I Can't Think Straight (6 page)

‘I don’t understand why Ali can’t eat with us first!’

Leyla exchanged a glance with her sister Yasmin, who kept one eyebrow raised sardonically, even while chopping lettuce.

‘He’s booked a tennis court, Mum. With two other friends of his.’‘At one o’clock? That’s lunchtime.’

‘Only in the Suburban time zone, Mum,’ explained Yasmin helpfully. ‘I think London is two hours ahead of us.’

Maya shook her head irritably. More than twenty years of her life she had given to raising these girls and all she got in return was attitude.

‘What kind of salad are you making anyway?’ she asked her younger child accusingly, in the absence of any other immediate issue to pounce on.

‘A Greek salad,’ Yasmin replied placidly. She began stoning olives.‘And Indian salad is not good enough, apparently.’

Yasmin laughed. ‘What is an Indian salad? Three week old lettuce and chillis?’

Leyla laughed but Maya was incensed. ‘You two are so worried about other cultures. London! Greece! What about your own heri-tage? Did you ever think about that? India has one of the richest cultures in the world!’

‘I’m glad you said that because I’m thinking of spending six months out there,’ Yasmin said, flicking olive stones into the sink where they landed with a satisfying ring. She paused before deliver-ing the final blow. ‘Backpacking.’

It was clear to Maya, in this moment, that her daughters were intent on sending her to an early grave. She read the newspapers, she watched the news, and she knew that backpacking could mean only three things – hitch-hiking, rape and murder, in that order. The issue of hygiene was also foremost in her mind, but she supposed that if you were headed for a bloody death, then clean underwear was perhaps the least of your problems. She could feel another hair turning white as she thought about it, a hair on the front of her head where it would be most visible. She would ignore Yasmin for now, and later on she would talk to Sam and make sure he forbade any backpacking. And in India, of all places.

The soothing chime of the doorbell interrupted Maya’s thoughts and she greeted Ali effusively, for she liked him. Even in tennis gear, he looked neatly turned out and handsome. She watched as he greeted Yasmin.

‘Something smells good in here,’ he smiled.

‘Feta cheese. My Greek salad,’ she noted with a pointed glance at Maya.

‘I didn’t know you could cook,’ said Ali, teasing. Maya smiled, but looked around for Leyla. The girl was always hanging back when she should be pushing herself forward.

‘Of course she can cook,’ Maya assured him. ‘And so can Leyla.’

Maya drew her eldest daughter into the circle. ‘She makes the best cakes, and never puts on weight!’

‘We should be going,’ interrupted Leyla. ‘Come on.’ Guiding Ali back to the front door, she ignored Maya’s final exhortation that they should stay for lunch instead of playing tennis, and with a satisfying click, she closed the front door behind them before exchanging a look with the smiling Ali.

When Leyla discovered they would be playing with Tala, as well as Jeff, another friend of Ali’s, a breath of anticipation shivered over her, even as her memory of their first meeting irritated her. For some reason, and without consulting her, Ali had already decided that the men and the women should each play singles. Tala looked professional in her immaculate white dress, and for the first time since buying them, Leyla eyed her own mismatched shorts and shirt with a detached and critical eye. But she knew she was good at tennis, naturally athletic and she warmed up with quiet confidence.

Her first attempt at serving slapped limply into the net. Leyla rolled her shoulders a little and geared up again, watching as Tala took an exaggerated step forward into the court. This step, the implication that she needed to be nearer to return the slow service Leyla would surely provide, annoyed Leyla intensely. She threw the ball up, watched it descend and sprang up to meet it with the grace of a panther pouncing on its prey. With a satisfyingly loud thwack, her racket smacked it, but it caught the edge of the net and fell back onto her own side. Leyla cursed under her breath. Tala smiled.

‘They have a really good coach here. If you want a lesson.’

Now Leyla smiled grimly and turned away, wondering if there was any end to this woman’s arrogance. She returned to her base line, and took a breath, for she understood now that it was no longer tennis, but war. Eyes narrowed on both sides. Sensing an impend-ing storm, Tala stepped backwards this time, cradling her racket, primed for action. The service was hard and low to the ground, but Tala reached it and got the ball back into play, starting a pounding rally.Forty minutes later, Ali and his opponent stopped to watch. The ball spun back and forth like a thing possessed, as feet pounded and slid, and rackets flailed. Leyla was only dimly aware that her hair was all over the place and her shirt was stuck to her ribs as she reached for a final serve that would give her the match. In a puff of clay, it shot past Tala, untouched.

‘You did it,’ Tala said, coming to the net. Her handshake was warm and her arm came up to hug Leyla’s shoulders in congratulations.

‘You’re really good,’ Tala said.

‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ Leyla panted.

‘Come on, let’s get changed.’

Tala busied herself with looking for her shower things for a few minutes.

‘How did you get that last game?’ she asked. ‘I thought I had it.’ ‘I prayed for divine intervention,’ Leyla returned. The reply had a sardonic edge. Tala looked up at her, eyes serious.

‘Look. I didn’t say there wasn’t a God. It’s just religion that bothers me. I’m sorry if I offended you the other day,’ she said.

Leyla looked away from her. ‘No, actually, you made me think.’

‘About what?’

‘About why we follow certain paths. Is it just expectation? Or conditioning?’

Abruptly, as if she had revealed too much, Leyla broke off and turned away, catching her hand on a locker as she did so. Tala heard the buried gasp of pain and went to her, taking her hand, which only seemed to fluster Leyla more.

‘It’s fine, I’m just clumsy.’

Tala held onto the bruised fingers and waited till Leyla met her look.

‘You know, you should really relax more. Just be at ease with yourself.’

Tala felt Leyla try to hold her gaze easily, try to relax her shoulders and her stance, but she only succeeded in looking more endear-ingly awkward. She let go of Leyla’s hand, gently, and picked up her things.

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

‘I’m supposed to have lunch with my family. Sunday and all that.’

Tala nodded and moved towards the showers, from where they could hear the languid echo of slow, full drips of water.

‘Why?’ called Leyla, hesitantly, after her. Tala turned.

‘Nothing. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have lunch. Maybe take a walk in the park.’ She hesitated. ‘I’d like to know you better.’

‘You just want someone to argue with,’ Leyla smiled.

‘What if I promise to behave myself? Will you consider it?’ Tala asked, and this time, she had to look away from something in Leyla’s eyes as she nodded her assent.

In order to meet Tala for lunch on Sunday, Leyla had to contrive a way to extricate herself from a lunch party to be attended by numerous members of her extended family. This caused considerable consternation to her mother and father, who wanted to know what kind of last minute engagement could be so important that it meant missing lunch with her ailing grandmother and three cousins from Canada. Leyla knew that having lunch with a girl she barely knew but really liked, would not pass muster as a good enough reason, and so, under pressure, had rashly invented a date with Ali. As soon as she had uttered the excuse, she felt the acid taste of regret in her mouth, regret that she had resorted to lying, that she had lacked the strength to deal with her parents openly; but it was too late. The simple mention of his name smoothed the dismay on her mother’s face, only to pave the way for a new hurdle.

‘Bring him home for lunch,’ Maya said. ‘Then he can meet everybody.’

The idea of exposing Ali to the voracious gaze of her cousins horrified her. They were all racing each other towards marriage as if it were some sort of Olympic sport for which they had been in training since puberty. Equally disquieting was the idea of her grandmother’s questions, which would doubtless be focused around the number of children they might be planning to have, and whether red saris or white were best for modern weddings. So appalled was she by this vision that it took her a moment to remember that she had just lied about Ali, and that he would be safely watching the rugby in his own flat all afternoon.

‘I can’t bring him here. He has an important business lunch,’ she added, desperately.

‘On a Sunday?’ her father asked. He was always sharper than her mother, but luckily Maya’s ecstatic response drowned out the question.

‘And he wants you to be there? That’s a good sign!’ Maya opened the oven, letting out a blast of eyebrow-singeing heat that made her start cursing her husband for the brand new kitchen appliances he had forced on her.

‘They’re too hot! Too efficient!’ she complained. ‘Everything cooks in half the time, I don’t know where I am any more.’

‘If everything’s cooking so quickly, you should be reading the newspapers with me,’ Sam replied, but she gave him only her silent, sulking back and so he went through to the living room. Leyla remained in the kitchen, her immediate distress at her mother’s mood and her own lies preventing her from taking any useful action. She glanced around. The salad was half prepared, the rice was waiting to be rinsed, and the table had still to be laid. She picked up the dull-edged knife (her mother had never used the finely honed set of Japanese knives that her Yasmin had given her the year before) and tried to slice tomatoes. It was not easy, because you had to know, from years of familiarity, exactly which tiny section of the old blade was still sharp, in order to press it down correctly and achieve a clean cut. In her anxiety, Leyla succeeded only in flattening the top of the overripe tomato and squashing out a pile of wet seeds onto the chopping board.

‘What are you doing?’ Maya asked before answering her own question. ‘Ruining good tomatoes.’

‘These tomatoes haven’t been good since last week,’ Leyla told her. ‘They’re overripe.’

‘They’re full of flavour,’ corrected her mother. ‘Nobody likes a sour, hard tomato.’

Leyla knew from experience that such a discussion could continue indefinitely if she allowed it to. Incongruously, an image flashed into her mind of a real discussion, of an important debate. Perhaps she could ask Maya how exactly she knew that she followed the correct religion. If she had been born Catholic, would she not be predisposed and educated to believe that Catholicism was the best way?‘What is it?’ Maya asked. ‘Why are you standing there like that?’

‘I was just thinking.’

‘Think about the guests,’ her mother replied. ‘And set the table.’

Leyla did so, quickly, and then retreated silently into the living room, where her father was reading the business section of the newspaper while listening to a political debate on television.

‘Can you be back early?’ he asked her. ‘It would be nice if you could see your grandmother for a few minutes.’

‘I’ll try,’ she said.

‘And bring Ali with you, if you can.’

‘I’ll see if I can.’

She shifted slightly, and he looked at her over the top of his newspaper, and his eyes were clear and knowing, she thought. She felt exposed, and swallowed, leaning in to hear whatever it was that he might want to tell her.

‘There’s an article here you should read,’ he said. ‘About the best balance of assets in a pension fund.’ He folded the paper and passed it into her hands. ‘Let me know what you think.’

The day was overcast but the subtle light seemed to Leyla to soften the edges of the river and the trees as she walked with Tala through the park after lunch. They had spoken a lot over their meal, exchanged information and ideas, had gotten to know each other’s family backgrounds and work and other tangible facts. Now, though, in the park, they walked for a few moments silently but together. There was space here, an open sky, a breath of wind to cast off the outer web of their conversation and to leave them time to pause. Pretend-ing to look out at the river, Leyla glanced sideways at Tala. Her soft curls hung over her collar and in the dim, cool light, the rich brown of her hair seemed to glint with a light of its own.

‘You know, you told me what you do, but not why you do it.’ Tala said.

‘What do you mean?’

Tala looked at her. ‘You work for your father. The way I used to work for mine. But it’s not what I really wanted to do.’

‘And your new business is?’

Tala shrugged. ‘It might be. I like the idea behind it. To create a market here using Palestinian suppliers of soaps and candles, things like that. It means working on product design and quality, and then selling them into shops. I enjoy the work. And it could make a difference to the quality of life of the people making them. And maybe give me a bit more independence.’ Tala looked away, as if the last comment had touched too much on the personal.

‘I hope you succeed. I’m sure you will.’

Tala smiled. ‘And you? Do you like working with your father?’

Leyla gave a slight laugh. ‘I don’t mind it. He always wanted me to work with him. And there was nothing else I ever wanted to do except…’ She broke off, surprised with herself for having come so close to revelation. She quickened her pace slightly, but it was too late. Tala had caught the moment and was now catching hold of her arm.

‘Except what?’

Leyla stopped walking and laughed a little, nervously.

‘Writing,’ she answered. ‘Fiction’. It was a tense moment for her, the cracking open of the door to a secret life that few people knew existed. ‘I’ve had a few short stories published. And now I’m working on a novel.’

‘Can I read your work?’

‘I don’t know.’

Tala laughed. ‘Why? You don’t trust me yet?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Okay. If you let me read something, you can ask me anything you like.’