The Colour of Tea Read Online Free PDF Page A

That was when he moved in with Dan. Pete reckoned Dan was a good guy,but he “got pissed a bit too often for his own good,” which was probably pretty accurate. Pete was going to move out in a few months, it was time; he and Dan had been flatting together for years now. I looked at his green-flecked eyes while he spoke in that low, strong voice, stared at the fringe of black lashes. We sat and ate and talked and watched the TV for a few hours. He told me my tart was the best pie he’d ever eaten. It felt easy, like being with family, if I’d ever had much of one other than Mama. And he pointed out that I was wearing his flip-flops.
    *   *   *
    Now, so many years later, Pete’s naked body is stretched out on the bed, those handsome eyes closed. He is right next to me, but he feels so very far away. I go to the shower alone. When the tears start, they are hot and full. I stand under the stream and let the water flow over my eyelids and nose and splash onto my chest. Suddenly too tired to stand, I sit down and curl my knees toward my breasts. I imagine Mama coming in and seeing me like this. Whatever mood she was in, and there were some bad ones, she would give me a towel. Tell me to get up and come have toast. She’d put the kettle on and fill a hot-water bottle, slide it into a brown woolen cover. She’d make tea. I wait, the shower tiles leaving an imprint on my backside, but no one comes to wrap me in a towel; there is only the sound of water falling.

La Ville-Lumière—City of Light
    Parisian Crêpe–Inspired Banana with Hazelnut Chocolate Ganache
    P eace descends on the apartment after Pete leaves for work, a light and floating silence. Television news is switched off; taps have stopped running; shoes no longer clunk on the wooden floorboards. I lifted my head off the pillow once or twice to talk to him as he got ready, but as usual I didn’t know where to start. He has tried to start conversations for weeks now, and I have buried myself in this bed to avoid them. Eventually he stopped trying. I risk opening one eye again. The sunlight is piercingly bright. Spring bright. I sigh and open my other eye with reluctance, squinting and blinking, and get to my feet. Standing at the window, I can see Pete’s tiny figure walking to the office. It must be warmer now; he has his jacket slung over one shoulder, his attention firmly fixed on something in his hand. His phone, I bet. I urge him to turn around so I can wave. He looks up and I think he might turn and see me, might sense that I am standing at the window, hands pressed on either side of the frame. But he strides on.
    The sun pours through the glass onto my skin; I can feel the small hairs on my arms standing up to greet it. Good morning, sun.Good morning, morning. The clouds are fat and floaty, as if they have been plucked from the Sistine Chapel and slapped across the Macau sky. They rest against a sheet of bright blue, an unexpected pollution-free sky today. I lean my head against the pane and breathe in; perhaps the loveliness can be inhaled. I roll my forehead around to one side to look back at the island that is our bed. The sheets are tangled and need to be washed. There is a smell like warm dust and stale bread. I know I need to stop living like a hermit, but the effort of getting dressed and leaving the apartment seems too huge. I take a deep breath to give me resolve and search for my sports bra underneath strappy, lacy underwear I no longer wear.
    The doorman looks up when I get out of the lift dressed in tracksuit bottoms, T-shirt, and runners, rumpled but awake and moving. I wonder if he is surprised to see me at this time. Or at all. His gaze follows me as I walk out the glass doors.
    Despite the blue sky, the air smells of exhaust fumes and is filled with the noise of brakes and horns. The morning sounds of going to work and taking the kids to day care. Two destinations to which I will not be going. I long for a quiet English park or a sandy