Free The Colour of Tea by Hannah Tunnicliffe Page B

trouble.”
    He raises his eyebrows in agreement. I can see the effect of the wine, moving down over his face as he slumps back against the window. He starts to relax. There is something in the moment that is suspended, the two of us sitting up here looking down at the world below. As if it were a dreamland, a movie; as if we were above it all like puppeteers.
    “Pete, I have an idea,” I say slowly.
    “Mmm?” He is still looking out beyond the glass.
    “I want to open a café.”
    “Yeah?” he murmurs.
    “I thought I could use, you know … the money.”
    He turns to look at me.
    I am being vague so I don’t have to say things out loud. It is money we put aside for in vitro fertilization. But you need healthy eggs for that, and we both know that hope has dissolved.
    He studies my face, and I wonder what he sees.
    “I want to sell sandwiches, coffee … macarons …”
    “Right. Macarons. ” His voice has tightened up, the words squeezed as if wrung out.
    “Maybe it sounds crazy …”
    “Sure does,” he answers too quickly.
    “You won’t have to have anything to do with it, Pete.” I dropmy voice almost to a whisper in the hope of pacifying him. “It’ll be my thing. I’ll manage it, I’ll run it.”
    He takes a gulp of his wine but is still not looking at me. I know he is listening, but he looks out the window and doesn’t meet my gaze. His chin is lifted so he has to look down his nose at the scene below.
    “Pete.” I plead a little, reaching out for his hand. “I need …”
    He turns his face toward me slightly. “It’s a big responsibility.” His voice is clipped. He looks down at the glass in his hands and starts to roll it back and forth between his palms.
    “It’s a lot of money. I know. But it’ll be a business. It’ll be an investment. I’ll make money.” I can hear a little nervous quiver in my voice, so I pause and swallow. “We should use the money for something useful, right?”
    He raises his eyebrows. “You sound like you’ve made up your mind.”
    I know he wants to talk about the end of our dream. Of having our own child. But I cannot.
    “Well …” My mind hovers above my argument, as if looking down upon it. I try to muster strength, conviction. “I know we could use the money for other things. But, this … this is what I want to use it for.”
    We sit in silence for a few moments, looking at each other. I feel uncomfortable, like this is a kind of standoff, as we try to figure each other out. The distance between us suddenly seems vast.
    “It’s not a good idea, Grace,” he says firmly. Unreasonably.
    “Maybe,” I reply. “But I need something. Something that is mine.” There is that calmness in my mind again, thick and cool. “Maybe it’s not a good idea, or maybe it is a good idea. I know I have to try.”
    He gives a strange kind of half laugh. “You’ve barely been able to get out of bed. Now you want to run a business?”
    I stare at him in disbelief. I have moved all the way to China for his career. I have had faith in him and his abilities.
    “Why are you even asking me?” he continues. “Like I said, it sounds like you’ve made up your mind already.”
    I raise my chin. “Well, actually, I didn’t.”
    “Didn’t what?”
    “I didn’t ask,” I say, and my eyes lock with his. My voice sounds so soft, but feels so strong rushing out of my throat, it is a surprise even to me.
    Pete’s eyes widen. “Right then. You have it all sorted.” He stands, angry, throwing back the last of the wine in the glass. He looks down at me before turning to go into the kitchen. “I won’t get in your way then. I’ll leave you to it.”
    I can hear him putting his glass into the sink, the base hitting the metal with a loud clang. I feel queasy from the confrontation. Pete always manages our money and has the last word on our decisions, a fact that has never bothered me. Until now. Now it needs to be different. Beneath the churning of my stomach,