She’ll be fine, he’s sure of it. And Shane will be fine too. He’ll just express his condolences to Pam and Kamal and the rest of the family and not get into any conversations about his own life. No need to go into the fact that his ex-wife and children are currently on a Danish riverboat with a success architect.
Having left the town behind, he marches briskly through his old estate and follows the country lane towards the Kapoors’. As Cherry Cottage comes into view, he makes a firm vow not to mention Paula, Rich Tony or Onion Elaine, or anything about the state of his life.
5
JOSIE
Hugs, tears and reminiscences. It’s been dizzying, seeing Pam and Kamal and the extended Kapoor family again. So many faces, all at once – and Shane, of course. I’m still shuddering as we make our way across the garden and follow Pam back into the house.
What was I thinking, raving to him about bus travel and service stations? Like an old man from 1975! Somehow, I’ve done it all wrong and haven’t turned out the way a grown-up woman is supposed to be. By this point, I should have acquired:
A car (my terrible Fiat died years ago) or at least the means to afford a train ticket.
The ability to ‘do’ my hair.
A manicure habit.
Decent, non-embarrassing pillows.
Signature dishes to cook for friends.
A signature fragrance.
A signature anything.
Illuminator!
Pension plans and financial matters all sorted. As it is, I’m perpetually overdrawn – although Lloyd has come up with a solution to that. We’ll sell pictures of my feet on a fetish site. Easy money, he reckons: ‘Yours are exactly the kind of shape that punters love.’ And what shape might that be? ‘Toes of a similar length. See how your feet are kinda… blocky?’ Why, thank you kindly, sir. ‘It’s called the peasant foot,’ he explained. And I wonder why I can no longer orgasm with this man.
As we all gather around Pam in the living room, I push such unseemly thoughts from my mind. Guests are still chatting, not quite settled down. Pam beams around at us, poised and stylish in a flowing blue maxi dress, her once long, bouncy dark hair turned silver now, scooped up elegantly into a sort of bun. The Kapoors were young parents – at least, younger than mine – but she and Kamal must be well into their eighties now. This house was our teenage gathering place, and how glamorous it seemed with its thick shagpile carpets and leather pouffes. Kamal drove a gleaming silver car – a ‘saloon’ – rather than the old bangers that everyone else seemed to rattle around in, if they had a car at all. They threw lavish parties and barbecues and always seemed to be adding some incredibly covetable feature to their home: a breakfast bar, a jacuzzi bath, a special bum-washing machine called a bidet.
My little terraced council house seemed so plain in comparison. Shane’s too, which was just down the road from mine – although we only went there when his mum and stepdad were out. On top of all the glamour, the fluffy rugs and cocktail shakers and delicious home cooking, Pam and Kamal were happy for us to take over their rickety old wooden garage as our band’s rehearsal space. ‘Of course you can use it,’ Pam insisted. ‘You won’t be bothering anyone out here!’
She dings her wine glass again and a respectful hush descends. I glance over at Shane and our eyes meet briefly. Pam clears her throat and hoists a smile. ‘I’d just like to thank you all for coming here today,’ she announces, ‘to our celebration for Ravi.’ She bites her bottom lip and her hands tremble. Kamal steps closer, his gaze radiating kindness, and touches her arm. ‘And this is a celebration,’ she continues, seeming to gather herself, ‘to honour our wonderful daughter and all she achieved in life. A party, really!’ Her brown eyes sparkle. ‘I’m so glad we decided to do this, because a party is exactly what Ravi would want us to have.’ As she takes another moment to steady herself, I marvel at her ability to even deliver a speech at all. If anything were to happen to Cora, I doubt that I’d be capable of standing upright in front of a room full of people, let alone of speaking coherently.
‘We’re delighted that so many of you could make it,’ Pam continues, ‘from all over the country, some of you! From as far away as London’ – she catches my eye and I muster a smile – ‘and we’re so grateful for that…’ She turns to Kamal, and as he tops up her wine glass she smiles gratefully.
I eye the bottle as he places it back on the table. After my performance in the garden (‘The Cornish Pasty Company!’) I could cosh myself on the head with it. I catch Shane again, looking the picture of composure over there. Very smart, too, in his dark blue shirt and black chinos, with his hair nicely cut. He’s made an effort but there’s no air of vanity about him. What I’d give to have that easy confidence, to be happy in my own skin.
I’d panic-bought my own Ravi-celebration outfit on Vinted. Please don’t wear funeral clothes, Pam had stated in her last email. It’s a celebration, not a wake! In the bleak budget hotel where I’m staying tonight, the simple shift dress looked dowdier than I’d hoped. But maybe that was just my state of mind? I was still feeling rattled after my walk through town – my first visit since Mum and Dad moved away, fifteen years ago now, to a bungalow on the Northumbrian coast.
I noticed that Mary’s Milk Bar is all boarded up now, The Regal Hotel a solicitor’s office, and the mill converted into some kind of business premises. We’d clambered into it, Shane and I, drunk and giggling among the startled pigeons and wrecked manufacturing equipment. The memory of what happened next hits me squarely between the eyes, triggering an entire-body sweat. I notice Dev, Ravi’s brother, murmuring something to Shane who’s standing next to him. Shane smiles warmly and nods. Why can’t I be like this, acting normally at a gathering?
With his dapper silver beard as immaculately trimmed as ever, Kamal steps forward and claps his hands together. ‘So, everyone,’ he starts, ‘we’d love you to take a bit of time to look through our photos and to write your memories of Ravi in our book.’ He indicates the large leather photograph album, and a journal with a lavishly embroidered cover on the table to his side.
There’s been no mention yet of whatever it is that Ravi left for me and Shane. I’m still amazed that she’d even thought of us at all. After all the terrible stuff happened, and everything fell apart – the band, our friendships – I’d moved to London, and she’d relocated to the other side of the world. I can only assume that Shane got on with his own life too.
Why hadn’t I at least dropped Ravi a note? She could have ignored it, if she’d wanted to. But at least I’d have tried. As shame wells up in me, I make pleasantries with the other guests as if nothing untoward has ever happened. As if we’d still been friends. And gradually, I edge towards the table until it’s my turn to browse through the album.
I open the cover, and my gaze drops to the first photo. It’s of Ravi as a beautiful, plump-cheeked baby with huge brown eyes. Something seems to clamp itself around my heart as I stare at it, then quickly turn the page. Here’s Ravi in an elaborate tangerine dress at a family celebration. Ravi in school uniform holding her mum’s hand. Someone is looking over my shoulder now; an older woman wearing a heady floral perfume. ‘Oh, look at that,’ she says, and I nod. There are more pictures, loosely in chronological order. Ravi as a teenager, her dark hair sleek and glossy and then the backcombing comes in, and the pink streaks.
And then come the band photos: a jumble of those small rectangular prints that everyone used to have done at Boots, and a few faded Polaroids. Ravi in ripped jeans and a crocheted top, a red spotty scarf knotted at the front of her bird’s nest hair. Me with my bleached blonde crop, wearing a ratty old black silk dress I’d found in Oxfam, with my beloved oxblood DMs.
‘Oh!’ the woman exclaims. ‘I remember Ravi’s band. Weren’t they good? So confident and full of energy!’
‘They were,’ I concur, relieved that she hasn’t recognised me from the photos. ‘Who’s that again?’ She pokes a glossy pink nail at the skinny boy grinning sheepishly from behind a cheap drum kit.
‘That’s Shane,’ I tell her. ‘Shane Calvert.’
