Paper Chains (5 page)

‘Tate?’ she tried hopefully.

‘It’s Jase, baby,’ he replied, unperturbed.

If you say so. . .
But at the sound of his name an image popped in her head, and she remembered dancing, remembered a cute guy eyeing her from across the dance floor. Blue eyes, cute curls, and one of those indents in a strong chin, Matthew McConaughey style. She hit fast forward on the instant replay that was airing in her mind and saw them moving closer and closer together on the dance floor, an invisible cord drawing them towards one another. And then . . . oh God, she’d already kissed him, hadn’t she? Rather passionately if she recalled correctly. That’s right; she escaped back here to give her tongue a much-needed break.

Right, so he was cute, there was definitely an attraction there. And now she knew his name.
Oh well, may as well go with it.

But as she succumbed to Jase’s wandering hands and lifted her face to begin kissing him again, her thoughts began to turn. She was remembering the last guy she’d slept with. Simon. And she was thinking about how different Simon’s hands had felt on her body. How when they kissed it felt as though they had been kissing one another for years. How his fingers would glide over her back and how the stubble on his cheek would gently tickle her skin.

Dammit!
Without another thought India raised her hands, placed them square on Jase’s chest and then firmly pushed him away. ‘Sorry, babe,’ she said a little sadly and turned and walked unsteadily down the hall. A shame, she had really been missing sex these last few weeks, but apparently she was going to have to make a phone call. She made her way through the sweaty, gyrating bodies in the nightclub and then finally emerged outside, the cool night air hitting her face and sobering her up – just a fraction.

She briefly wondered what the time was as she headed up the street, looking for a payphone – her mobile wouldn’t have enough credit to phone Europe. Whatever time it was, she didn’t care though; she needed to have this conversation. If she woke him up, he’d get over it.

When she finally found a phone that worked, searched through her pockets for the right change, slotted it in and dialled the number, she paused for a moment to take in a deep breath. What exactly was it that she wanted to say here? But there was no time to consider – a click at the other end told her someone had answered.

‘Hello?’ came the sleepy sounding voice. The familiar tone caught her off-guard and she leaned back against the glassed wall of the phone booth. ‘Simon,’ she breathed contentedly.

‘India?’ came back the voice uncertainly. ‘Is that you?’

‘Yup.’

There was a pause and the muffled sound of movement, as though Simon was perhaps pushing back the covers, sitting up in bed. Then he spoke again, ‘It’s 4 am! Where are you? Is everything okay?’

‘Yup.’

‘No, seriously . . . are you okay? I thought I wasn’t going to hear from you ever again. You realise you broke my fucken heart when you left, right?’

‘Yup.’

‘Jesus, are you going to say anything other than “yup”?’

India giggled. ‘Yup.’

‘That’s not funny, India.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Did I wake you? I didn’t mean to. I’ll go if you like.’

‘No! Don’t hang up. Where are you?’

‘London at the moment.’ She curled her fingers around the receiver cord. ‘Tell me, Simon. Why is it that you’ve been on my mind lately?’

‘Guilt,’ he replied immediately. ‘You knew I fell hard for you. Three weeks together, day and night. And you just take off one day. Then . . . nothing. Six weeks and I don’t hear a thing from you – until now. What’s that all about anyway?’

‘Told you I was a free spirit, Simon.’ As soon as she said it India felt like a douche. ‘Sorry, can we pretend I didn’t say that? I just don’t like to stay in the one place for too long. Never meant to stay in the Greek Islands for as long as I did with you.
’ I have to keep moving Simon, because if I don’t, then everything might start catching up with me . . .

‘So what made you phone?’

‘Was kissing some random guy in the back of a nightclub. Planned on sleeping with him. But then you jumped into my head. Why is that, Simon? How did you get there? What’s
that
all about?’ Her voice was sing-song as she threw the question back at Simon.

‘Christ. You have to tell me that stuff? You really think I want to hear about you getting it on with another guy?’

Simon’s voice was agitated but India shrugged it off. ‘Why not? We’re not a couple, are we? I’m single; I can do whatever I like.’

‘Fine. You’re single, go sleep with whoever. But could you maybe not call in the middle of the night to tell me about it? Where are you? Hiding out in the guy’s bathroom or something?’

‘Yup,’ she replied, unsure why she was purposely provoking him further.

‘Well, that’s really great, good for you.’ There was another pause, as though Simon was thinking it through, considering what to say next. Apparently, though, she had pushed him too far. ‘For FUCK’s sake!!’ he suddenly shouted. And then there was a click as the phone hung up.

India held the phone against her head, listening to the sound of the disconnected line, a long insistent beep, until her ear began to ache.

‘I’ve been sending you letters,’ she whispered to the dead air. ‘But I guess none of them have made it yet.’ And then slowly, gently, she hung up the receiver and stepped out of the phone booth. A strange uneasy feeling was stirring in her stomach as she walked on up the street towards the tube station, but although she wanted to cry, she just didn’t seem to be able to.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Do you remember when the last time was that you cried?’

Hannah looked up from her menu, startled. Did India know? Was it that obvious? She had cried just that morning, in the shower. And before that, in bed last night. If she thought about it actually, she wasn’t sure when the last time was that she had made it through an entire day
without
any tears.

‘Umm, I’m not sure really. Probably the last time I chopped up an onion,’ Hannah attempted to joke.

They were sitting at an outdoor table at a café around the corner from the museum. True to her word, India had turned up at the gift shop right on 12.45 pm and announced that she was taking Hannah to lunch. At first Hannah almost hadn’t recognised her – her hair was bright blue today. When asked how she knew what time her lunch break was, India had smiled mysteriously and responded, ‘Ahh, India knows all, my child.’ And then laughed hysterically at herself. Later she explained that she had just called the gift shop and asked Helen, her boss, what time her break was. Not so mystifying really.

Now India frowned at her. ‘No, cutting up
vegetables
doesn’t count, Hannah. When was the last time you actually cried? Like really sobbed?’

‘I can’t remember,’ Hannah said, a little too quickly.

‘Liar,’ India replied casually. ‘I’ll have the chicken and avocado panini, thanks, but can you add mushrooms too, please?’ she addressed the waitress who had materialised by their table.

Hannah ordered the same because she hadn’t been able to concentrate on the menu with India probing her, and when the waitress left she asked India, ‘Why did you want to know anyway, especially if you’re not going to believe my answer?’

‘No reason, just something that’s been on my mind.’

India leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms out above her. This resulted in her knocking a glass of fizzing lemonade that was balanced on a tray being carried past their table by a waiter. The glass rocked back and forth as the waiter tried to steady it and then toppled from the tray and smashed onto the ground.

‘Oh God, sorry!’ India exclaimed as she turned to survey the damage.

‘It’s okay,’ said the waiter as he bent to start picking up the shards of glass.

‘AGAIN?’ came an angry bellow from the counter inside the café.

India gasped. ‘Have I just got you into trouble?’ she asked. She swivelled in her chair and squinted inside the café, then called out, ‘No, no, it wasn’t him. It was my fault, I knocked it, when I was stretching – like this, see?’ And she demonstrated with an over-exaggerated stretch.

The manager inside ignored her and grumbled something that sounded very much like, ‘The last straw, honestly,
last
straw.’

India scrambled from her chair to help pick up the glass. ‘Now,’ she asked the waiter, ‘when he says “last straw”, does he mean you just dropped the last straw with that glass of lemonade and he’s upset because now you’ve run out of straws? Or does he mean it in a metaphorical kind of way? As in you’re about to get fired? Cause if it’s the latter, I’ll go in and sort it out. Do you know how much guilt I’ll be weighed under if I find out I’ve got someone fired? I’ll be staggering around under it all day.’

The waiter laughed. ‘He means the latter, but don’t worry, he won’t actually fire me – today’s my last day anyway, I’m leaving London tomorrow.’

‘Really? Where are you going?’ India asked conversationally as she collected the last pieces of glass and piled them helpfully onto his tray.

‘Greek Islands. Been saving up for the past six months and now I’m going to take a proper holiday – as opposed to a working one.’

Hannah had been sitting awkwardly in her chair as the exchange had taken place between India and the waiter, unsure as to whether she should offer to help or just stay out of the way, but now she frowned as she watched an inscrutable expression cross India’s face. There was a pause before India responded, and when she spoke her voice didn’t have the normal bright and bubbly tone of confidence that spelled India. ‘The Greek Islands? Great. That’s great,’ she said, her voice subdued. ‘You’ll have a blast there.’

The waiter smiled appreciatively and then headed inside with the tray of broken glass. Hannah’s brow creased, as she tried to follow what had just happened. She hesitated, and then asked casually, ‘You’ve been to the Greek Islands?’

Hannah watched as India allowed a ghost of a smile to pass across her lips before she replied. ‘Yeah, I spent a few weeks there. Beautiful,’ she said quietly.

‘Are you okay?’ Hannah asked. It was clear that something was up.

India shrugged. ‘I guess. I mean yep, sure. I haven’t told you about Simon though, have I?’

‘Nope.’

‘I met him a month or two back, travelling through the Greek Islands. He works on a boat that takes tourists between the islands. It was one of the rare occasions when I decided to stay in the one place for a little while. Usually I move on after a few days. But when I met Simon – Aussie guy, from Sydney actually – I kind of got stuck for a little while. Stayed much longer than I intended. Didn’t help that he was gorgeous: dark, spiky hair, great shoulders, cheeky green eyes – you know, all the nice trimmings. About three weeks I spent with him. Then I came to my senses, remembered why I’m doing this. I left him in the middle of the night. Put a note on the pillow, kissed him on the lips as he slept, never looked back. In hindsight, I suppose it was just a tad melodramatic, wasn’t it? Like I was a CIA agent on a secret mission or something. But anyway, I guess I missed him. So I’ve been writing to him ever since. But he has no idea, and none of my letters have ever made it to him. Oh, I don’t post them,’ she added when Hannah gave her a confused look. ‘I just give them to other travellers, usually backpackers like me. Doesn’t matter where they’re headed; if it’s not towards Greece, then I ask them to pass them on to someone who is. On the front of the envelope, I just write “Simon” and the name of his boat – “The Aella”. It’s more fun like this. That way, if he ever gets one of my letters, then it’s fate, right? Otherwise, it’s not meant to be. I suppose most of them might have ended up pasted into the inside cover of some backpacker’s journal as a sweet memento of their travels. It’s surprising how many people that I give them to think it’s the most romantic thing they’ve ever heard of – they’re always comparing it to a message in a bottle scenario, but it’s not really, is it?’

Hannah stared at India, taking in all of the information. She had so many questions. But one was particularly bothering her. ‘Why
are
you doing this?’ she asked.

‘Huh?’

‘You said you came to your senses, remembered “why you’re doing this” – what do you mean?’

India smiled. ‘How about this – I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.’ There was a pause as Hannah looked back at India, confused, and then India laughed and added, ‘What, you think you’re the only one with secrets? Anyway, we’re not here to talk about me, I want to know more about you, my dear. More real stuff please.’ Hannah was pleased to see that India seemed to be returning to her old self, looking relaxed and laid back once more.

India paused to think and then said decisively, ‘I know, you could tell me about your last Christmas. What was it like? Where were you? Who were you with? What did you get?’

Hannah didn’t have time to be surprised by the random question. An image flew into her mind. She saw a beautiful Christmas tree, a real, live one – it had been the first time she’d ever had a real Christmas tree in her home. She could almost smell the pine needles, feel them crunching under her feet, hear them being sucked up by the vacuum cleaner – ping, ping, ping! She saw Liam, laughing as he sifted through their box of dismal decorations that she refused to throw out. And then she heard another voice, joining in on the laughter, jolting her senses. Her throat closed up and pin pricks speared against the back of her eyes. Her words tumbled. ‘Do you mind if I don’t . . . please?’

India leaned across the table to grab at her hands before she could escape as she had the previous night. ‘Okay, forget it,’ she said in a rush. ‘Take a deep breath. Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to tell you about
my
last Christmas. And you’re going to picture it with me, and it’s going to make you laugh and you’re going to stop thinking about whatever it is that’s so painful for you, okay?’

Hannah nodded and India launched into her story. Apparently she had made the decision last year to skip Christmas, she wasn’t in the mood for it (for reasons she didn’t divulge) and she spent the day on the beach in Ibiza, resolutely ignoring the fact that it was the middle of winter and attempting to tan anyway. Just under two weeks later she had moved on to Moscow, glad that Christmas was all over. Apparently she was wrong. It turned out that in Russia, Christmas was celebrated on the 7th of January and she had inadvertently arrived in the city on their Christmas Eve. She gave in to fate and decided to join in the celebrations. Somehow she befriended a large welcoming family at a church service and was invited to spend the night with them sharing their twelve-course feast, eating vegetarian porridge and having honey crosses drawn on her forehead. She said it came close to the best Christmas she had ever experienced and had completely renewed her faith in the holiday.

Hannah didn’t press her for the details as to why she had first been put off Christmas, nor did she bring up India’s revelation that she had a secret in her past; she was too busy recovering from her own moment of anxiety as she had thought about home. But India’s story had managed to calm her and the rest of the lunch break continued somewhat uneventfully.

‘You think a person can just be vanilla?’

‘What do you mean?’

India had befriended a florist. Or perhaps he had befriended her, she wasn’t really certain. Either way, she had been taking an early morning walk through Notting Hill and had stopped to admire some beautiful daisies, and ended up chatting with the young guy as he tended to his displays. Now they were having a coffee together at a café around the corner from the flower shop.

‘So there’s this girl. And all this time I’ve been certain that there’s more to her, that she’s hiding something massive. But what if I’m wrong? Or what if I finally find out the big secret – and it’s not the amazing revelation that I want it to be. Or what if I’m inventing all of this, because I want there to be something there to find – when there’s actually nothing at all?’

Sebastian the florist frowned back at her as he stirred his coffee, giving India the impression that he was playing for time as he attempted to come up with an intelligent sounding response. ‘Uhh,’ he said eventually. ‘Well, I think everyone has their own story, don’t they? I mean, I would have said my year eight teacher was nothing more than grey checks and horn rimmed glasses . . . all I ever thought of her was that she was a teacher. Like, that was her whole world; when the classes were done for the day, she just folded herself up into a box and waited quietly until the bell rang again the next morning. But that was just my thirteen-year-old perspective. Obviously she was more than that. For all I know, she could have been writing erotica in her spare time. She might have done rally car driving on the weekends.
Or
she might have just liked to collect postage stamps – but regardless of what it was – it would have been something to her, wouldn’t it? Everyone holds the spotlight in their own story and no matter how bland their plot might be, to them – it’s still everything. Know what I mean?’

Sebastian sat back and watched India nervously. India smiled at him. ‘You worked hard on that response huh?’

‘A little,’ he replied shyly.

‘Ah, you’re a sweetheart, Sebastian. You’re right, it doesn’t matter what it is – but as long as there’s something there, it means everything to her. I’ll keep digging.’

Later that day, India met up with Hannah as she finished her shift at the gift shop. Sebastian’s advice had made her resolve to persevere with Hannah. She stood waiting outside the museum, her back leaning against a sandstone pillar. But when Hannah stepped out through the front door, India immediately felt guilty about her ‘vanilla’ comment. Hannah’s eyes swept the ground; her shoulders were hunched and her hands fidgeted at her sides. Hannah wasn’t vanilla, she was just plain scared.

What are you running from?

Why won’t you let me in?

‘Hannah!’ India watched as Hannah’s head snapped up in surprise.

‘Oh hey,’ said Hannah, a nervous smile twitching the corners of her mouth as she approached India. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you, obviously.’

‘Right,’ said Hannah. ‘Of course,’ and she looked irritatingly unsure of herself. India couldn’t help it – she reached out a hand and gripped Hannah’s upper arm. ‘Hannah! Lighten up, woman!’ she said as she shook Hannah, possibly more violently than she had intended.

‘What do you mean?’ Hannah sounded alarmed.

‘I mean stop being so nervous around me. I’m not THAT GREAT! Just, you know . . . be yourself for once.’