The Colour of Tea by Hannah Tunnicliffe Read Free Book Online Page B

gulp of beer.
    I watch a small man with sagging trousers lock the big red doors to the Chinese temple. His face is lined and serious, a single long hair sprouting from a dark mole on the side of his chin. He sees me watching him and blinks like a cat. He hops on a bicycle, rides away.
    “Work is a mess.”
    I turn back to Pete. He is picking at the label on his bottle.
    “The building work is shit. Everything needs to be done twice. I’m signing off on stuff I’d never approve back home. But there are deadlines, so what am I supposed to do?”
    Pete has been involved with start-up casinos before. He has never shied away from a work challenge. In fact he’s always seemed to relish them. That was why we moved to London before coming to Macau. Well, that and some half-baked idea that it would make me happier; that maybe I’d find some kind of peace and we’d have ourselves a neat little four-person family. Us, book-ending a small son and a daughter.
    “Worst of all, half my team can’t understand a bloody word I say.”
    I imagine him surrounded by Chinese, staring at him blankly, just as the man locking the temple had stared at me. Pete is used to being the captain of his ship.
    “I don’t know,” he sighs. “It isn’t what I expected.” Then he pauses. “I mean, what are we going to do next, Gracie?”
    I realize he is talking about more than his job, and I look down at my lap.
    “Are you even here? Can I talk to my wife, please?”
    He reaches over and lifts my chin. It’s not so tender. His eyes flash with frustration and longing, his hand firm against my face.
    “Pete …” I start, but nothing more comes out.
    One of the guys at the table next to us looks over, his eyes curious across the top of his beer glass.
    Pete says, “We haven’t talked about it … I mean, a donor egg … other options …”
    I twist my face away from his grip and speak through gritted teeth. “No! I can’t do it, Pete. We talked about it before the test results, remember? I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m tired. My body is tired. I’ve had enough.”
    Pete lowers his voice. “Can’t we at least talk about stuff? Jesus, Grace, it’s not easy for me either, you know. All this and work as well. You don’t understand. You don’t try to understand.”
    I look up at him now. It feels like a slap. As if I have not been trying at anything. As if breathing and eating and sleeping weren’t effort enough.
    He looks deep into me, searching one eye and then the other as if hunting for something he’s lost.
    “I don’t try ?” My tone is cool and prim. I can’t help it.
    “That’s not what I meant. Sorry,” he says, the edge still in his voice. “It’s just … Shit. I don’t know what to do. What are we supposed to do now?” His voice is so low it is almost a whisper. He shakes his head sadly.
    “I don’t know,” I say simply, strongly. It is a hard and clear statement, sitting between us like a piece of glass.
    He sits back. We look at each other in silence. I have no energy for an argument. There are new lines on his face, like he has been lying against a wrinkled pillow too long, and I wonder when we got so old. I can see the loss and the sadness in his eyes. And I have to turn away.
    “Sausage and mash? Cheeseburger?”
    Our waitress has a white smile and skin the color of honey. Her name badge says SOPHIA . We both look up at her and nod like children. She brings cutlery, and I order a lemon, lime, and bitters. Pete cuts the burger into bits, chewing each piece slowly. The Aussies at the table next to us start to sing out of tune, some old AC/DC track. Then they cheer their own performance. They refer to each other by nicknames and last names—Fazza, Ballo, Smithy.
    The light around us blushes into a rich apricot. In the courtyard a young girl on a bike yelps with such happiness she sounds like a tropical bird. Her long curls fly behind her as she races pasther older brother,