Preethi Nair - The Colour of Love

‘Nothing is wrong, no, Nina?’

That was the moment to confess and, believe me, I wanted to, but he looked at me like he wanted reassurance that everything was OK and I just didn’t have the strength to tell him.

‘Everything is fine.’

‘They need someone to come and fix it?’

‘Fix what?’

‘The phones. I can come and sort out problem.’

‘No, Dad, but thank you.’

My mother was in rolling-pin position and asked me the standard questions: what I’d eaten for lunch, was I ready to have dinner, if I was going to go up and have a shower. As she returned to her rotis, I stared at her. Where was that other person she had unleashed when she raged at my sister? Did she ever think of Jana? Did she worry about what she ate and what time she was going to take her shower? She must have, I know she must have. Once I caught her unpacking the jewellery box she had packed safely away, emptying its contents and crying, but she never said anything to us, me or my dad. Instead she kept it all inside and carried on with her routine. And many times when I tried to speak to her about my sister she would turn her back to me and walk away.

After I came out of the shower, the phone rang. It was Raj.

‘Hi Nina, I know we’re meeting on Saturday but I just thought I’d give you a call and see how you are.’

‘I’m fine,’ I heard myself reply politely. It was quite a relief to talk to someone who didn’t really know me, who wanted to talk about superficial things like what films I watched; someone who was unable to affect me in any way and didn’t require any depth of conversation.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘Good. Had a busy day. I am just going to read now.’

‘What are you reading?’

‘Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.’

‘Right. And is it working? Are you being effective?’

‘Hope so. What are you going to do?’

‘Going down to eat and then hopefully get to sleep early. I haven’t been sleeping well.’

‘Don’t eat too late,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that causes insomnia because the food isn’t digested properly.’

‘It’s not the food,’ I heard myself saying. ‘It’s just there are lots of things going on at the moment … lots of … lots of …’ I searched desperately for the word I was looking for but the best I could come up with was ‘… contracts.’

‘Are you busy at work, then?’ he enquired.

‘Yes. Very busy.’

‘I’ll leave you to it, Nina. I just wanted to say hello, that was all.’

‘Thank you,’ I said as I put the phone down.

And that was the first time that I really warmed to him, because practicality brought a certain amount of stability that did not require much of me.

It was time to get a new mobile phone as I was finding it increasingly hard not to listen to the daily messages from Jean. After buying the phone I went back to the Tate and back to Matisse.

The blonde girl from the cafeteria was there again, studying the paintings. She smiled when she saw me. I smiled back and wandered off into the next room before she could ask me for the sofa. She followed swiftly behind me.

‘Excuse me,’ she whispered.

I pretended not to hear her.

‘Excuse me,’ she repeated.

I turned around.

‘You dropped this.’ She handed me my Matisse book.

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking it. ‘I didn’t even hear it drop.’

‘It’s what Matisse does to you. Sometimes you can just be lost in his colours.’

That’s exactly what I had thought. ‘I know what you mean,’ I replied. ‘Is he one of your favourite artists?’ I found myself asking.

She nodded.

‘Mine too,’ I said, wanting her to ask me another question.

But she didn’t ask me anything else, just smiled politely and left.

My feet took me effortlessly around the room as I tried to see the flowers in his paintings. Even in his down-times he painted light, he painted with bold colours. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said ‘Creativity takes courage', that every day he showed up and painted no matter what else was happening in his life.

The cafeteria wasn’t that busy as it was late afternoon. I could see the blonde girl sitting and eating a sandwich and although there were other empty seats I could have sat at, I went up to her and asked if the seat beside her was taken.

‘No,’ she smiled. ‘My name’s Gina by the way.’

‘I’m Nina.’

‘Nina, Gina,’ she laughed. ‘Pleased to meet you, Nina,’ she said, shaking my hand.

‘I liked that quote too,’ I found myself saying out of nowhere, trying to make up for my previous unfriendliness.

‘The one about seeing flowers?’ she asked. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It reminds me of my mum.’

‘Is she in Australia?’

‘No, she’s dead.’

I put my own sandwich down. ‘I’m so sorry, I really am, I didn’t mean to –’

‘No, it’s OK, really. That’s why that quote means so much.’

I wanted to ask her if she spoke to her, if her mother responded, if she looked for signs.

Instead, I asked, ‘Are you on holiday?’

‘No, I live here now. I’m an artist. How about you?’

‘I am – was – a lawyer but I’m thinking about painting again.’

‘Well, if you need a studio, I know of one going. Or if you know of anyone who needs one, let me know. I’m desperate to find someone who’ll take mine for three months so I can go back to Australia.’

She said she wanted to surprise her family and escape the winter months but hadn’t managed to find anyone who was interested in subletting her studio despite placing several ads. We talked some more, mainly about Matisse, and I took her number just in case I came across anyone who needed a studio.

Later, I sat in Green Park trying to convince myself that it was not meant for me.

‘Ki, Matisse talks about seeing flowers when there are none. I want to see them. Even if you’re not there and you’re not listening it doesn’t matter. I want to believe you are. Sorry about what I said to you the other day. There’s a studio that has become free. Do you think it’s meant for me?’

Silence.

‘That’s what I thought too. What if I just tried it out for three months tops? Haven’t really got anything else to lose.’

I began to feel almost excited when I thought about the possibility of having my own studio and being able to paint. The only problem with having a studio was that the level of deceit would escalate even further. I had never intended to lie so blatantly to my parents. I didn’t want to, the days I was going to the Tate were just to get my head straight. Perhaps I would try broaching the subject of renting a studio with my dad. I would say that the firm had given me a three-month sabbatical so I could understand the work of my artists better. It wasn’t that far from the truth, really.

My dad was upstairs in the spare room, fiddling with one of the many television sets he had, when I arrived home.

‘Can sell this one for fifty pounds. Newsagent wants it for tomorrow.’

‘Right. That’s great.’ I thought the best way of bringing up the studio subject was by telling him what Matisse said and then at least I could start talking about painting and lead on from there. ‘Dad, what do you think of this quote?’

‘What?’ he shouted.

I had to rephrase the sentence. ‘An artist who is worth a lot of money said that there are always flowers for those who want to see them. What do you think about that?’

‘He’s your client?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Very good quote.’

‘Really, do you think so?’

‘Yes, that is why he is the rich. Wastes no money buying the expensive flowers from the petrol shops and saves the money that the flowers are taking. Not giving the peoples the flowers every time he is seeing them.’