Page 111 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz
‘No! Do not say that.’
I tell him all about Fay’s accident and Sheila Bold and the competition. And I also tell him about Janine.
‘That was her house? I saw it on the news – there was a dead body in there. Awful. Has anyone contacted her to see what’s happened?’
‘No, I don’t think anyone has messaged her since she left our chat group the day we travelled. Perhaps I should send her a text? I am the closest in age to her in the group and I would love to know what is going on.’
‘Yes, perhaps you should. Although she may not reply, given she stole your Paris money.’
‘And possibly all our lottery money, too. But we cannot know that for sure.’
By the time Jay and I say our goodbyes, I feel infused with his positivity.
I look down at my stomach. Will I make a goodmother? It seems a ridiculous thought. Me, a mother. But I realise I am slowly warming to the idea.
I write a short text to Janine, choosing my words carefully.
Janine, are you OK? We have heard your house was on the news. Has your mother passed away? If so, we all send our condolences.
I start to type.
We do not know what happened with the Paris money, perhaps you can explain?
But on reflection, it does not seem right to include this when her mother has most probably died, so I delete this line and instead write,
We want to know if you are OK. If you want to talk, you can call me anytime. Asha.
I grab my things and find Ingrida in the café.
‘You look much better, Asha.’
‘I feel much better. I have sent Janine a text asking about her mother.’
‘Ja, I send one to her yesterday. I hope she is OK. Ready for Paris? The theatre receptionist, she give me good tips for us to see many top sites in one afternoon.’
‘Lead the way, Ingrida.’
‘First, we catch a bus to thePlace de la Concorde. It isonly a short distance. Then we can walk through theJardin des Tuileries. It is public gardens and there is no entrance fee.’
‘That sounds lovely. And plenty of fresh air.’
‘From there it is a thirty to forty-minute walk up theChamps-Élyséesto theArc de Triomphe.’
‘Très bien, Paris here we come, and I shall buy you a French pastry for being my personal tour guide, and… well and for all that upset I caused.’ I scan Ingrida’s face for annoyance but find none there.
She slips her arm inside mine and within half an hour we are ambling through the many walkways of the Tuileries gardens in the spring sunshine. Cherry trees, full of blossom, sway in a gentle breeze and we admire the bright spring tulips that fill the formal flower beds and frame the stone frontage of theTuileries Palace.
By nibbling tiny amounts of crisp and sipping small mouthfuls of sparkling water every time nausea threatens, I manage the whole afternoon without vomiting once. Ingrida dubs it her salt and sparkle therapy.
‘You should tell everyone about it.’ I pat her hand. ‘It is like a miracle cure.’
Everywhere we go my eyes are drawn to parents pushing babies in prams, tiny children held in slings and pregnant women. While Ingrida gives me a potted history of Paris.
‘TheTuileries Palace, it was built by Catherine de’ Medici…’
I find myself scanning the expectant mothers, thinking,will I be that big?Orthere is a nice maternity outfit, orwhat a cute baby. I am sure Ingrida notices my focus, but she does not mention my condition. I find myself completely relaxing in her company.
Ingrida tells me about her life in Latvia before she moved to the UK. She tells me about her cancer and hysterectomy at such a young age. And about her nursing job and her horrid Uncle Kazimieras. I tell her about my family and my annoying sister, Rashmi. And I talk about my dentistry training and how I moved in with Jay and our future travel plans.
