If appearing to exist on an astral plane without food was rule one, mastering the art of cherishing your man was rule two.
‘Wear make-up so that it looks like you’re not wearing make-up’: rule three.
‘Always be a free spirit. Nobody can tame you, so they’ll do anything to keep you.’
Sonja still follows the rules, even though she is in her early sixties without actually looking it – even India doesn’t know her mother’s true age.
Sonja is ageless in a beautiful but very modern, aesthetic way. Her wide-apart eyes are one of her most beautiful features, one which India has inherited. Her face is an oval with a wide, full mouth, which India also has inherited.
Sonja is a muse to several musicians.
This was rare, though, she explained to India.
In her past lives, she was never a muse, but now she is. It’s the cosmic cycle.
Before the break-up with Chad, there was a brief moment when it occurred to India that she’d been following her mother’s difficult diktats all her life, even though her mother left years ago.
Was it ever Sonja’s dream to be a mother …?
India stops her story and finds she has almost talked herself out.
She’s back on the terrace in Corfu, the scent of lavender, rosemary and bougainvillea heady in her nostrils, only the cicadas making any noise.
Everyone else is looking at her with interest, apart from Keera by her side, who has been patting India’s knee in comfort.
There’s no point in trying to pretend any more: India has laid herself bare so she has to get on with it.
‘My friend, Lizzie – the one I left to go to the football with Jake – she got married. I was a bridesmaid, me and Cleo were, in fact. I wore a cap-sleeved pink Monique Lhuillier and Lizzie was in white with lace flowers. Lizzie’s dad kept saying he should give his taxi firm to Monique Lhuillier: it would be a fairer trade.’
Dan laughs and India smiles at him. She loves making people laugh. She’s good at it too, that’s one crumb of happiness in the middle of this.
‘Keep going, India,’ prods Rose.
‘So, Lizzie had a baby. Lily-Blossom. She’s so exquisite …’
And there, India stops.
She can’t describe Lily-Blossom any more. She’d never visited anyone in hospital having a baby before Lizzie, so she’d had no idea what it would be like. It was all noise and India wondered how any baby managed to sleep, and then she came upon Lizzie in bed, tired but with this, like,glow, and there was the baby.
‘Do you want to hold her?’ Lizzie had said and delicately transferred the tiny bundle of baby clothes over to India.
‘I couldn’t breathe the first time I held her,’ India says slowly.
She suddenly no longer cares how she sounds.
What is the point of only saying what is publicly acceptable when you’ve so much pain inside that squashing it down destroys you?
India had held Lizzie’s tiny baby and the simultaneous feelings of joy and utter grief at her own childlessness had made her heart ache.
India had never felt anything like it.
She still hasn’t.
‘Lily-Blossom is so precious, no – that’s a silly word.’
India closes her eyes, feeling her way through.
‘She’s perfect, beautiful, fragile. That translucent skin is like silk and her eyes, they don’t really see you, apparently, but Lily-Blossom looked up at me and I could see her beautiful little perfect soul right there.’
