The Colour of Tea (23 page)

“Fine.”

“Was she nice?”

“Sure.” She shrugs. “She wasn’t too bad, I guess. She says the baby is fine and I’m fine, no problems.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Yeah. She told me the due date is the twenty-ninth of October.”

“Really?” I look up at Gigi, who seems unmoved. I try to count the weeks in my head. About nine weeks to go. The time has sped by so quickly. I must look dazed, because she laughs at me.

“It has to come out sometime, Grace,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“Good point,” I concede.

“But I don’t wanna think about
that
part too much,” Gigi says, standing back from the counter now but holding herself up, her hands gripping the top. She is turning a foot in front of her in slow circles and gazing down at it. A look of frustration sweeps across her face.

“Do you know now if it’s a girl or a boy?”

“Well, it’s not a boy,” she replies matter-of-factly.

“Oh?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a girl. Man, my feet are killing me,” she grumbles. “They’ve swollen up about as big as yours with the heat and this stupid pregnancy.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say with mock hurt.

Gigi grins up at me without apology. I recognize now this is her way of connecting with me, pulling me in and teasing me as if I were an older sister. Her grin shows off her small incisors, hanging
cheekily over her bottom lip. This smile makes her look so much younger. I bang the dirty coffee grains into the rubbish bin and wipe across my hairline, where I feel the itch of fresh sweat.

“How do you know it’s a girl?”

“Pau Pau and Aunty,
they
think it’s a girl. Mum doesn’t give a shit either way.” She pulls a chair out from one of the tables and lowers herself into it. “Pau Pau used some kind of old calendar to check. Some kind of Chinese thing.”

“Oh, okay, well, a girl. Wow.”

Gigi looks up at me and rolls her eyes, but she is smiling again. “Grace, seriously. It’s either a boy or a girl, right? Fifty-fifty.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I reply and roll my eyes back at her to show I don’t care. But I can feel my heart skip a few beats inside my chest. Gigi is picking absentmindedly at something on the table in front of her. A bit of
macaron
or ganache or dried milk not cleaned off properly.

“Do you have any names in mind?”

“No. Well, not really. There’s a Chinese name I like that matches my last name. It’s cute, I guess. But I haven’t thought of an English name.”

“She will get to have both? I mean, on her passport or birth certificate?”

“She’ll only have her Chinese name on her documents. But I’ll give her an English name too. We all get one.”

I move on to polishing the top of the counter, the metal gleaming up at me like a mirror. In its curved surface, my face is elongated, like the snout of a horse.

“Who gave you your English name? Your mum?”

“No, Pau Pau. She thought it was easy to say, and I think there was some famous singer called Gigi? I don’t know.”

I take out the trays of
macarons
and place them carefully on top of the shiny surface.

Gigi says, “I just want this thing out now. Frank, my boyfriend, he …” She trails off, then purses her lips. This is the first time she has mentioned her boyfriend. I assume he is the father of the baby she’s carrying.

I prompt her. “He what?”

“Oh, nothing. He’s just acting weird.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s kind of avoiding me. I mean, he’s probably just busy. He’s been promoted to supervisor, so he’s doing a lot of shifts, I think. But then he’s partying as well. I never see him.” She pauses. “I was going to be promoted too, you know. But …”

“But?”

“I got pregnant. One of those skinny bitches, probably Crystal, she told the big boss and I didn’t get the promotion. Then somehow they ended up not needing me anymore … you know what I mean.”

I look up with a frown. “What? That’s crazy; I didn’t know that. If you deserved the promotion, you should have got it, Gigi,” I say forcefully.

She gives me a wry look. “You don’t get it, Grace. This isn’t London.” She puts a pink
macaron
in her mouth and closes her eyes for a brief second as the shell dissolves against the roof of her mouth and her tongue, making a quiet crack when it crumbles. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I like it here better. I wish I could study how to make
macarons
as good as you.”

I brush off the unexpected compliment. “Well, you’re eating all our profits.” I laugh and slap the top of her hand.

She grins, then looks into the distance, and her voice drops. “All I used to want to do was make money and have nice things. That’s why Frank and everyone, they work in casinos. My mother, she thinks money is the only reason to do anything. She wouldn’t let me study, I know that much. Especially anything to do with
cooking. She thinks the restaurant business is a bad investment. You throw the money in and it never comes back out again.”

I bite my tongue, thinking of Mama. Not being able to study myself. Feeling trapped. I look over at Gigi, her belly so heavy and eyes so dark.

She keeps talking, as though the
macaron
has loosened her tongue. “Did I ever tell you about the picture of the Louis Vuitton handbag I had on my wall next to my bed?”

“No.”

“It was up there for two whole years,” she says wistfully.

Those handbags cost an arm and a leg; they are treated like Fabergé eggs in this part of the world. No one would ever put her handbag on the floor by her feet. Some of the finer restaurants even offer tiny chairs to prop your precious cargo on.

“Did you ever get the bag?”

“Yup. Bought it with the bonus money the government gave us a few months ago. That and some savings.” She takes a sip of her tea.

I raise my eyebrows. “Louis Vuitton? Well, good for you. All that work; you must love it.” I have never seen it on the hooks in the kitchen. She and Rilla normally carry scuffed backpacks. Gigi has covered hers in fashionable pins and buttons.

“Where is it?” I ask.

“I don’t use it. I was going to once, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it outside. I unwrap it sometimes and look at it. It is gorgeous, but …” She sighs. “It didn’t make me feel how I thought it would. I thought everything’d be perfect when I had that handbag.”

She glances at her stomach and looks a little sad. She changes the subject. “Anyway, whatever. I need to call those suppliers about the almond flour. It’s not as good, don’t you think? If they are giving us the cheap stuff, I am going to give them hell.”

She strides into the kitchen, and I follow her with my eyes
for a moment. Picking up one of the
macarons,
I place it lightly on my tongue. The crisp shell dissolves into soft sweetness. But there is something a little bitter about it. Not much, but a thicker taste, like marzipan. Most people wouldn’t even notice. She might act like a careless teenager sometimes, but she sure does have the palate of a chef.

*   *   *

Apart from a few broken branches and ripped tarpaulins, the next morning seems to have amnesia about the storm the day before. The sun is bright and orange, and the air tastes like syrup. I am sapped of energy even before getting to the tennis courts; the wet heat leaves me lethargic and slow. Pete, on the other hand, is raring to go. He leans against the netting and stretches his hamstrings, one, then the other. He is always so competitive. This morning his body hums with a kind of animal scent, spicy and fierce. It makes me feel queasy and undone at the same time. I watch as others arrive, so clearly couples, even when they don’t touch or kiss or hold hands. They glance at each other, carry each other’s bags, speak the same abbreviated language, which never requires further explanation. Pete and I, on the other hand, could be strangers. We barely look at or talk to each other, let alone make love or lie close at night like we used to. I know it is a distance I have mapped out between us. I have turned away from him to immerse myself in work. Lillian’s is a safer world, one that doesn’t ache so much. Because when I do look into his face, the face I know too well, I can see anger and disappointment and then, deeper still, grief. That is the part I cannot bear.

*   *   *

“Hey, you two!” Marjory sings out as the door to the courts clangs shut. She is dressed all in white, topped with a navy blue visor.
She springs onto the court with the grace of an antelope, her long arms cradling a silver racquet. “Don will be down in a minute. It’s us and another couple doing a round-robin kind of thing.”

She starts bouncing a ball on her racquet without looking at it. She has an ease with anything physical, comfort in her own skin. I imagine her dancing onstage; she would have been a sight to behold.

Pete looks over from his stretch; his eyes squint in the glare of the sun. He gives Marjory a wave.

“You want some water?” she asks, spying the empty water bottles in my hands.

“Yes, please. This sun is a killer. I’m melting.”

“Tell me about it. You better have put on sunscreen this morning or you’ll be burned to a crisp in minutes.”

I take in her long, tanned limbs and can’t imagine her skin frying or even breaking out in a sweat. I already have widening dark circles staining my T-shirt, the taste of salt on my upper lip. I wish for the dark, cool quiet of Lillian’s on a slow day. We fill up our bottles at the watercooler inside the clubhouse, and as we come back out, I see Celine and Léon on the court chatting with Don. Léon’s silver hair shimmers in the light. Pete stands slightly apart from the group, staring down at his racquet and his shoes.

Don looks up. “Hey, ladies, we’ve got our work cut out for us. We’re up against the French!”

“Bonjour!”
trills Celine when she sees me.

She is wearing a light blue dress with white shoes. Léon introduces himself to Marjory and comes over. He kisses my cheeks, despite the wet sheen on my face. I blush and catch Pete looking at us. I’m relieved to notice that Don is sweating more than I am, wet streams trailing down his broad neck and sliding beneath his shirt. As he explains the program, Pete’s gaze slides from Léon and me over to him.

“Right,” Don says. “So it’s Léon and Celine first, against you two. Then we play the winners, and whoever wins that match goes on to some other round. You should prepare yourself for a whipping. I’m going to tear up the court.”

He proudly lifts a flabby arm; his biceps seems to have fallen to the underside, and we all laugh. Marjory swats him with her racquet and flashes a grin.

As we take our place on the court, Pete looks over at me. “You all right?”

“Yeah. It’s just so damn hot.” I wipe sweat from my brow.

“Hmmm.” He looks across the net, and Léon waves. Pete doesn’t return it, but gives a tight smile and lift of his head. “I didn’t expect him to be here.”

“Huh?” I ask, but before he has a chance to respond, Léon calls, “You are both ready?”

“Yes!” I call back.

“Bring it on,” Pete mutters, his voice low.

The first points are fast. Léon and Celine are soon winning. Then I try to serve but botch it up. Watching Léon on the court is distracting; he is so calm and collected. When I finally sort out my serve, the ball heads back Pete’s way. He smacks a perfect shot, outside the singles line but inside the doubles, and Léon grunts to reach it.

“Nice one!” shouts Marjory from the sideline.

I keep making awful shots and apologizing.

Léon just shakes his head and laughs lightly. “Hey, hey, not to worry. Just for fun.”

Pete and I catch up, and soon we are slightly ahead. Pete is as focused as I have ever seen him, that dark expression on his face.

“Okay, so who is winning now?” Léon asks.

“We are,” Pete replies quickly.

The sun lifts in the sky, swimmy and lurid, like orange cordial.

It’s Celine’s serve. The ball plonks neatly in the middle of the square, just where it should be. Léon gives her a high five. Finally, after we make some lucky shots, it is Pete’s turn to serve.

“Don’t wear yourself out, mate, you might have us to play next!” Don calls from the side of the court. We all laugh except Pete, who is staring across at Léon as he serves, hard and fast. Léon returns Pete’s serve, slicing across the ball, adding some weighty topspin. It shoots over the net at high speed, and Pete scrambles to arrange himself, his body still leaning forward from his serve. As he pulls up, the ball connects with the brow above his left eye, and there is a sickening
thwock
from the contact of ball and bone. Pete slaps his hand to his face and keens like an animal before falling backward. His legs crumble beneath him, his feet slide to one side, and his body falls to the other. His racquet drops from his hand as he meets the ground; the thud seems to shudder through me as my hand flies up to my mouth.

“Pete!” Marjory screams from the side of the court and rushes toward us. We both crouch over him.

“Merde!”
Léon curses and jogs around the net to join us. Celine lifts her hand to her eyes, to see beyond the glare of the sun. Don stands up from his chair.

Marjory looks into Pete’s face, holding it between her hands and saying something to the effect of “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

Léon, above, offers her a water bottle.

“Perhaps splash some water onto his face.”

My mouth has fallen open, but I’m not saying anything.

Marjory gives me a sharp look. “Grace?”

The shock of seeing Pete’s body so limp and crumpled has me winded.

“Is he all right?” I hear myself whisper.

Pete’s eyes fly open and search around for a few seconds just as
Léon sloshes water onto his face. Pete makes a sound somewhere between a yelp and a gargle. He sees Marjory first, as she is leaning close, then me. Finally he sees Léon, now standing back, water bottle in hand.

“Pete, are you okay?”

Pete looks back at me. “Shit,” he swears. I imagine the hot pain flooding into his senses. He wipes the water from his face.

“You’re fine,” Marjory says slowly, soothingly. “You were just hit with the ball.”