or another, neither of them worked out. His perseverance was commendable.
‘Third time lucky,’ I said like a fool.
‘Indeed,’ he replied, smiling.
We talked about each other’s jobs, families and interests, and on paper the honchos seemed to have done their job well – he was a suitable match in the eyes of my parents at least. Raj then asked if I wanted to see the Matisse exhibition. I didn’t want to say that I had visited it all week.
‘I would love to. Do you like Matisse?’ I asked, surprised.
He nodded.
As he got up I was distracted by the T-shirt underneath his blue jumper. It was on inside out so that the label was showing. It was probably nerves, haste or just clumsiness, but I found it almost endearing. I was definitely warming towards him, almost despite myself.
‘“Creativity takes courage,”’ Raj said as we entered the room.
‘How did you know he said that?’ I replied, astounded. Was this a sign? No signs all year and then a bloody shower of them.
He laughed and this time I didn’t hear the grunting sound. ‘There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Nina,’ he said confidently.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Ask as many as you like,’ he replied.
‘If you went to a casino, would you put all your money on one number?’
‘I wouldn’t go to a casino.’
‘But if you had to, what would you do?’
‘I would cover all eventualities – put as many chips on as many numbers – that way you can’t lose.’
We looked at the paintings together and his favourite was The Red Studio, the same as mine. To my surprise I found I could have spent much more time with him, but I was aware that Jean Michel would be waiting for me and that I was already running late.
‘Is there somewhere you have to be, Nina?’ he asked, spotting me checking my watch.
‘Yes, I’m really sorry. But I’m sure we’ll meet again.’
‘Look, Nina, I’ve met lots of people and I know that I like you and I’d really like to see you again. Tomorrow?’ he asked, pinning me down with a date.
I took a moment to think about it: I did want someone who was calm, who knew what they wanted, someone who was practical yet could understand me on some level. Above all, someone who was the total opposite of Jean. And how did he know that about Matisse?
‘Is it OK if I call you and let you know this evening?’
‘You can call me whenever you like,’ he replied.
I had said I’d meet Jean at seven but it was seven-thirty when I got to his apartment building. The concierge opened the door for me and smiled. I took the lift up and rang the buzzer.
Jean answered the door. He looked tired and just for one fleeting moment I wanted to forgive him and tell him that I had really, really missed him.
‘I thought you weren’t coming. I’m so happy to see you, Nina.’
Be strong, I kept telling myself.
‘Come in, cherie, come in,’ he said, coming to kiss me. ‘Cherie’ sounded stupid. I turned away so he caught part of my ear.
The lights were dimmed, candles were lit and he had made dinner.
‘Why didn’t you use your key?’ he asked.
‘Well, I don’t know, let me think … because I might find someone else here?’
‘Nina, I’m sorry, I was drunk. We got a deal with …’
I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. ‘Drunk …? Drunk …?’ If he had said he was angry with me and wanted to hurt me, maybe then I could listen, but drunk?
His eyes searched mine for something he could tell me that would make it better but they couldn’t find anything. He reached out his hand to touch me.
I wanted to tell him about my week, giving up work, finding a studio, but didn’t know where to begin and, besides, I felt I couldn’t pour my heart out to him any more.
‘Do you know that it takes courage to be creative?’
‘What?’ he replied, perplexed.
‘Creativity takes courage.’
‘Does it?’
‘I don’t know.’
He grabbed my hand, told me that he loved me, that he was sorry and would do whatever it took to make it up to me, that it would never, ever happen again. That we could start over. He said he would do absolutely anything to make me happy. And I wanted to believe every word of it, I wanted to believe it was all going to be all right, but I couldn’t because it wasn’t all right. And what if my dad was correct? What if love was fleeting and understanding was what was really important. If Jean understood me, I mean really understood me, he wouldn’t have done that. What if in a few years he found someone else again? I took a deep breath, moved my hand away from his.
‘You’ll need these back,’ I said, handing him his keys and then heading towards the door.
‘Nina, I love you,’ he shouted.
I closed the door behind me, fighting back the tears. The sad thing was I loved him too, but it wasn’t enough any more.
When I got home my mum was sitting downstairs with the contents of the jewellery box sprawled across the floor.
‘All for you, when you get married,’ she said glancing up at me. ‘Raj’s mother called to tell me it had gone very well.’
‘Yes, it went well, Ma.’
I didn’t need love, I decided then, I needed understanding; so I called Raj and asked him if he wanted to go for a walk in the park with me.
I wished I had had the luxury of a whole string of dates with Raj before having to make a decision but arranged introductions didn’t always work like that; well, especially in our family they didn’t. So if you see someone twice, especially in the space of two days, it’s a given that you’ll be walking around a fire with them and feeding each other sickly sweets on your wedding day, unless, that is, you want to deal with a distraught mother who says you have brought shame and disrepute on the family.
But how exactly events precipitated themselves that Sunday is beyond me. The walk in the park had gone well and by the end of the afternoon Raj wanted to know if there was possibly a future for us. At that time I couldn’t answer the question but by the evening I was somehow engaged to him.
It started in my absence when my dad was going through my things looking for my car insurance papers. He had taken my car out and bumped it, and true to his impatient nature couldn’t wait a couple of hours for me to get back and sort it out. While rummaging through my things, he came across letters from Jean. Letters that had been sent earlier that week, telling me how sorry he was and how much he loved me.
Putting together the fact that I wasn’t married at twenty-seven, the Zee TV lesbian talk-show incident, and believing Jean to be a woman, he almost had a heart attack as he finished reading how much Jean loved me.
He screamed at my mother, calling her to witness the evidence, and told her it was all her fault, that she had spoiled me and let me get away with ‘the murder'. They were both pacing the house, waiting for me to get home.
Raj had given me a lift back and, thank God, I hadn’t asked him in. My dad opened the door before I had even had a chance to put the key in the lock.
‘We’ve found out about you and the Jeannie,’ he shouted. ‘It is shameful. How will I hold my head in the community if anyone finds out?’ he ranted