Page 2 of Never Too Late
‘I do know it’s not ideal so soon after the divorce…’ Sash began.
‘Sasha, stop worrying. It might only be six months since it was all finalised but the marriage was over a long time before that. People get divorced all the time, sadly. At least your dad and me had an amicable split, which makes it easier, especially for your sake.’
‘You’re really OK with it? I mean…’
‘Yes. To be honest, Tania, is that her name?’
Sasha nodded.
‘Tania and he sound like they have a lot in common from what he’s told me. We might be divorced but we’re not enemies. I’m happy that he’s happy.’
‘I want you to be happy too, Mum.’
I leant forward and laid my hand on her cheek. ‘I know you do, love. And I am.’
‘I don’t mean just right now. I mean…’ She made a rolling motion with her hand. ‘You know, going forward.’
‘Everything is going to be fine, darling. Stop worrying. Now, what are you going to order?’
The locally caught fresh red snapper was cooked to perfection, as was the accompanying grilled tenderstem broccoli and hasselback potatoes. Sasha had gone for a ‘dirty burger’ which always failed to sound appetising to me but did, in fact, look delicious when it arrived along with fine-cut chips and a green salad. All of which my daughter demolished without breaking a sweat.
There were definitely things I missed about being her age – I’ve already mentioned the legs, but another had to be the excellent metabolism. It’s hard not to see the unfairness of a woman’s lot. Just when it feels like everything is going up the spout thanks to hormones, the powers that be also think it’s a good jape to crank the metabolism speed dial down to ‘slow’. So where once I could grab a morning croissant, sometimes two, a lunchtime meal with wine, and a not insubstantial supper without putting on a pound, now it seemed by merely looking at any of those, the calories superglued themselves to my waist by some weird menopausal osmosis. I’d thought about taking a look at that book,French Women Don’t Get Fat, but in the end, I just cut out wine and chocolate and bread. I knew from my time in Paris that this wasn’t what they did at all, but I’d done my best to avoid anything that reminded me of that part of my life and so, even though it was just a book, I didn’t read it and kept to my strict, rather dull restrictions instead.
Sash was filming some B-roll for her vlog and I took the opportunity to soak in the atmosphere of this place I’d waited so long to see. The sun had long since sunk behind the horizon – I’d been amazed at how quickly it set in India, even though I’d read about it in my armchair travels. But there was some welcome warmth in the winter evening, so different from the dirty, chilly slush we’d left behind at Heathrow. I absentmindedly trailed my feet to and fro in the warm water beneath me as I people-watched – the chefs busy working away at the outdoor grills, the waiting staff moving about in an efficient but calm manner, and the laughter of other diners as they stepped down into the water and slowly sloshed over to their own tables.
‘Another drink, Mum?’ Sasha said, filming the empty bottle and glasses, already looking around for a server.
‘That’s enough for me, but you go ahead, darling.’
‘Oh, come on, Mum. You have to. It’s your birthday!’
‘Many happy returns.’ The voice was deep, educated and with that slight hint of Indian accent that I’d always found rather sexy.
‘Oh!’ I said, turning to acknowledge the expensively besuited man who’d spoken. ‘Umm, thanks.’ Thank God for the low lighting as I felt heat rush to my face.
He gave the smallest head tilt to the side in return as he smiled. ‘I can’t help noticing that your champagne glasses are empty.’
‘We were just going to order some more,’ Sasha informed him.
‘Please. Allow me.’ He glanced to his left and a waitress appeared as if from nowhere.
‘Another bottle of champagne here, please.’
The girl nodded and hurried off.
‘I hope you are enjoying your stay here in Goa?’
‘Yes, very much so,’ I replied when Sasha remained unusually quiet.
‘You have been before?’
‘No. No, I haven’t.’ Which is where I should have stopped. But I didn’t. With a nervous jabber, I continued on. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit India but my husband has a dicky tummy so never wanted to come.’
Inner Me was aghast.Oh, God. What am I saying? And more to the point, why am I saying it? To a complete, and very handsome, stranger.
‘I see. That is a shame. I’m glad you have been able to come and visit now.’
‘Thanks. Yes, never affected me. Stomach as strong as an ox.’
