Was it … safe? I mean …”

  He frowns and nods, understanding that I am asking if he used a condom. He opens his mouth to say something further, but I hold up my hand.

  “No. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me any details. I can’t bear it.”

  He waits, and when I look up at him again he speaks like the words are sticking in his throat. “It makes me feel sick. I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t want it to be real, that I had done something like that.”

  I nod.

  “I can’t explain it. It sounds so stupid, but it was like a kind of madness. Not being able to have a family with you, us not talking …”

  I understand the madness part. That Mama wildness that has had me tumbling in love with Frenchmen and screaming bloody murder at poor Rilla. I put my hand out by him on the couch. He sees it and glances up to me as if asking my permission. That little look makes my heart crack. Have I made him so unsure of me? I move closer and take his hand. When I exhale, it feels as though I have been holding my breath for an eternity.

  “Gracie, it tore me in two knowing you wouldn’t be able to have children. I wanted it, sure, but you dreamed and breathed it every day. I knew you wanted so much to be a mother. I could see that, and I couldn’t fix it. But worse, even worse than all that, is what is happening with us …”

  “I know.” It’s so hard to say. I swallow. “I tried to lose myself in Lillian’s. In … daydreams. I didn’t know what else …” My voice quivers.

  He leans his head toward mine, and our foreheads touch. We sit like that for a few minutes, a funny little triangular shape of space between us.

  “I love you so much,” he whispers.

  “I know.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry too.”

  Dearest Mama,

  Can two people make a family? Is it enough?

  I guess we did it like that, didn’t we, you and me? More than a pair.

  I think it’s time Pete and I try to make it this way too.

  Your loving daughter,

  Grace

  Thé pour Deux—Tea for Two

  Pink Earl Grey Infused with Dark Chocolate Ganache

  The calendar in the café kitchen is running out of days for September. Soon it will be Christmas and then a new year. The thought shivers over me oddly, as if I’ve been trying to keep time leashed, like a pet. I stare at the little black boxes and numbers across the page.

  “Someone here to see you.”

  Gigi is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed in front of her huge belly. She has started speaking to me again but makes it clear she is not happy about it.

  “Thank you, I’ll be there in a minute,” I reply with a smile. She just glances away. I untie my ganache-splattered apron and wash my hands.

  When I go into the café, Pete is at a table by the wall, a newspaper unfolded by his side. Instead of reading it, he is talking to Gigi, who now has a stack of plates and cups balanced in the crook of one arm and against her round stomach. She gestures with her other arm, telling a story. Pete smiles up at her. I stand for a minute and watch them, Gigi shaking her head and rolling her eyes. On the table are two plates, a baguette lying on each one, and behind him the windows frame a gray sky. Seeing him here makes me feel a bit giddy, like when we first started dating.

  “Hey,” I interrupt.

  Pete leans back; his smile softens.

  “Do you want me to make you guys a coffee?” Gigi asks in a clipped voice. She looks at Pete more than at me.

  “Thanks, that would be great.”

  “I’ll have a green tea, if that’s okay,” Pete adds.

  Gigi nods. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah, you too, Gigi.”

  As she walks back to the kitchen with the dishes, Pete raises his eyebrows. “She’s a character. Smart too.”

  “You’re right; she’s a character. Does my head in sometimes, but she’s good. She’s a big help with the suppliers and our local customers.”

  Pete looks around the café, and I can see he is really taking it all in. Soaking it up. I wonder what he thinks. I want to ask him, but it feels like too much, too soon. I realize I know Léon’s opinion about Lillian’s but not Pete’s.

  “Where’s Rilla?” he asks.

  A knot forms in my stomach, and I give the simplest explanation. The one that leaves me feeling the least guilty. “We had a kind of argument.”

  “Oh.”

  Gigi, who is now behind the counter at the coffee machine, shoots me one of her mutinous glances. I wonder if she can hear me. Yet again I wish for Rilla’s face. Her smile and kindness. I turn back to Pete. “So, green tea?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been drinking it at work.” He shrugs. “I quite like it.”

  He takes off his tie and lays it across the newspaper to his side. After unbuttoning his top button, he clears his throat and says, “I thought … I thought we could have lunch?”

  I look around the quiet café. Yok Lan is in the corner by the window, nibbling a macaron. She sees me and grins, lifting her hand in a wave. I smile in return.

  “It’s not so busy. Okay.”

  Pete smiles and leans forward as if to whisper to me. The move is so intimate it’s as though I can feel the heat of his skin before he touches me. “You have something—look, I know this sounds cheesy, but you have something in your hair,” he says quietly.

  “Ah,” I breathe.

  He reaches toward me and smooths down a piece of my hair by my forehead, then sits back and cocks his head to one side, making sure it is fixed. Gigi arrives with a tray and puts down my coffee and Pete’s tea. She looks at the two of us, then at the baguettes, before going to talk to her grandmother.

  “Just suds,” Pete explains, taking a sip of his hot tea. “Just soap suds. In your hair.”

  I nod from behind my cup. This feels like a date; even my palms are sweaty.

  “How’s your day been?” I ask.

  “My day? Fine.” He pauses, his sandwich at his mouth. “No, actually it’s been bad. Sorry, I’m used to saying it’s been fine, but it’s been really rough.” He bites down into the sandwich while I spread a napkin over my lap.

  “What’s up?”

  “Economy,” he says simply.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s not good. Things are changing, and fast. Too fast,” he says, between mouthfuls.

  “What do you think is going to happen here?”

  He shakes his head slowly in response. “I’m not sure. Not sure at all.” He sighs.

  We talk about it while eating our sandwiches. The share prices for all the casinos are down, the government wants to restrict visitors from certain provinces, construction is behind schedule, and lenders are getting fractious. Pete keeps shaking his head. The industry is in a state of turmoil. They’ve been used to reliable profits and gleeful shareholders. The old saying about creating casinos in Macau was “Build it, and they will come.” Now things aren’t so certain. Pete drinks his tea, sip by slow sip.

  When Yok Lan stands up to leave, she comes to put her hand on my shoulder and smile down at me. Her face is round and content, eyes half-closed like those of a meditating Buddha.

  I introduce her to Pete. “This is Yok Lan. She’s Gigi’s grandmother.”

  Pete says something in Cantonese. She leaves with a smile and a nod of her head.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said nice to meet you and see you later.”

  I find myself staring at him in surprise, but he doesn’t notice; his attention is on his sandwich.
/>   “These are really good, Grace.” The look on his face reminds me of a younger Pete. Pete with a mouthful of tomato tart.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  “It’s a great café. Truly.”

  I glance up at him and smile shyly. We sit together in silence as we finish eating. It is easy, gentle, not awkward.

  He doesn’t kiss me when he says goodbye but puts his hand on my shoulder, like Yok Lan had. He squeezes it softly. A kind of warmth floods my body and, although I know our problems are far from mended, it feels like they could be, one day. There is apology and love in his touch; my body recognizes it.

  “Have a good day.”

  “You too,” I reply, still sitting. There is a stormy wind that sends the door chimes into a silvery cacophony when he opens the door. Once he is outside, the wind picks up his hair and whips it around his face. He screws up his nose and grins ruefully; Gigi laughs at him through the glass. He lifts his hand in a wave to me, and I return it.

  * * *

  That night the rain gives the windows a hammering. I shouldn’t stand so close, but I’m so restless I am pacing. I keep ending up next to the windows trying to see out, feeling like a caged lion. Pete is in front of the television. The wind is so strong the trees down our street are bent into arches. It rumbles and roars ominously; I can feel it thumping violently when I press my palm against the glass. This is no regular typhoon.

  “Hey … umm …”

  “Yeah. I’ll stand back,” I reply before he can ask.

  He knows I am worried about Lillian’s, and I’m sure he is nervous about his own construction site. His eyes fix on mine, and he gives me a reassuring smile. The last storm hadn’t inflicted too much damage, but this typhoon is much worse. There are motorcycles toppled from their parked positions and strewn along the sidewalks; the streets are empty of cars. It’s eerie and January-cold.

  The weather report comes on, and Pete turns up the volume. “In Hong Kong over one hundred flights were either canceled or delayed today due to Typhoon Hagupit and amber rain warnings. Scaffolding damage and flash flooding have been among the worst consequences of the typhoon which swept through the region this afternoon …”