The Colour of Tea (26 page)

The raw, angry feeling in my chest is thumping like a big dark heart next to mine. I’m rattled. Hurt. My head spins. First Pete and now Rilla. Haven’t I dealt with enough? Can’t I trust anyone? It feels like Mama has entered my bloodstream, full of heat and spit and fire. “Just get out. Both of you. Get out now!” Again I hear Mama.
Don’t come back!
I clench my quivering fists.

Rilla’s face clouds with fear, and Jocelyn springs up from the floor. They dart past me, and I follow them into the café and watch as they rush out the front door. I wait for a moment for Rilla to turn back and look at me, but she doesn’t.

When they are gone, the whole café is bathed in a heavy silence. I watch them from the window, the two of them holding on to each other as if battling a strong wind, bumping into each other as they hurry away to the bus stop. I take a deep breath, gasping for air as if I am drowning.

I sink down into one of the chairs. My head throbs. What has happened? It all happened so fast I feel dizzy. It is as if I wasn’t even present for the past few minutes. Like some strange force had taken control of me. Why hadn’t I paused to wonder what was going on with Rilla? Jocelyn? Her voice echoes through me.
Please, Grace.
But wasn’t I right to be angry? It is my café, isn’t it? They had been taking advantage of me. Why didn’t they tell me they needed a place to stay? Why doesn’t anyone talk about anything? My thoughts crash and collide into one another.

I rub my temples with my fingers. I wish for arms around me. A hug, a whisper, a kiss against my hair. Someone to tell me it’s going to be okay. That I did the right thing.
Oh, Mama.
I think of her kind touch. Then I think of waking up next to Pete in the mornings, like we used to. Warm sheets, the salty smell of sleep, his lips on my hair and his hands on my breasts.

I bury my face in my palms and let my shoulders heave with sobs.

Pardon—Forgiveness

Plum and Hibiscus with Chocolate Ganache

B
y Friday, Rilla has not been in for three days and Gigi is barely speaking to me. In fact she makes a point of using Cantonese almost exclusively. To customers, to Yok Lan, to herself in the kitchen. All without a shred of translation. She gives me sidelong glares full of things she is refusing to say. I try to call Rilla, but her phone is switched off or disconnected. I’ve never had the need to call her before now; she is always on time and never sick. One morning I think I see her across the street as I am carrying over Yok Lan’s pot of tea, but when I look up there is no one there, only the wind leaning against the long grass.

Without Rilla the work weighs heavily on me; my limbs throb and sing with pain each night. I’m often in the kitchen, cooking almost mindlessly while Gigi serves. One day I hear Léon’s velvety voice ordering a coffee and making small talk with her. She serves him with icy coolness as I hide away, not daring to come out for three whole hours in case he is still there. I can’t bear to see him, on top of everything else. Now that everything seems so unraveled. I feel so worn out I catch myself looking toward the storeroom, wishing to rest on that floor like Rilla and Jocelyn, to
curl up like a field mouse. It is so tempting. Just a short nap, put my head down and forget about everything.

If Pete and I had been talking, perhaps he might have asked me what was wrong. Instead we barely see each other. We cook our own little meals for one, head to bed at separate times, watch television or use the computer apart from one another. We sail around each other on a roiling sea of rage and regret.

Marjory catches me in the bathroom at Lil’s, staring at my tired reflection in the mirror. She leans over me to wash her hands and glances up to my hair, perhaps thinking I was looking for gray strands, which there seem to be more of these days.

“I’ve been getting those for years,” she says with a wink. “Why do you think I dye it?”

Her hair shimmers like gold, even in the dim light of the bathroom. I had assumed it was natural. Mama used to say a redhead never goes gray but often white all at once. Like magic. As a little girl, I’d always imagined waking up with a white-chocolate-colored mane. I wonder what happened to hers.

Marjory frowns at my long face. “Hey, I’m trying to cheer you up here.”

“Sorry. It’s been a rough week. Thank God we’re closed tomorrow.”

“The parade?”

I nod. Our street will be closed for the Olympic gold medalists’ procession, and I am relieved. I need the break.

I splash cold water onto my face, hoping the chill will enliven me.

Marjory passes me a hand towel. “Gigi told me about Rilla. She hasn’t come back?”

I shake my head.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” I wipe the mascara from under my eyes, pat my face down slowly, makeup coming away with the towel.

“Did she tell you why she was sleeping here?”

“No. It all happened so fast.” My voice comes out more jagged than I mean it to be. There is a lump of guilt at the bottom of my throat.

Marjory leans up against the wall with a frown. “It’s too bad.”

I remember the snippets of stories I’ve heard about maids stealing jewelry. Nannies running off with cash, thieving from kids’ piggy banks. Drinking, lying, and worse. Gossip over lattes and cappuccinos. I don’t think Rilla ever stole from me, but I feel like there’s so much I don’t know about her. I think of all those times I let her count what was in the register at the end of the day. What if she had been pocketing some of Lillian’s earnings? Why would she be so afraid to come back unless she’s guilty of something?

“I don’t want any trouble here, Marj. If you know what kind of mess she’s in, I’d rather not know.”

Marjory is still frowning. “I don’t think it’s what you suspect—”

I cut her off. “Really, I just don’t want to know. I have enough going on and this, Lillian’s—” My throat catches. “It’s the only safe place left.”

Marjory puts her hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll shut up. Lil’s is your place; you run it however you want. I’m worried about you, though. You look exhausted.”

We both look at my reflection in the mirror, and I think of Gigi’s comment the other day.

“Are you telling me I look like crap?”

Marjory grins. “Totally awful.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime. That’s what friends are for.”

I can’t help but laugh.

She puts her arm around me, pulls me into a sideways hug. “You and I need a Friday drink,” she declares.

I couldn’t agree more.

*   *   *

The night sky, punctuated with buildings and lights, glitters beyond the window. Marjory has been to the bathroom; her lips are freshly glossed and as shiny as a new car bonnet.

“Wow, I didn’t know you liked champagne so much,” she says, waggling the empty bottle at the waiter. She tilts her head sideways in what seems like admiration.

“It’s nice and fizzy,” I reply, my tongue thick in my mouth.

“That it is.”

Our seats face the window, to suck in as much view as possible. The Crystal Club is on level thirty-something and turned back toward Macau peninsula like a dancer facing its partner. The lights swim against the glare on the window and the water between. The crowd is young and slender; girls wear skinny jeans and billowing shirts. They are tall reeds wavering in the warm night breeze. Some young man floats past me and winks. He is wearing a trilby and a waistcoat as if it is the 1930s.

“Macau looks pretty from here.” Marjory sighs. She accepts a new bottle of champagne from the waiter, who bends over us in his black uniform and refills our glasses.

Macau
is
pretty from here. Bright and popping out of the darkness. The view reminds me of the party where I first met Léon. The memory is now curdled through with all the embarrassment of a teenage crush. It makes me cringe. Only a few floors down, at Aurora, and so many months ago. It seems like my life has changed so much since that night. Thoughts of Rilla and my tattered marriage rise to the surface, like the bubbles in the glasses. I know I would feel sad if I let myself, but it seems like too much effort.

The guy with the hat comes past again. He does a double take and gives me a sweet smile. He has soft charcoal eyes and caramel skin. A mole dots the middle of one cheek.

“How are you, ladies?” He leans on the back of the couch.

Marjory looks up at him and then at me. I stare at my glass and remember the champagne Pete and I had on our honeymoon. Our feet dug into warm sand, watching the sun drift down into the ocean. Pete’s kisses tasting of pineapple, his laughter in my ear, his arm around my shoulder.

“Yeah, fine, how are you?” Marjory returns politely.

“Good. Gorgeous night,” he says a little wistfully. “I’m Tom.”

“I’m Marjory.” She leans over and shakes his hand.

“And you are?” Tom leans down so I have to look at him.

“Oh. Grace.”

“Hi, Grace.” He grins and sits down on the low table in front of me. I wonder when he will ask for Marjory’s phone number and go away. He is blocking my view. He says something to Marjory while a girl standing near the window catches my attention. She has a wide red belt around her tiny waist. She looks down into her drink and giggles with little snorts.

Marjory digs an elbow into my side. “Tom was asking if he could get us a drink,” she says out of the side of her mouth.

“Uh-huh.”

“I said we could use some snacks. We don’t need more drinks, do we?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah.”

A girl nearby pulls at her ponytail, making it tighter and higher on her head. She holds a silver purse between her lips while she does this and gives me a look out of the corner of her eye, sly and catlike. The confidence of a young woman, future unwritten. I stare back at her. I drink my champagne fast; it leaves a scalding of bubbles as it goes down. Marjory takes hold of my arm. I notice
that Tom is not in front of me now, and I look back at the city. The lights are soft and swimming on the water.

“Hey. Earth to Grace. Are you all right?”

“Huh? Yes. I’m fine. Great night.” I raise my glass to her with a wobbly smile.

“That guy could’ve burned holes in you with looking. You were away with the fairies.”

“What?”

“Tom. The guy with the hat.”

I look at her shiny lips, which have left tacky marks against her glass. “Sure. He was all over you.”

Marjory looks into my face as if searching for something. “Seriously, Grace, you couldn’t tell it was you he was after? He couldn’t stop staring, especially at that hair of yours.”

Tom comes back, and I look at him properly this time. He is taking me in and grinning. I can’t seem to hold my focus on him; perhaps it is the champagne making my gaze slither sideways. I wonder what his hair is like underneath the hat.

He pours champagne for us and throws cashews in the air, catching them in his mouth. He talks, mainly to Marjory. I catch parts of the conversation. He’s with Cirque. Yeah, he likes Macau. Well, we’re not all hippies, you know, ha ha ha. The conversation goes on and on and up and down. He buys us some margaritas and says he is from Mexico. He asks me what I do. I tell him about Lillian’s, and he leans forward, elbows on his knees. I can’t think of anything more to say, but he is looking at me as if I am about to. Tom pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and Marjory takes one. She is staring at me with a hard kind of face, her eyes like marbles behind the smoky puffs. I didn’t know Marjory smoked. Then Tom buys us mojitos and watches me pick out the pieces of mint skating on the surface.

*   *   *

When my head falls against a soft, cool pillow, I hear myself giggling, as if from a great distance. There are hot breaths above my face. The room seems to be moving slowly, like the gentle rolls of a ship on the ocean. I laugh again, and there is Mama’s voice.

“Where have you been?” It’s cold and slicing.

I kick a shoe off my foot and onto the floor. “Out.”

“With whom?”

“Out with friends, Mama.”

“You’re drunk.”

If I could nod I would, but my head is like lead against the pillow. I hear that giggling again.

“Blind bloody drunk,” she says bitterly. She is taking off my other shoe and throwing it toward my closet. She throws it hard, and it crashes against the wall. “Which friends?”

“Just friends.” Why is she always so suspicious? It was just a couple of girls from the restaurant. I’ve never really had a proper night out with girls. We laughed a lot. Men bought us drinks. One of the girls got a feather boa from a tribe of women on a hens’ night. I wore it around my neck all night like a showgirl.

“I needed you here, Grace.”

“No you didn’t.” I can hear the slur in my voice. A feather is tickling against my lips.

“Yes I did. You can’t just go out like that.”

“Shit, I just …”

“Don’t swear.”

“Shit, Mama,” I plead, then realize I have sworn again and giggle.

“Don’t you talk to me like that. I’m your mother. Don’t you talk to me like that!” Her voice is getting louder and louder.

“Okay, okay, stop freaking out.”

“You can’t just go out like that!” Now it’s all high-pitched.

I roll onto my back, and the room seems to lurch along with
me. I put my hand over my forehead. “I’m twenty years old for chrissakes, Mama. I should be able to go out for a couple of drinks.”

“You didn’t even call me!”

I can hear that she is losing it. Her voice is loud and high and desperate, like she is falling off a cliff.

“Mama …”

“I needed you here!”

“Mama, calm down. It was just one night. I wasn’t going to the moon. I was in a pub. A goddamn pub. In Islington.”

I can hear the sobs coming out of the darkness. Normally I would comfort her. Tonight I am tired and drunk and angry. One of the girls is going on holiday to Lanzarote. She’d talked about lying on the beach with a book and a cocktail. I could practically smell the coconut oil. Feel the grains of sand against my back.

“What are you going to do when I’m not here?” I add nastily.

Mama pauses her sobbing. “What do you mean?”