Your Truth or Mine? Page 11

  I let out a small sob.

  It was time for me to stop pretending.

  MIA

  Monday, 9th November

  Natalie held out a box of tissues, the diamond on her finger glinting in the afternoon light. I shook my head and fixed my gaze on the picture behind her, trying to compose myself.

  ‘Roy and I, we never had secrets, you know? We used to tell each other everything, but all of a sudden, there were all these things he was – he was hiding. All these lies. I remember staring at that message for what felt like hours. I just sat there, reading it again and again. It felt like my whole life was falling apart. I was so angry. I’d invited her to be a part of my sister’s wedding. I was nice to her. And she – she . . . the ungrateful bitch.’

  I closed my eyes. I pictured Emily in that slutty gold dress, shawl tossed aside, cleavage on display. I realized that even though I had been acting like it was all in the past, that I was fine, I wasn’t. I was furious at her, and at Roy. The only difference was that I loved Roy, and I hated her. Everything had been perfect until she came along. She had caused so much damage, and worst of all, she had got away with it.

  I found myself picturing her getting run over by a car, or getting shot, or even quite simply being publicly shamed, humiliated, called out for the monster that she was.

  Never before had I wished someone serious harm, but as my brain came up with more and more heinous scenarios to place Emily in, I realized I was enjoying it. It didn’t matter how, I just wanted her to pay, to realize that her actions had real consequences. The strength of my resentment terrified me and I snapped my eyes open.

  ‘. . . but you decided not to confront Roy,’ Natalie was saying.

  ‘No. I heard Roy’s key in the door and I had a moment, a fraction of a second, to decide what the rest of my marriage would be like, and I realized I had to trust him. He had told Emily it was a mistake and I had to believe that. I had to believe my husband.’

  ‘That’s an interesting choice of words.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said you had to believe your husband.’

  ‘Well . . . yes. Isn’t that the point of a relationship? Trust?’

  ‘Trust, yes, but not fear.’

  ‘It wasn’t fear.’

  ‘I see. And you still feel that way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why bring it up?’

  ‘So I don’t have to keep carrying a secret around?’

  ‘What do you –’ Natalie began.

  ‘I keep –’

  ‘Sorry, carry on, please.’

  ‘I keep thinking back to an argument Mum and Dad had when I was little. Dad was angry because Mum had been keeping something from him. I remember thinking, even as a little girl, that if Mum had been honest they wouldn’t have fought.’

  ‘What were they fighting about?’

  ‘I don’t . . . I can’t remember exactly,’ I said, even as snatches of the memory lingered before my eyes. I pushed it away. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. This recurring dream, what do you think it means?’

  I sighed. ‘I don’t know, Natalie. That’s why I’m here. What do you think it means?’

  ‘Well, it seems to me like you have a subconscious fear of loss and abandonment.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I said. Roy hadn’t abandoned me. He was here. We were fine. Didn’t she get it? The problem wasn’t Roy; it was Emily.

  ‘Sometimes when we refuse to acknowledge our emotions or our anxieties, they can find other ways to manifest – recurring dreams, panic attacks, et cetera. Considering everything you’ve been through recently, and your history with dependency issues, I think subconsciously you’re viewing a confrontation with your husband as a means of reassuring yourself that he won’t leave, which in itself is a risky move. But Mia, feeling rejected or abandoned in a situation like this is perfectly normal and that is something we can work on here, together, okay?’

  I nodded. Yes. Okay. Together.

  On Tuesday, 10 November at 08.10 a.m.,

  Emily Barnett wrote:

  why haven’t you returned my calls? are we still on for tomorrow? call me back please.

  ROY

  Tuesday, 10th November

  ‘There you are,’ Mia gushed when I walked in. ‘We were worried you’d been held up.’

  ‘Sorry, the meeting ran late,’ I lied.

  I noticed my parents standing by the hostess station, looking on as though they were waiting to be introduced. Mia turned towards them and I followed. I had considered inventing an urgent press trip when my mother’s secretary emailed over their itinerary but something told me they would just extend their trip to suit my travel plans so I settled for a day-long meeting instead.

  ‘Namaste, Ma,’ I said, leaning in to give her a quick hug. She had a grey overcoat on over her trademark silk sari.

  I gave my father a brusque nod. That was the best I could manage.

  ‘If you’ll follow me,’ the hostess said and we trailed her into the restaurant, weaving through a large table of girls in high spirits and higher hemlines, a couple on what looked like an awkward blind date and the usual happy-hour release of pesky estate agents in suits. ‘Here we are,’ the hostess announced with a flourish when we got to our table. ‘Would you like to give me your coats?’ she asked us as we stood around trying to decide who would sit where.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ my mother said, unbuttoning her coat and handing it over to her. Mia followed suit and I spied the telltale black beads of a mangalsutra peeking out from under her top as she unwrapped her scarf and sat down. It wasn’t even real; she had ordered it online two years after we got married, in preparation for a day like today so she could play the perfect bahu.

  The waitress placed menus in front of us as soon as we sat down. I ended up across from my father and Mia across from Ma.

  Time stretched as Mia fussed over my parents, using small talk and bad jokes to mask the tension that shrouded the table. I let her carry the conversation.

  At some point, the focus shifted to me. Mia was telling my parents about the video segments with George, how it was ‘really quite a big deal’ and that webcasts were bigger than TV nowadays.

  I was unravelling my dinner napkin when my father spoke.

  ‘Mia, did you know Siddhant was enrolled in medical college before he decided to become a writer?’

  Mia looked at me, unsure of how to handle this unexpected turn in the conversation. This was clearly not the happy reunion she had ordered. ‘Yes, he mentioned it,’ she said finally.

  ‘He wanted to be a cardio surgeon. He got into the best medical programme in the country,’ he went on, his voice cool, measured. ‘Siddhant was always very bright, right from when he was a little boy. He wanted to be just like—’

  Oh, come on.

  ‘You wanted,’ I muttered, going back to my napkin.

  ‘What was that? Speak up, son,’ my father reprimanded and I automatically sat up straighter. Years of conditioning did that to you. I placed the napkin on my lap, running my hands over it to smooth it out.

  ‘You wanted me to be a surgeon. I didn’t. I never wanted that life for myself.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve made that very clear. I suppose you’ve got everything you wanted now?’ My father’s eyes locked on mine, challenging me.

  Seconds passed. I glanced around the table. Mia was fidgeting with her watch, Ma was scrutinizing the drinks list and my father was glaring at me. What did he want from me?

  The waitress appeared by my side and introduced herself, oblivious to the relief she offered. Were we ready to order the drinks yet? Some wine, perhaps? I placed our order: a diet Coke for Mia, wine for my father and me, and lemonade for Ma.

  ‘So what’s good here?’ Ma asked when the waitress had left.

  ‘The grilled chicken’s great,’ Mia chimed, the two women manoeuvring us back to polite conversation.

  I turned on the s
hower and stepped in, letting the hot water run over my back.

  I had everything I wanted, he’d said. Everything I wanted. How dare he? He had made sure I didn’t, couldn’t have anything when he kicked me out.

  My father had been furious when I came home after my first term at med school and announced that I wasn’t going back. It was dull, restrictive and regimental; I wanted to be a writer, I had insisted. I’ve been accepted on the creative writing programme at Columbia University, I told him. He threatened to kick me out of the house and cut me off if I went through with it. Later that night, my mother had stood in my room, watching me fit whatever little I could in my holdall. I had stormed off to a friend’s house on a high fuelled by testosterone and teenage angst, promising never to return.

  I had gone back a few weeks later when the letter from Columbia arrived. The director of the writing programme had written back to me. Though they couldn’t give me a scholarship, he wrote, he was very excited to offer me a place on the course with the promise of an unpaid internship at the New Yorker. He had called me a gifted new writer with a compelling voice that defied my age and upbringing. My father had laughed and told me he would ring the dean at med school and get them to take me back. If I did well in the finals, he would let me go on a writing workshop in the summer. It could only help with the medical papers I would have to publish over the length of my career, he reasoned. I went straight back to my friend’s that night and left for good a week later. I had seen my parents a couple of times since then but any chance of a real relationship had been wiped out that day. I had spent the last fifteen years running – from them, from India, from my culture, from myself. An announcement to no one listening that I was free.

  I turned off the shower and reached for the towel.

  This wasn’t everything I wanted. It didn’t even come close.

  The fifty grand that my parents had refused to shell out had cost me my career and them their only son.

  Mia was sitting on the bed, smoothing lotion over her legs, when I stepped out of the bathroom, a blast of hot air following me into the bedroom. I towelled off and pinched some lotion off her.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I replied, putting on a T-shirt and boxers.

  ‘Roy, sweetie, you can’t let him get to you like this.’

  ‘I know but he just makes it so . . . hard,’ I sighed.

  Mia got up and wrapped her arms around me. ‘Hey, it’s only two more days,’ she said.

  I nodded. She was right. Two more days and then I didn’t have to see them again.

  ‘Come to bed, it’s cold,’ Mia said, before climbing into bed herself.

  ‘In a minute. I’ll get us some water,’ I said and went downstairs to the kitchen, closing the door behind me. I filled two glasses with water and set them on the counter. I pulled out my new, disposable phone from behind the cabinet and punched in my code. Seven missed calls and three texts in one hour. Emily was getting out of hand. I shot her a quick reply, turned off the phone and went back upstairs to my wife.

  MIA

  Wednesday, 11th November

  ‘Namaste, Aunty, Namaste, Uncle.’ Addi bowed down to touch my in-laws’ feet before grabbing me in a hug. ‘Mia. Happy Diwali!’

  James traipsed in a few minutes later.

  ‘Parking in London is a nightmare,’ he said, leaning over to kiss me on both cheeks. He looked around. ‘Where’s Roy?’

  ‘At a meeting, he should be back soon,’ I said. ‘Have you met my in-laws, James?’

  James shook both their hands and sat down on the armchair across from them, sidestepping the rangoli that adorned the wooden floor.

  I went into the kitchen to fetch the drinks and Addi followed.

  ‘So what’s it like? Having them here?’ she whispered.

  ‘Nightmare. I can’t do anything right, not even the chai,’ I whispered back. ‘And Roy and his father got into an argument last night.’

  Addi rolled her eyes. ‘When do they leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow, thank God.’

  I flung my dupatta over a chair and lined up the glasses next to a bowl of salted peanuts on a tray. Scotch for the men, Virgin Marys for the women. Who needs a time machine when you have a mother-in-law?

  ‘How’s therapy?’ Addi asked, trying to sound casual as she folded the serviettes into little triangles and arranged them on the tray.

  ‘Yeah, good,’ I replied, not looking up.

  Addi and I danced around this conversation every couple of days. She would ask me about therapy and I’d give her a completely bland response. We both knew that I wasn’t going to go into any details after what she’d pulled with James, but like any normal family, we pretended everything was perfect, sticking to the usual ‘how’s therapy, yeah fantastic’ script. It was comforting, in the way that traditions always are.

  I put on my bright green oven mitts and pulled out the baking tray with the samosas from the oven.

  My phone was buzzing on the counter. Addi reached for it.

  ‘It’s . . . Chris? Ooh, he’s handsome.’

  I smiled. ‘And you’re newly married. Give me that,’ I said, taking off the mitts.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Mia, Happy Diwali! I can’t believe I’m missing the feast this year,’ Chris’s voice boomed down the phone.

  I laughed. ‘Well, I miss you too, Chris.’

  ‘Listen, I’m so sorry to bother you while you’re on holiday, but . . .’

  I mouthed an apology to Addi and went upstairs to finish the call. There was a problem with the Eastside order – the mills in Turkey had gone on strike and the factory was asking for an extension on the shipment date.

  ‘How much fabric has the factory got in-house?’

  ‘Just under fifty thousand metres.’

  I quickly did the maths.

  ‘That should be enough for sixty per cent of the first hit. Ask the factories to go ahead with that and tweak the ratios so we’ve got more of sizes eight to twelve. In case we do need to get an extension, sizes four, six and fourteen to twenty can follow later.’ I paused to think; we couldn’t risk a delay on this order. ‘Do we have a contact at the mill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Speak to them and see if we can call in any favours. Pick up all the stock that they have in our fabric. Then ring Monir. He knows all the mills in Turkey. See if we can move the rest of the order to another mill.’

  ‘Okay, sounds good. Thanks, Mia.’

  ‘No problem. And Chris, keep me updated.’

  ‘Addi, do you want to help with the diyas?’ I asked.

  Lighting the diyas was Addi’s and my favourite bit about Diwali. We always fought over who would get to do the most when we were little, even when all we were allowed to do was line them up along the wall and wait for Mum to come and light them.

  ‘Of course,’ Addi said and followed me into the kitchen.

  I had soaked all the diyas in water overnight and then laid them out earlier that morning. It stops the oil seeping into the clay and makes them last longer, Mum had explained to us that first year. I smiled as Addi and I rolled the wicks and lit them one by one. Diwali had always been exciting in India. The whole house lit up, the streets abuzz with crackers, neighbours and relatives slipping in and out of our living room, laden with sweets and presents.

  You were in India because your father died, the voice in my head whispered and I wiped the smile off my face. Have you forgotten where you come from? India isn’t home, Bristol is.

  I shook it off. I hadn’t forgotten anything.

  ‘Have you spoken to Mum since you got back?’ I asked Addi.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Did she mention anything about the house?’ I paused. ‘Daddy’s house, I mean.’

  Addi blew out her matchstick and turned to face me. ‘Yes, darling, she told me. I’m with her on this one, I’m afraid.’

  I took a step back. Addi was supposed to be on my side.

  ‘What? Why?�
�

  ‘Well, Mum’s right. It’s costing us too much to keep it.’ She took the matchstick from my hand and blew it out. ‘We have to let it go, Mia, it’s been a long time.’

  ‘No. I can’t believe . . . no.’ I shook my head. I couldn’t get a second mortgage large enough to cover it myself. I needed Addi to co-sign. ‘We can invest in it, you and I. Fix it up.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be the cleverest idea. Plus James and I have used up all our savings for the new flat.’

  ‘Uncle Bill said . . . the solicitors . . .’

  ‘That’s all nonsense. He has no rights here.’

  ‘What about my rights?’ I asked.

  Addi sighed but said nothing. I looked at the diyas we’d just lit, the flames flickering in perfect harmony. They were meant to bring in good luck, joy.

  Leave the doors open, Addi had yelled after me that first year, as I ran from room to room checking if the diyas were still alight. The good fortune will go away if it can’t enter, she had said. Now, years later, Addi was the one closing the door.

  ‘Did you know? Before the wedding?’

  Addi’s silence told me everything. She had been as much a part of this deception as Roy and my mother. The realization broke me.

  ‘James and I met with the agents yesterday. We’ve given them the go-ahead. I’m sorry, darling, but the house will be on the market next week.’ She hesitated, and then continued when I didn’t interject. ‘There’s something else as well. I’m going to India for a few weeks. James will deal with anything the agency needs, but if the sale does go through while I’m away, we might need you to go and sign the paperwork.’

  I heard the front door go. Jovial voices bounced off the stripped-wood floors and breezed past me. Outside in the street someone set off firecrackers. Addi and I looked at each other. Her face was set. This was what I’d been dreading my whole life.

  She had locked the door and thrown away the key.

  My sister had cast me aside.

  ROY

  Wednesday, 11th November