A Matter of Marriage (24 page)

Clearly not good in a crisis.

“It's okay. We'll hold the fort together. I'll plate this up and take it out, you get your wife up to—”

The char pushed between them both, bent down to open the oven door and slammed it again. The smell of hot roasted meat rose up like a wave and filled the kitchen.

She straightened, folded her arms under her bosom and, staring over Tariq's left shoulder, said in a hard flat voice, “I'm not
racist
but . . .”

Henry dodged around the woman, took Tariq's arm and shuffled him out of the kitchen. “Thanks awfully, Tar. I'll, ah, I'll serve up and could you deal with . . .”

Behind them, and despite a sudden furious bout of coughing by Henry, the end of the char's sentence drifted out of the kitchen doorway.

“. . . I'm not having
Pakis
in my kitchen!”

Henry gave an anguished glance behind him. “I'm
so . . .
”

“It's okay, man.” Tariq headed back to the toilet and Thea. As the toilet door was shutting behind him, he heard the char's voice again, chastising Henry for putting his thumb on the plates.

Thea was sitting bent forward on the closed toilet seat, her white face streaked with mascara.

“Let me stay here,” she said through clenched teeth.

He squatted down in front of her and held out his hand. She stared at it, then at him, and slowly placed her hand into his.

“I'll get you upstairs, yeah,” Tariq said. “Henry can't leave the kitchen.”

“I don't want Henry.”

Tariq pulled her to her feet, opened the toilet door and peered out. He felt like a teenager again, helping some pissed friend home through a back door, on the lookout for elders. And older sisters. They always blabbed.

Thea was fairly steady on her feet, though once they started climbing the stairs he had to put an arm around her waist to support her. Jesus, these
gora
families. There was a silvery chime, and she sighed, passed her wristwatch in front of her face and said something about dinner at nine. He could feel her looking at him as they climbed. She was managing better than he'd expected, would likely not be too bad in the morning, considering.

At the landing, she seemed with-it enough to lead the way, but when they reached the bedroom doorway and he tried to leave, she turned and sagged heavily against him. Her unexpected move made him rock backward against the doorframe, her breasts against his chest. His heart gave a thump of fright. How the hell was he going to get out of this?

He grabbed her forearms, propelled her toward the bed and pulled back the covers. She reached for his face, but he shoved a handful of bedding between them and used it to push her down.

“Go to sleep,” he said, his voice cold. “No harm done.” And he turned away.

As he left the room, her little watch chimed again, and he thought he heard her call out faintly, “Entree.”

—

I
T WAS
H
ENRY
who'd had to call the guests in to dinner. He'd explained that Thea was lying down upstairs after an unfortunate incident in the downstairs powder room, but not that it had been precipitated by Audrey summoning them both into the kitchen to inspect the salmon terrine.

“It's the last time I'm cooking this furrin' muck,” Audrey had said, meaty forearms flexing as she pulled the dish out of the fridge. “Next time, ee'd be much better with a nice bit of bacon pudding. Or stewed kidneys. Something with suet in to stop this wibble-wabble.” And she had thrust the terrine under Thea's nose and given it a good shake.

He'd had no time to ponder Thea's state: Audrey was only staying till the main course had been served and then she was off to her bingo night. Thank god for Tariq: he'd been a champ for ignoring Audrey's rudeness and then taking Thea upstairs.

Now Henry would have to hold the fort at the dinner table. One look from Audrey, and he decided to carry the terrine in himself, and Mrs. Choudhury kindly helped him distribute slices to the guests. Richard took on drinks and was up and down topping everyone up, and Dr. Choudhury told some stories about goings-on at college. Everyone pretty much sat where they wanted and chatted and said the terrine was just lovely, and the main, though the Choudhurys as usual refused the meat. And although he forgot the pudding and went straight to coffees and they had to balance pudding on their knees in the drawing room, it all seemed to turn out just fine in the end. In fact pretty jolly good, though perhaps not exactly how Thea would have run things.

Henry felt quite chuffed, waving the Choudhurys home at the end of the evening: no great disasters and everyone looked well fed and happy, which was really what it was all about anyway. Tariq had told him Thea was fine, just wanted to sleep, so Henry had run up just the once to see, and she was curled up under the covers. A stomach bug, Tariq had said, best to leave her alone for now. A good thing Richard was talking about coming down again next weekend: she would be over it by then and always perked up when he visited.

—

M
RS.
B
EGUM, TOWING
Dr. Choudhury (blind as a bat at night) toward Windsor Cottage, with Tariq off up ahead somewhere as usual, had much to think about and much to do. Dr. Choudhury had to be stopped from hogging Richard when he came to visit. She would send Tariq to visit friends in Oxford that night. She needed to borrow some of Mrs. Darby's silver photo frames. She would put the best photo of Rohimun on the mantelpiece. And her college degree, even if it was just for painting. Dr. Choudhury would never notice this. But—and with this sudden thought she almost steered the short-sighted Dr. Choudhury into a shrub, causing much complaining and flapping of arms—he would never tolerate Mrs. Begum talking about Rohimun in front of him.

Ah. Richard could come early, while Dr. Choudhury was still on his healthy-walk. She would get Henry to call him for her and arrange the time. Then she would have small-talk with him in the kitchen as she cooked, just as Mrs. Darby did with her friends. A cup-of-tea. And he would see the photos of her beautiful older daughter lying on the kitchen table, no frames, just accidentally there.

He was a man, he would not be able to resist the photos, speculating about them, asking her, perhaps. And she had gauged what he knew of Rohimun already, and seen how he felt. He wanted, needed to know, more even than he realized. She was certain in her stomach that he had not yet told anyone else. It would have been all over Henry's face, if Richard had. It had been best, therefore, to let him know she knew this also. Shared secrets bind.

After his healthy-walk Dr. Choudhury could very naturally interrupt them, and Richard would be in a situation for the rest of the evening of curiosity unsatisfied. A very good thing for a man, a restless man in need of falling-in-love. He could talk with her husband in the sitting room, facing the picture of Dodi and Diana as a good example for him; that even a member of the royal family could marry into a Muslim one. Or they would have, if not for that number-one villain, Prince Philip.

Ahead of her, Tariq seemed to be on that phone that he loved as much as Baby did hers. Who at this time must he speak to so much? Dr. Choudhury was beginning to tire, and Mrs. Begum tightened her hold on his sleeve and pulled harder. Almost home. Richard looked like a man who didn't care much for food, which was a good thing if he was to contemplate betrothal to Rohimun, who could burn water. But he was not one of those
goras
who could not see beyond the traditional clothes. Tonight had proved that.

And Rohimun had made an impression on him, she could sense it. A man like that, meeting her Munni in circumstances so romantic. It was meant to be, and must happen, must involve family sanction and supervision as soon as possible. So the sooner he was brought on side, the better. Then he could help her with Dr. Choudhury. What a pity Richard was not living at the Lodge, and Munni in Windsor Cottage. Then she could have sent her daughter over almost every day with cuttings and recipes, and have let things happen almost naturally.

A
FTER
R
ICHARD
B
OURNE
left on Sunday night, Rohimun had felt shaky and drained. She'd gone to bed early, craving the encircling comfort of the great bed. It had worked its magic, and she'd slept dreamlessly and well: the untroubled rest from having worked hard, of having painted all day for the first time in years. She felt less trapped, less frustrated than in a long time, despite Richard Bourne's evening intrusion and the disturbing wave of energy that had carried her through the whole episode.

But that Monday morning, as soon as it was light enough to see the canvas, anger filled her. The painting was ruined, now that he had seen it. The figure in the painting was supposed to be just a prop, a foil, to focus attention on the rose. Now when she looked at the canvas, she could only see herself, centerd in that world, and the rose, offset and almost peripheral in comparison, bowing to her, giving up its yellow light to her face and fingers. She had seen his reaction to her painting: as an object of power, not some art gallery product.

Why should his view of things, his reaction, affect her so much? As a painter, she meant. She shoved her paintbrush back into the jar and turned her back on it. God, she wanted to get out today, just leave everything behind. Whatever she'd had, it had been lost. She glimpsed herself in the cheval, and her reflection seemed different too.

She stared, trying to hold on to her anger but feeling it fade despite herself. Her eyes had a luster, her head a tilt that she hadn't noticed before. Prettier than Shunduri. It wasn't just the painting, then. Perhaps, before the portrait, she had never looked at herself like this. Either that or she couldn't even see herself straight now. She turned back to the easel. Jesus, it was hard painting yourself, trying to see yourself truthfully.

She thought of the great painters of self-portraits: Rembrandt, Freud, Kahlo. What did they tell her? That it was a process of self-discovery. And self-invention. But then look at Dürer: every self-portrait an exercise in ever more monstrous vanity, until the final painting, of himself as Christ. The more you painted yourself, the more what you saw changed. She shut her eyes, breathed deeply and opened them again, trying to look at it afresh, with less emotion: as a painting, not a portrait. Not herself.

It was obvious that in order to balance the massive bright presence of the rose, the darker, flatter colors of the figure needed the static charge of a rapt profile, dramatically swirling hair and raised, palm-outward hands. As if receiving something from the rose. Light? Blessing? What did the rose represent? Rohimun shrugged, muttered to herself. Love. Sex. Enlightenment. Allah. McDonald's. It didn't matter. She was just the painter. Let other people figure it out, analyze every brushstroke. Thinking only gets you so far. Thinking doesn't paint the picture. Hands do that.

More light from the rose needed to fall on her, pick out lashes, forehead, the upper slope of her breast. It needed to fill her hands and spill or leak out, like cupped water. A libation. Was she giving something back? Was the radiance coming from her? Let it be unclear.

She would use the layered glaze effect for the yellow light around the hands—like a halo—but for the face and breast she would stick with the scattering of separate yellows, keeping the pigments as pure as possible as they fell onto the skin. Rohimun felt around absently for her palette, then broke her gaze to shuffle through the tumbled paint tubes. Time to get going.

—

T
HAT MORNIN
G, WALKING
to work and still tired from the long drive back to London, Richard had been stopped in his tracks by the sight of a rug with rich, glowing colors: a deep blue covered by an intertwined pattern of crimson poppies and golden roses, repeated in larger version in the foot-deep border. Spotlit and framed by the dull grey stonework of the shop window, it seemed a ridiculously beautiful and exotic thing to come across here. He walked down this street almost every day on the way to the Inns of Court, and had barely registered the shop before. The dealer must have just hung it.

Inside, the shop was full of rugs, on walls and underfoot, giving a hushed quality to his discussions with the owner, who was a reserved and dignified elderly man. No, the rug had been in the window for a few weeks now. Yes, it was for sale: a Persian silk, not antique, from northern Iran. Four hundred knots per square inch. No, the price was not negotiable. When he'd tried to offer him less, the man turned his back. Richard had started again, apologized and introduced himself. Yusuf Ismail accepted the original price and Richard's handshake, and delivery was arranged for Wednesday.

Richard hurried the rest of the way through the warm, almost tropical drizzle to his Chambers, with his head full of roses and poppies. The Reids were coming with the redoubtable Felicity Harporth to discuss his advice in detail. He itched for a cigarette, but had lost track of his packet last night, and was running too late now to detour to a shop. He suddenly realized he'd not had a smoke since early Sunday. Perhaps he should make the most of the inadvertent break and go cold turkey.

When he arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Reid were already there. They had the tanned skins, crisp white pants and bright tops that spoke of life spent largely in the Bahamas, and greeted Richard with that urge to recognition that he loathed from his days with Thea's in-crowd. Felicity, however, seemed delighted to listen to and join in with all the oh-so-you-knows and so-you'd-be-related-tos and you-must-have-gone-to-Oxford-withs.

Louise Reid, perfectly blow-dried even at this hour, smiled and small-talked with an anxiety that spoke of not wanting to deal with what they had come here for. Martin Reid, slower and sadder, with peeling yachtie's lips, had a stagey, jokey manner that made Richard think of superannuated club comedians. And his own father.

Father had always played the fool on family birthdays and Christmases: funny faces and goon voices and slapstick falls, to try to make up for their mother's anaesthetized blankness in the face of festivities. What capacity some people had to jolly over things. He could see that in Henry too: his eagerness to avoid conflict or confrontation, his unwillingness, amounting to myopia, to see malice or deceit anywhere.

Felicity was hovering around the Reids, fussing them into their seats in a way that indicated that they must already have passed a sizeable chunk of their legal work on to her firm.

Richard tapped the papers sitting in front of him to alert them to the need for some formality, the seriousness of the matter. “Mr. and Mrs. Reid, I'm glad that you could join us. I'm pleased to say, as I mentioned in my letter to Felicity, that this is a well-drafted Trust document. As I would expect from the capable people at Greengrasses. It will certainly enable you to make any extra payments to your son conditional, along the lines that you have indicated to Felicity.”

“Well, you get what you pay for, don't you?” said Martin, adopting a bluff businessman-to-businessman tone.

“That was done when Simon was born, you know,” said Louise Reid, as if discussing a minor but necessary medical procedure. “Such a happy poppet, when he was little. Always smiling.”

Her husband cut in. “We wanted him to be well set-up, the best of everything. You do what you can. Only child and all that.”

Richard sat and waited.

“He's always been a bit wild,” said Louise, clearly having decided that if anyone had to say it, she would prefer it were her.

“Oh, but a
lovely
boy really,” edged in Felicity. “And you are doing
absolutely
the best thing for him.”

Susan came in bearing coffees, and Louise, back on familiar ground, turned to her.

“You are a lifesaver—Susan, is it? Now do you think you could find me a glass of water as well. Evian, if you could. And while you're there, some napkins because I seem to have . . . Oh, you are a treasure. Isn't she a treasure, Felicity?”

His patience fading, Richard stood and shut the door behind Susan to prevent any more distractions. But before he could say anything, Louise excused herself to powder her nose, and left the room, taking Felicity with her. Christ, these people who don't want to know, don't want to hear the truth.

After the door had closed, Martin walked restlessly to the window and spoke as if to the traffic outside. “You have children?”

“No.”

“He takes after me you know, the boy.” He turned back and rubbed at his fleshy, vinous nose. “But a good sharp shock: that should do it.”

There was a silence, and Richard realized that although Mr. Reid had spoken with all the loud assurance of a man used to being right, or at least never being disagreed with, he was waiting for, needing Richard's agreement.

But he could not give it. He could not let them tell themselves that it was that simple. “You do realize that in a lot of ways this is not a legal problem, with legal solutions, at all.”

“We've had him lined up for the best rehab centers half-a-dozen times. Geoff, that's my brother with the brokerage firm, is saying he'll have to let him go soon, because he's not a good influence on the others. He's already on commission only.” He ran his hands over the patchy tan of his scalp. “The best schools you know. Always only the best for him. Thailand for his gap year—”

The door opened, and the women were back, in the middle of a conversation about spa treatments, Felicity flushed and happy with the bonding experience. Louise seemed to pick up on what her husband had been saying and added dryly, “Yes, Thailand. That was a mistake, in retrospect.” Then smiled at Felicity. “But the beaches are
marvellous
.”

“Ooh, I know,
aren't
they.”

“Just a good sharp shock,” Martin said again.

Richard felt a stab of pity for him, asking in his way for reassurance: Your son will not destroy himself. It's just a phase. You did your best. You are a good father.

“Oh, absolutely, yes,” said Felicity. “He'll be right as rain in
no
time.”

What rubbish was going to come out of her mouth next?

“What does he use?” asked Richard.

Martin fidgeted uncomfortably, and his wife puffed out a small irritable sound that made it clear that the Evian was not up to standard.

It was the father who eventually grasped the nettle. “Just about everything. There's so much choice these days, hah hah. But he's young. It's just a pity that after uni he didn't—”

His wife cut in. “Geoff could have done so much more for him: he just threw him in the deep end with that job. And I think he should have stayed at university a bit longer: they're not such hardened users as those sharks in Geoff's—”

Martin spoke again, his voice hard and flat. “He failed his university course because he never went. And he's always out-used them all.” So Martin was a truth-teller when it came down to it.

Richard focused on him. “Has Ms. Harporth spoken to you about what to expect? From taking these legal steps?”

“My son is . . . he won't just accept it. But as long as your advice is solid and we can rely on it . . .”

Richard made sure that both Reids were looking at him before he continued. “It is very important that everyone is cognizant of the consequences of a protracted legal battle. In circumstances such as these, you are aware that the Trust is obliged to fund the legal costs of all parties, and could be significantly depleted as a result.”

“Oh,” said Felicity. “There's plenty of fat in
this
Trust . . . Oh, excuse me. Please go on, Richard.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Reid, forgive my asking, but have you thought much about the other consequences, the extra-legal consequences of going down this path?”

Felicity couldn't help herself. “I'm
sure
that Mr. and Mrs. Reid have thought long and hard.”

“I'm pleased to hear it. I'm happy to advise you that you can rest with confidence upon the maintenance provisions of this document. But it is important that we are all aware that looking at the situation as a whole, this of course is not a purely legal problem. We are not able to present you with a legal solution to the entirety of the problem.”

Louise's voice was airily confident. “Oh, yes, but once he's in rehab . . . He's waitlisted for the Priory, you know, and they have a very exclusive . . . Places like that can do wonders.”

“They certainly can,” said Richard, keeping his voice neutral. He was going, had already gone, well beyond the point where even thick-skinned, perpetually bouncy Felicity would be annoyed. He felt driven to show them the truth of the matter. They had to know, to see, what it was like. People like their son—drinkers, junkies—destroyed families.

He intended to speak about the statistical chances of relapse, but then he saw that Mr. Reid was glaring at him almost unnaturally, and realized the man's eyes were filled with tears. And his wife was not far behind. He could kick himself. He had underestimated them: they were already looking into the abyss.

A few words of conclusion, an indication of the quantum of living expenses that would seem reasonable to the court, and he was done. Felicity was none too impressed, by the way she was shooing them out, away from all his pessimism. But that was an improvement on her usual habit of hanging around and throwing out hints for coffee or lunch.

Richard mumbled farewells at the door, went back inside his Chambers and slumped into one of the conference-table chairs. He could have handled that better: there'd been no need to rub their noses in it. His own family history, his own views, had been allowed to cloud his judgement of what the Reids thought and where they stood. He thought he'd put it all behind him years ago
.

—

R
OHIMUN STEPPED BACK
from the canvas as the light started to fade and sighed with satisfaction. After that bad start, she seemed to have found fresh eyes and had painted on for the rest of the day, despite the muggy weather and a flurry of activity from the ground floor: out the window she'd seen men in suits with clipboards, cleaners and a decorator's van, all of which meant that she'd had to keep a chair jammed under the door as a precaution.