The House in Fez Page 19

  ‘He doesn’t know.’ Her expression was unreadable.

  Portia stared at her, at the un-brushed hair, the purple shadows under her eyes. She looked her age—and more. The pink lipstick—she always wore too much—had spidered into lines around her mouth. ‘But why? Have you come because of Zina?’

  ‘Zina? Why should I come home because of Zina?’

  She doesn’t know. Portia took a deep breath. ‘She had an accident. She fell…’ She pointed to the balcony.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I don’t really know. She’s broken her leg and she lost…’ Maybe she doesn’t know there was a baby.

  ‘Lost what?’ Miranda asked sharply.

  ‘Her… balance. I don’t understand, why have you come back so soon? Is there a problem with the house?’

  ‘It’s only half sorted. I’ll have to go back again.’ Her lips tightened. ‘Juliet said she was worried about you.’

  ‘She phoned you?’

  ‘She said she was afraid you’d do something stupid.’

  ‘What? She should not have done that.’

  ‘No, she damn well shouldn’t have. You look perfectly all right to me.’

  Juliet

  She closed the medina door behind her, kicked off her sandals, and slipped her feet into the welcome cool leather of the babouches. Now, in the middle of the day, the sun came down like a guillotine between the slices of shade, and the air felt hot and stale. Smiling at Hasan, she felt in her pocket for a tissue and wiped the chocolate from around his mouth. Maybe she shouldn’t keep buying it for him, but he had a lot to cope with just now. Let him have his treats.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get you a drink.’ As she turned she saw Miranda with Portia and froze. Judging by their body language, it perhaps hadn’t been the brightest thing to do, phoning her mother and begging her to come back. But how could she not? What if something terrible had happened? What if Portia had died?

  She drew in a shaky breath and walked over to them with dragging feet. ‘How was your journey, Miranda? You must be tired.’

  God, she looks just terrible. Haggard, weary, but mainly furious.

  Miranda said nothing and Juliet, hands clenched, felt obliged to keep talking, to fill the awkward silence. ‘Come and sit down. Let me get you a drink. What would you like—coffee, mint tea, something cold? Are you hungry?’

  For pity’s sake, stop babbling.

  ‘It’s Ramadan,’ Miranda snapped. Sweat stains bloomed like flowers on her cotton shirt, and her hair needed a good wash. ‘Or had you forgotten?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Juliet tried to smile. ‘I just thought—surely you can have a drink?’

  ‘I am a Muslim now,’ she said stiffly. ‘I fast with everyone else.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She looked down as Hasan tugged her hand. ‘I just need to get some juice for him and then…’ She risked a look at her sister, but the expression on Portia’s face warned her to say nothing.

  ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ Miranda said, ‘then I’ll be having a rest. Where is Samir?’

  ‘At the hospital.’

  ‘Right.’ She took a breath as though she had more to add, then snatched up her case and headed for the stairs.

  ‘She didn’t know,’ Portia said.

  ‘Didn’t know what?’

  ‘About Zina. Samir hadn’t told her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shrugged. ‘Who knows? Who cares? More to the point, what the fuck were you thinking, getting Miranda to come home? Why did you do it? I asked you to keep quiet.’

  Juliet raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I know, but I was so worried. I didn’t know what to do for the best. It was such a responsibility. What if..?’ She put a tentative hand on Portia’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off and stalked away.

  She’s pulling away from me, thread by thread. Soon she’ll be gone altogether and we’ll be back to where we were when we met up at Heathrow. We were becoming close, but I’ve really messed it up now.

  Once she’d poured some orange juice for Hasan, she trailed upstairs to change into a sleeveless top. Surprised to hear her phone ring, she pulled it out of her bag. Darren. She answered it. ‘Hello, love. Everything all right?’

  ‘Just great, job’s coming on a treat. It’s just…’

  Oh my God, it’s Jacob. He’s heard something or maybe… Her heart hammered and she felt sick.

  ‘The thing is,’ he cleared his throat, ‘I’m wondering if you miss me—just a bit? I mean… I know you’re better there, eating and sleeping and stuff, but you will be coming home again one day, won’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, of course I will.’

  When their conversation had finished she gazed, unseeing, into the courtyard. She didn’t want to go home ever again; to the grey of the Midlands, and the anxiety about her son. She wanted to stay here with the family, in the sunshine. She’d built a life with her husband, and now she didn’t know what to do about it. Poor, blameless Darren who had never been less than kind or loving all these years.

  Miranda’s bedroom door opened and she appeared clutching a towel and a bottle of shampoo. Without her usual makeup, her face looked naked and vulnerable.

  ‘I’m so sorry, dragging you back,’ Juliet said. ‘I just thought—’

  ‘Your sister looks perfectly all right to me.’

  ‘She’s done it before.’

  It was out now, and Portia would probably kill her.

  ‘Done what before?’

  ‘Cut herself,’ Juliet said, looking down at the floor.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Miranda threw her towel and shampoo to the ground and grabbed Juliet’s arms. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘At school. She started when we were at school.’

  She let go of Juliet’s arms and the colour drained from her face. ‘Why didn’t I know?’ she whispered. ‘Why wasn’t I told? How could she be… doing that, and it not be obvious?’

  ‘She didn’t want you to know.’

  ‘But I’m her mother. Christ, I need a cigarette.’

  ‘Have one then.’

  ‘I can’t, it’s Ramadan,’ she said impatiently. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Juliet? You knew, so why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘She wouldn’t let me.’ She stiffened with tension. I’m going to have to tell her. ‘She said you should have noticed, should have been aware. You shouldn’t have needed it spelled out.’

  Miranda closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. A single tear escaped, then another. Juliet put an arm around her shaking shoulders.

  ‘I should have known, shouldn’t I?’ Miranda said, lifting her tear-stained face. ‘I was always too busy, working, studying…’

  ‘You had a lot on your plate.’ Juliet pulled a grubby tissue from her pocket, gave it a doubtful look but handed it to her mother anyway.

  Miranda scrubbed her eyes, then sniffed loudly. ‘Well I know now, so it’s time to try to make amends. Where is she?’

  Juliet stared at her in alarm. ‘Oh no, I don’t think… I would leave it for now. Give it till tomorrow when the dust’s settled a bit.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Trust me, Miranda. It would be best.’

  Portia didn’t come to dinner again that night.

  Oh my God, is she all right? What if..?

  Should she go and talk to her, try to persuade her to come down? Would she think it intrusive? But if she didn’t, Portia might feel neglected and left out of the family. Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. In the end she didn’t.

  Despite whatever words might have passed between Samir and Miranda regarding Zina, all now seemed to be happiness and light. He still seemed as preoccupied as before, but her mother was once again circling around him as though he was the sun.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JUNE 13th

  Portia

  She lay in the darkness listening to Juliet’s steady breathing. God, her arm really hurt now. She’d have to bathe
it again, in strong salt water this time—she winced at the thought. Why had she done it? Why… but she knew. To let the pressure off, just ease it a little. When the skin opened and she saw the bright red of her blood she felt relief. Just for a while.

  The muezzin began his chanting, quietly at first, then rising in speed and intensity. Juliet’s bed creaked as she stirred. ‘Isn’t that the most beautiful sound?’ she said, her words muffled by the bedclothes. ‘And the most melancholy.’

  A sound of clattering rose from the kitchen.

  ‘Aren’t you on breakfast duty anymore?’ Portia asked.

  ‘Nope.’ She yawned. ‘Miranda can do it.’

  ‘Juliet?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I’m sorry I was so… savage. I just didn’t want her knowing.’

  ‘I know. I know you didn’t.’ Juliet sat up and there was the rasp of a match and the smell of sulphur as she fed flame to the wick of the candle, her shadow huge against the walls. ‘I got scared. I suppose I wanted to pass on the responsibility.’

  A door slammed somewhere outside.

  ‘I had a call from Darren yesterday,’ she continued. ‘He asked me… he’s wondering if I’m getting too comfortable here, if I might not want to go home again.’

  Portia gave her an appraising look. ‘And he’s right, isn’t he?’

  She nodded. ‘I feel so well here and I rather like being part of a… clan. It is rather tribal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Soon will be when they all descend on us.’

  ‘But… even Jacob. I don’t feel the constant anguish I do back in England.’

  ‘I suppose it’s the distance. You can detach a bit, whereas it’s all on top of you at home.’

  ‘All I ever wanted for him was to be happy.’ Her voice broke. ‘I tried to be a good mother, really I did.’

  ‘Of course you did, love. I’m sure you were—are—a brilliant mum.’

  Juliet dried her eyes on the hem of the sheet. ‘What about you and Gavin?’

  Guilt stabbed into her. There had been five missed calls from her husband since yesterday morning, or, to be more truthful, five ignored calls. ‘I’ll phone him later.’ Her spirits plummeted at the prospect. When had their relationship become so cracked, so splintered? When did they finally lose all respect for each other? Melanie couldn’t be blamed. She was the result, not the cause. Maybe it had been all her fault and she should have shown more understanding when her stepdaughters hit the difficult teenage years. Why hadn’t she left him? When had she become such a coward? Dark thoughts stuck in her mind like Velcro and the familiar emptiness returned, the emptiness which could only be assuaged with the letting of blood.

  Juliet pleaded with her to come down for breakfast. ‘You have to eat. Just look at yourself, the pounds are dropping off you.’

  ‘Huh. There’s enough fat on me to last months.’ She slapped her thigh. ‘Look at the lard on that.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that. You’re not fat. You’re beautiful, Portia.’

  She snorted. ‘I don’t think so. You go. I’m stopping here.’

  Within minutes she heard a tap on the door and groaned. Please God, not Miranda. But God must have been feeling uncooperative.

  Miranda fiddled with a button on her shirt. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked in a low voice.

  ‘Why didn’t you see?’ Portia burst out. ‘Did you never wonder why I wore long sleeves all year round? Sweated all through the summer?’

  ‘I wasn’t around a lot.’ She leaned back against the door and met Portia’s gaze. ‘Always working. Remember?’

  ‘It was your choice to bring us into the world.’

  ‘Rather than abort you?’ she snapped.

  ‘Okay, fair point, but—’

  ‘Portia—why do you do it?’

  She gave a gusty sigh. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Okay—the pressure gets too much.’

  ‘Pressure of what?’

  ‘Living.’

  Miranda’s throat moved as she swallowed. ‘And cutting yourself… helps?’ she asked hoarsely.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I see?’ She took a step forward, put out a hand.

  Portia leaped away. ‘No, you bloody well can’t.’ Anger bubbled up inside her.

  ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘There is no help. I’ve had professional help and it doesn’t last.’

  Tears welled in her mother’s eyes. ‘I feel such a failure. I thought I’d done a good job of bringing you both up and all the time…’ The tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin.

  Oh shit, I don’t need this. Which bloody Shakespearean tragedy is she re-enacting now?

  ‘It’s maybe me,’ she muttered. ‘After all, Juliet’s turned out normal enough.’

  ‘I am so sorry. All this time, all the—’

  ‘Let it go, Miranda,’ she said wearily.

  ‘I can’t. How can I?’

  Portia looked away, didn’t want to see her mother’s ravaged face, didn’t want to feel the guilt beginning to wash over her. ‘You’re sorry, okay—but what about when we weren’t kids any more, when Juliet and I had grown up?’

  She stared at her blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do I mean? As soon as… the minute we’d finished our education, you just buggered off.’ Her voice rose as she tried to control her fury.

  ‘But it was my turn then. To have a life.’

  ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you to hang around? See how we turned out? See who we married, how our careers took off?’

  Miranda bit her lip. ‘Well no, actually. As I said, it was my turn.’

  Portia pushed past her and opened the door. Sometimes I think I was only born into this family to learn patience. Well, I’ve had enough. I’ve had more than enough. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than listen to any more of this crap. I’m going home.

  Juliet

  ‘Where are you going?’ Juliet asked as Portia stormed past her across the courtyard.

  ‘Out of here. As far away as I can get.’

  ‘I gathered that. But where, precisely?’

  ‘I’m going to book my flight home.’

  Juliet regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Didn’t go too well then, Miranda trying to pacify you?’

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’ She caught her sister’s hand and gave it a tug. ‘Come and have breakfast with me—please—I don’t like eating on my own.’

  Portia’s gaze swept the riad. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

  ‘Eaten and gone. Samir’s at the hospital, Hasan’s at school, Miranda… dunno…’

  ‘Attila?’

  ‘Still in bed I think. Complaining of a stomach ache apparently and demanding room service. Come on.’ She pulled Portia’s arm.

  ‘All right then. I must admit some hot coffee and croissants would hit the spot.’

  ‘They ate them all.’

  She sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll settle for bread and honey. Shall I make a fresh pot of coffee?’

  ‘Good idea.’ Juliet relaxed. Maybe if she could have a leisurely breakfast with her sister and really talk to her, she might be able to persuade her not to go rushing off.

  Juliet poured out the coffee and said, carefully, ‘So, let me get this straight. She said she was sorry. Didn’t she look contrite enough for you?’

  Portia scowled. ‘Don’t take the piss. Yes, to be fair, she seemed devastated.’

  ‘So why are you so angry?’

  ‘She appears to think she did her bit until we left school, then it was perfectly acceptable to swan off and do her own thing.’

  ‘But she’d had a pretty tough time, all those years.’

  ‘So you’re on her side, then?’ Portia slammed her cup down. Coffee slopped onto the table, formed a pool, then trickled away to drip onto the tiles.

  ‘There are no sides.’ She leaned forward. ‘Nothing’s ever black and w
hite. She’s conceded she maybe wasn’t the brilliant mother she thought…’

  ‘And?’ Portia glared at her.

  ‘And I think a bit of… grace wouldn’t go amiss.’ She gave her an anxious look. Had she gone too far? Taking Portia’s hand, she continued. ‘Stay a bit longer. Let her try to make amends as far as she’s able.’

  ‘Back to being Pollyanna, are you?’ she said sourly.

  Stung, Juliet replied in a low voice, ‘Don’t sneer at me. I just think it would be good to be… some sort of family.’

  A fly buzzed around before settling on the butter.

  ‘Bastard thing,’ Portia muttered. Then suddenly she burst out laughing.

  Juliet stared at her in surprise.

  ‘I do love you, Juliet. What did I ever do without you?’

  She flushed with pleasure. Thank goodness. She’d thought it was all about to go horribly wrong. ‘So, will you stay a bit longer?’

  ‘Yeah, all right.’

  They turned as the street door grated and opened. Miranda stepped into the courtyard, then hesitated as she saw her daughters.

  ‘Come and sit down with us for five minutes,’ Juliet called, flashing a warning look at her sister.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Portia growled.

  ‘It’s hot today.’ Miranda fanned her face with a newspaper as she sank into a chair. ‘Is everyone all right?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Juliet said. ‘We just—get down, will you?’

  The cat had leapt onto the table where it sniffed at their plates. Portia swept it to the floor and it hissed at her. ‘Bloody things, they’re everywhere. Why do people keep feeding them? Everywhere you go, there’s dishes of food left out.’

  Miranda bent to fondle the cat. ‘Because the Prophet, peace be upon him…’

  Portia rolled her eyes.

  ‘…singled them out for kind treatment.’

  ‘But not dogs?’

  ‘Oh no. They’re considered dirty. Do you know, if you touch one you have to wash seven times before you can enter the mosque?’