‘Her parents owned a villa in Cairo and they spent the winter months there.’
‘I know where that church is,’ said Amir and she almost gasped with delight as he started to connect her with streets and landmarks she had forgotten. ‘I badly need a holiday,’ he said. ‘There is no peace here. Continuous strife every which way I turn.’
She surveyed the scene around her. Fresh cool air, the almost empty lawns of the monastery, the blue-grey waters of the loch up ahead. ‘Plenty of peace here.’
‘I will join you,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘You will be most welcome. Bring a rain jacket.’
‘Seriously. I need to get away. I feel stifled.’
‘You said this years and years ago, the exact wording: I feel stifled.’
‘Did I? What was the occasion?’ He sounded more alert. They both had good memories. Brains that retained information to spill out on examination papers. But why start raking up the past?
She said, ‘The first day of our clinical placement. We were put together.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
Did he remember that he had hated it and she had encouraged him, neglected her own work to do his for him while he procrastinated? He never acknowledged her support or thanked her. But then she didn’t need to be thanked. To be his love was enough. To bear his weight was enough. If she were to judge him now, she would say spoilt brat. Mollycoddled at home as the only son, privileged everywhere else. But that was typical of their time and place. The hard knocks hit the men later in life, while vulnerable girls turned into venerable matrons who could do no wrong.
‘Salma. Salma.’ His repetition of her name pushed its way through her.
It was coming too soon, she wanted to press down the brakes, to keep the pace steady, to be in control. Instead she blurted out, ‘I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry.’
‘Sorry is not enough. It’s not enough.’
The whine in his voice made her laugh or sob or cough. A sound from the throat. She was far away. Cruel and far away.
‘You can laugh all you want, but there are flights to London every single day,’ he said. ‘More than once a day.’
‘I’m not in London.’
‘Then how do I get to this forsaken place where you’re at, another flight?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘You’re not taking me seriously.’
‘I thought I was the one who was going to come back, and you were going to make a doctor of me.’ Even while joking the hurt was still there, old but visceral.
‘I will bring you back with me. That’s a separate issue.’
‘Ah, well. You would like it here. There’s a tennis court. I’ve seen some people playing. I haven’t played in years.’ It was such a holiday thing to do. Search for equipment, play a sport you haven’t played in years.
‘I will book and let you know.’
She laughed, and he said, ‘This isn’t an empty threat.’
‘I believe you.’ She was playing along now. ‘Bring some coriander with you.’
‘What!’
‘Freshly ground. It’s not the same here.’
‘What else?’ His tone was bored. Even in this play-acting, he did not want to be the one to bring, the one to carry or go out of his way. Salma imagined his wife being totally in charge of the household, while he lived in an orbit of work, siesta and tennis club – actually not much different than when he had been a boy. His print on the household would be faint, his presence brooding rather than constructive. Or when he was in a good mood, his presence as sparkling as a holiday, the family hanging on every word of his clever banter.
She said, ‘Long ago, when you used to tell me you felt stifled, I thought you wanted to emigrate. Do you still want to do that?’
‘It’s too late.’ He sounded resigned. ‘There are decisions that need to be taken at a certain time. You can’t put them off for ever. I wasn’t desperate about leaving, though. Not like you.’
So this was how he saw her. Desperate to get out. True, she had done the rounds of embassies – New Zealand, Canada, Australia, the US – come back with forms, which she read and summarised for him. The precious pages on the café table between them, the extra care lest a drop of tea fell on them. If she hadn’t queued for the forms, he wouldn’t have. That was their pattern, what came naturally to them both – she did the legwork and the research so that they could brainstorm and fumble towards a decision in which he would have the final word.
‘I wasn’t desperate to leave,’ she said.
‘Oh, you were,’ he said. ‘It’s the only explanation.’
She felt pushed back, unable to come up with a defence. A defence that would not be a personal criticism of him. It was admirable, in a way, how he had justified her actions and protected his ego. She loves me but she’s desperate to leave. She loves me, but a better opportunity came up. She loves me.
Salma said, ‘Is this why you’re back in contact? To prove that I made the wrong choice.’
‘Didn’t you?’
Her voice was stiff. ‘There is something called fate and destiny, as you well know.’
‘Sure. I don’t disagree.’
‘Let’s not quarrel.’
‘I’m sorry. I act disingenuous and it must be infuriating for you. You once let me beat you at tennis, didn’t you?’
Once? She laughed, taken by surprise, the warmth back again, the edge gone. Such a concession from him! ‘Of course not. It’s not the sort of thing I would do.’
‘But it is. It is. I badly needed the pretence, you were more mature, you held it all together.’
That was true when she was with him, when she was there, but not after she came here, not when she was repeatedly failing the PLAB – failure a new experience, an alien state – and the children were so small. It had taken all her strength to crawl her way out of that, to turn around and start from scratch, then make something of
