volunteered eagerly, “Babysitting. Taking him for walks and outings. Maybe having him to stay when you two want a weekend away. After all, I’ll be much closer here in London than Naisha up in Leicester.”
Uneasily, Jeremy said, “You know, it’s awfully early days yet.”
“Of course it is,” his mother agreed. “Of course. But I need to know. If I’m expected to make plans.”
She went back to rolling the toxic-looking cherry around her plate.
Jeremy sighed. He checked his watch. “Listen,” he said impatiently, “I really have to run. I don’t know why you have to go looking for trouble before it’s even happened. I’m sure – if you don’t scare Smi by coming on too strong way too soon – she’ll be perfectly OK about all this kind of thing.”
He stood up. “Please, whatever you do, just don’t say anything to her about this whole issue yet. She’s feeling very fragile at the moment.”
His mother grinned. “Pregnant women can be terribly touchy.”
Jeremy ignored the remark. Before he left, he said, “You’ll have to tell me on the phone tonight where it is you actually plan to live. I’m curious.”
As he drove out of the hotel, his phone rang and it was Smita complaining that he had forgotten to telephone her father to wish him a happy birthday, as he had promised.Jeremy had never understood why, in Smita’s family, a phone call was always expected as well as a card. For a moment, he had the disagreeable sensation that he was surrounded by demanding women. But it only lasted for a second or two and afterwards of course he was ashamed of it.
Sylvia watched her son leave and reflected, for the umpteenth time, how very foolish he was. It was only when he was out of sight that she realised how very foolish she was too. She was starting out on the wrong foot entirely. She had only been back in England for twenty-four hours and already she and Jeremy were rubbing each other up the wrong way. Her only son. Why did it have to be like this? And the baby, her only grandson; why was she already getting into an argument about him before he was even born?
She leapt up from the table, in as much as someone of her age and build could leap, and charged out of the restaurant after Jeremy. Behind her, she was dimly aware of someone calling and a commotion but she carried on. She reached the revolving front door of the hotel in time to see Jeremy’s car turning out of the forecourt into the street. Too late. Dispiritedly, she turned away to be confronted by two waitresses from the coffee shop, one holding out her bill and the other her handbag.
She retreated to her room; sleep, what other consolation was there? As she lay in bed, curiously untired the moment her head touched the pillow, she reflected forthe umpteenth time on Jeremy and Smita’s marriage and what a very ill-conceived pairing it was.
Jeremy had first brought Smita out to meet them about five years ago. They were still living in Riyadh then, Riyadh the dusty, Riyadh the drab, Riyadh the insufferable. They had known he was seeing a girl for some time but he had never told them anything about her. Silly boy; did he imagine they would be shocked that she was Indian? When they had lived all those years in Delhi and absolutely loved it? In any case, as soon as he announced that he was bringing a girl and that her name was Smita, of course the penny dropped. Sylvia and Roger were absolutely thrilled; firstly, because it laid to rest certain unspoken concerns which they had long had about Jeremy and, secondly, because they imagined that having a young Indian woman in the house would be such fun. Quite what they had imagined, she really couldn’t say now – doe eyes and ankle bracelets? – but it certainly hadn’t been Smita.
Of course what they didn’t know then was that Smita Mehta had been born and brought up in Leicester and was, as far as she was concerned, not really Indian at all. Her parents, who had arrived in Britain when
Uneasily, Jeremy said, “You know, it’s awfully early days yet.”
“Of course it is,” his mother agreed. “Of course. But I need to know. If I’m expected to make plans.”
She went back to rolling the toxic-looking cherry around her plate.
Jeremy sighed. He checked his watch. “Listen,” he said impatiently, “I really have to run. I don’t know why you have to go looking for trouble before it’s even happened. I’m sure – if you don’t scare Smi by coming on too strong way too soon – she’ll be perfectly OK about all this kind of thing.”
He stood up. “Please, whatever you do, just don’t say anything to her about this whole issue yet. She’s feeling very fragile at the moment.”
His mother grinned. “Pregnant women can be terribly touchy.”
Jeremy ignored the remark. Before he left, he said, “You’ll have to tell me on the phone tonight where it is you actually plan to live. I’m curious.”
As he drove out of the hotel, his phone rang and it was Smita complaining that he had forgotten to telephone her father to wish him a happy birthday, as he had promised.Jeremy had never understood why, in Smita’s family, a phone call was always expected as well as a card. For a moment, he had the disagreeable sensation that he was surrounded by demanding women. But it only lasted for a second or two and afterwards of course he was ashamed of it.
Sylvia watched her son leave and reflected, for the umpteenth time, how very foolish he was. It was only when he was out of sight that she realised how very foolish she was too. She was starting out on the wrong foot entirely. She had only been back in England for twenty-four hours and already she and Jeremy were rubbing each other up the wrong way. Her only son. Why did it have to be like this? And the baby, her only grandson; why was she already getting into an argument about him before he was even born?
She leapt up from the table, in as much as someone of her age and build could leap, and charged out of the restaurant after Jeremy. Behind her, she was dimly aware of someone calling and a commotion but she carried on. She reached the revolving front door of the hotel in time to see Jeremy’s car turning out of the forecourt into the street. Too late. Dispiritedly, she turned away to be confronted by two waitresses from the coffee shop, one holding out her bill and the other her handbag.
She retreated to her room; sleep, what other consolation was there? As she lay in bed, curiously untired the moment her head touched the pillow, she reflected forthe umpteenth time on Jeremy and Smita’s marriage and what a very ill-conceived pairing it was.
Jeremy had first brought Smita out to meet them about five years ago. They were still living in Riyadh then, Riyadh the dusty, Riyadh the drab, Riyadh the insufferable. They had known he was seeing a girl for some time but he had never told them anything about her. Silly boy; did he imagine they would be shocked that she was Indian? When they had lived all those years in Delhi and absolutely loved it? In any case, as soon as he announced that he was bringing a girl and that her name was Smita, of course the penny dropped. Sylvia and Roger were absolutely thrilled; firstly, because it laid to rest certain unspoken concerns which they had long had about Jeremy and, secondly, because they imagined that having a young Indian woman in the house would be such fun. Quite what they had imagined, she really couldn’t say now – doe eyes and ankle bracelets? – but it certainly hadn’t been Smita.
Of course what they didn’t know then was that Smita Mehta had been born and brought up in Leicester and was, as far as she was concerned, not really Indian at all. Her parents, who had arrived in Britain when
Similar Books
