‘You don’t sound like most boys I know,’ I say. ‘Most of them stick with it but they behave so craply the girl eventual y has to dump them.’
Ben looks cross. ‘I hate the way people just assume al men are going to be like that.’ He mimics a busybody with a quavering voice, ‘“Oh, he’s such a useless
‘Hel o, second-wave feminist!’ I hold up my hand. ‘You go, girl!’
‘Everyone should be a feminist,’ Ben says. ‘I don’t understand people who say, “I’m not sure I’m a feminist.” It’s like saying, “I think I might be racist.” You get my mum on the subject. Wow.’
Ben’s mum is a professor of history at Queen Mary and Westfield Col ege. She is amazing – what my friend Maura who lives round the corner cal s a Necklace Lady – one of those cool fifty-plus women with big frizzy hair who wear draped jersey and huge, bold, signature necklaces.
‘My mum doesn’t believe in al that,’ I say. ‘Which is so weird, when you think about it. She acts like a young ingenue in a Jane Austen novel when any man speaks to her, al batting eyelashes and trembling voice. And she’s tough. She raised me on my own, hardly any money, without a dad.’
‘Do you ever wonder who he was? Your dad?’ Ben asks. ‘You never talk about it.’
‘A bit more lately, what with everything,’ I admit. ‘It’s made me think about al that stuff more. Where you come from, who your family is.
Etcetera.’
‘Just “Etcetera”?’ He smiles, and I think how nice it is to talk about this with someone, I never do.
‘Have you ever thought it might be someone you know?’
‘No, not real y,’ I say. ‘I think it real y is just some guy she never saw again.’
‘I know, but—’ Ben puts his pint down and wipes his forehead. The noise in the pub seems to go up a notch, al of a sudden. ‘Your mum – I mean, you don’t necessarily believe what she says al the time, do you?’
‘I don’t, sadly. Why?’
‘Wel , it must be something you think about. Half your family tree is missing. Where you come from, isn’t it interesting?’
‘I suppose so,’ I say. ‘Like your grandfather – you’ve always been interested in his family, the Muslim side.’
‘He’s not Muslim, he’s Hindu.’
‘But I thought he was from Lahore, from Pakistan?’
‘Yeah, but he’s not Muslim. There were loads of Hindus there before Partition,’ I explain. Everyone always assumes Arvind is Muslim. I don’t blame them, but his name alone should show he’s not. ‘You’re right, I’d love to go there. I am interested in it. But it’s only a quarter of me, you’re right. There’s another whole half. Look at Jay,’ I say. ‘His mum’s from Mumbai, his dad’s half Indian – he’s three-quarters there. Me, I’m only a quarter there. I used to wonder a lot about the other half.’
‘I would, if I was you,’ Ben says. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘If you ever want some help with it,’ Ben says. ‘Just ask.’
‘What, have you got a DNA database in your studio?’ I ask.
He grins. ‘I mean it. Just – anything I can do. Just someone to talk to.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Ben.’
We smile uncertainly at each other in the crowded bar, and there’s a pause, though everyone else around us is laughing and having a good time. Perhaps I should go. I don’t want to, though. I glance at my watch, just as he says, ‘One more drink?’
And I don’t say, No, I’l be off. I look at him, and I think about being at home, waiting for Oli to turn up or not, when I could be here, and I push my glass towards him, and I say, ‘Yes, please. Same again.’
‘Coming right up,’ he says, and we sort of know it’s not going to be just one more drink.
Chapter Thirty-Three
So we have another drink, and another, and it’s seven o’clock and then it’s eight-thirty, and we talk about a new commission Ben’s just got, a photo-essay on a Countryside Al iance march taking place next week, and about my new col ection, and about Les and the writers’ col ective with whom we are both obsessed, and about Jamie’s love life – Jamie being the slightly more amenable of the two receptionists whom I think Ben has a crush on, mainly because she is beautiful, Sophie-Dahl-style, but also fascinating because her boyfriend is an extremely short pockmarked Russian guy, not obviously rich but we think he must be.
Then we have another drink and talk about what we’re working on, and I point out the two girls at the bar and how one of them is wearing this beautiful necklace made up of different charms, and how I want to copy it, and Ben goes up to them super-politely and asks if we can take a photo of her necklace. And he manages to do it without sounding creepy, and the girls are real y lovely, and he snaps away a couple of times because he has a little camera he always carries around with him. Then we have another drink, but somewhere along the line we’ve forgotten we got to the pub early, and nine-thirty seems deceptively early, and we’re so pleased about this we have another drink. In al this time Oli doesn’t cal , and after a while I put my phone in my bag, because I’m sick of checking it every five minutes.
At ten-thirty we are both very hungry, and we know we have to go, and we stumble out of the Ten Bel s onto the street, waving bye to the girls, who are cal ed Claire and Leah and who are lovely.
The road is slick with rain and it is stil freezing cold. It’s mid-March, and this winter feels as though it wil never end. We set off down Fournier Street; I’m just round the corner. As we walk, Ben hums to himself. He always does, I realise. I can hear him in his studio, sometimes, if the window’s open. I don’t think he knows he does it.
