The Colour of Tea (7 page)

Pete has been involved with start-up casinos before. He has never shied away from a work challenge. In fact he’s always seemed to relish them. That was why we moved to London before coming to Macau. Well, that and some half-baked idea that it would make me happier; that maybe I’d find some kind of peace and we’d have ourselves a neat little four-person family. Us, book-ending a small son and a daughter.

“Worst of all, half my team can’t understand a bloody word I say.”

I imagine him surrounded by Chinese, staring at him blankly, just as the man locking the temple had stared at me. Pete is used to being the captain of his ship.

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “It isn’t what I expected.” Then he pauses. “I mean, what are we going to do next, Gracie?”

I realize he is talking about more than his job, and I look down at my lap.

“Are you even here? Can I talk to my wife, please?”

He reaches over and lifts my chin. It’s not so tender. His eyes flash with frustration and longing, his hand firm against my face.

“Pete …” I start, but nothing more comes out.

One of the guys at the table next to us looks over, his eyes curious across the top of his beer glass.

Pete says, “We haven’t talked about it … I mean, a donor egg … other options …”

I twist my face away from his grip and speak through gritted teeth. “No! I can’t do it, Pete. We talked about it before the test results, remember? I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m tired. My body is tired. I’ve had enough.”

Pete lowers his voice. “Can’t we at least talk about stuff? Jesus, Grace, it’s not easy for me either, you know. All this and work as well. You don’t understand. You don’t
try
to understand.”

I look up at him now. It feels like a slap. As if I have not been trying at anything. As if breathing and eating and sleeping weren’t effort enough.

He looks deep into me, searching one eye and then the other as if hunting for something he’s lost.

“I don’t
try
?” My tone is cool and prim. I can’t help it.

“That’s not what I meant. Sorry,” he says, the edge still in his voice. “It’s just … Shit. I don’t know what to do. What are we supposed to do now?” His voice is so low it is almost a whisper. He shakes his head sadly.

“I don’t know,” I say simply, strongly. It is a hard and clear statement, sitting between us like a piece of glass.

He sits back. We look at each other in silence. I have no energy for an argument. There are new lines on his face, like he has been lying against a wrinkled pillow too long, and I wonder when we got so old. I can see the loss and the sadness in his eyes. And I have to turn away.

“Sausage and mash? Cheeseburger?”

Our waitress has a white smile and skin the color of honey. Her name badge says
SOPHIA
. We both look up at her and nod like children. She brings cutlery, and I order a lemon, lime, and bitters. Pete cuts the burger into bits, chewing each piece slowly. The Aussies at the table next to us start to sing out of tune, some old AC/DC track. Then they cheer their own performance. They refer to each other by nicknames and last names—Fazza, Ballo, Smithy.

The light around us blushes into a rich apricot. In the courtyard a young girl on a bike yelps with such happiness she sounds like a tropical bird. Her long curls fly behind her as she races past
her older brother, who whoops and tells her to go faster, faster. Her father quickly intervenes, scooping her up off the seat before she speeds and wobbles into a big crash. The bike tumbles sideways without her on it, and she laughs and throws her arms up in the air.

“I won! I won!”

“Time for bed, you,” he tells her and laughs.

Pete looks down into his food, and we both pretend not to have noticed. I move the mash around with my fork.

*   *   *

The next morning Pete is gone when I wake up, the clock glowing 9:49. I add up the numbers like a bill. That’s eleven cents change, round to ten, there you go, sir. I shake my head and sit up. The sheet is tangled around my waist, the legs of my pajama pants twisted around my legs. The pillow has been tossed to the floor, and my hair is thick and damp against my neck. Heat rises from me as from a road in summer, ebbing, ebbing, ebbing. I breathe out slowly, calming the quick skipping of my heart. The cool air from an open window finds me, caresses my temples as I let my head fall back to the mattress.
Hot flush.
The words get caught in my dry throat as I whisper them to myself. My body sending me a road sign—this is the direction now.

It has been a few days since I left the apartment, other than to fetch flour and sugar and royal icing mix. I have an impulse to walk to the gourmet supermarket, my mind already starting to wander the aisles. Maybe we can have an antipasti plate for dinner with cold wine in big glasses. I’ll buy smoked salmon and ham cut from the bone, olives and cheese. Perhaps I can be a good stay-at-home wife after all.

I change into loose pants and throw on one of Pete’s T-shirts. Beneath the sharp lemon scent of laundry powder, it smells like
him. I tie my hair back into a ponytail and avoid looking at myself in the mirror, in case I give up on the idea altogether and go back to bed instead. The supermarket is several blocks away, and with the weather starting to warm up, it is not the most comfortable hike. When I finally get there, I am coated in a light sweat and my eyes are watering from the white sunlight. I curse myself for not wearing sunglasses; not only is it brighter out here than in the cave of my bedroom, but on the way I see one of Pete’s colleagues waving at me from across the street. Sometimes I forget how small Macau is, all the expatriates practically living on top of one another. I wave and smile politely, relieved that he does not cross over to talk to me, and quickly enter the supermarket, where the air-conditioning chills the sweat on my skin.

“Grace?”

I squint toward the deep, rolling voice, my eyes still adjusting to the dim light. I make out only that it is a man, and he is tall. He comes closer and smiles.

“Hello? Oh good, I thought it was you. How are you?”

It is Léon.

I am sure I smell terrible, but he starts to lean in, so I just smile as best I can. He gives me a light kiss on each cheek, as soft as a bird’s wing.

“Hi, Léon. I’m well, and you?” My voice is ever so slightly too high.

“
Bien, très bien,
very well. I haven’t seen you since the party. What have you been doing?”

“Ah, this and that, you know. Not much.” Hiding, hibernating, wishing the world away. He smiles at me so warmly, as if we are the greatest of friends, old mates. I feel like fading into the walls, wishing he would go back to his shopping. Instead he asks me what I am planning to make, and his eyes grow wide.

“Antipasti? This is a great idea! Will you let me help you?”

“Oh, sure.”

“I have suggestions,” he says firmly and takes my elbow.

He helps me find the salmon and recommends cheeses. I buy an herbed chèvre just because he seems so enamored of it. The same with a jar of stuffed green olives; they may not be fashionable, he whispers conspiratorially, but they are still the best. In the air-conditioned silence, he walks beside me, scanning the shelves. I find myself giving him pieces of information about myself I would never normally divulge. I, Grace Miller, chatter like a schoolgirl. There is something about him that sets my tongue loose. I am sure I look surprised while I talk; it’s like listening to someone else. I tell him about going to Paris with Mama. The spontaneous holidays. The cafés, the pastries, the cups of dark coffee a young girl probably shouldn’t drink. He listens and smiles and fills my shopping basket. He laughs hard when I tell him about the time I accidentally tipped a tray of glasses filled with red wine on a customer in a cream wool sweater, and I feel my heart race strangely in my chest.

In less than twenty minutes my basket is piled high and heavy.
Pata negra,
marinated eggplant, sun-dried tomatoes. Too much food to eat, let alone carry.

“Sorry,” I apologize. “I’ve interrupted your shopping and here you are, having helped me with all mine.”

Léon lifts the basket from my arms and passes it to the girl behind the counter, who glances at us as she scans the items.

“Oh, of course,” I reply, nodding. He has a daughter.

I try to refuse his offer to drive me home, but he calmly insists.

“You have too many things,” he says simply. He plucks the shopping bags from my hands and puts them on the backseat. I get into the front seat and rest my hands in my lap.

“Okay, so where do we go?”

“Supreme Flower City, please.”

“The purple one?”

“Yes. Please.”

We drive in silence through the Taipa streets, lined with tall apartment buildings. Down the middle of our street a team of contractors is hanging up red and gold decorations. They are mostly depictions of rats, dancing and leaping in Chinese pajamas.

“You have just one daughter?” I ask.

“I have two.” He looks over his shoulder to change lanes. “Lila and Joy.”

“They’re pretty names.”

“
Oui.
Pretty girls too.” He grins broadly. “And you?”

“Me? Oh, no. No kids.” Saying it aloud makes me feel filled with sand. You would think I’d be used to it by now. But he seems not to hear my answer, watching the road as we swing into a roundabout. Either that or he knows not to ask anything further. I hold my breath until the right amount of time has passed.

“Just here, thanks,” I say, pointing to the side of the road opposite the entrance to our block. After pulling over he hops out of his seat, leaving the engine running, and reaches for my bags in the back.

“You don’t have to …” I protest, but he carries them to the door, the car still running and keys in the ignition. Inside, the doorman watches us from behind his desk with a blank kind of stare.

“Thank you so much, Léon.”

“
Sans problème.
It’s my pleasure. Enjoy your antipasti.” He smiles easily and waves as he jogs across the road to his car. I watch him leave and feel my pulse return to normal.

When I open our front door, the television is blaring, which gives me a fright. Pete is sitting on the sofa, wearing only a business shirt, tie, and boxers. I drop a bag on the floor. He looks over, unconcerned.

“Hey, the tennis is on. Thought I’d come home for lunch.” His head whips back to the screen. “That was out! Are you blind?”

I drag the bags to the kitchen and struggle to lift them onto the bench. A plastic container full of sun-dried tomatoes has split, and oil and tomatoes are all over the place. It is a mess but the smell is mouthwatering.

“Where were you?” Pete calls out.

“At the supermarket. I got us some antipasti for dinner.”

“Ah.”

“Léon was there.”

“Ah.”

“You know, Celine’s husband, the French guy? The chef?”

“Huh?”

“Léon. He helped me do the shopping.”

“Ah … Goddammit, he’s going to lose. What is
wrong
with this guy?”

I rip open a packet of buffalo mozzarella, ivory spheres floating in a milky womb. I drain the liquid and cut a thick, creamy slice. Placing one of my runaway tomatoes on top, I stand at the kitchen counter and eat, the yellow oil running down my chin. It tastes rich and full. Like summer and sunshine. I lick my fingers.

I think of Léon and his two girls. What were their names? Lila and Joy. I wonder what they look like. Do they have Celine’s slender gracefulness? Léon’s full lips and thick brows? Do they
have his sky-colored eyes? I think of them with inky ringlets and pretty silk dresses sitting at an old pine kitchen table covered in a red tartan cloth. Their tiny feet don’t touch the floor, and they swing their legs with anticipation. Léon makes them toast, spreading it with thick layers of soft, salted French butter. One of them begs for jam. He smiles, full of love, and adds scoops of glistening raspberry preserve. He plants kisses on their high, pale foreheads as they grin up at him.

Pete walks into the kitchen. “Did I tell you about brunch on Sunday?”

I straighten up, feeling oddly guilty. The oil of the tomatoes coats my throat.

He crosses to the sink and fills a glass with water. “We’ve been invited to brunch on Sunday, at Aurora. At Crown.”

My heart seems to hang suspended, mid-beat. I cough to clear my throat. “Oh? Okay, that sounds good. I love the
macarons
there.”

“What?” Pete asks. “Those meringue things? Macaroons?”

“Maca
rons.
They’re French,” I add. “They’re my favorite.”

His gaze floats to the ceiling, thinking. He reaches down and pulls at one leg of his boxer shorts, which has crept up by his groin. I shake the thoughts of Léon and his girls out of my mind as if Pete might see them.

“I think the desserts have been cut. Too much effort. Or money. Who knows?” He shrugs.

“But what about Léon?” I whisper.

“Huh? What about him?”

“Well, it’s his restaurant—is he disappointed?”

Pete snorts and shakes his head. “Don’t reckon he would be if it’s saved them some costs. I heard the price is reduced now too, lots more meat and Chinese dishes. Really good value.”

“Oh, right.”

“And they’ll still have a small dessert menu in the evening, but it’ll mostly be cheaper, outsourced stuff.” Pete drains the glass and puts it on the counter. He kisses my cheek. “Don’t worry about dinner for me tonight. I’ve got a late meeting with the builders. I’ll grab a sandwich or something.”

I nod dumbly as he leaves the kitchen and then look at the bags of shopping littered around me. I spot a grease-stained paper bag by the sink, balled up, smelling of chips and cheap oil. I watch Pete putting on his shoes, still twisting to watch the tennis, his mouth hanging slack. I lean against the counter and contemplate my antipasti plate. For one.

Une Petite Flamme—A Tiny Flame

Espresso with Dark Chocolate Ganache, Topped with a Square of Gold Leaf

A
urora’s Sunday brunch buffet is world-class, desserts or no desserts. Your mouth starts to water the moment you enter and spot the seafood bar on your right—lobsters the color of blood oranges reclining on hillocks of shaved ice, oysters split open, their salty innards on show. Around the corner is an area devoted to cheese, huge rounds of fragrant, fresh Parmesan and a soft cheese with a gray-white rind, oozing and pungent. Behind the cheeses is a magnificent honeycomb hung on a metal frame and dripping down a silver gutter into a small bowl. The entire place smells like heaven—copper pots of hot, fresh bread being carried to tables, aged ham sliced from the bone, the chocolatier dipping soft pralines. It is an adult’s Willy Wonka world, so far removed from the men crouched on street corners slurping congee and the aunties dragging stacks of flattened cardboard boxes to be exchanged for a few extra coins.