By 3:00 P.M. I’m feeling a lot calmer. I’ve bought my new bra and I’ve sent over three dresses, six pairs of shoes, and a tuxedo suit for Sage to try on. (I don’t think she’ll go for the tuxedo suit, but she should. She’d look amazing.) I’ve also taken Minnie out of preschool early and dressed her up in her sweetest smocked pink lawn frock, with a big sash and puffed sleeves. It has matching pink lawn knickers, too, and I’m actually quite envious. Why don’t grown-up dresses have matching knickers? Everyone would buy them. I might write to a few designers and suggest it.
Jeff has driven us to the Purple Tea Room, which is halfway along Melrose Avenue and has a big hand-painted sign with swirly letters. I help Minnie down from the SUV, shake out her skirts, and say, “See you later, Jeff. I’ll call.” Then we head toward the sign and push open the glass-paned door.
Crikey.
OK, so I don’t think Aran and I mean quite the same thing by “afternoon tea.” When I say “afternoon tea” I mean silver teapots and waitresses in frilly white aprons and tiny cucumber sandwiches. I mean starched tablecloths and maybe a harp playing and Miss-Marple-type ladies sitting at the next table.
The Purple Tea Room is nothing like that. For a start, there aren’t any chairs or tables, only cushions and beanbags and odd-shaped stools made out of wood. The room is big, but it’s dimly lit, with candles casting a wavery glow over the walls. There’s music playing, but it’s Eastern sitar music, and the air smells scented, but not of scones or cinnamon. More of …
Well. Hmm. You’d think they’d be more subtle; I mean, this isn’t Amsterdam, is it?
Everywhere I look, I can see hip young people lying around, sipping at teacups, typing on Apple Macs, and having their feet or shoulders rubbed by what seem to be therapists in baggy Indian trousers. And in the middle of it all is sitting Elinor, bolt upright, wearing her usual stiff bouclé suit and chilly expression. She’s perched on a stool in the shape of a mushroom, holding a glass of water and looking around as though she’s Queen Victoria and these are the savages. I bite my lip, trying not to giggle. Poor Elinor. She was probably expecting starched tablecloths too.
She’s looking rather pale and wan, but her dark helmet of hair is as immaculate as ever, and her back is ramrod straight.
“Ladeee!” shrieks Minnie as she spots Elinor. “Mummy!” She turns to me in joy. “Is Ladeeee!” Then she wrenches herself out of my grasp, runs to Elinor, and hurls herself affectionately against Elinor’s legs. Everyone in the place turns to watch, and I can hear a few “awwws.” I mean, whatever you think of Elinor, it’s a very sweet sight.
In fact, I can’t remember the last time I saw Minnie quite so thrilled. Her whole body is shaking with excitement, and her eyes are bright, and she keeps glancing up at me as though to share the wondrous moment. Elinor looks pretty delighted to see Minnie too. Her cheeks have turned a kind of almostpink, and her frozen face has come alive.
“Well, Minnie,” I can hear her saying. “Well, now, Minnie. You’ve grown.”
Minnie is delving into Elinor’s crocodile-skin bag and triumphantly produces a jigsaw puzzle. Every time she sees Minnie, Elinor brings a different jigsaw puzzle and puts it together while Minnie watches in awe.
“We’ll do it together,” says Elinor. “It’s a view of the Wellesley-Baker Building in Boston. My great-grandfather used to own it. Your ancestor, Minnie.”
Minnie nods blankly, then turns to me.
“Mummy, Ladeeeee!” Her joy is so infectious that I find myself beaming and saying, “Yes, darling! Lady! Isn’t that lovely?”
The whole “Lady” thing began because we had to keep Minnie’s meetings with Elinor a secret from Luke, and we couldn’t risk her saying, I saw Granny Elinor today.
I mean, they still are secret. This meeting today is secret. And as I watch Minnie and Elinor gazing at each other in delight, I feel a sudden fresh resolve. This rift is stupid and sad and it has to end now. Luke and Elinor have to make up. They have family together.
I know Elinor said something tactless, or worse, about Luke’s beloved stepmother, which he was upset by. (I never got the exact details.) That’s how this whole argument began. But life can’t be about holding on to the bad things. It has to be about grabbing on to good things and letting the bad things go. Looking at Elinor as she opens the jigsaw with an ecstatic Minnie, I know she’s a good thing. For Minnie, and for me, and for Luke. I mean, she’s not perfect, but, then, who is?
“Can I offer you some tea?” A drifty girl in a linen apron and baggy white trousers has come up so silently, she makes me jump.
“Oh, yes, please,” I say. “Lovely. Just normal tea for me, thanks. And milk for my daughter.”
“ ‘Normal’ tea?” the girl echoes, as though I’m speaking Swahili. “Did you look at the tea menu?” She nods at a booklet on Elinor’s lap, which seems to be about forty pages long.
“I gave up,” says Elinor crisply. “I would like hot water and lemon, please.”
“Let’s just have a look.…” I start to skim through the booklet, but before long my eyes are blurring with type. How can there be so many teas? It’s stupid. In England you just have tea.
“We have teas for different needs,” says the girl helpfully. “We have fennel and peppermint for digestion, or red clover and nettle for skin complaints.…”
Skin complaints? I eye her suspiciously. Is she trying to say something?