The car rolls into a parking space, adding to the rows of gleaming four-by-fours that sit roasting in the August sun. Elderly men and women, dressed in their finest, move snail-like across the chalky gravel towards the gardens. Mei always enjoyed this particular part of the opera—dressing up and feeling young among the old; half belonging to a people that belonged to the past. The rest of it was always painful and involved, but Mei had learnt to disappear into the background. She knew that her role was to look pretty and have everyone think she was stupid because of it.
Warm air runs through her white dress as she steps out of the car, the crepe billowing against her skin. Summer always had a way of making Mei feel open, like she ought to be eaten up. Looking around at all the old people, a sense of injustice fills her. The sense that she, her body, her youth, are going to waste. Alex opens the boot and they unload bags of food and wine coolers, a picnic table and folding chairs, joining the exodus from car park to picnic lawn.
Mei carries a basket of food and a folding chair, the gold of her watch clinking rhythmically against the metal as she walks. She watches Oliver and Joshua run down a sweeping lawn that leads to a view of Glyndebourne Opera House—its tiered circular body standing stony among the flora. Its modernist, metal roof poking out above the brick work. Mei follows, walking past a large oak tree where a man sits dozing—a cheese straw dangling from one hand, a glass of champagne in the other.
Up ahead, the green unfurls before her, where men and women set up their picnics in the afternoon sun. Beyond, the moorhens glide across the still lake, avoiding the shrill cries of the rich who caw at one another across tables. Kitten heels sink into grass, soft bellies strain against ivory buttons, pashminas are draped across sagging, freckled arms, tanned and returned from the Amalfi Coast. Bow-tied boys traverse a low-rising brick wall where, beyond, the sheep graze lazily in bucolic disinterest. A place of such beauty, so absent of colour. And Mei, everywhere and nowhere.
Grandpa!
Joshua and Oliver run into the arms of Hector, their grandfather. Mei forces her mouth into a smile.
Whoopsie! Hello, you two, staying out of trouble, I hope?
Nooooo!
Jolly good!
Boys, be gentle. Hello, Hector, how are you?
Mei turns to see her dad dropping the picnic table onto the grass, sweating.
Ah, Ally! How are you? Now, listen, park up next to us. We’re in our usual spot, not too far from the bar. Hullo, Mei! Aren’t you looking pretty.
Thanks. How are you?
Oh holding on, holding on! Just got back from Burgundy. Actually, there’s a lovely bottle of Beaujolais for you both to try. You like the red stuff, don’t you? I seem to remember a certain Christmas in Devon, hmm? Sunk the whole bloody cellar! Haha! He winks at her. Shall we?
Hector holds his arm out for support. His eyes linger on her hips. Mei wishes her body were more covered up, that she was wearing something thick and impenetrable. The familiar scent of yoghurt and Savlon and deterioration surrounds her as she takes his arm. His grip is tight as he steers her towards a picnic table where two women sit, waving.
Here we are! Angela, Annie, you remember the Ingrams?
Hector thrusts a sloshing glass of champagne into Mei’s general area.
Ah yes, how are you, Molly? How’s the singing going?
Uh, good—
Still doing weddings?
Yes. Still doing those. How are you?
Your mother is going to be quite tremendous this evening!
She’s not my mo—
Aah! So, you’re Matilda’s daughter?
No—
No no, she’s the stepdaughter. Can’t you see she’s got a lovely bit of the Orient about her?
Really? Oh well how fantastic, you’ll feel right at home tonight then!
Mei smiles tightly.
But, goodness me, you wouldn’t know from looking at you, would you?
Angela or Annie—she’s not sure which—eyeballs Mei.
Oh yes, I sort of see it now. In the eyes. But it’s very subtle! The woman smiles at Mei, like it’s a compliment. Do you go back?
I was born here . . . I’ve only been once. When I was small.
And your mother?
Alex drops the table to the ground, dabbing at his sweat, smoothing down his hair.
Hello, everyone! Aren’t we lucky with this weather?
Oliver and Joshua root around in Mei’s bag and pull out a packet of strawberry laces.
And so you two gorgeous pumpkins must be Matilda’s! You have her brilliant red hair.
It’s not red. It’s ginger.
Like a cat!
Mei uses this momentary ceasefire to set up her chair, as far on the periphery as possible. She empties her champagne glass and surveys a selection of anaemic-looking sandwiches on the table. She watches Hector’s large hands fumble the crusts, before settling on an egg mayonnaise.
Mei had never liked Hector. Apart from the fact that he was handsy, there was also something about him that was far more sinister than he let on. He played the bumbling, backward idiot well, but Mei knew he was a lot smarter than that. As a teenage boy, Mei had imagined Hector as a kind of Eton overlord who had a taste for under-cover hand jobs and whipping.
He looks up at Mei and smiles, teeth wet, then shuffles his fold-up chair until he is sitting next to her. He takes a bite of the egg mayonnaise. Bits stick to his lips.
So, tell me, young lady, any lucky boys in your life?
No.
Ahh, that’s a shame!
Mei watches as Oliver and Joshua run off, playing a game of tag.
Mind you, can’t be too difficult to ensnare a lad or two. Pretty thing like you.
Mei keeps her eyes on her brothers. She feels a sudden urge to take off all her clothes and run naked through the grass.
I mean, dating, goodness me. Always a minefield. Course, I’m still doing it, but it’s easier for my generation. Less to choose from! Are you on one of those apps? He takes another bite. His mouth open, exposing flecks of egg and spit as he talks, his pink tongue glistening like a sea monster.
No.
I suppose it must be difficult these days, navigating all that. It’s impossible really. These days you can’t even look at a woman without getting told off. Haha!
Mei surveys Hector, unblinking.
He smiles back at her. Pats his hand on her thigh.
I mean, of course men can be quite awful sometimes. But, and I know I’m in the minority when I say this, so don’t bite my head off, but let me tell you something, asa man who has seen it all—most of the time it is not intentional. There is an innate, often . . . dormant, violence in all men—all women for that matter! And when that’s met with desire, things happen. But you know, my dear, this, I’m afraid, is man simply playing his evolutionary part! Hector looks at Mei. Waiting for something to snap. We’re not too far off savages, if you pull away the layers. But of course . . . He lowers his voice. I was sorry to hear what happened to you.
Mei moves her leg out from under his palm.
Excuse me?
I’d kill him if I could. Murder the bastard.
Mei stands. Blood rushing to her head, her vision bulging, thick and hot, her thigh damp from where his hand has been. Her dress clings to her skin as she walks away, past the gift shop, where traditional kimonos are being sold as loungewear.
As well as learning how to put a condom on a courgette, Mei had learnt about the terrors of pre-cum in PSHE, how even the tiniest little bit of sperm can wind its way up you and ruin your life forever. The day after Hugo deposited himself onto the soft of Mei’s belly, Matilda had found Mei in the upstairs bathroom reading the morning-after pill leaflet.
Mei had left the door unlocked. There had been a part of her that wanted to be found, for someone, something, to drift in and bear witness to an unremarkable moment that felt anything but. A young woman holding a pill between her thumb and index finger. A tiny thing to bring down an entire life: a weightless, white pill with an eighty-seven per cent chance of destroying all that could be. All the warmth, fingernails, birthmarks and birthdays. All that possibility taking root inside of her. Soon to be over in time for dinner. Mei wanted there to be some kind of acknowledgment. A private gathering of elder women with smoke and songs and sage advice, but really there was nothing to do but swallow. When Matilda opened the door to find Mei sitting on the bathroom floor, there was silence and then,
You better not be taking that on an empty stomach.
Matilda ordered Wagamama’s for the two of them. It was a Sunday, which meant Alex and the boys were at Grandma’s house in Morden. Mei rarely went on these visits, and Matilda had stopped going too. Matilda knew Alex was embarrassed to linger too long in the place he once called home. The semi-detached, pebble-dashed childhood home, with its interior stubbornly embalmed in the seventies. The house signified an inferiority that he had felt from a young age, one that he could never quite shake. His childhood home with its pervasive smell of cat urine. The rooms with their salmon-painted, water-stained walls, the faded floral upholstered furniture and genuine Irish lace curtains that had been passed down from Protestant mother to Protestant daughter. The house that was always filled with old television guides that Grandma Kathleen and her wig refused to throw out for reasons unknown and non-negotiable.
That afternoon, Mei had sat with Matilda at the dining table, scooping chicken katsu into her mouth with a pair of her mother’s old chopsticks. Waiting for Matilda to begin the questioning. The questions were short, simple and to the point. Until the very last.
Did you want it to happen? Matilda said, forking duck salad into her mouth.
It had been the one thing that had united them over the years; it had improved their relationship to the point of civility. Matilda made more of an effort to show Mei kindness, and though she would often slip back into her bitter ways, it was never for long. She would always catch herself. Mei felt like there was an understanding between them, and though it was born from pain, it was their own. Mei had trusted her with that pain. She had asked Matilda never to tell anyone, not even her father.
Now, walking across the lawn, away from her family, Mei asks herself who else Matilda has told. She asks herself why they haven’t come to her about it. Comforted her. Raged for her, as fathers are meant to do.
*
Hector waves at Mei from down the aisle, gesturing to an empty seat next to him. She ignores him and sits next to her father, who regards her with his customary look of concern. Mei shivers from the air conditioning and asks to borrow his jacket. She wears it across her front like a blanket. His pocketed phone weighing heavy against her, as if it’s the only thing holding her in place.
Mei looks out at the curved rows of seating that bend towards the stage like the ribcage of a whale. Teeming with people, their rumblings amplified to an unnatural level.
Joshua turns to Mei and asks for another strawberry lace. She looks at her brother, then at Oliver. Their faces turned towards her, so devoted to a simple pleasure. For the briefest of moments, she sees everything through their eyes. The velvet of the seats, the sugar crystals coating the laces, the heavy plush curtains skirting the theatre boards. She reaches out and kisses them both. For once they don’t pull away.
The first offence is the painted backdrop of Mount Fuji. A 1,129-kilometre geographical failure from the set designer. A slow horror show unfolds as Mei watches white men dressed in yukata, black wigs and slanted-eye makeup shuffle on stage. The audience roar with laughter as the man playing the American GI Pinkerton turns to them, smiling wryly in amusement at the odd behaviour of the Japanese natives. He smirks at their bows, their shuffling of feet, the quaint little house with its paper walls. The audience laugh as the GI chases a woman dressed as a Japanese maid. She squeals at his advances, wriggling in his arms as he catches her. Heads bowed and eyes blue, a procession of women dressed in traditional kimono and geisha makeup glide onto the stage. Matilda enters last, parroting like a Mary Pickford Madame Butterfly. The Japanese whore. A man asks her how old she is.
Fifteen, Matilda trills. We are people accustomed to small things . . . Humble and silent. Imagine, says the GI, this little plaything is my wife!
Mei watches the audience howl and stamp their feet, turning to one another, glistening with eyes unseeing, their applause knocking her out of joint. Mei turns to her father, who claps and cheers bravo , unaware of his daughter’s bone-deep ache. If she tries to explain, he will roll his eyes and tell her it’s just a bit of fun .
He grins at her and Mei forces a smile and begins to clap. Blow after blow, her anger deepens into a hidden, private pain. The applause dies out and the family stand, leaving for the interval. Only Mei does not rise from her £200 seat with dignity.
Outside, she leans against a brick wall. Looks up. Birds fly overhead. She smokes a cigarette. Then another.
(It’s getting cold)
She’ll have to borrow her father’s jacket again.
Two cigarette butts. Flattened and twisted. Lie apart in the shade.