Free Losing Touch by Sandra Hunter Page B

see you. Isn’t she, Arjun?’
    He tilts his head, not yes, not no . He cannot help this tightening of the stomach each time he sees her. They don’t embrace; she briefly touches his shoulder.
    â€˜You’re a real beauty.’ Haseena takes both of Tarani’s hands. ‘Come, I have some things for you to look at.’ She glances at Arjun. ‘Tea is ready to pour in the kitchen. And chocolate biscuits. Help yourself. We won’t be long. Girl-talk.’
    Arjun follows a familiar scent into the kitchen. He stands at the doorway admiring the range of neatly hung pots over the stove. How orderly everything is: plates displayed on shelves, mugs hung on a wooden stand. On the table a cardboard box is piled with what looks like underwear. Arjun is momentarily surprised, but the box turns out to hold small, plump, oval- and heart-shaped cushions, delicately sewn in cream and rose-pink satin, with lace trim and pale gold and grey velvet ribbon. How long it must have taken to sew all of these. He examines one. The stitches are almost invisible. It sits neatly in the hand, cool and satisfying to hold. He likes to think of these little cushions going to good homes. The old ladies will love them, pressing their noses against the soft material and thinking of long-ago summers on lawns when not-yet-gone-to-college boys played cricket.
    Over two years since Richmond Park. They’ve handled it well, he and Haseena. He’s been careful about not phoning, not visiting. She’s never mentioned that one unfortunate event. But then it’s not as though she has anything to complain about anyway. He never actually did anything. Attractive women dress to attract men. That’s all there is to it. They can’t blame men for paying attention.
    But somehow trotting out the old argument isn’t as convincing as it used to be. He slips the sachet back into the box.
    He pours tea into one of Haseena’s plain white teacups, props two chocolate biscuits on the edge of the saucer and sits at the kitchen table. He sips his tea and looks over the flat-cropped parallel hedges of lavender bushes streaming down to the end of the garden path. Sunila would like this. Perhaps he can suggest they grow lavender. He imagines them choosing the plants, putting them in the soil together, nurturing the seedlings, discussing soil acidity. In reality, she will want to plant in the sun and he will want to plant in the shade. She will knead in handfuls of plant food, too much for the delicate seedlings. He will want to prune to encourage growth. She will want to snip off stalks for her flower arrangements. Why can’t they see things the same way once in a while?
    A high laugh. Tarani. Murmuring of voices and footsteps on the stairs. He sits a little straighter. He wants to compliment Haseena on her hard work and artistry. But as they enter he can only look at Tarani. She is wearing a white, baggy blouse tucked into bell-bottomed blue jeans and shiny red shoes with thick crêpe platforms. She looks at least five inches taller.
    â€˜Isn’t she trendy?’ Haseena twirls a laughing Tarani around. ‘She should be on the cover of a magazine!’
    Tarani faces Arjun, a little shy but smiling, waiting for his compliment about how she looks in these ridiculous clothes. Arjun doesn’t want to insult Haseena, who has clearly spent a lot, but he can’t allow Tarani to go about looking like a clown. The bell-bottoms are so wide they’ll trip her up when she walks. The puffy-sleeved blouse hangs on her thin frame instead of fitting her properly. And the ugly, clumping shoes. Surely she can’t expect to walk in those?
    â€˜He’s speechless.’ Haseena looks at him. ‘Come, let me pour some tea, Tarani. How many sugars do you want?’
    But Tarani wants a response. ‘Do you think I look trendy?’ She tries out the word on him.
    â€˜I’m afraid I don’t really know what