I hesitated for a moment – one-on-one conversations hardly being my thing – and felt her eyes on me as I did so. ‘Yes,’ I agreed eventually. ‘Why not?’
We walked along the road and settled ourselves with our drinks in a quiet corner of the wine bar. ‘So, Star the Enigmatic.’ Shanthi smiled at me. ‘Tell me who you are?’
Given this was the question I always dreaded, I had a stock response to it. ‘I was born in Switzerland, I have five sisters, all adopted, and I went to Sussex University.’
‘And what did you study?’
‘English Literature. You?’ I asked, deftly tossing the conversational ball back to her.
‘I’m first-generation British from an Indian family. I work as a psychotherapist and mostly deal with depressed and suicidal adolescents. Sadly, there’s a lot of them about these days,’ Shanthi sighed. ‘Especially in London. The pressure parents bring to bear on their kids to achieve these days is something I’m all too familiar with.’
‘So why the cookery course?’
‘Because I love it! It’s my greatest pleasure.’ She grinned broadly. ‘You?’
I understood now that this woman was used to drawing people out, which made me feel even more guarded.
‘I love to cook too.’
‘Do you intend to make it your career?’
‘No. I think I like it because I’m good at it, even if that sounds a bit selfish.’
‘“Selfish”?’ Shanthi laughed, the musical timbre of her voice warm in my ears. ‘I believe feeding the body is also a way of feeding the soul. And it isn’t selfish in the slightest. It’s okay to enjoy what you’re good at, you know. In fact, it will help the finished product hugely. Passion always does. So, what else are you “passionate” about, Star?’
‘Gardens and . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Writing. I like writing.’
‘And I love reading. That, more than anything, has opened up my mind and enlightened me. I’ve never had the money to travel, but books take me there. Where do you live?’
‘Tooting. But we’re moving to Battersea soon.’
‘I live in Battersea too! Just off the Queenstown Road. Do you know it?’
‘No. I’m still quite new to London.’
‘Oh, so where have you lived since university?’
‘Nowhere really. I’ve travelled a lot.’
‘Lucky you,’ Shanthi said. ‘I hope to see more of the world before I die, but to date I’ve never had the money. How did you afford it?’
‘My sister and I took jobs wherever we were in the world. She did bar work and I usually did cleaning.’
‘Wow, Star, you’re far too bright and beautiful to have your hands down a toilet, but good on you. Sounds like you’re the eternal seeker . . . unable to settle down.’
‘It was more to do with my sister than me. I just followed her.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘At home. We live together. She’s an artist and she’s starting a foundation course at the Royal College of Art next month.’
‘Right. So . . . do you have a significant other?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I. Any previous meaningful relationships?’
‘No.’ I looked at my watch, feeling heat spread through my cheeks at her barrage of questions. ‘I should be going.’
‘Of course.’ Shanthi drained her glass, then followed me out of the wine bar.
‘It’s been great to get to know you better, Star. Here’s my card. Drop me a text sometime and let me know how you’re getting on. And if you ever need to talk, I’m always here.’
‘I will. Goodbye.’
I walked away from her swiftly. I was not comfortable discussing ‘relationships’. With anyone.
‘Finally!’
CeCe stood, hands on hips, in the cramped entrance to our apartment. ‘Where on earth have you been, Sia?’
‘I went out for a quick drink with a friend,’ I said as I passed her to go to the bathroom, hastily shutting the door.
‘Well, you might have told me. I’ve cooked you something to celebrate the end of your course. But it’s probably ruined by now.’
CeCe rarely, if ever, ‘cooked’. On the few occasions I hadn’t been around to feed her, she’d eaten takeaway. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll be out in a second.’
I listened through the door and heard her marching away. After washing my hands, I pulled my fringe out of my eyes, bending my knees slightly to regard myself in the mirror.
‘Something has to change,’ I said to my reflection.
5
By August, London felt like a ghost town. Those who could afford to had fled the temperamental UK climate, which seemed to oscillate inconsistently between humid and cloudy, sunny and wet. The ‘real’ London was asleep, waiting for its occupants to return from foreign shores so its daily business could resume once more.
I too felt a strange sense of torpor. If I had not slept in the days after Pa Salt’s death, now I could hardly rouse myself from bed in the mornings. In contrast, CeCe was all action, insisting I accompany her to choose a particular fridge or the perfect tile for the splashbacks in the new apartment.
One muggy Saturday, when I would have happily stayed in bed with a book, she demanded that I got up and dragged me on a bus to an antique shop, convinced I would love the furniture it stocked.
‘Here we are,’ she said as she peered out of the window and dinged the bus bell for the next stop. ‘The shop is number 159, so we’re here.’
We alighted and I gasped as, for the second time in the space of a couple of weeks, I had ended up a few feet from the door of Arthur Morston Books. CeCe turned left, heading to the shop next door, but I lagged behind, peering briefly into the window. It was full of old books, the kind that I one day dreamed of having enough money to collect, and which would adorn my own shelves on either side of my imagined fireplace.
‘Hurry up, Sia, it’s quarter to four already. I don’t know what time they close here on a Saturday.’
I followed her, entering a shop that was full of oriental furniture – crimson stained and lacquered tables, black cupboards with delicate butterflies painted on the doors, and golden Buddhas smiling serenely.
‘Doesn’t it make you wish we’d bought a container-load when we were travelling?’ CeCe raised her eyebrows as she looked at one of the price tags, then formed her hands into the sign for ‘lots of money’. ‘We must be able to source them cheaper elsewhere,’ she added.
She led us out of the shop and, having perused the windows of the other quaint old-fashioned shops along the street, we headed back to the bus stop. While we waited for the bus to arrive, there was nothing to do but stare back across the road into Arthur Morston Books. My sister Tiggy would tell me that it was fate. At best, I thought it was indeed coincidental.
A week later, while CeCe went to the apartment to check on the progress of the tilers as we were due to move in a few days’ time, I walked to the local corner shop to buy a pint of milk. As I stood at the counter waiting for my change, I glanced down at a headline on the bottom right-hand side of The Times.