Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
There was Freddie, who was on the course because his mother was an Italian princess and owned a palazzo by the River Arno, a stone’s throw from Florence. India began learning Italian. She read Italian cookbooks and immersed herself in Florentine artists.
Turned out Italian was tricky, but India was so happy, daydreaming of her and Freddie sitting on a terrace with a vineyard beneath them, dogs dancing at their feet.
They’d lasted two months. A record, India thought, once she’d stopped sobbing over sad songs on repeat.
There was Oscar, another football fan. Leonardo, from Cornwall rather than Italy. Josef, with a thing for taller women.
None of them lasted.
By the time she was thirty-three, India had dated approximately four guys a year on a serious basis, had been engaged twice, and had not kept either of the rings because that would be unfair.
Horribly, she’d also been a bridesmaid on eight separate occasions and finally was convinced she was doing something wrong, but what?
Was she inherently unlovable?
Her father said that none of these guys were good enough for her.
Meanwhile, Georgie was still careful about stepping on Sonja’s feet when it came to mothering.
She thought India shouldn’t give herself over so totally to being in love when she met someone new.
‘You’re all heart, India, and you expect the same of other people. But you’re too trusting. Too giving. You let these guys get away with murder.’
India began to see that her high-speed male turnover was a problem.
She asked her mother for help.
‘I’m so glad you came to me for help, sweetie,’ Sonja said delightedly.
Sonja explained that fragile unicorn-butterfly people like them – India’s mother had these symbols tattooed on her slender back – can’t behave like other women.
‘We are different, India. We are fragile, we are as rare as unicorns, we are elemental like butterflies. We have our own way of living. It’s not that complicated,’ Sonja added earnestly, as if she was explaining something Einstein-y.
‘When you find the right guy, it will fall into place. It’s destiny. It will just happen.’
Finally, thought India: an explanation.
She just needed to follow certain rules.
Doing anything but nibbling a sliver of food in the presence of a man was very fragile unicorn-butterfly behaviour. Possibly the most important rule. Sonja was whisper-thin for this very reason.
If appearing to exist on an astral plane without food was rule one, mastering the art of cherishing your man was rule two.
‘Wear make-up so that it looks like you’re not wearing make-up’: rule three.
‘Always be a free spirit. Nobody can tame you, so they’ll do anything to keep you.’
Sonja still follows the rules, even though she is in her early sixties without actually looking it – even India doesn’t know her mother’s true age.
Sonja is ageless in a beautiful but very modern, aesthetic way. Her wide-apart eyes are one of her most beautiful features, one which India has inherited. Her face is an oval with a wide, full mouth, which India also has inherited.
Sonja is a muse to several musicians.
This was rare, though, she explained to India.
In her past lives, she was never a muse, but now she is. It’s the cosmic cycle.
Before the break-up with Chad, there was a brief moment when it occurred to India that she’d been following her mother’s difficult diktats all her life, even though her mother left years ago.
Was it ever Sonja’s dream to be a mother …?
India stops her story and finds she has almost talked herself out.
She’s back on the terrace in Corfu, the scent of lavender, rosemary and bougainvillea heady in her nostrils, only the cicadas making any noise.
Everyone else is looking at her with interest, apart from Keera by her side, who has been patting India’s knee in comfort.
There’s no point in trying to pretend any more: India has laid herself bare so she has to get on with it.
‘My friend, Lizzie – the one I left to go to the football with Jake – she got married. I was a bridesmaid, me and Cleo were, in fact. I wore a cap-sleeved pink Monique Lhuillier and Lizzie was in white with lace flowers. Lizzie’s dad kept saying he should give his taxi firm to Monique Lhuillier: it would be a fairer trade. ’
Dan laughs and India smiles at him. She loves making people laugh. She’s good at it too, that’s one crumb of happiness in the middle of this.
‘Keep going, India,’ prods Rose.
‘So, Lizzie had a baby. Lily-Blossom. She’s so exquisite …’
And there, India stops.
She can’t describe Lily-Blossom any more.
She’d never visited anyone in hospital having a baby before Lizzie, so she’d had no idea what it would be like.
It was all noise and India wondered how any baby managed to sleep, and then she came upon Lizzie in bed, tired but with this, like, glow, and there was the baby.
‘Do you want to hold her?’ Lizzie had said and delicately transferred the tiny bundle of baby clothes over to India.
‘I couldn’t breathe the first time I held her,’ India says slowly.
She suddenly no longer cares how she sounds.
What is the point of only saying what is publicly acceptable when you’ve so much pain inside that squashing it down destroys you?
India had held Lizzie’s tiny baby and the simultaneous feelings of joy and utter grief at her own childlessness had made her heart ache.
India had never felt anything like it.
She still hasn’t.
‘Lily-Blossom is so precious, no – that’s a silly word.’
India closes her eyes, feeling her way through.
‘She’s perfect, beautiful, fragile. That translucent skin is like silk and her eyes, they don’t really see you, apparently, but Lily-Blossom looked up at me and I could see her beautiful little perfect soul right there.’
Beside India, Keera makes a soft noise.
India ignores it. She will say what’s inside her now.
Then maybe it won’t hurt so much …?
‘Nothing else felt as if it mattered when I was holding her. She was, she is, perfect. Then I had to give her back.’
India almost cries now at the memory: India adores her friend, Lizzie, but she felt something primal when she held Lizzie’s baby.
The sense of loss for this child she may never bear is like being ripped open and left empty. India cannot cope with the ache.
She tries to drag herself away from the London hospital and back to the group on the terrace.
They’re all utterly silent.
‘I understand how women kidnap babies when they’re in such agony over not having their own. Wanting my own baby is such a powerful force. I know I sound obsessional maybe …’
‘No, I’m not seeing obsessional, India,’ says Rose gently. ‘Wanting a child – that’s evolution kicking in. Wanting a child is one of humanity’s most powerful forces. Not everyone feels it but, if they do, it’s usually all-encompassing.’
‘OK,’ says India slowly. She realises that she can’t talk about having a baby right now, can’t share it with the group. She pulls this pain back inside her.
Later with Rose, perhaps, but not now. It’s too fragile, too newborn.
She gets up and pours herself more coffee from the pot, then returns to her seat.
‘Rose,’ she says, ‘would you mind if we didn’t touch on the baby stuff now? Talk about it later?’
Rose nods. She really wants to delve into India’s past and see who abandoned her. But for now, they need a break. This retreat is a learning curve for Rose too.
‘Ten-minute break and then back here?’ she says.
India and Keera take hats and drinks up to the acropolis. There’s a faint sea mist today, a little dreamy haze in the distance making all the boats in the sea look as if they’re sailing into a fairy story.
‘I wish I hadn’t talked about that,’ India says tiredly as she blindly scans the horizon. ‘I just want to lie down and sleep. I feel so worn out.’
‘Slicing into yourself is very hard,’ Keera says with feeling, ‘but it’s worth it, India. I promise.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’ begs India. ‘Clothes. Handbags. How much exercise Alexei does to keep looking like that?’
‘Sure,’ agrees Keera. ‘What’s your favourite type of handbag ever?’
‘OK.’ India closes her eyes. She can play this game.
‘Vintage Fendi baguette or else a Vuitton travelling trunk. Which is not exactly a handbag but they’re so beautiful.’
Adriana and Christos walk down to the village holding hands.
Normally, they’re both too busy in the morning for this but Adriana has told Christos about the new message on Instagram.
He instantly suggested that they take time off.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We need a break.’
‘We don’t have time,’ said Adriana.
‘We do,’ he insisted.
They stroll hand in hand, waving to all their friends. Everyone wants to say hello and ask how the inaugural retreat is doing.
Mama Tati, who has a honey stall, presses a jar of her latest honey into Adriana’s hands.
‘Take it!’ she commands.
Mama Tati is one of Xanthe’s grandmothers, the strong women who run the village and let their husbands think that they run the village.
Adriana hugs her and she and Christos walk on.
They’re offered free coffee, have to promise to come back another day to try out a new olive oil, and spend five minutes admiring the latest pots to come from the local ceramicist’s kiln.
They finish up in a sun-bleached wooden café stand with turquoise-coloured chairs and tables. Small fishing boats are tied alongside them and the smell of the fruits of the sea fill their nostrils.
‘Iced café,’ says Christos, putting two little pottery cups on the table where his wife is sitting.
‘I’m worried,’ reveals Adriana. ‘Rose says not to, that it’s going to be all right, but how can it be?
All these years we’ve kept this big secret and now if it comes out, it’s going to look as if Rose cannot be trusted.
If she lies about the past, how can anyone believe her?
It’ll ruin everything we’ve set up here, it will ruin us. ’
‘If Rose says it’s going to be fine, then I for one believe her,’ says Christos. ‘She’s very impressive, your sister. Like you, my beloved.’