‘Wel , that’s very interesting,’ she says. ‘Have I seen it? Have I seen it? I could ask you the same question. But I know what I know, you see, and I don’t know if I feel like tel ing you, now.’
‘You have seen it?’ I say. ‘You – Mum, tel me.’ I drum my fingers on the counter, almost wild with desperation. My hands are outstretched.
‘Please, Mum. I have to know. Have you?’
She looks at me almost brazenly, like the bad girl at school who’s just got away with something. Ignoring the question, she slings her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’d better be off,’ she says, as I blink in astonishment. ‘I’m meeting an old friend for drinks. I don’t want to be late.’ She shakes her head, her hair making a slippery sound, like a stream, as it slides over her shoulders again. She walks to the door. ‘Can I say something?’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Natasha – one day you’l understand,’ she says. ‘I know you think it doesn’t make sense now. But it wil , al of it. One day.’
And then she’s gone, and I am left staring into space. I look up and out of the window at the street. I see my mother leave, fumble in her bag for something, and then take out a lip gloss and apply it. She walks off, tossing her hair again, as I watch her through the dirty window.
Chapter Thirty
I meet Jay at Ealing Broadway station, and we double back one stop, to Ealing Common. It’s Sunday lunchtime, and when we get off the Tube the Uxbridge Road is jammed solid. We walk along the main road in silence, our steps exact. I keep looking up at the sky, expecting it to rain.
‘Come for lunch at Mum and Dad’s,’ Jay had said that morning, when I’d answered the phone the third time it rang. ‘Dad asked me to ask you.
Mum’s made loads of food.’ Jay has been away for work – he has a big job on in Zurich and had to go there almost straight after the funeral. So this is the first time I’ve seen him.
It’s five days since my showdown with Mum and we stil haven’t spoken, but I bet she’s told Archie everything, she always does. I get the feeling I’m being summoned to Ealing so he can waggle his finger at me and try and do his head-ofthe-family bit. Wel , he can try, I told myself as I sat on the Tube. I know al about you, uncle. You can try and act like the big head honcho, but it doesn’t wash with me, not now I know you used to peek at your cousin while she was getting undressed, and your own sister thought you were pretty odd.
We don’t talk much. There’s a faint drizzle, it’s misty and cold. Jay is silent, grumpy, I think he was out late last night.
As we turn into Creffield Road, Jay’s stride lengthens and I have to skip to keep up with him. ‘How was Zurich then?’ I ask. ‘I missed you.’
‘Yeah, it was good.’ Jay is walking faster, his face set with determination like a mountaineer on the final stretch. ‘Fine. Hard work. Sorry I didn’t cal properly.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Hey. Jay—’ I put my hand on his arm. ‘Stop a second. Stop!’
‘What?’
‘Before we get to your mum and dad’s, I need to tel you something.’
‘What?’ He shoots me a half-look, almost nervous. ‘I split up with Oli. It’s permanent.’ We face each other in the quiet suburban street. I am standing on a cracked paving slab; one side rocks when I put my weight on it. ‘It’s not a big deal. I just wanted you to know.’
‘I know,’ Jay says. ‘You know I split up with him?’
‘Yeah.’ Jay carries on walking. ‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘Did – your dad told you then?’
‘Yes, course. He spoke to your mum.’ There’s a pause. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he says. ‘I am so hungry, man.’
We turn into the smal driveway of Archie and Sameena’s house. It’s almost silent on their street; it always is. The occasional car rumbles past but otherwise al you can hear is the sound of birds. Jay knocks on the door.
‘Aah.’ My uncle opens the door with a flourish. ‘You’re here.’ He kisses his son, then me. ‘Natasha. Glad you could come. Good to see you.’
He’s in his Sunday relaxing outfit, which is nearly identical to his weekday work outfit: pink striped shirt with navy chinos. In summer they’d be khaki chinos. His hair is perfectly combed, his smile is welcoming, but he reminds me so much of my mother: there’s something behind his eyes that I can’t quite define.
We walk into the plush hal , with the gold leaf mirror and the enamel card table, hung with beautiful old prints of scenes from the Ramayana. The cream carpet is soft and springy under my feet. Archie takes our coats and hangs them, then he turns to us and rubs his hands together.
‘Your mother is making a feast today, Sanjay,’ he says. ‘A feast.’
He ushers us jovial y into the kitchen. Though I used to come here al the time, I haven’t been here for a good few months, and I stare around me, impressed. ‘Is this a new kitchen?’
Archie nods. ‘Oh, yes. Look at the conservatory.’ We walk through the gleaming, ochre-coloured, marble-topped kitchen and out through the French windows. There is a huge conservatory, with matching wicker furniture, china bowls fil ed with plants. Archie presses a button. ‘Natasha.
Look.’ Automatic blinds slide up and down the glass ceiling. ‘Look,’ he says, pointing again, this time at the terracotta floor. ‘Under-floor heating.’
He smiles. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’
‘It sure is.’ I smile back; his enthusiasm is infectious. Jay is smiling too.
‘Dad, you’re such a show-off,’ he says. ‘Nat doesn’t care about the under-floor heating.’
Archie’s face clouds over. ‘Don’t be rude, Sanjay,’ he says sharply. ‘Here’s your mother. Go and say hel o.’
Sameena makes everything al right, she always has done. She bustles into the kitchen, putting the phone back
