he muttered, ‘I have to fix the television sets and drive the bus for a living, but Fongi Shu, he tells the peoples any rubbish and he makes the money. He’s not Indian, no?’
‘No, it’s Chinese, I think.’
‘The Chinese peoples, they are the clever, very clever.’
My resolve not to tell lies was obviously not working, and seeing as I’d just told one, another one wasn’t going to be so bad.
‘It’s been a really busy day at work. That new client is very demanding and I might have to be a bit more hands-on.’
As I heard myself saying the words I knew he wouldn’t understand, but these were the only words he latched on to. He put his newspaper down again and looked at me, probably imagining me hugging my clients and them doing ninety-degree rotations away from me too.
‘What I mean by hands-on, Dad, is helping the client a bit more: so, say if he is organising an exhibition in Mayfair, I might go and help him in his studio.’
I knew it made no sense but my dad only chose to hear words that he liked, hence Mayfair.
‘Good, good,’ he mumbled.
My mother was listening from the kitchen. ‘Ma, I was just saying to Dad that one of my clients is going to want me to help with an important exhibition he has so I might have to help him a bit in his studio.’
I knew it was volunteering far too much information but I had to get her bloodhound nose off the trail.
‘Has Raj called?’ she replied.
‘What!’ Here I was trying to set her off the track and she was going on about the accountant. As I went back into the hall to take off my coat she followed me.
‘Why don’t you call him? You are seeing him tomorrow, no?’ she said before giving me a chance to reply.
‘I’m not calling him, why should I?’
‘We don’t want him to forget you, Nina. A boy like that probably has a hundred girls to choose from.’
I wanted to ask her if she was ever disappointed; disappointed at the way her life had turned out, if she ever felt passionate about anything other then her circular rotis. But instead I said that I was seeing Raj in twenty-four hours and I was sure that if he wanted to speak to me before then, he would call.
No sooner had I said that, the phone rang.
‘Hello Nina, it’s Raj.’
‘Just a moment.’ I turned to my mum. ‘Ma, is that burning I can smell in the kitchen?’
‘No, beta, I switched off the gas.’
‘I think Dad’s calling you.’
‘I’m not,’ he shouted.
‘Ma, can I speak to Raj on my own?’
‘Sorry about that Raj,’ I sighed as my mother reluctantly shuffled back to the kitchen.
‘That’s OK. Nina, I just wanted to know if you were still all right to meet tomorrow?’
‘Do you feel like going to a gallery instead?’ I asked. There was a pause. ‘I mean it’s all right if you don’t want to, we can go to the cinema, it’s just that I was thinking that …’
‘No, no, a gallery is fine. Shall we meet at the Tate?’ he suggested.
I liked the fact that he suggested the Tate. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. ‘There’s a Matisse exhibition on at the moment.’
‘I know,’ he replied.
I was impressed. ‘Around three o’clock?’
‘Three o’clock is fine, Nina. Shall we meet in the café?’
And he knew about the café.
I told him I’d meet him there.
I went upstairs to call Jean.
‘Thank God, Nina, I have to see you to explain.’
‘Do you know that there’s a Matisse exhibition on at the Tate?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘There’s a Matisse exhibition on at the Tate.’
‘Is that where you want to meet me?’
‘No. I just wanted to know if you knew that?’
‘No. Will you meet me, Nina, just to talk and listen to what I have to say?’
‘Will you promise to leave me alone if I do?’
He said he would and so we agreed to meet the next day at seven.
I woke up very late the next morning. It must have seemed like an eternity to my mum who was hanging about outside my bedroom door.
‘Yes, before you ask, I’m going to see some paintings with him.’
‘Paintings?’ she repeated.
‘Paintings?’ my father interrupted as he was passing. ‘If you want to see paintings you can see the paintings here …’ He indicated the numerous pictures of incarnated gods on the landing, hung on Seventies retro wallpaper.
These were the moments when I wanted so desperately not to be related to him.
As I got ready to leave for the Tate, my mother stopped me.
‘You can’t go like that,’ she said, thinking about the hundreds of girls dancing before Raj – the competition. I was wearing a pale blue polo-neck, jeans, a long black coat and had no make-up on.
‘What will he think when he sees you?’
‘He will think he hasn’t been the fooled. Fooled, I tell you,’ my dad shouted from the sitting room.
‘Put at least a bit of colour on your lips. I know you don’t need the make-up. I know that Bhagavan has given you a very pretty face, but it is to show you have made some effort.’
‘It’s not about looks, Ma, it’s about what’s on the inside.’ This was half the problem with the list system; for me it was all too superficial. Everything was to do with the outward appearance – what you looked like, how much money you had, what job you did. Also, it wasn’t as if you could go on hundreds of dates with a guy to get to know him and then say no, you didn’t like him. This would be another red mark against your family name.
‘But please, beta, do this for me.’
‘It’s the weekend, Ma,’ I said and then, feeling a little guilty, I went back up and put some lipstick on.
Raj was already sitting at a table waiting for me when I got to the cafeteria. I knew it was him by the way he was fidgeting with his cup.
