Chapter Six
Chapter Six
The day has gone from cool and hazy blue to hot and bright, and I immediately regret not bringing sunglasses as we step out from under the awning, lifting my hand over my eyes to keep from squinting in the sudden, bright sunlight. We walk out across the town square which is now busy with people, sitting out at tables with plates of breakfast or browsing the shop windows. A few children run across our path shouting in Spanish.
‘I can’t believe how hot it gets here,’ I say, ‘I feel like Spain isn’t so far away from England but the weather is so different at this time of year.’
‘Be glad Frannie didn’t decide to get married in Jaipur where our other Grandparents live. It’s hotter than this all year round. I spent a few weeks there last year and honestly, I don’t think I was ever at a comfortable temperature. And of course that’s without that lovely snowy skin of yours, which I imagine burns on a sunny spring day?’
‘It does, but I’ve seen Jaipur in Frannie’s photos, it looks so glorious. I think I’d happily burn to a crisp to spend some time there.’
‘Well if you hadn’t been MIA all this time you could have come out with us.’
His tone is joking, but there’s a pointedness to the remark that makes me feel uncomfortable.
‘Did Rowena go with you all?’ I ask, unable to help myself.
‘She did,’ George says, ‘she spent a lot of it indoors under a fan, but she was a good sport about it. She doesn’t love the heat’
‘Was it really really hot?’
‘We went in autumn to try and make it tolerable. And it was okay. For most of us at least.’
I do some quick counting. It was spring now. Allowing for the time it would have taken for a couple to do something as big as flying to another continent to stay with family, they had probably been together for at least ten months at this point. I caught myself, feeling childish. It was none of my business.
‘Is that why she didn’t come with you here?’ I ask, ‘I don’t think it’s that hot but I think some people would hate it.’
George seems to catch himself in another sigh. ‘No, no. She has work and she’s got other things to…’ He tails off as we round a corner to a steep flight of stone steps, then turns to me. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
I nod mutely as we start to climb the steps.
‘I think we’re going to break up.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. I think it’s time. She’s a great person in so many ways. It’s just - do you ever worry that the way you love someone makes them worse?’
My first thought is no, but instead I ask what he meant.
‘I know I’m a ”helper”. I can’t help it, ironically. I always have to jump in and fix things and make sure people are okay. But I feel like sometimes, with some people, the more you need to help them, the more they become someone who needs help. And I worry that’s what’s happened to me and Rowena.’
‘I suppose that makes sense. I think lots of people unconsciously change parts of themselves to better suit the person they want to be with.’
‘Exactly. We’ve not even been together a year, and already I think I’ve become more of a chronic helper than ever, and I’m exhausted. And Rowena has, honestly, become someone who endlessly seems to need help. And she was never like that before. It’s like she’s endlessly on the brink of a meltdown. We’re at a restaurant and she can’t find anything she wants and we have to drop everything and go somewhere else. In Jaipur, it was always too hot, too loud, too bright. I spent the whole holiday inside with her. And if that was that person I”d started dating then that would have been my choice. But she wasn’t this way when we met. I feel like it’s something that’s happened as we’ve been together, and I can’t help but feel like I’m making her a worse person by being with her.’
The steps are steep, and he speaks slowly through the effort of climbing them. When he reaches the top he turns around and sees that I have fallen behind slightly. He reaches his hand out and, before I can stop myself, I joke, ‘What were you just saying about over-helping? Do you not want me to climb these stairs by myself?’
He laughs, and I see the tension release from his shoulders.
‘No you’re right, I should work on my flaws. You’re on your own kid.’ He walks away with comical speed as I climb the last few steps, then slows to let me catch up.
‘Why is it a secret?’ I ask.
‘Because Frannie and Nisha already don’t love Rowena. They’ve been on the end of these little flare-ups, and I don’t want them to take this as a reason to speak badly of her. She’s a good person and I still care about her. I’m just not sure it’s still the right thing.’
‘That’s very good of you.’
‘And they’ll just be unbearable. You know how they can be. If they gang up in a moment where I’m wrong and they’re right, it can be months of torture. I’ll tell them when I can avoid them for a while, maybe a month or so before the wedding so they’re both too busy to annoy me about it.’
We walk in companionable silence back to the house. On the path before the turning, we see Lila and the boy from across the , sitting on the curb. He’s talking animatedly in rudimentary English, using his hands and staring ahead at the road while she gazes at him.
‘Lila,’ George calls, and she looks up, her expression that of a small animal caught in torchlight, ‘does your mother know you’re out here?’
Lila nods. ‘She said I can go anywhere so long as I don’t bother Paloma.’
‘Who’s Paloma?’
‘Mi gato,’ the boy says.
‘His cat,’ George says softly to me.
‘I had worked that out, thank you.’
‘Sorry.’
We walk past the two children and into the house, where various members of the family are sitting reading newspapers, making pots of coffee or tidying up surfaces. George reaches to start drying pots and is flapped away by an aunt.
‘I do wish they’d let me help.’
‘Normally I’d admire your commitment to equality,” I say, ‘but maybe in your case you should think of it as practice.’
‘Maybe that’s what I’ll do for the rest of our time here.’ He says. ‘Just not help at all.’
‘Exactly. Practice sitting with the discomfort of being unhelpful.’
‘There you are,’ Frannie emerges from a back room, ‘we thought you’d both been kidnapped.’
‘Or maybe eloped,’ Nisha calls from out of sight behind her.
‘We both went to the same coffee shop by accident.’ I say, hoping I wasn’t blushing.
‘It was nice to catch up,’ George smiles, ‘without you two yelling over everything.’
The two women protest, but their words mingle together and George laughs.
‘See what I mean? How could we talk with this nonsense going on?’
We walk towards them and Frannie smacks him gently in the arm. We join Nisha and Theo where they’re sat at the long kitchen table playing cards.
‘Hey both.’ Theo says.
‘Take a seat, I’ll get some water.’ Frannie says.
George makes to go after her to help but catches my eye. He stops and carefully, deliberately sits down at the table. I sit next to Theo on the other side. When Frannie returns with a pitcher of water and glasses we play cards for a while.
We stay inside during the heat of the day, the five of us sitting companionably in the living room. Nisha has to wrestle Lila away from the front of the house to take a nap out of the sun. Frannie and I curl up together on the squashed white couch with our books, while Theo and George watch a show on Theo’s iPad. Nisha comes in with a tray of iced coffee in tumblers and, after giving one to each of us, sits in an armchair in the corner, curls up, and seems to fall asleep in minutes. She looks younger asleep, less stern, her bare feet and ankles tucked up beneath her in the chair, short hair curling around her cheekbones.
George notices Nisha sleeping and reaches out to the iPad to lower the volume slightly. Frannie gives him a thumbs up. I realise it must have been years since I had been with them all together like this in a living room, just sitting companionably, as though I were part of their family. Finally, once the hottest hours of the day are past, it’s time for us to visit the church to speak to the priest about the service.
‘They’ve got a beautiful garden.’ Frannie says, ‘I think we can take some pictures there as well which will be nice.’
I feel warm and sleepy, not made up enough to look good in photos, but I get into a taxi with Nisha and Lila, who can’t help but spill information about Camilo in an endless stream to me in the car.
‘I don’t want you getting distracted by this boy,’ Nisha says to her,‘remember you’ve got an important job at this wedding. If I catch you missing a cue because you’re staring at him I’ll be furious.’
‘Is he coming to the wedding?’ I ask.
‘The family have known Frannie since she was a baby,’ Nisha says, ‘they’ve lived across the way for years. And they’ve been helpful sorting out some things for the day which we appreciate so they’re all invited.’
Lila fidgets in her seat, twisting her fingers in her lap. I feel sorry for her, though appreciative of Nisha’s nerves. Lila is too old for any slip-ups on the day to seem cute, and she wouldn’t enjoy being embarrassed.
The chapel is a small building set in the mountains, up a long dusty road away from the main town. It is made of the same whitewashed stone as most of the buildings, with wide doors in dark wood, and a little arched cot on the roof, housing a small bell. The windows are set in radiant stained glass that catches the sun as we approach, and green plants climb the walls around the front. When we get out of the car and approach the building, a very elderly man in a priest’s vestments and a younger woman in linen trousers and a blouse step out of the door to greet us.
The group speak in Spanish and I allow myself to be led inside. We walk through the chapel, small and quaint, with pews in dark wood and an altar laid in white cloth on a carpeted circle, and out of a door at the back. Through a short corridor, we come to a well-kept garden, bordered by flowering plants, thick with blooms of hot pink oleander, deep purple hibiscus, and asters like giant daisies, turned like happy faces up to the sun. The grass leads through to a paved area framed with narrow cypress trees, on which a small iron bench looks out down the mountains to the sea. I am looking at the bench when I hear Lila shout ‘The priest has a pool!’ from behind me. When I turn she is gripping the fence of wooden slats at the side of the garden, jumping up and down to look over the top.
The priest, who has walked with Frannie and Theo out into the garden with us, turns to where the girl is shouting, then looks with interest at Frannie, who laughs and translates. Theo, Lila and I are the only people who cannot speak fluent Spanish and look at Frannie, as the priest speaks to her, who then turns to us.
‘It was made by a group of people planning to build a big hotel right next to the Church, but the community sent them packing before they built anything else. Now they host children’s swimming lessons and aqua aerobics for the elderly every week, and the priest’s nephew comes and keeps it clean.’
‘Can we go swimming?’ Lila asks, turning to Nisha who shushes her. I walk towards the fence to see what the fuss is about and see a large uncovered pool set into an expanse of stone paving slabs, in a jelly bean shape, the water a glittering aquamarine colour.
‘Very nice.’ George says just over my shoulder, ‘Hey Frannie after the wedding we can see which of us can toss you in the pool.’ Frannie gives a harsh fake laugh.
‘You know it would be such a shame if my brother drowned on the day of my wedding.’ Her father snaps his head around and says something harsh in Spanish. Frannie drops her head and mumbles something back.
‘What did he say?’ I ask George quietly.
‘He said not in front of the priest.’
Frannie recovers quickly and gets out her phone.
‘Right, I want some pictures. Everyone smooth your hair down. George, you’re not getting out of them.’ George ignores her, and walks back into the church, putting his phone to his ear.
‘Pictures?’ Sameera says, ‘Why?’
‘Because when the wedding comes there won’t be time. There will be so many people and we’ll be in the chapel then all going back down to the hotel for the reception straight after. We’ll have all the photos with the big groups of everyone dressed up, but I wanted to get some pictures of us all together looking more natural, my closest family.’
I feel unsure as she says that, but then she smiles directly at me, as if knowing exactly what would be going through my head, to reassure me that I’m not here by coincidence. She counts me as her family too. I smile back.
‘And it would be really nice,’ she says, raising her voice loud enough to be heard inside, ‘if my whole family would be in the garden for this moment.’
George reappears, holding a bottle of sparkling wine.
‘Actually,’ he says, as the priest appears from behind him bearing a tray of flute glasses and a glass of orange juice. ‘If you can be patient enough to wait twenty minutes, I’ve actually booked a professional photographer who is on her way up to the chapel and she’ll take our photos for us.’ Frannie’s mouth drops as George smiles. ‘I just figured this way you can be in the photos instead of taking them.’
The priest sets the tray down and George fills the glasses with sparkling wine. Lila takes the orange juice and Nisha hands the drinks out to Frannie, her parents, her grandparents, myself, George and Theo. We stand together on the lawn chatting, until we hear the crunch of a car parking on the other side of the chapel, and a young woman in a peaked cap comes timidly round the side to walk in through the fence, holding a large professional camera and a small bag of accessories.
Once the photographer has set herself up and done a few test shots, she begins to direct us. The light from the sun is now low and golden and spills across the features of the garden.
‘Just have your conversation for the moment,’ she says in thickly accented English, taking a few test shots. ‘I will pose you later.’
We do our best to look natural as we continue talking, though we all hold ourselves more carefully, self-consciously checking our hair and clothes as the photographer circles us. The drinks are a godsend, giving us something to do with our hands so we don’t fidget. After twenty minutes the photographer begins to gently move us around the garden. Frannie’s parents and grandparents are moved to stand by the line of cypress trees. Nisha, Lila, Theo and Frannie are taken to stand beside a spray of large bright oleanders. George and I are left standing together, watching the others being photographed.
‘Are we not pretty enough?’ George jokes.
‘Always the bridesmaid,’ I say.
”Me too,” he smiles as he watches the others posing, ‘are you having a nice time?’
‘It’s fun. I’ve missed your family. Though I feel a bit out of place, I’m the only person who won’t be officially in your family once the wedding is over.’
‘I don’t think that’s how Frannie sees it,’ he says, ‘I think she’s always considered you part of the family. We don’t see our relatives in Jaipur for a few years at a time, but that doesn’t stop them from being our family. It’s not a library book, it doesn’t expire. If you were part of our family when you were younger, you still are now.’
I’m touched, and want to say something meaningful back, but I’m saved by the photographer coming over and guiding us to our place. We are moved right to the bottom of the garden, where the worn iron bench sits framed by thin blossoming trees and looking out over the sea. The photographer guides us to stand with our backs to the sky as though we’ve arrived there quite by accident and are just speaking for the first time that evening.
‘And just look relaxed together, like you’re chatting,’ the photographer says.
‘Pretend I’m saying something clever and funny,’ George says, and the photographer gently tilts her head and guides him to put one hand in his pocket, while he holds up the Prosecco as if gesticulating with the other.
‘I don’t know if I can act that well.’
He laughs and pulls his hand from his pocket and out onto the bench to steady himself. I laugh in response to his outburst, and nervously tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
‘That’s lovely,’ the photographer says, ‘keep your hand up to your ear and look up at him. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. You look great together.’ With a jolt I realise, she thinks we’re a couple.
George has realised it too, and is looking at me, his eyebrows raised as we communicate, silently, that neither of us knows what to do. For a few moments we go back and forth making facial expressions, trying to decide whether we should say something. In the end, we seem to settle on just going with the flow and, with the tiniest shrug, George relaxes back into the pose given by the photographer. After a few photos are taken we are moved in our groups and I am placed in a scene with Frannie, Nisha and Lila, the three adults walk along the patio talking as Lila runs her fingers through the leaves of the aster plants sitting against the low stone wall beside us, her other hand outstretched to her side, as though she is a dancer.
The men are grouped together for a shot, Frannie”s parents and grandparents are posed and, by the time we are all brought back together, it is almost dark and the priest turns the lights on inside the church, which sends glowing stripes across the garden. We also realise that the cypress trees are threaded with hanging lights which glow gold as fireflies above us. We take a few more pictures in a group, the photographer directing us to step this way and that around one another, turning and facing the people we pass, as though we’re doing an elaborate eighteenth-century dance together. I sense, rather than see, the photographer take a photo as I pass Frannie’s mother, and she places her hand fondly on my upper arm, again in the moment in which Frannie and I come face to face and just burst out in silent giggles, as Theo and I give each other a swift high five as we turn past each other like we’re on a teacup ride. The photographer shouts that she’s almost done as, slightly disoriented, I misstep and move backwards where I collide with someone who turns in time with me.
‘Sorry,’ I say, as I turn, my hands coming up instinctively to protect myself, straight into George, whose hands come out to steady me and find mine, his fingers curling gently around my own as though we’re about to dance. We stand, caught like that for a half-second, our hands together, when a final flash of the camera goes off.
‘That’s a wrap ladies and gentlemen,’ the photographer says in Spanish, as Nisha translates for myself and Theo standing next to her. ‘I’ll send you the images in the next couple of days, and if you want prints you can let me know. Have a lovely wedding!’ We thank the young woman who smiles bashfully, and we all walk back across the dark lawn.