The Slap (56 page)

Manolis’s eyes were still unsmiling. She helped him rise from the armchair.

‘I’ll get you the number,’ he said.

He wrote the number down on the back of a torn envelope, the numerals shaky, oversized, like a child’s writing.

He handed her the envelope.

‘Thank you.’ This time his smile was genuine, real. She almost broke into tears again. Nothing more must change.

 

She swiftly cut up the vegetables for a quick, simple curry. Hector arrived, drunk, and she stopped herself from snapping at him. While he was showering and the kids were squabbling over the television, she rang Sandi. She was trying not to think of Rosie. She scrolled down on her phone till she got Sandi’s name on the screen—thank God, Manolis did not understand mobiles or he would have seen straight through her lie about Sandi’s number. Sandi’s name appeared on the screen. Aisha paused, then pressed for the number. The phone began to dial. It did feel like a betrayal. The woman’s voice on the other end took her by surprise.

‘Hello,’ Sandi repeated her greeting. ‘Is that you, Aish?’

Caller ID. Aisha composed herself. She would not hang up. She had done it, she had made a choice. Things were not the same, they would not remain the same.

‘Yes.’ She stumbled through her congratulations, and followed them swiftly with a quick apology, rushing the words. ‘I’m so sorry we haven’t spoken for so long. The circumstances have been trying.’

She had actually rehearsed that line. It had come to her on the plane back from Bali. It was true but as a statement it did not apportion blame. Sandi’s laughter in reply was loud and genuine. I made the right decision, thought Aisha, I think I’ve done the right thing.

‘You’re not wrong, babe. It’s been a shit of a year but everything’s good now. I’m so happy now.’

‘I’m glad, I really am.’ And she was. ‘I know how important this is for you.’

‘For both of us.’ She was being reminded of Harry. Aisha flinched. That conversation would be much harder. ‘Rocco’s so excited, as well,’ Sandi continued, her voice airy. ‘He can’t believe he’s finally going to have a brother or sister.’

‘How is Rocco?’

A chant, a snatch of lyric from a CD Hector played to death in the early nineties was in her head.
This is a new day, this is a beautiful day.

‘He’s great. Bring the kids over for a visit.’

Aisha did not answer at once. She called out Melissa’s name, pretending to admonish her daughter. She would have preferred to first see Sandi on her own, over coffee, outside their homes, away from their husbands. But Aisha knew that would not be possible. Sandi’s voice was friendly, sunny and inviting, but nothing would be forgiven till she stepped into their home and greeted Harry. She would have to shake his hand. She would have to kiss him. He would be unshaven, his cheek would feel coarse, he would tower over her. She realised he scared her. She hated that he scared her.

‘Sorry, Sandi,’ she lied. ‘Melissa was playing with some scissors. What were we talking about?’

‘When are you and Hector going to come over with the kids?’

‘Soon, we’ll be over soon.’

‘When?’

‘I’ll talk to Hector.’

Sandi laughed again. ‘He’ll agree to anything.’ The laugh ended brusquely. ‘So when?’

The tone was steel.
This is a new day, this is a beautiful day.

‘Sunday week,’ Aisha suggested cheerfully. ‘How’s Sunday week?’ How the fuck do you sleep with that monster at night? After what he did to you?
I saw you.
He broke your jaw. How do you forgive that?

‘Great. I’ll get Harry to fire up the barbecue.’

‘Great,’ Aisha echoed falsely. ‘I’ll see you then.’ She switched off her phone.

 

‘What should I tell Rosie?’

They were sitting at the front bar of the All Nations waiting for a table to become free in the dining room. Anouk was the centre of the largely male crowd’s attention. She was wearing her thigh-high black leather boots and a faded suede cowgirl jacket over an old New Order tour T-shirt that Aisha remembered her friend buying in 1987. It still fitted her perfectly. Anouk’s hair had been recently cut radically short into a masculine buzz cut and also dyed a glistening blue-black. Aisha had also dressed up, in a delicate soft cotton burgundy two-piece she bought on impulse, but what had looked cute in the David Jones window suddenly seemed drab and bourgeois and middle-aged next to Anouk. It’s because the bitch doesn’t have children, she thought spitefully to herself when she’d walked into the pub and seen her friend smoking at the counter. But Anouk’s excited, grateful smile on seeing her made Aisha feel terribly guilty for her ungenerous thought. It did not do justice to her friend. Even with kids, even if she had a brood of half-a-dozen, Anouk would still look a knockout.

They had ordered a bottle of sauvignon blanc and Aisha watched the bartender pour them a glass each. He’s almost a child, thought Aisha. He was thin and pale, with unkempt swampy hair. His attempt to grow a beard had stalled; the thin straggles of hair on his cheeks could not quite meet their fellow tufts on his chin. He was very attractive and very young. But he was keenly focused on Anouk who pretended to ignore him.

‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses. Anouk lit a cigarette and mischievously blew smoke towards Aisha. ‘You don’t have to tell her.’

Aisha had thought of this option, but she had reluctantly decided that it was not possible. She did not want to be fearful and deceitful towards her oldest friend. At some point Rosie would discover that she had made peace with Hector’s cousins and she would feel betrayed. Aisha prided herself on the longevity of her friendships with both Rosie and Anouk. They were just like family except, unlike family, she hid nothing from them.

She gave voice to this. ‘I don’t want to be in a position where I’d have to lie to Rosie.’

Anouk cocked a disbelieving, sarcastic eyebrow in her direction. ‘You’ve already lied to her. You didn’t tell her that your sweet cousin-in-law beats up on his wife.’

‘He only did that once.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. They were cowardly, an unconvincing defence. She would never have let Hector get away with them.

Anouk struck. ‘Once that you know of.’ Aisha turned her face away, distraught. Anouk took her friend’s chin and forced Aisha to look directly at her.

‘I don’t care, sweetheart. You know I don’t give a fuck about Rosie and Gary’s vendetta. You know I think Hugo deserved all he got.’ Aisha was about to protest but decided not to. She would not change Anouk’s mind. ‘The point I wanted to make is that you have already lied to Rosie. What’s one more little lie?’

‘I did not lie to her.’ She was not being disingenuous; she almost felt indignant at Anouk’s casual accusation. ‘Sandi would have denied that anything had happened. It would have been no good for her to know about it. She couldn’t have used it at the hearing.’ Anouk seemed unmoved, her gaze was still sceptical. Aisha shrugged in frustration. ‘Anyway, if I had said anything Hector would never have forgiven me.’

‘Exactly.’ Anouk flicked her cigarette towards the ashtray but she missed and ashes plunged to the floor. Aisha impatiently tapped her foot. This is why Anouk always wanted to meet at a pub rather than a café or restaurant. So she could bloody smoke. Aisha smiled to herself rebelliously. Well, the laws were changing any day now and Anouk would have nowhere to smoke indoors. Maybe she’d bloody well give up.

‘Christ, Aish, don’t work yourself up about this. Rosie doesn’t need to know everything about your business. And don’t encourage her to play the victim. You spoil her.’

Anouk was right. Aisha did indulge Rosie. But Anouk was also intolerant.

‘She’ll find out.’

‘Okay, then tell her.’ Anouk’s firmly stubbed the end of the cigarette into the ashtray. ‘But she’ll be guilt-tripping you for months. Don’t bore me about it if she does.’

Yes, you are intolerant. ‘It’s still raw for her. She’s never going to forgive Harry.’

‘So what? What do you care?’ Anouk fell silent. The bartender was refilling her glass. It was Aisha who thanked him.

‘Rosie and Harry have got nothing to do with each other,’ Anouk continued, watching the young man walk away. ‘And it’s no business of hers what relationship you have with Hector’s cousin.’ Anouk took a quick sip. ‘Are you ever going to forgive Harry?’

No. Never. Aisha finished her drink and placed the wine glass on the counter. I wonder if he’s going to fill my glass, she thought sourly. But the bartender did promptly come over and poured her another. He had such lovely soft features, his beard was like down, not yet hair, not bristles. He was not yet a real man. He went back to serving a couple of businessmen at the other end of the bar.

She lowered her voice and shifted closer to Anouk. ‘He’s young enough to be our son,’ she whispered, grinning. ‘Isn’t it awful?’

‘What’s awful about it?’ Anouk winked. ‘He looks about the same age as Rhys.’

‘How is Rhys?’ She wanted to talk about her friend, hear about her life. She had made up her mind. She would talk to Rosie. She knew she would, she had just wanted to articulate it to Anouk. Once said it would need to be done. But she was shocked by Anouk’s response.

‘Fuck it, Aish, I need to end it.’

‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

Aisha wanted to touch her friend’s cheek, to caress her, but she did not dare. Anouk would hate that. She would feel pitied, and thus even more shamed. Sourly, she couldn’t help thinking of Hector. If she hadn’t had to think about him all the time now she would have known something was wrong in her friend’s life.

‘He’s still a child. That’s the whole bloody problem.’ The moment of vulnerability had passed, Anouk was once more mocking, sardonic. ‘He thinks we can have it all. Children, independence, travel, world peace.’

‘You can have a child.’

‘What makes you think I want one?’

The two women stared at each other. Is this our unbridgeable difference, Aisha wondered, is this a separateness we cannot overcome? This tension, this stand-off, this dare, did not exist between herself and Rosie. Being a mother was a fact, not a question.

‘I don’t know if you necessarily want one. I’m just saying that you can have one.’

‘Well, I don’t bloody want one.’ Anouk beckoned the bartender over. ‘Is that table free yet?’

He apologised and brought over a bowl of cashews for them, and refilled their glasses. Aisha brought the rim of the glass to her lips and realised she was getting drunk. It was a good thing she hadn’t driven. She rolled her shoulders, concentrated on keeping her back straight. The wine didn’t seem to have affected Anouk.

‘Rhys has a good friend called Jessica. She’s a nice kid.’ Anouk popped a cashew in her mouth and swallowed. ‘She’s a lesbian. They’re talking about having a baby together.’

Aisha drew in a sharp breath. Choices, so many choices available. She envied how the young manoeuvred so casually through them all.

‘Well, I think that’s great.’ It was mortifying, she was stammering. ‘I mean it,’ she rushed through her words. ‘I think it’s fantastic.’ She took a pause. She was being ridiculous. Anouk would not judge her. ‘It’s fantastic for them,’ she added. ‘But how do you feel about it?’

‘It’s their decision. I’m not involved.’ Aisha was about to interrupt her but Anouk bowled straight through her friend’s objection.

‘I’m right, it has nothing to do with me. We’re not married, we’re not like you and Hector. You made a decision together.’ Anouk ran her finger along the rim of the glass. ‘I’ll be happy for Rhys if he has a child with Jessica. I’m happy to play Auntie on weekends and public holidays. But if I want to go off, I will. If I want to spend a month just concentrating on writing my book, I will.’ She pushed the glass away. ‘I will not be a mother.’

Aisha could find no words to answer the finality of that statement. Something stung about Anouk’s casual and easy reference to her relationship with Hector. As if marriage foreclosed adventure, as if in marriage there was no risk.

‘I got an email from Art.’

‘The Canadian?’

Aisha nodded guiltily, but was unable to suppress a triumphant smile. She had not intended to say a word about the email. It had arrived at work yesterday, a simple two lines: I haven’t been able to forget you. Do you feel the same? It was an email that demanded an answer. She had not answered it. She had left it in her inbox but throughout the day and into the evening she had returned to look at the words, thrilled to see them—so explicit, so enticing.

‘What did he want?’

Aisha repeated the words in the email.

‘Don’t answer it.’

Anouk sounded vehement, so sure of the decision she should make. Was she imagining it? Was her friend a little angry with her? Aisha made no answer.

‘You’re married, Aish. Don’t answer him.’

The words were so old-fashioned, the tone so outraged, that she assumed her friend was joking. Aisha laughed out loud.

Anouk swooped on her. ‘I mean it. You’re married.’

I know I’m fucking married. This was just a fantasy, a game. Art was fun. How dare Anouk assume a moral rectitude?

‘Don’t lecture me on marriage.’ She badly wanted a cigarette. She would not ask for one. As if reading her mind, Anouk lit one and blew the smoke at Aisha.

‘I’m not lecturing you on marriage.’ Anouk’s frown disappeared. ‘I wouldn’t do that, Aish, you know that. But you’ve come back from Bali concerned about Hector and his mental health. You keep telling me how worried you are about him.’ Anouk leaned on the bar. ‘I don’t care if you slept with a dozen men in Bangkok. Good for you if you did. But that was a conference fuck, a fantasy, not real. What’s real is you and Hector. Do you want to be with Hector?’

Aisha did not answer.