Another Country. Anjali Joseph

      ‘Salut,’ Leela said. She smiled, and tilted her face for the inevitable kisses. Kate grinned at her. ‘I can’t wait to take out my lenses,’ she said. ‘Let’s pretend to help clear up a bit.’

      They carried sticky glasses into the kitchen. Amandine was doing the real cleaning. Eloise bustled, pleased with the evening; she dissected various strands of it. She passed them and smiled at Leela. ‘He’s nice, your friend,’ she said. ‘He’s a bit spécial.’

      Kate laughed, Leela too. ‘Spécial, is that a good thing? Like special?’

      ‘Mm. It’s a bit like weird. But in a nice way,’ Kate said.

      ‘Oh yes. I see what you mean.’

      ‘I like his nice deep voice,’ Eloise said.

      ‘He’s funny, isn’t he?’ Leela couldn’t decide whether she wanted to praise Patrick or for them to stop talking about him.

      ‘Mm.’

      ‘You girls can go to sleep if you want, I’m just going to tidy a bit, we’ll do the rest tomorrow,’ Amandine told Kate. She smiled at Leela, her pretty face patient.

      ‘No, we’ll help,’ said Leela.

      ‘Honestly,’ said Kate in an undertone, ‘there’s no point, they’ll be fannying about for a while, then they’ll have their joint and go to sleep. Let’s just crash. Aren’t you tired?’

      ‘Okay.’

      The bed was large enough for them to face each other and talk in the half-darkness.

      ‘Do they have a joint every night?’

      Kate was nearly asleep. ‘Yeah. Just a little one. They have it with their tisane or hot chocolate. Their mother grows the pot.’

      ‘She’s alive?’

      Kate snorted. ‘Yeah. But she lives in Provence. She’s got a new family, a little son. Her husband’s not that keen on the girls.’

      ‘They couldn’t live with her?’

      ‘I think they’re happier this way, to be honest. Though it’s sad, isn’t it …’ Kate’s voice dipped under the covers, a bird diving beneath waves.

      ‘They’re like little orphans,’ Leela said. As so often, she was saddened by her interpretation of other people’s loneliness.

      ‘What did you think of Thierry?’

      ‘He seems nice. He likes you, doesn’t he?’

      ‘He asked me out, but I’m not sure, I don’t know.’

      Leela was overwhelmed by the possibilities. ‘You could see how you felt.’ The darkness was closing in, their voices becoming distant from each other. Her own voice sounded unreal.

      ‘Maybe … I dunno. Good night, our kid. Fais de bons rêves.’

      ‘Good night,’ said a sleepy voice, fading into the darkness.

       Chapter 7

      Rushing up the stairs of the school, she bumped into the wall; she tried, as she climbed, to keep her still-damp hair out of her eyes, also to open her bag and examine its contents. Catastrophically, there wasn’t time to take out and replace each item. She was late, and it wasn’t even her class.

      ‘Oh!’

      She collided with something warm and felty. An arm came out towards her.

      Leela, murderous but reflexively polite in this other language, muttered, ‘Sorry! Sorry!’

      ‘Ça va, mademoiselle?’ The voice was deep, annoyingly mellifluous. She half looked up, as far as his chest, grabbed at her Carte Orange. It fell to the linoleum-covered step; she began to dive after it. The black-clad arm got there first. She noticed the hand: brownish, smooth-skinned, nails neatly shaped. She took a step back.

      ‘Here.’ The stranger held out the grey plastic case. Leela accepted it, forced herself to look at his face – all she wanted, ever, eternally, and in this specific moment, was to slide round the corner, hair over her face, all her possessions more or less attached to her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. The man smiled. He was in early middle age, dark-skinned, dark-haired, brooding, looked like he’d put his eyeliner on in a hurry.

      ‘Excuse me,’ Leela said. She smiled, skirted him, and continued to bolt up the stairs to the third floor. She scooted past the staff room; the door was ajar and she feared Mme Sarraute, the coordinator of foreign teachers, would be standing there to watch her arrive late. As she reached room 3.14, she shoved the Carte Orange back into her bag, rooted around for the texts, and opened the door.

      Four adults in their thirties and forties looked at her, tolerant but surprised. Leela began to explain herself, first in French, then, recalling the rules, in English. ‘I know you’re expecting Miss Molloy, but she’s had to go to England for a few days. I’m taking her classes this week. I wonder if you’d mind introducing yourselves? My name’s Leela Ghosh –’ she pronounced it correctly, but they wouldn’t ‘– and I also teach here –’ pause for smile ‘– so, shall we begin?’ She turned to the man, suited, crumpled looking, on the left of the semi-circle. The students, or clients as the school preferred to call them, sat on high chairs with a flip-out mini desk. The arrangement made them look like disgruntled toddlers.

      ‘What’s your name?’ She produced an encouraging smile.

      ‘’Ello, I am Martin,’ the man in the crumpled suit said. He smiled, first at Leela, then, a little more slyly, at the rest of the group. He pronounced his name as though it were English.

      ‘Martin.’ Leela smiled. ‘And you?’

      The stern looking woman next to him smiled. Leela saw an anxious high achiever. ‘I am Catherine.’

      ‘Hello Catherine. And –’

      The door opened and the man from the stairs came in. He smiled silkily. ‘Excuse me, I am late,’ he said. He made his way to the empty seat near the door, took off his coat, and sat down with an air of contentment.