Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
For the weeks leading up to the wedding, I carefully coordinate seeing Frannie without seeing George. For the first time in my life I am proactive, carefully making sure that each time I part from Frannie, we have the next social plan in place.
At first I”m nervous about accepting plans to see Nisha and Lila, or Frannie’s parents, but after a while, I realise George must have gotten the memo, and be bowing out of things so that Frannie can see me. After all this time, he’s now the one avoiding me. The irony of it isn’t lost on me. He was worried he was the reason I’d begun to pull away again, and the night he told me that had made me determined to find a way to be part of Frannie’s life without him.
I do miss him though. Over dinner one night Nisha and Frannie begin a long argument about the talents of a reality TV star-turned-actress, and I know, had he been there, George and I would have shot one another a look of fond dismay. Earlier that evening I had sat with Lila at Nisha’s kitchen table and asked her about school and, carefully, tried to ask her about the letter she wanted to give to Camilo. She had gone pink and tried to answer vaguely, and I had spared her by quickly changing the subject, asking instead about the notepaper she had found in the stationery shop, and whether she wanted any more.
‘I can always bring some over if you like?’
‘It’s okay, I think I wrote what I wanted to, thank you.’ Lila says, ‘But maybe I can ask Uncle George to take me to see you again? I liked the sandwiches we found.’
‘That would be lovely.’ I say, privately hoping George isn’t left looking after Lila for a few months, until after the wedding when we can be comfortably out of one another’s lives again.
‘Uncle George said he had lots of fun that day.’ Lila says, absent-mindedly. ‘And he didn’t even buy any paper or pens or anything.’
‘Maybe he liked feeding the ducks the most.’ I say.
‘Maybe. But he didn”t feed the ducks either.’
At that moment Lila hears the theme tune of a show she enjoys on the television in the other room, and just about remembers to excuse herself politely before running out through the hallway.
I sit alone, having already set the table, hearing Nisha plating up curry and Frannie upstairs on the phone, and try not to give any meaning to Lila’s words.
*
Before I know it, we are in the bright highs of summer, and it’s time to return to Mijas for the wedding. I finish my last shift at Meticulous Ink before I leave, and spend some time walking aimlessly through the streets of London, feeling the thick, hot air of the city”s summer against my skin, aware that the next evening I will be in the Spanish mountains, with hazy hot days and evenings like warm gentle sighs.
I pack with less care this time. Loose tops and comfortable jeans for the day, one nice skirt and camisole set in case I need to be dressed up at some point outside of the wedding day. I pull a book I want to read from my shelf, another by the French author, and toss it into my satchel, without caring much what anybody might think. Before I leave, I notice the ugly clay keepsake box on my windowsill, and quickly push it down into my bag, securing it with folded clothes, thinking that I can show Frannie the bracelet and that the clumsily made box might make her laugh.
This time I book my own flight, following Frannie and her family who will have already been there for two nights. On the plane, I feel oddly calm.This visit to Mijas will, in a lot of ways, mirror my last, in that I’m stepping in with an uncertain relationship with George, unsure how he feels or how he will react to me. But this time I’m less worried. Though things might be awkward or embarrassing, it feels as though I couldn’t possibly feel any more humiliated than I did the night I went to his flat. There’s nowhere to go but up. Rather than the uncertainty of last time, I’m carrying a feeling of defiance. I’m not coming for George, I never was. I’m here for Frannie, and for Theo, to make them happy and share in the joy of their day.
Mijas is as warm as ever when I step out of the airport, and I stand for a few moments in the shade. I’ve refused a lift, instead taking a taxi from the airport up into the mountains. The vista of the town feels different on a second viewing. Instead of the sea of whitewashed stone and terracotta roofing, I pick out the tiny details. The blue flowerpots hung from walls, with sprays of flowers, the intricate patterns on gates and window rails. The brightly coloured shop fronts set into the walls, the orange and red brocade worn by the horses who act as taxis. Viewing it the second time, I can see past the first impression, the vast expanse of white and orange, to the explosion of colour in the details, and everything is more beautiful for it.
When I walk up the drive, the first thing I see is Paloma the cat. She stretches out in a particularly brilliant patch of sunlight and eyes me lazily, as though I had never left. I kneel down beside her, expecting her to get up and stalk away, but to my surprise she shifts her body upright, and rubs the side of her body along my knee, from nose to tail, before turning around and scenting me with the other side and returning to her spot in the sun, lifting her paw to clean it serenely with her little pink tongue.
‘Wow, she likes you.’ The voice is that of a young boy and I look up into Camilo’s face.
‘I didn’t think she would say hello to me.’ I try to choose my words carefully, noting the thick accent of the boy, and trying to make simple sentences. Feeling, like any true British person speaking to a child using a second language, very self-conscious about the ignorance of only speaking English.
‘She doesn’t like lots of people.’ He bends with a hand out to Paloma, who rolls onto her belly and gently bats at his hands as he strokes the soft white fur on her stomach.
‘She likes Lila now doesn’t she?’
Camilo shrugs.
‘Lila tried too hard. She made Paloma feel,’ he pauses, sifting through his words to find what he needs, ‘chased.’ he settles on. ‘Paloma felt she was chased, so she didn’t want to be caught.’
‘That’s a good way of putting it,’ I say, again impressed with him, and slightly sheepish at my pitiful collection of Spanish tourist phrases, ‘but eventually she calmed down and now Paloma likes her?’
‘I think so.’ Camilo says.
‘And you like her too, right?’ I say.
‘She is my cat.’
‘No,’ I smile. ‘Lila, you think she’s nice don’t you?’
Camilo shrugs, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Yes she’s nice.’
I nod, but don’t press further. I ask him a few questions about Mijas, whether he likes living in the town, where he lives with his mother during the rest of the year, whether he’s looking forward to the wedding. Eventually, he’s called back to his home. Paloma gets up to trot along behind him and I’m left crouching awkwardly over nothing on the drive and it occurs to me that I have been stretching this out, avoiding knocking on the door. Irritated with myself I straighten up and pull my case along up to the door and knock boldly, more loudly than I mean to.
When the door is answered I look into the dark, wizened face of Frannie’s grandmother. I greet her in awkward Spanish, which she returns with a feeble but warm hug. I step inside and she beckons for me to put my case to one side in the hallway and then leads me through to the living room at the back. Something smells incredible, though completely unlike the Mediterranean flavours that filled the house last time I was here. As we pass the kitchen I see two women with long shiny black hair standing either side of the large cooking pot on the stove.
When we come through the plaster arch to the living room Frannie gets up from the floor, where she has been sitting with Theo and puts her arms around me.
‘And that makes everyone,’ Theo says, following suit. ‘How was your flight?’
We exchange pleasantries while Nisha unfolds herself from the armchair where she had been reading a magazine and gives me a tight hug before sitting next to me.
‘What’s the incredible smell?’ I ask.
‘Mum’s family are here now,’ Nisha says, ‘so we’re getting the Indian family dinner experience. And if you think our Spanish family are crazy food people, you’re in for a shock.’
‘They brought their own spices because they didn’t trust the shops here to have the right things.’ Theo says.
‘That’s amazing.’ I laugh. I look around. A few of Frannie’s relatives are sitting in chairs, or dozing out on the porch. ‘Where are your parents?’
‘At the venue with a couple of people getting things ready and talking to the priest,’ Frannie says, ‘they’ll be back later.’
I’m too self-conscious to ask where George is.
‘And is Lila there too?’ I ask.
‘George took her for a walk in the town.’ Nisha says, and I feel myself relax. ‘There are too many people around and she was getting antsy wanting to talk to that boy.’
I remember the letter that Lila wanted to write to Camilo and wonder whether she ever quite managed to put into words what she wanted to say. I wonder if I should mention it to Nisha or Frannie, torn between wanting to respect Lila’s privacy as her own person, but to protect her as a child. If Lila never actually wrote the letter, or never planned to show it to anyone, then I would be telling people something private for no reason, and betraying her trust. But if Lila was planning to bear her heart to someone, I should say something, just so Nisha can make sure she’s alright.
I decide not to worry about it too much. If Lila is with George, who knows about the letter, and has known Lila all her life, then he will be in the best possible position to make that choice.
As though I’ve summoned them through thought, the front door opens and I hear their voices. Lila is talking animatedly and George is laughing. I brace myself as the footsteps draw closer, but it is only Lila who appears in the living room, holding a small brown bag. She cries out in delight and runs towards me, I open my arms and she jumps into them.
‘I haven’t seen you in ages,’ she says.
‘I know. I’ve missed you.’
My heart melts slightly, and I squeeze her a little harder, smelling the bubblegum-scented shampoo in her fawn-brown hair.
‘Where did Uncle George take you?’ Nisha asks, beckoning Lila to her, who walks round the table to join her. ‘What have you brought back? He didn’t get you some horrible little fridge magnet did he?’
‘No. George says presents don’t count if they’re something you can eat.’ Lila opens the package carefully and lifts something from the bag. I recognise it instantly as one of the powdered pastries from the cafe he and I had met at, last time we were here. This one is drizzled with lemon icing and studded with tiny blue flowers.
‘Oh, you went to that little bistro in the square.’ Frannie says, ‘It’s lovely there, I took Theo a while ago, we’ve been meaning to go back.’
‘It’s this lovely cafe,’ Lila says to me, excited to share. ‘Where they do pink rose drinks and green drinks and I had a hot chocolate but they put cream and strawberry sauce on it and it stirred in and melted.’
‘Hydie’s been there before,’ George says, ducking into the room, ‘we ran into each other there, last time we came out. That’s how I knew you’d like it.’
Nisha pulls out the chair between her and I for George to sit on. I see him hesitate, just for a moment. He sits between us, then addresses me straight away.
‘Hydie, I just took your suitcase up to your room, same one as before.’
His tone is the same, neighbourly politeness as before.
‘Thank you.’ I push my chair back. ‘I’ll quickly go and organise everything.’
‘We’ll shout you for dinner,’ Theo calls as I leave and make my way up the stairs. I run into an auntie on the landing who hugs me and tells me I’m looking well. We chat for a few moments before she lets me go into my room.
It’s unchanged from before. The strips of light across the faded carpet, the dark wooden frame of the bed and clouds of soft sheets. I slowly begin putting my things away. I’m only here for three nights. Tonight, the night of the wedding, and one more night before Frannie and Theo leave for their honeymoon. I could easily leave my clothes in the suitcase, but I carefully take out each battered pair of jeans, each faded t-shirt and hang them up. I had half-thought that George might follow me up the stairs, to try and clear the air between us. It’s the sort of infuriatingly honest thing he would do. But as I line up my book, makeup and skincare on the dresser, painstakingly rearranging them for no reason at all, I realise that he instead gave me the opportunity to duck away and avoid him, and I had taken it. I wonder if I should have stayed, if I should have stubbornly kept up with the conversation and made George make the decision. But I had scarpered at the first opportunity, and now wasn’t sure when I could go back down.
In an effort to give myself excuses for staying upstairs, I tip out the bag I had travelled with. Amid the receipts and SPF lip balm, hastily bought at the airport pharmacy, tumbles the wonky star-shaped box that I had packed last minute. I brighten, realising that I have a natural conversation point when I go back downstairs, an easy conversation that doesn’t have to include George. I prise open the lid of the keepsake box and pull out both the bracelet and the letter, the humiliating outpouring of my heart. I hear footsteps across the hall and a gentle knock at my door. Panicking, I pull the bracelet out of the box and stuff the envelope into the pocket of my cardigan. I just pull my hand free when Frannie enters the room, and immediately sees what’s in my hand.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ She says, slowly approaching as though I’m holding a sacred relic.
‘I found it in an old box. It had been at my father’s house the whole time.’
‘It’s fate.’ Frannie says, her eyes shining with delight.
‘Fate?’
‘Wait there.’ She says, before I can even finish my sentence. I hear her footsteps disappear down the hall then come back a few seconds before she rounds my bedroom door again. She’s holding two small boxes, coated in felt. One in a rich plum, one in seafoam green. The same colour as my bridesmaid’s dress.
‘I was going to give it to you before the ceremony,’ she says, ‘but this is just too much. Hydie, open it.’
I lift the lid of the green one and have to instantly set it aside so that I can put my hand to my mouth.
It’s my charm bracelet. Though not quite. It’s the bracelet remade into a fine, slender piece of jewellery. The braid is now a delicate silver chain. Each charm is a sleeker, more sophisticated version of itself. At the end of the charm is a pale stone alive with dazzling rainbow light, and I realise that it is a real polished opal, Frannie’s birthstone, the plastic version of which I had swapped with her for my faux amethyst all that time ago. I look up at Frannie, so full of emotion it takes me a moment to speak.
‘How did you do this?’
‘When I found my bracelet, I also found that notebook we kept,’ she says, ‘our charm swapping notebook. I got a list of every charm each of us had ever got, what we’d swapped, and then I scoured through old photos to see the order you wore it in. I don’t know if it’s perfect, but it’s recreated as best I can.’
She opens the plum box and turns it to show me. Inside is her own bracelet recreated, this one all in gold, the amethyst plump and glossy and catching the light.
‘Theo got me this as an engagement present ages ago. He knows how gutted I was to lose mine, and when I was thinking about bridesmaid”s gifts, I realised that this was the only thing I wanted to give you. I hope you like it.’
‘I love it,’ I feel myself tearing up. Frannie waves her hands in her face.
‘Don’t, if you cry I’ll cry.’ I put my arms around her.
‘Everything okay?’ Theo’s voice calls softly from the door. Frannie steps back and wipes her fingertips beneath her eyes.
‘Everything’s lovely Thee,’ she says, ‘just giving Frannie her present.’
‘I knew she’d cry.’ Theo steps inside and kisses her on the cheek, curling his hand around her upper arm. ‘She’s been desperate to give you that for weeks.’
‘Don’t put it on yet.’ Frannie says, ‘We’ll put them on before the ceremony.’
‘Sounds great.’
I hear Frannie’s mother call impatiently up the stairs.
‘Oh. Right,’ Frannie grimaces, ‘I was sent up here to get you down for dinner.’
‘And I was sent to get you both when Frannie didn’t reappear.’
I place the box on my dresser drawer, beside the original bracelet before following them down the steps to where the long table has been drawn out. This time it’s even longer, stretching all across the dining room and out of the French windows to the patio, where every table in the house has been placed in a long row, every piece of furniture arranged around this bizarre, segmented insect, to accommodate the ludicrous amount of people now in the house.
I recognise Frannie’s Indian grandparents sitting at the table. They are much older, slightly shrunken, their once-black hair now almost entirely grey, but they laugh and joke as much as they had when I last saw them. The dinner that night is a fully prepared feast of Indian food. Every baking dish, pyrex bowl and cooking pot is laid out along the table, brimming with sizzling spiced chicken dishes, paneer cheese in wilted spinach, lentil daal fragrant with aniseed and cumin, piles of flatbreads glossy with butter, and more rice than I’ve ever seen in my life.
‘We had to borrow some pots from the neighbours,’ Frannie’s mum says, as she leans in to hug me hello.
‘It looks incredible,’ I say.
‘Oh it will be,’ she says, her faint Indian accent slightly thickened by time with her family. ‘But I’m going to try to be somewhere else when it’s time to wash up.’
Frannie’s father joins the hug and for a few moments I’m squashed between them before Nisha shouts at them to let me sit down.
‘She’s barely off the plane, let her eat.’
She pulls out a chair between her and Frannie, at the end of the patio on garden chairs, and I quickly, gratefully rush to sit beside her, noting George sitting down beside his Indian grandmother who beams at him and tussles his hair like he’s a child still. Lila has been pulled from her own seat onto her Grandfather’s lap, and is glowing with pride as she tells him about school and he lavishes her with praise. Theo is three seats down from Frannie, with his own mother and father, a Japanese couple who speak perfect English but no Spanish, but are nevertheless chatting animatedly to Frannie’s aunts who speak limited English, with the help of exaggerated miming.
The food is somehow even better than it looks. I had grown up spoiled by Frannie’s mother’s cooking, and I shamelessly lean across the table trying to pull a bit of everything onto my plate.
‘You can tell Mum made the chapatis,’ Nisha says biting into a thin flatbread and moaning in delight, ‘Nobody does them like her.’
I look at the enormous family around me, the different cultures blurring together. Frannie’s Spanish grandmother brandishing a spoonful of something red, and glossy with tomatoes, at her Indian Uncle, who, with the help of Frannie’s father, is explaining the recipe. The grandmother downs the spoonful with delight and double dips the serving spoon straight back into the dish while Frannie’s father puts his head in his hands to hide his laughter.
Frannie had joked with me privately about her decision to marry Theo, and how she had, though not deliberately, chosen a man with whom she would have children who would be British, Spanish, Indian and Japanese all in one. I felt, as I often did with her family, just a little bereft. Sitting among people all so tightly and lovingly connected, even if they had never met, because the people they loved, loved one another. I felt, as I often did, adrift from this. As though the threads that once tied me to other people had come loose and fallen away a long time ago. I could love my parents for the people they were, but it did not replace what I felt from Frannie’s family, love amplified and magnified, given and received over and over again, even when there were arguments, even when there was tension. To be in a family like this was to be endlessly loved, and to love in return, in infinite directions all at once.
I feel myself being watched and I look up instinctively, to see George quickly turn his head away. I realise I’ve been staring ahead as I’ve been musing. I shake myself off and tune into the conversation with Nisha and an Indian auntie.
‘She’s growing up faster than I expected.’ Nisha is saying, looking over at her daughter who is now soberly nodding along to a discussion George is having. ‘She’s got a little crush on that kid across the road.’
‘Camilo?’
‘She tries to keep it secret but you know how kids are.’
‘Camilo’s a good boy,’ the aunt says, ‘she could do worse.’
Nisha is thoughtful, poking at her food with a fork. ‘I just don’t want her embarrassing herself in front of him. An experience like that can scar a kid. She”s so clever and kind. I don”t want her feeling bad about herself because of some boy.’
‘Oh Nisha,’ the auntie shakes her head, ‘what are those years for if not for embarrassing yourself while you’re young enough to not be hardened by it?’
‘I suppose that’s part of being a mother,’ Nisha says. ‘You know your kid will have to experience some kind of pain sooner or later, but you try to make sure they avoid it for as long as possible, even if that would make things worse in the long run.’
The auntie puts a hand, perfectly manicured in cocoa-coloured polish, on Nisha’s arm. ‘She will be okay, so long as she knows that you’ll be there for her, whatever happens.’