Exposure (51 page)

'It was all done, I thought. What else was there?'

The doorbell rang and Rosalind stood up. 'God knows, darling. He sounded absolutely fine on the phone, though. Anyway, that'll be supper. I'm starving—Jocelyn's dieting so we were all given little salads.'

While Luke poured himself a glass of wine, his mother unpacked a plastic bag full of foil boxes. She spread them out on the table. 'OK, apart from the prawn biryani, everything else is up for grabs,' she said. She put out three forks. 'Shall we not even bother with plates? It's rather wonderful out of the boxes, isn't it?'

Luke stared at her. 'D'you mind if I have a plate?'

Suzannah giggled as she tipped half a packet of boiled rice into the lamb jalfrezi. 'Oh, go on, then, youth of today—show us up.'

Luke got his plate. He was not sure he had ever been so hungry—even after rowing or tennis. It was true that he had forgotten to eat lunch again, and he had smoked a joint, but even so, this was a disproportionate hunger and he wondered if it was caused by the Zylamaprone
^TM
. Perhaps the tablets had actually done something. The more he thought about it, the more worried he became that his hunger might never be satisfied, that there might simply not be enough chicken tikka.

'Goodness! Do chew, darling,' Suzannah told him.

'Sorry,' he said. Gradually, he began to feel better. The panic seemed to pass with a third glass of wine. 'But how did he get there?' he said suddenly.

Rosalind put down the ring Suzannah had been showing her. 'Who? Dad, you mean?'

'Yes. Because I had to drive him last time. I thought—you know—his leg and everything.'

'He caught cabs to and from the train. The physio won't be pleased. Still, it's Dad's choice.'

'He obviously wanted to go on his own,' Luke said.

'Oh, darling, you didn't want to take him last time. Surely you aren't wishing he'd asked you again.'

'I didn't mind taking him,' Luke said. 'It was OK.'

'Well, I personally think that's disloyal of you,' said Suzannah. 'I wouldn't do him any favours at all after what he's done to your mother.'

'Oh, Suzannah, let's not,' said Rosalind. 'I'm feeling so good.'

'Why are you feeling good?' Luke said.

Rosalind laughed. 'Aren't I allowed to?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Well, thank you, darling.'

Luke thought the best thing to do was ignore her extraordinary tone. He said, 'Actually, Mum, I'm still hungry. Can I put some toast on?'

'Of course you can. We can have toast and butter and honey for pudding.'

'Have you ever had it with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on top, Roz?' Suzannah said.

'No.'

'Neither have I.' She giggled

'Well, it sounds quite revolting. Let's try it,' said Rosalind.

Luke watched them laughing like schoolgirls, chopping up bananas and nuts and putting ice-cream in the microwave so it went 'a bit scloopy'.

Suzannah went into the storecupboard in search of more ingredients. She called, 'How about dried mango pieces?'

'Too exotic,' Rosalind called back.

'Pears in Calvados?'

'
Far
too grand.'

'OK ... OK ... Ah, now who could refuse
this
? Packet of white chocolate bunnies—still in date if you don't look hard?'

'Precisely what was missing,' Rosalind said. She popped up another piece of toast and glanced back at her son. 'You all right, darling?'

'Yes, Mum. Are
you
?'

Rosalind walked over to him and gave him a kiss on his forehead. 'I just want to see you happy, darling. You know that, don't you? That's what I want most of all.'

'Yes,' he said.

'I'm sorry we haven't had a chat for a while.'

'That's OK, Mum.'

He gazed into her gentle, pretty face, and it seemed to her that he was about to say something, when Suzannah came out of the storecupboard. 'Right,' she said, striding across the kitchen. 'I shall smash up these bunnies with a rolling-pin.'

They all laughed at this and Rosalind squeezed her son's arm in encouragement.

While Luke threw away the empty foil boxes and fetched spoons and bowls, Suzannah and his mother spread butter and cloudy honey on the slices of hot toast; onto this they dropped scoops of rich vanilla ice-cream, chunks of white chocolate, chopped walnuts, and bananas and almonds. Rosalind held up a bowl and said, 'Oh,
scrum-o.
'

'God, this takes me back,' said Suzannah.

'Doesn't it just? Remember after Daddy's fortieth birthday bash, when we had the midnight feast after the grown-ups went to bed?'

'I have never felt able to eat gooseberry fool since.'

'No, neither have I,' laughed Rosalind.

'Did they
ever
feed us?'

'Can't have been enough. We were always hungry, weren't we?'

'As
horses.
Mean old things, weren't they? Were they?'

'Well, not to Luke, at any rate. They loved him,' Rosalind said, smiling.

'That's
because Luke is the son Daddy always wanted, Roz.'

It surprised Rosalind to hear her sister say this: 'Daddy
adored
you, you know he did.'

'He did sometimes, but he really wanted a son and heir. He even told me he'd been devastated when he saw I was a girl.'

'He told you
that?

'Mmm,' Suzannah said, licking her spoon.
'Always
longed for a son. Mummy too. And, of course, they were going to call me Luke.'

'No,
not
really
,' Rosalind said.

'Didn't you know? I assumed that was what put it into your mind.'

'I had no idea at all. It was Alistair's idea. What an odd coincidence. Well,' Rosalind said, 'bad luck them, because I got him.'

Luke smiled back at his mother, and embarked on the extraordinary concoction he had been given. Their hilarity was making him uneasy and he ate as quickly as he could, wanting nothing more now than to get back to his laptop and the portable TV.

When he had gone upstairs, Suzannah said, 'So, have you decided what to do?'

Rosalind studied her sister's excited face and thought: OK, I forgive you for asking me, but I don't want to discuss it. She decided to change the subject, knowing the best way to do this was to ask her sister about herself. 'Wait a minute, Suze. I can't
believe
I forgot to ask,' she said. 'Did you write to Stefan? You said you were going to send him a sort of "can we put the past behind us" letter.'

'Mmm. The plan was to do one ex-husband at a time. I did send it, yes.'

Rosalind was amazed. Her sister had never said sorry to anyone in her life. The letter she had decided to write to her first husband had sounded rather moving.

'Well, and what happened?' Rosalind asked.

'Actually, he never replied.'

'Oh.' This seemed terribly brutal to Rosalind. 'Oh, I'm sorry, Suze.'

'No, it's all right. It's what I deserve, really—the way I treated him.'

'Oh, come on. Were you
so
bad?'

'God, yes. I'm afraid I was a terrible slut. I was only twenty-two and far too young to be married and so on, but I really did make a fool of the poor man. No,' she went on, 'I'm glad I sent the letter but, on reflection, I'm not
at all
surprised he didn't reply.'

Rosalind was still indignant on her sister's behalf. 'But it was basically a huge long apology,' she said. 'Are you absolutely
sure
he got it?'

'Yes, I am. I'm ashamed to admit it, Roz, but I watched him pick it up as he went in through the door after work.'

'What? How? From the
street,
you mean?'

'God, you make it sound so scandalous. From my
car,
darling. Oh, I don't know—in a funny sort of way I've never really got over him, you see. First love and all that.'

'Goodness. Do you believe in that stuff?'

'Yes. I think I do.'

'I
don't:
Rosalind said. 'I think you just choose
someone
and you make it run as smoothly as possible but it could just as easily have been somebody else.'

'Really?
' Suzannah laughed. 'Isn't it odd? The cynic has been married for nearly forty years, while the romantic can't stop getting divorced.'

'Oh, it's not so odd, is it? People always come unstuck if they ask for perfection from life.'

 

When Suzannah had gone, Rosalind loaded the dishwasher, wiped the surfaces and poured herself a small glass of Cognac. She only allowed herself Cognac in private as it made her hiccup. She had another pile of letters to get through and, not feeling at all tired, she picked them up and took them through to the drawing room.

As she sifted through them, she noticed with horror that one envelope—not the usual airmail envelope that she watched out for—was addressed in Sophie's handwriting. She had looked forward to her daughter's next letter for over a week. The last one had described some of the pupils in her class and the things she was teaching them. Apparently her youngest pupils had all dutifully learnt 'S' is for 'snowman' before Sophie realized they had no idea what she was talking about. It sounded like such an interesting experience for Sophie, such a fascinating place to be. And how lovely to be with all those sweet children.

Thankfully, this latest letter had only been delivered that morning. Rosalind took a sip of brandy and opened the envelope.

It was an amazing sight: Sophie had written in every colour of the rainbow.

 

Dear Mum,

Can you read this? I'm using all the children's crayons. Also, I'm writing on real paper this time because the other stuff just wasn't grand enough for writing something amazing. Want to know something amazing, Mum? I'm going to have a baby.

 

Rosalind read the line again—it was so hard to see clearly in pink and yellow and orange and green but—

 

I'm going to have a baby
[she saw again. She read on.]

The father is a lovely man called Kwame Okantas. He's British, but his family are from Ghana originally. I met him in London and he was the person who gave me the idea of coming out here. We only slept together once before he left, the night we met—and though I know you'll disapprove of that, you have to admit it's pretty incredible that it happened first time!

Mum, I love him and he says he loves me too and the best thing of all is that I believe him.

When I look at all my friends I wonder if it does anyone any good taking things slowly and living together and so on. They all just break up anyway and after you've said 'I love you' and for ever' too many times, the words don't mean anything any more. It seems to me that the only thing to do is stop
thinking
and if you find someone you can respect, then just invest everything you've got—invest your DNA—and do the very best you can. Whatever happens, I'll be a mother. I'm crying with happiness as I write this.

Kwame's fantastic, Mum. He read history at Oxford and he's been a barrister but he wants to work out here for a year where his parents grew up. I admire him in so many ways. He sees the whole picture where I get lost in the detail. And he sees through all my tricks.

I got your card with the cats on it. It made me miss you so much, Mum! Your roses sound even better than ever and I can't wait to see your new catalogue—I know how hard you'll have worked on it. You do choose such beautiful things. You know you've always made everything beautiful, Mum—even when we rented a villa, you put different flowers by each of our beds, you made the fruit look like a painting in the fruit bowl. It always mattered, you know? It really did.

I'm so relieved you're able to be strong through all this. And I suppose it is good to hear Dad's coping, really. Poor Dad.

Do write again, but I've put my phone number at the bottom in case you feel like calling after what I've told you. I'm away until late tomorrow, but I'd love to speak to you the day after.

Mum, I'm so happy I've got nothing else to say. I'm going to go and look at the sunset and put my hand on my tummy and shut up for a while.

All my love,

Sophie

PS Kwame's just reminded me the school's been given a new fax machine, so you can send me a fax if you'd like me to see it as soon as I get back home tomorrow night. OK, you've probably guessed I'm longing to hear what you think!

 

'Home', Rosalind thought. Sophie would see a fax when she got
home
—to a village in Africa. Her daughter had so much more imagination than she did. Could it now be used to make happiness? She smiled with deep joy at the thought and picked up a piece of A4 paper. She wrote,

 

Darling Sophie,

I have just got your news. I've never had such a wonderful letter before—a rainbow letter.

When I think about it, I suppose you always had all those colours in you, but they used to come out angrily, when you dyed your hair green or pink or when you did your bedroom dark red, or when you started wearing that blue lipstick Daddy got so cross about. I think it used to make me a bit dizzy—all those colours in one girl. You always did laugh at me for wearing nothing but dark blue and cream.

Darling, your news has made me as happy as I was on the day you were born. Please send my love to Kwame and tell him I can't wait to meet him. I hope all this comes through clearly on your new fax machine. Of course I'll call you tomorrow. I'm so glad you feel you want to speak. XxxMummy

 

Rosalind took another sip of brandy, then she clapped her hand over her mouth and laughed with excitement and shock: a little black grandchild! She knew you weren't supposed to think in that way, but all that carefulness was so boring. It tried to make everyone shut up and pretend to be the same. It was stupid. What was wrong with being excited about someone being different? A little black grandchild—or half black, anyway. It would have different colour skin from Sophie or Luke or her and it would have different hair. Perhaps, if it was a little girl, Rosalind thought happily, she could have the plaits with all the little beads at the end. She imagined learning how to do them.