by Lesley Lokko
11
Something was definitely wrong, Jen thought to herself ten minutes later as she watched Kemi walk to the toilets. You couldn’t see it in her face but Jen had long since learned to read the other signs – the flickering pulse underneath her right eyelid; the faint tremble in her hands when she reached for her glass – that spoke of the kind of exhaustion Jen could only guess at. Kemi’s skin hid everything – every blemish, every flaw, every wrinkle – smooth dark satiny skin, stretching tightly over her cheekbones and jaw. When Kemi first came to live with them, Jen couldn’t stop marvelling at how different they were. One black, one white. One clever, one stupid. One slender, one plump. One calm, one excitable. Yet it immediately became clear that the surface differences hid a closeness that neither girl had ever experienced, or hoped to experience. How was it possible for two creatures who were so alike that they practically finished each other’s sentences to be so different? Jen’s emotions were right there on the surface of her pale, almost translucent skin. Kemi’s were hidden, buried underneath the smooth darkness that fooled everyone except Jen. Her normally short nails were longer than usual and her wild, curly hair was dry and frizzy, which meant she probably hadn’t been to see a hairdresser in months. Her parents had been in the news over the past couple of days, too. Jen dimly recalled seeing Kemi’s father being sworn in as Mandela’s right-hand man on TV, and her mother had been in trouble for openly criticizing Mugabe. All the years under house arrest had done little to silence Florence Mashabane’s sharp tongue.
‘Have you seen the news?’ Jen asked carefully as their food arrived.
Kemi gave a little shrug. ‘Yeah. Here, try these. They’re delicious.’ She passed over a plate of grilled shrimps. It was her way of deflecting the question.
‘D’you think you’ll go?’ Jen persisted.
Kemi paused, her chopsticks halfway to her mouth. ‘To what? The swearing-in ceremony? No. Why? Should I?’
Jen hesitated. ‘Well, it’s . . . it’s an important occasion, isn’t it? I mean, Father’s going.’
Kemi shrugged again. ‘It’s important for him, not me.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m in the middle of my new rotation. I can’t afford to take time off.’
Jen was silent. She could still remember the day it had first dawned on her that Kemi’s dedication to the causes which both their families seemed to have been fighting for almost a century wasn’t quite as strong as everyone assumed. It was in their final year at Fettes. Everyone knew Kemi would be made head girl. It was a foregone conclusion. She was Tole and Florence Mashabane’s daughter, for goodness’ sake. Even if she hadn’t been brilliant in her own right, there was no denying the cachet she bestowed upon the school. Between them and the Mandelas, there were few political families with such pedigree.
But Kemi surprised everyone by turning it down. She’d marched into Dr Osborne’s office after the announcement had been made in assembly, and emerged an hour later with reddened eyes but with that determined tilt to her chin that Jen had long since learned to recognize. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want the limelight. It was the second time that Jen felt the line separating them had been crossed, and that she’d been left standing in Kemi’s wake. Dr Osborne made the announcement to a stunned school the following morning. In its entire history, no pupil had ever turned down the role. Kathleen Harris was ushered in as head girl. Jennifer McFadden, Kemi’s ‘sister’, was her deputy. Kemi wished to study medicine, like her father. She needed all the spare study time she could get. It was only right that she’d given up the honour to Jen, her sister. Everyone applauded vigorously. Jen was well liked and the reasons given seemed fair enough.
But for the remainder of her time at Fettes, Jen couldn’t quite shake off the feeling of being second best, the understudy to her infinitely more talented, more deserving and certainly more diligent sister, though few would have said it out loud. Then there was the other bond she and Kemi shared, which they rarely spoke about. Both had grown up with mothers who were shadows. The big difference was that Kemi’s mother was made a shadow through her own strength. Alice was a shadow through an insipid weakness that secretly terrified Jen, partly because she knew it to be part of her own character, in the same way Kemi had inherited Florence’s grit and determination. In her most private moments, when she was absolutely sure no one could see her, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, anxiously checking her image. Had her mother’s feebleness somehow rubbed off on her? At face value, it seemed unlikely: Alice was dangerously thin, pale and slender to the point of ethereality. Jen was plump and rosy, with sturdy calves and generous hips . . . anything but a waif. Kemi found the thought ridiculous. ‘It doesn’t work that way,’ she said sternly. ‘You inherit things like eye colour, or the colour of your hair. You don’t inherit character. At least not in the way you’re worried about it.’ Jen wished she had Kemi’s confidence. She herself wasn’t sure.
‘But won’t they be expecting you?’ she asked Kemi hesitantly.
Kemi shrugged. ‘They’ll get over it. And no, to be honest. I don’t think anyone’s expecting me.’ She put down her chopsticks. ‘I wish everyone would just stop.’
‘Stop what?’ Jen asked, although she knew what Kemi was about to say.
‘Stop assuming that I want anything to do with it. I’m never going back. It’s not my home. My home is here, Jen, not there. I don’t know anything about the place any more. I don’t know and I don’t care.’
Jen was quiet. It was the first time in years she’d seen Kemi agitated. Her normally smooth brow was furrowed. ‘Well, promise me you’ll come and see the new gallery?’ she asked brightly, changing the subject. ‘The opening’s next week. At least come for a drink. Bring someone from work. I never get to meet any of your friends.’
‘That’s because I’ve hardly got any,’ Kemi said with a quick, rueful smile.
‘Well, you’ve got me. And it’s my first big opening in London. So, please come.’
‘All right, all right, I will. Tell me what you’re doing again?’
‘Oh, I’m just the organizer. Wine and canapés, invitation list . . . stuff like that. But it’ll lead to other things, I know it will. You always have to start at the bottom.’
‘Why do you always sell yourself so short?’
Jen flushed. ‘I don’t. You’ve got it wrong. You don’t know what it’s like, Kem. The art world . . . it’s just so competitive. You’ve got to start somewhere.’
‘Ordering drinks?’
Jen looked down at her empty plate. She helped herself to more rice, partly to give herself something to do. ‘It’s not like that,’ she said, uncomfortably aware she was beginning to sound defensive. ‘It’s different for you.’
‘No, it’s not. You’re brilliant, Jen. You got a first, for God’s sake.’
‘Yeah, well, fat lot of good it’s done me,’ Jen said, a touch of bitterness creeping into her voice. She tried unsuccessfully to squash it. ‘He didn’t even come to my graduation.’
Kemi sighed. ‘He was away on business, Jen. It wasn’t on purpose.’
‘He came to yours, though, didn’t he?’
‘Because he happened to be here, that’s all.’
‘That’s what he says. I know why he came to yours and not mine. He’s proud of you. Look at you! You’re a surgeon! It doesn’t get better than that. But he’s ashamed of me and everyone knows it.’
‘Jen . . . stop it. This is supposed to be a catch-up dinner, not an argument about Uncle Robert. You’re brilliant. I know it; he knows it; everyone knows it. The only person who doesn’t seem to believe it is you.’
Jen swallowed the little angry knot of resentment that seemed to appear in her throat every time she thought about her father. She looked down at her plate again, blinking furiously. She nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just—’
‘I know,’ Kemi interrupted her gently. ‘I know how angry he makes you. But I
keep telling you . . . it’s your life, not his. Live it for you, not for him. Stop worrying about what he thinks of you. Worry about what you think of yourself.’
Jen nodded again. She blew out her cheeks. ‘You’re right. You’re always bloody right.’
Kemi smiled. ‘There you go again. I’m not always right. Half the time I don’t know what I’m doing either. But I don’t spend the other half worrying about it, that’s the difference. Just follow your instincts.’
‘That’s just it,’ Jen said unhappily. ‘I feel as though I don’t have any. Most of the time I’ve got no idea what I’m meant to be doing with my life.’
‘Just take it a step at a time. Find something you love and stick with it.’
‘Well, I love this,’ Jen said hesitantly. ‘I love bringing people together . . . I know it sounds silly and boring but—’
‘There’s nothing silly and boring about it, Jen. It’s what you love and it’s what you’re good at. Now, for God’s sake, drink up. I can’t finish this bottle on my own and you ordered it. And tell me what to wear next week. I don’t want to wind up looking like the hired help.’
Jen giggled. ‘You never look like the hired help. But I’ve got just the thing,’ she said, casting her mind back to her own wardrobe. ‘It’s been a few years since I could squeeze my way into it. It’ll look brilliant on you.’
Kemi knew better than to comment on Jen’s recent weight gain. She’d never met anyone who went up and down a size or more in the same year. ‘Just promise me you won’t make me look ridiculous.’
‘I promise I won’t. Everything suits you.’
‘Not true. You clearly haven’t seen me in my scrubs. I look like a cucumber. With a hairy head.’
Jen giggled. ‘Speaking of hair . . . when was the last time you went to a hairdresser?’
Kemi put up her hands in mock defeat. ‘You’ve got me. I honestly can’t remember.’
‘So why don’t you come around to mine on Saturday? Before the opening, I mean. We can go to the hairdresser’s and then get ready for the show together. Go on, it’ll be like old times. You can take an afternoon off, surely?’
Kemi nodded. ‘All right. You win. I’ll come over around lunchtime. Now, tell me more about this new friend of yours, what’s his name? Barker?’
‘Parker.’
‘Parker. Who is he? What does he do? How did you meet him? I want to hear everything.’
12
It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time she opened her front door. Despite her protestations, they’d polished off two bottles of white wine between them – well, Jen had polished off most of it – and Kemi’s head was pounding faintly. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment. She looked down at her left hand and smiled faintly. She was still holding on to the half-finished cigarette she’d started as soon as she came out of Warren Street. It had been months since she’d had more than half a glass of cider or wine and even longer since she’d smoked. She put down her bag, shrugged off her coat and hung it up on the back of the door. She walked down the hallway to the kitchen, threw away the cigarette and poured herself a glass of tap water before going into the living room. The small one-bedroom flat had been a graduation present from Uncle Robert, though it was technically his, not hers. He used it once or twice a year when in London on business. ‘I can just as easily stay in a hotel,’ he said breezily. ‘It’s yours as long as you want or need it.’
‘But what about Jen?’ was Kemi’s first thought. ‘Won’t she want it?’
‘I’ll get Jen something else,’ Uncle Robert said resignedly. ‘To be honest, I can’t see Jen wanting to live in Fitzrovia.’ He was right. Even Kemi couldn’t quite imagine Jen in the midst of Fitzrovia with the elderly, blue-rinse ladies who were her neighbours or the silent, uniformed maids who cleaned the corporate offices around the square each day. True to his word, Uncle Robert bought Jen a small studio flat just off Fulham Road, which was much more in keeping with Jen’s tastes. Fitzrovia’s inhabitants were light years away from the lovely, fair-haired girls who frequented the cafes on the King’s Road. Jen’s flat, all floating curtains, dark dramatic colours and sheepskin rugs, was the opposite of Kemi’s. Kemi had barely done a thing to it since she’d moved in. She didn’t have the time, for one thing, and she really didn’t care about her surroundings for another. As long as it was reasonably warm, dry and comfortable, it was fine. The fact that there were mismatched cushions on the sofa or that the kitchen hadn’t been done up since the seventies was neither here nor there. ‘It works,’ was all she would say whenever Jen pulled a face. ‘I haven’t got time to think about sheepskin rugs.’
She walked over to the window and stood looking down onto Conway Street below. A couple were crossing over, the girl clinging possessively to her boyfriend’s arm. There was a Christmas tree in the square, blinking green, blue and gold, sending streams of coloured lights across the wet pavement and into the night sky. She watched as they stopped to look at it, the girl’s face turned up towards his in a moment of shared pleasure. It had been so long since she’d shared a view or a sight with anyone, let alone a boyfriend. What must it feel like? she wondered. She had almost forgotten what life outside work was like. She looked enviously at the couple again, but at that exact moment, something went wrong. They’d stopped almost directly underneath her window; an argument was breaking out. Even from where she was standing, she could feel the boy’s impatience. His girlfriend tugged on his arm; he shook it off, annoyed, and walked away. She half smiled to herself. So much for romance. She turned away from the window and switched on the TV. Time for the news, and then straight to bed. For once, she wasn’t on call. She sank into the sofa. The newscaster’s voice washed over her rhythmically . . . ‘Kyoto Protocol signed . . . Myra Hindley has lost her appeal . . . a massacre in Algeria . . . the ANC’s fiftieth national congress is to be held in Mafikeng . . . In Zimbabwe, Dr Florence Mashabane, the wife of Mandela’s right-hand man, Dr Tole Mashabane, is being considered for a top-level IMF position in Paris.’ Her mother’s face suddenly filled the screen. She was wearing a boldly patterned headscarf. The darkness of her skin was another colour complemented by the starkly beautiful indigo and black markings, symbols of fish, birds, abstract geometries. Kemi stared at it, willing herself to feel something – anything. It was like looking into the face of a stranger. Then the image disappeared as quickly as it had come. The newscaster was back. ‘In other news today . . .’
She drew her knees up to her chest, the way she’d done as a little girl. Her mother was leaving Africa, something she’d always sworn she would never do. ‘Leave? Me? Never! I was born here, I grew up here, I will die here.’ A typically dramatic Florence Mashabane statement. The sort of statement that invited – and required – no response. Her mother. My mother. She rolled the unfamiliar word around on her tongue. It was the second time today she’d thought about her mother. Most unusual. Months, sometimes years, went by without any reminder of her mother and now, today, twice . . . she was left feeling slightly unnerved by it.
She switched off the television and reached for her stack of medical notes, which were always kept on the side table next to the sofa. She needed something to distract her. She pulled a sheaf of papers out of the pale green folder and removed the paper clip. Her upcoming cases: two complex and one relatively straightforward. She began to read the admission notes.
The first case was a thirteen-year-old girl with trigeminal neuralgia, most likely caused by nerve compression. She ran over the procedure in her mind’s eye: a small opening in the skull behind the ear, opening the lining of the brain and inspecting the origin of the affected nerve. If they found it, they would remove it very carefully from the site, using a small piece of Teflon fabric to cushion the nerve. The whole procedure could – if things went well – take under an hour. If it didn’t . . . she stopped herself in time. It was something Fairbanks always said to the junior doctors. Don’t think about what might go wrong. Focus on your trai
ning, procedures and protocols. She wondered who the surgeon directing the team would be. Fairbanks and his ilk rarely made an appearance on the weekends. She knew from overheard gossip that the most senior consultants played squash on Sundays. It seemed a fitting game for surgeons. All that aggression.
13
Halfway across London, safely in her own flat and unable to sleep, Jen poured herself a shot of whisky and wandered into her own living room. She looked around with a sense of satisfaction that came rarely to her during her working hours. She loved her flat. It was on the second floor of a handsome, red-brick Victorian building on Bishop’s Road. Father had bought it – somewhat reluctantly, it had to be said – as soon as she’d graduated. ‘No sense wasting your money on rent,’ he’d said down the phone. ‘The trust will make the purchase.’ And that was that. Still, whilst the trust might own it, she’d furnished it out of her own savings. She’d done a bloody good job of it, too. Kemi had absolutely no interest in aesthetics but even she had remarked on its tasteful, exuberant air. Father had seen it once, taken off his glasses and pinched his nose between his brows, and that was that. When he replaced his glasses, the issue was closed. Her mother had never seen it and most likely never would. It had been years since Alice had left the house on Jordan Lane. She’d retreated into a suite of rooms on the second floor and rarely ventured outside. After the long-awaited death of Jen’s grandmother, there’d been a small window of hope that finally, after so many years of silent oppression, Alice might resurface . . . but it wasn’t to be. If anything, she’d faded even more into the background.
She wandered across to the oversized blue velvet sofa, glass in hand, and sank into its soft folds with a sigh of equal parts pleasure and exhaustion. She’d spent the last three months living on someone’s couch in a tiny apartment in Long Island City, across the East River from Manhattan. Whilst it had done her the world of good – at least in terms of making those all-important contacts in the art world – she’d been so homesick for her flat and her London friends and the cosy familiarity of the Kensington-and-Chelsea way of life that she’d contemplated leaving pretty much every weekend. New York terrified her. She’d struggled to hide it, turning up dutifully every morning to the stark white gallery on Spring Street where Parker had pulled in a favour to get her a job as assistant to the glamorous Lu Wai-Shen. Every morning, she’d braved the dirty, noisy and chaotic New York subway, packed to the rafters with the most motley assortment of people she’d ever seen, hustling like millions of others to secure a bit of standing room and avoid catching anyone’s eye. She’d seen rats the size of small dogs scurrying along the platform, disappearing into the dark tunnels that ran up and down the island like capillaries, feeding the city with its workers who came in from the Bronx, Brooklyn, Long Island, New Jersey . . . The whole world converged on Manhattan between 7 a.m. and 9 a.m., only to be disgorged in the opposite direction eight hours later. The New York subway made the London Underground seem luxurious beyond compare. It was a crazy, schizophrenic place, in spite of the wealth and glamour that existed above ground on avenues like Fifth and Lexington, whose shops made her dizzy just to look at. Living in New York, irrespective of whether she was on someone’s couch or not, was the sort of experience most of her friends would have killed for. The fact that she’d bagged an actual job, at an actual art gallery, was almost too good to be true. She was paid cash in hand – not very much of it, but she’d happily have done it for free.
