Nicky was twenty-four and liked Formula One.
India studied it diligently. But it transpired that she hadn’t liked that sport much either. Thenoise!
Then Nicky had dumped her and she’d been heartbroken.
A furious Georgie told her that Nicky and Jake were spoiled and she ought to date outside their circle.
‘Don’t let men walk all over you, sweetie,’ Georgie said grimly, which was in direct opposition to the sort of thing her mother said.
Sonja believed that your man was your lodestone. The yang to a woman’s yin.
That a woman could only be free when she had the right lover by her side.
‘You need to concentrate on college, India,’ Georgie said firmly, which was as close as she ever came to criticising her predecessor.
Had Georgie seen that India was falling for the wrong guys?
In college, India kept rediscovering her love of interior design, but each time she knuckled down, she fell for another guy.
There was Freddie, who was on the course because his mother was an Italian princess and owned a palazzo by the River Arno, a stone’s throw from Florence. India began learning Italian. She read Italian cookbooks and immersed herself in Florentine artists.
Turned out Italian was tricky, but India was so happy, daydreaming of her and Freddie sitting on a terrace with a vineyard beneath them, dogs dancing at their feet.
They’d lasted two months. A record, India thought, once she’d stopped sobbing over sad songs on repeat.
There was Oscar, another football fan. Leonardo, from Cornwall rather than Italy. Josef, with a thing for taller women.
None of them lasted.
By the time she was thirty-three, India had dated approximately four guys a year on a serious basis, had been engaged twice, and had not kept either of the rings because that would be unfair.
Horribly, she’d also been a bridesmaid on eight separate occasions and finally was convinced she was doing something wrong, but what?
Was she inherently unlovable?
Her father said that none of these guys were good enough for her.
Meanwhile, Georgie was still careful about stepping on Sonja’s feet when it came to mothering.
She thought India shouldn’t give herself over so totally to being in love when she met someone new.
‘You’re all heart, India, and you expect the same of other people. But you’re too trusting. Too giving. You let these guys get away with murder.’
India began to see that her high-speed male turnover was a problem.
She asked her mother for help.
‘I’m so glad you came to me for help, sweetie,’ Sonja said delightedly.
Sonja explained that fragile unicorn-butterfly people like them – India’s mother had these symbols tattooed on her slender back – can’t behave like other women.
‘We are different, India. We are fragile, we are as rare as unicorns, we are elemental like butterflies. We have our own way of living. It’s not that complicated,’ Sonja added earnestly, as if she was explaining something Einstein-y. ‘When you find the right guy, it will fall into place. It’s destiny. It will just happen.’
Finally, thought India: an explanation.
She just needed to follow certain rules.
Doing anything but nibbling a sliver of food in the presence of a man was very fragile unicorn-butterfly behaviour. Possibly the most important rule. Sonja was whisper-thin for this very reason.
