6. Salvation is free
("Salvation" - The Cranberries)
"What the fuck is the
matter with you?"
Paul Ashe blinks owlishly at the alien expletive falling so harshly from Jude Limas's lips. Lifting a tired hand he wipes exhaustedly at his forehead, unknowingly leaving a black smudge of indistinct origin.
"What do you mean? Look, the clinic should have arranged for better security. How was I to know that..."
"The clinic isn't India's agent! Taung told you that there could be a problem, and you didn't
listen! She told you that she couldn't be touched, and you didn't
listen! You should've been right there with her!"
"And what? Have fought off more than a dozen desperate men who couldn't be controlled by trained security operatives?" He is tired, and now he is losing his temper. But Jude isn't far behind, and she isn't about to let up.
"Security guards. Not operatives. There's a massive difference! How could you not have anticipated this, Paul? Were you going to wait for your client to stop breathing before you thought up a plan B? Well, that's
right about now."
Balling his fists in frustration Paul turns away from Jude and stomps down the hallway of the Gizenga Private Hospital towards the waiting room. Taking a moment to breathe deeply and calm herself Jude squares her shoulders and then follows him slowly.
"I can't find a pulse. She doesn't have a pulse."
The big man's voice is high, cutting through the diminishing noise like a knife. All action ceases. Paul Ashe pushes through the throng, "Let me by!" and then he drops to his knees beside Jude, reaching out for India. His hands are shaking badly. Pushing them away Jude glares fiercely at him.
"Bastard! Don't you even touch her!"
India feels as though she is drifting upwards from the green darkness of the bottom of the sea towards the faint reflections flickering above her. The murmurs around her gradually begin to turn into voices; low tones discussing things she assumes are not meant for her ears.
She's never believed in mermaids.
There is something in her throat, something bulky and intrusive, but when she tries to lift her hand to remove it she is surprised to find that she can't. Wouldn't water make her limbs lighter? Her chest aches. Taking an experimental breath she chokes on the thing in her throat and begins to cough, and then gag. The pain is intense. The discomfort of her chest and throat brings tears to her eyes. Then a soft hand is on her shoulder, pushing her back lightly.
"Lay back. Lay back, India. Calm down. Take deep breaths. When you can do that I can pull out the tube for you."
She feels the panic rise, but tries to do as the voice tells her to. When her breathing is more or less under control the voice instructs her to cough, and with that cough the tube slides upwards and out of her. It sets off another gagging spasm, which in turn sets off a flaring pain in her chest. The hand moves to her breastbone, rubbing soothing circles.
"Breathe."
As much as her chest and head hurts, India still has the presence of mind to scoff at the instruction. If she can, she will. If she can't, she needs more support than silly directions. The inappropriate thought makes the corners of her mouth twitch. With a slight smile she spirals back down.
"I thought ... I was going to hell."
"Does this look like hell to you?"
"Would've thought less silk."
"But you never know."
"Yes. You never know."
"How are you feeling?"
"Numb. Fine. Good."
"It's the pain killers. Don't move too much."
As practically anyone will when told not to do something, India does it, and immediately feels less fine. With a muffled groan she scowls - or tries to; even her forehead is numb so she has no idea if she is successful - at a visibly amused Jude.
"Middle name heartless?"
"Sorry." The woman suppresses a smile. "It's not really the time to say 'I told you so', so remind me in a day or two."
"Funny."
"Tough crowd."
Her throat is tender. Clearing it India looks about her, at the room she is in. White rough adobe-style walls emphasise the dark wooden beams of the high roof. The window is frameless with a deep windowsill, finished off with a gorgeous ornate Spanish grate. A series of black and white photographs in dark wood line the wall ahead of her. Portraits. When her hand twitches involuntarily she winces and glances down at the needle in her skin.
"Where am I?"
A faint frown immediately appears on Jude's forehead. Cocking her head she leans closer. "You don't remember?"
When India clears her throat again Jude picks up a glass of water from the side table, bringing the straw up to India's mouth carefully. The small woman takes a few sips before she shakes her head.
"Oh." Putting the glass back on the table Jude shoots her a concerned look. "You're at my house. Lake Chapala. Mexico. You really don't remember?"
"No."
"What's the last thing you remember, India?"
"What kind of a name is India?"
The alarm on Jude's face is rapidly replaced by irritation when she notes the smile threatening to curl around India's mouth. "Don't do that. You've scared me enough."
"I'm sorry. I remember being told to breathe."
"That must have been at Gizenga in the Congo. Private hospital. Nothing after that?"
"No. Why does my chest hurt so much?"
"One of your lungs collapsed. You remember what happened at the clinic?"
"Yeah." India's voice is filled with distaste. "How long have I been out?"
Sitting forward Jude lays a cool hand on hers. "That was three weeks ago, India."
"Three weeks? Shit." India moves to sit up, and then decides against it. "Three weeks?"
"It'll come back to you, I'm sure." Jude's green eyes are concerned. "You've been in and out. You were at Gizenga for two weeks, and then we moved you back here. There's a nurse coming in every day. You
did agree to this, by the way."
"I trust you." India looks up again, at the roof and the uneven walls. "Why here?"
"Chi - my agent - is working on getting you out of the contract with Ashe as quickly - and cleanly - as possible." At the mention of his name, Jude's lips twitch with distaste. "You needed to get out of that apartment and away from him. I needed a break, so I thought..." The journalist shifts slightly. "If you don't want to stay here, we can find a convalescence home in San Francisco for you. It's no problem if ... "
Her eyes already drifting shut, India rests warm fingers against Jude's wrist. "Thank you."
When she wakes again a balmy breeze is flowing over her from the open window, and Jude is in the doorway, talking softly on the phone. When she notices India's eyes opening she rushes a goodbye and wanders over to the bed.
"Hey. I was just talking to Chi - looks like the contract will be sorted out within the week."
"A week?" India finds the idea so pleasant that the feeling is almost foreign. "How much did she have to... ?"
"Don't think about that now." Jude leans against the wall, folding her arms. "She did what she had to."
"She needs to call Jonathon Mackey. He'll take care of it. I think... "
"Relax." Cocking her head Jude smiles. "We'll sort it out when you're better."
"So I belong to you now?"
A rich laugh escapes from Jude's lips and India realises just how anxious she must have been all this time. "If you want to see it that way. How are you at doing windows?"
"Not good."
"Well, that was money in the water, then. Go back to sleep, India."
"Thank you."
"Go back to sleep."
It is another week before Jude and the nurse decide that a very grumpy India can get out of bed. She moves as slowly as an old woman, the bandage around her chest restrictive and reminding her of the damage she has had to withstand. Using a beautiful wooden cane that Jude has found somewhere for her, she shuffles through the large house, taking in the gorgeous but simple décor.
Jude's home is right on the lake, on a large secure property minded by watchful bodyguards.
On her second day up she is helped downstairs by the attentive nurse, Julia, to the sprawling terracotta-tiled patio that overlooks the expanse of bright blue water. Jude has prepared a small brunch and dishes up a delectable selection of fruits, pastries and cheese, of which India is only able to eat a few mouthfuls before she stops an apologised profusely.
"Don't. It'll keep."
Looking over the quiet water - the variations in its fierce colouring reminds her of Jude's eyes - India admires the peaceful setting.
"It's gorgeous. So bright."
As if on cue a serious-looking Spanish woman appears from the large open sliding doors with a small box in her hand. With a smile of greeting she lifts the lid and presents India with stylish black sunglasses, nodding in appreciation as India slides them onto her face, before she takes a few dishes off the table and disappears into the house again.
Leaning back in her chair Jude smiles. "They suit you."
"Good taste. Did she make the lunch?"
"Marguerite? No." Jude raises an eyebrow. "You don't think I can put my own meal together?"
"I thought people like you had people to..." India pauses to draw breath into her weakened lungs, "do things like these for you."
The woman considers her words. "Well, in New York I do. I don't have much time when I'm there, so I have full-time staff. This is my time-off home, so when I come here I like to do things myself. Marguerite stays here to look after things, and sometimes she helps when I have guests." Pouring a cup of sweet-smelling coffee she passes it over to India. "Is there anything else you'd like?"
"A cigarette?"
"Huh. I hardly think you should be smoking. You stopped breathing for four minutes, India."
"Four minutes?" The fake swagger leaves India for a moment, and that is all it takes for Jude to see how frightened she had been. But it also takes just that long for the small woman to put up the barrier and the swagger again. "Oh well. Just enough time for Paul Ashe to cut in an ad break, I suppose."
With a sudden and surprising surge of anger Jude balls up her napkin and tosses it onto the table. "You know, you almost
died. It's fine to be scared. You don't have to be so
cavalier about everything."
Jude Limas pushes every single one of India's buttons.
"The last time you thought you knew what was going on you really had no idea, Jude. So don't talk to me like you understand, okay?"
"Not for want of trying!" When Jude raises her voice it surprises both of them. "You talk everything away, India. Everything! One moment I feel like I'm reaching you, and the next moment you just slam the shutters down on my fingers.
That's what it's like!" Pushing her chair back from the table roughly enough that the legs grind over the terracotta, she stands up and stares at India over the expanse of the table. "You know, I work on getting information from people every single day of my life, and even
I have to wonder whether the amount of effort I have to put into trying to get to know anything about you is just a waste of time."
"Is that what I am to you? Effort? A
project?" Taking off the sunglasses India tosses them onto the table, trying not to reveal the pain the movement generates in her chest. "Thanks for everything, Jude, but I don't think this is going to work."
Shaking her head, Jude looks away into the distance contemplatively. When she finally speaks her voice is soft, but it carries over the slight breeze with peculiar clarity. "You almost died."
India takes a deep breath to calm herself, and finds that peace returns quicker here than she's usually found it to. "I probably did die, for a little bit at least. I dreamt about mermaids."
"You said something when you were in the ambulance on your way to the hospital. I couldn't hear."
Studying the way the sunlight falls over Jude's dusky skin and turns her a glimmering gold, India cocks her head. "You were in the ambulance with me?"
"Yeah." Jude crosses her arms defensively, looking away, and her hair falls over her face like a curtain. "I was there."
There is a silent admission in those words. Struggling to her feet India inches over to Jude, cursing her weakness, and reaches out awkwardly. Her small hands come to rest on the warm waist - she can feel the muscles bunching under her fingers.
Giving comfort does not come easily to her.
Leaning forward she does the one thing she can think of. She presses her cheek to Jude's back. "Jude... It's fine to be scared."
There is an explosive exhalation under her cheek - as if Jude has been holding her breath for quite a while now - and then Jude's hands squeeze hers just once, briefly. When the journalist steps away and turns around there is a sad smile curled around her lips.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I had no right to talk to you like that."
"It's okay. I can be a little difficult."
But Jude refuses to bite. Forlornly she sits down, pulling her coffee cup to her and sipping mindlessly at the cold dregs.
By the next day the uneasiness has dissipated. Either that, or, India recognizes, Jude is simply acting as if it has. Nevertheless, she is glad for the lighter atmosphere. Taking care to keep conversation simple she takes pleasure in Jude's undemanding company, careful to gauge the mood and not to intrude upon the other woman's privacy. They spend time making small talk, and India is hopeful that the other woman enjoys their natural banter as much as she does.
"Did you always want to be a journalist?"
"No. I wanted to be a fire engine for a really long time."
"Stop it."
"True. I blame animation movies."
"So why a fire engine? Why not a singing rabbit or a dancing clock?"
"Well, I'm not that great a singer..."
"I refuse to believe that. And next you're going to tell me that you can't dance?"
"Oh no, I can dance. I'm
great at dancing. I'm just terrible at keeping time."
"Har har. Don't quit your day job."
"So you were telling me about Warren."
"I was?"
"Well, you mentioned him once. That's practically like telling me everything about him, in India terms."
"There's something I wanted to say... oh yeah. Ha ha."
"Jude? Isn't there someone missing you while you hang around here playing hooky with me?"
"Obviously. Steven."
"Steven?"
"My craziest fan. I left town without letting him know. He's probably exposing himself to an unattended window in New York as we speak."
"Inconsiderate of you."
"I know. I did try to write him a freaky offensive poem to let him know, but nothing rhymes with 'you crazy motherf...'"
Snigger. "You'd never have said it."
"I would too."
"Would not."
"Would too. What do you take me for - a sissy?"
"No. A refined decent lady."
"Now
that was just unasked for, India."
After a week India is able to move around a little easier, the intense ache reducing somewhat. The friendly old doctor comes down from town and examines her surgery wound carefully, then takes out the stitches with a stern warning to her not to overdo it.
She gets rid of the cane, but her progress is still limited to a shuffle, and after one day her back aches so fiercely that she reclaims the wooden instrument without a word. Jude notices the quick transition, but with her customary graciousness says nothing.
Able to move around a little more, India is now in the position to observe Jude's punishing schedule. The woman gets up at five, goes for a demandingly fast forty-five minute run at the lake's shore, returns for a cup of strong coffee and a quick look at the local newspaper, and then spends an hour in the downstairs gymnasium practising a rhythmic and hypnotic martial art that apparently is called "Capoeira".
The first time India slowly makes her way down the steep stairs and pauses at the bottom for a much-needed breath, Jude does not turn to acknowledge her, though she can't miss her presence with the profusion of mirrors that cover the sunny room's walls. At first, thinking it is some sort of dance, India sits down on the bottom step, both appreciating the woman's smooth movements and grace and enjoying the magnetic accompanying music. After the second leg sweep and the third high kick she is mesmerized. Jude moves in a peculiar never-varying square pattern on the wooden floor, incorporating tumbles and kicks into her efficient motions with what appears to be great ease - which is only belied by the fine sheen of sweat covering her and the visible tensing of her finely toned body at each action.
Following that gruelling workout a generally subdued Jude has breakfast on the patio, after which she makes time to read through documentation from her agent and scripts for prospective projects. During this time India quietly reads the novel she has scavenged from the extensive bookshelves in the study, or gives feedback when asked for her opinion.
Jude also owns a production company, and though she confesses that she is not as involved in it lately, having largely given over control to her business partner, she still takes the time to approve new developments. When she admits to not being able to give as much attention to the company as she wants to, India is dumbstruck.
Even at her least focused Jude Limas is a whirlwind. Her single-mindedness and attention to detail is astounding. It is almost a shock to find out that her energy is not without limits.
Late afternoon sees them lounging on the patio, enjoying drinks and watching the sun set spectacularly over the water. India drinks her typical whiskey, and usually Jude joins her, though once she comments that it's neither kind to her concentration nor to her figure.
"You worry about your weight?
Seriously?? There's nothing there, Jude!"
"Thanks, but as I'm sure you know the world isn't always kind, and the press less so. If I pick up three pounds I'm pregnant, and if I lose two I'm bulimic. Anyway, you're hardly one to talk. You're still very thin."
"I'm lean."
"You're scrawny."
"Oh shush."
"You're a scrawny scrappy little thing."
"Don't make me hurt you. I'm against hitting pregnant women."
"Hey, Jude..."
Looking up from her newspaper the journalist raises her eyebrows. "Is that the beginning of a joke? Because I can tell you I've heard them all before."
India smiles ingenuously. "No. Wasn't even thinking of it."
"Sure. Your innocent eyes don't fool me."
"You're a spoil-sport. But I did want to ask you something."
Closing the newspaper Jude takes off the small reading glasses that she almost always forgets to wear and sits back. "Is everything okay?"
"Oh yeah. Everything's great. I just wanted to know how your agent's doing with Paul and the contract?"
"The last time we spoke she said she was wrapping it up." Jude smiles. "He's a bastard, but he's no match for Chi."
"Okay. That's great." India picks at the hem of her shirt. "Because I didn't... I don't want to keep you, just because you feel you have to look after me, Jude."
Shaking her head Jude leans forward to press her cool fingers against India's hand. "Oh no, India; I'm enjoying being at home for a little bit, and I've just finished two major projects... I needed the break." She pauses. "Unless you want to get back home, of course. I'm sorry, I didn't think of that."
Impulsively India turns her hand to squeeze Jude's. "I usually have little more than an address, Jude. This has been more of a home to me than ... But I'm sure you have things to do. I've asked Jonathon Mackey to look at other places around San Francisco for me, but I can tell him to hurry up if you'd like. Honestly. You don't have to be shy to say so."
"You don't have to rush him."
"Okay. If you're sure."
"I like having you around. You're a pain sometimes, but still."
"You're a pain all the time." Squeezing Jude's hand one last time India smiled. "Thanks."
Friends arrive in the least predictable packages sometimes.
Their evenings become a ritual they both look forward to.
Jude is smart, funny and prone to asking terrifyingly direct questions. In direct contrast to her difficulties as a public figure, India is quick-witted and responsive when provided with the right company and a sense of security. Conversations veer from the mundane to the weighty and the downright ridiculous, but when it becomes too serious India is always the one to deflect with an obvious sidestep. Her evasiveness annoys Jude, and Jude's intensity and never-flagging energy intimidates her. More often than not serious discussion leads to a fiery debate and aggravation from one or both parties, especially when it involves Kinshasa.
"You weren't there, Jude. I told them to back off. I told Paul to get them away from me."
"But you didn't stop to explain. You could have told them why."
"That's like telling a surfer to stop and explain to the shark."
"Okay, I get it. I just don't understand how you could blindly put yourself in a situation that was clearly dangerous to you."
"I told Paul. I expected him to protect me. That was his job, wasn't it?"
"But it's your job to protect yourself too!"
"What are you saying? That I shouldn't have done any of it? I don't get you. You criticize me for not liking what I do, and then you criticize me for doing it. What is it you want?"
"I want you to look after yourself."
"I'm trying to! Sorry. I'm trying to. But you more than anybody should understand the mob mentality! I couldn't do anything!"
"I'm sorry. You're right."
"You make me feel like it's my fault."
"I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I just wish..."
"What?"
"That it hadn't happened to you."
"So do I. I miss my cigarettes."
"I guess that's the end of the serious dialogue, then."
"I've had enough for now."
"Fine. You piss me off so much sometimes."
"Ditto, Limas."
"So Warren."
"Warren what?"
"Exactly my point?"
"There's nothing to tell."
"Big fat liar."
"I thought you said I was scrawny."
"Whatever. Scrawny scrappy liar."
"Your charm really does wear off after a while, doesn't it?"
Jude sits back and folds her arms pointedly. "You're not sidetracking me again, India."
With a sigh India shrugs. "You're persistent. There really is nothing to tell, Jude. Why do you want to know?"
Glancing out over the lake Jude thinks for a moment, and then her eyes lock on India's with unnerving intensity. "Because you don't talk about your life a lot, India. When I push you hard enough, you talk about your talent. Sometimes you tell me about the people you've met and the things you've seen. Just sometimes. But you never say anything about your life."
India's delicate fingers tap the table uneasily. Biting the inside of her lip she peers at Jude from under dark lashes. "My life is about the healing and the places where I go. There isn't any more."
"That's not true, India. You have friends, family, a life outside of all this. An actual life. Don't you?"
Looking away India frowns. "Do you?"
"Don't do that. Don't push me away."
"I don't want to talk about these things." India is silent for a long time, and Jude doesn't interrupt the solitude. Then, suddenly, the small woman speaks again. "I'm an orphan. My parents gave me up. I don't know anything more than that. I grew up in a Catholic convent. After I matriculated I went to secretarial college for a few months. The sisters thought it would be the best vocation for me. I couldn't do it, though. I started working part-time at the veterinarian's office next to Yvonne's clinic, and some of her people sometimes came over to lay their hands on the animals. That fascinated me, for obvious reasons, so I went to visit a few times. Yvonne noticed that I was interested, and asked me if I wanted to learn." She smiles a little forlornly. "Of course, the Catholic upbringing made me sure that I'd be going to hell for doing those kind of things... but then, I thought I'd be going to hell for what I could already do, anyway, so it didn't really matter much."
"Did you ever use your gift on the animals? Or at the clinic?"
"Just a little, sometimes, if I needed to push it that little bit harder. But not the full-on thing, no."
"Why not? It seems like the perfect platform."
India has reverted to that old familiar motion of plucking at the hem of her shirt. "Nobody else could do it, Jude. It obviously wasn't right."
"I'm wondering," and the journalist gives India a lopsided smile, "and kick me if it's a stupid question, but I don't know much about this. Being brought up a Catholic, didn't you ever consider that your gift might be ... divine?"
An incongruous giggle slips from India's lips, but when she sees the look on Jude's face she hurries to reassure her. "I'm not laughing at you, Jude, I promise. It's just ... I'm considering what sister Ruth's facial expression would have looked like if I'd told her I was a saint incarnated." She gives another soft hiccough-laugh, and then raises her shoulders. "I knew I wasn't good enough for divinity. Saints' parents didn't just leave them on doorsteps. The nuns felt the same. They tried to instill the best values they could in us, but we weren't theirs. Who would ever pick me for a blessing?"
"India..." Jude exhales softly. "Did they ever know what you could do?"
The motion of India's hands still. "Yeah. I did it once."
"Just once?"
"Once was all it took. I like to think that I'm a fast learner."
"What did they do to you?"
India can feel the other woman's sharp eyes on her. Looking over at Jude she smiles slightly at the apprehensive expression. "It's not that bad."
"That's always relative."
"Really. You're imagining 'The Magdalene Sisters' with torture or something. I can tell by the look on your face." She runs her tapered fingers over the hem of her shirt meditatively. "No, it was very ordinary. Being stuffed in a dark closet for a few hours, bread and water for a few days. That sort of thing. They didn't want me to do it again, and I got the hint."
Jude's eyes are filled with horror. "That's what you'd call ordinary?"
"It could have been worse." Shrugging, India looks away. "They weren't bad people, Jude. They just believed that what I'd done wasn't right. A lot of people still feel that way."
The journalist leans back, watching the undercurrents flicker through India's expression. "I think that
you feel that way a lot of the time, too."
"Sometimes. Yes."
When India finally looks up there is a suggestion of shame in her eyes. Reaching out, the other woman places a gentle hand on India's. "Can I tell you something without you running away?"
"I can't stop you."
"You
do have divinity in you, honey. We all do, but you have something special. You are a blessing."
Biting down on her trembling bottom lip, India closes her dark eyes for a moment. Jude pats her hand reassuringly.
"You've been punished for having an exceptional ability, India, but that doesn't mean that you shouldn't use it. It only means that you have more people to prove wrong. There's no reason at all to be ashamed of who you are. You don't hear it just yet, and you've spent a long time not hearing it. But I'll keep telling you, and eventually you'll have to either listen, or you'll have to call me a big fat liar."
India clenches her jaw. "Why do you keep this up, Jude?"
"Because you're amazing, and you don't even know it." Letting go of India's hand Jude sits back. "You were right when you told me that all I did was to look beautiful and have cozy chats..."
"That's not what I said, and besides, I was completely out of line..."
"You were out of line, but some of it was right. I can only offer what I have. And you know what?" A bitter, unbefitting smile flits across her face. "While I'm doing it, it's impossible not to consider the fact that I'm only doing it for myself. That no matter how humanitarian I am, all I'm ultimately doing is promoting Brand Jude."
"But your intentions are good."
"Are they? I'd like to think that it's not a business transaction, but in the end it always comes down to it for me. The point is - I was talking about you. I do what I do, and the effects are negligible, and people think I'm wonderful for it. You do what you do, even though you don't seem to want to. That's selfless. I suppose I wish I were more like you."
Shaking her head India leans forward. "No, you don't, Jude. I'm not selfless - I'm a fraud. To do these things against my will is pathetic, and to pretend that I'm doing them because of anything more than public pressure is a lie. I have... had... no desire to be the next big thing. I don't want to be in the newspapers. I don't want everybody to know my name. I sure as hell don't want to be touted as a miracle. I just want to be a normal person, with a normal life. Maybe some normal love. And I know this is all downright bizarre, coming from someone who sold herself to the Paige Carter machine, but I didn't see that I had much of a choice then. We live and learn, I suppose."
With a slight smile Jude casts her glance over the still blue water. "I don't always understand you, India, but I like you."
"Ditto, Jude." Leaning back India stretches her neck. "Damn. I really could do with a cigarette. Why don't you tell me about your life to distract me."
"Sure. I was born in Santoña, Cantabria, to Luís Maria and Rosa Limas. I don't remember much about the town, or the country - we moved to America when I was five. My father was a lawyer and my mother a homemaker. He thought I'd have more opportunities in America. My mom died when I was sixteen. She had a heart attack. My father did as well as he could. I went to Columbia to study journalism, but my father passed away at the end of my first year. I had the choice between starving and dropping out and getting a job, so I got an apprenticeship at a small local paper. Left there when the editor offered to advance my career for payment in kind - I just said "No thank you. I'm not that kind of girl' and packed up and left. And then I got another job at a bigger newspaper, and it just took off from there."
"Wow. After just 'No thank you. I'm not that kind of girl'?"
"You jest, madam, but it's the truth."
"So your break came pretty easily?"
"Well, yes and no. After the first one. But to get through that first job took blood, sweat and tears, I promise you. If it hadn't been for my friends I would have starved a long time ago."
"You only eat ... what... three carrots a day... You must have been very poor."
"Do you want to hear my story or not?"
"Sorry."
"The bigwig from a local TV station spotted me at the back of a press pack on a story, and asked me if I was interested in presenting an analysis of the world news in brief, as it were, every evening. I messed up quite a bit, not having been in front of cameras before..."
India interrupted solemnly. "I've seen a blooper clip or two."
"We're not paying out damages for that anymore. If you're experiencing anxiety attacks it's your own problem."
"Some of it was especially catastrophic."
"Thanks for dwelling on that. Can we move on?"
"Sure. How long did you do that stint?"
"How come you don't know anything about my career? Your agent should have briefed you about my various successes and triumphs just before you met me. So that you could genuflect with awareness."
"Genuflect
this."
"How rude."
"I try. And then CNN stole you away?"
Jude grins. "You
do know something."
Groaning theatrically India rolls her big eyes. "I didn't want to let on. Aaaaargh. Now I'm not going to be able to live with your massive ego."
"You'll have to. You're too scrawny to walk far, and I have the car keys." Rocking on her chair rhythmically Jude begins to sing with enthusiasm. "I am such a sta-har, you know who I a-har, I am such a sta-har..."
"You know who I are?" Cocking her head India purses her lips. "Have you been taking writing tips from Fluff Puppy, or whatever the guy's name is?"
"It rhymed. I'm all about the art, dude." Striking a mock rapper pose Jude waits until India has stopped laughing. "Whassup, dawg?"
"I have
no idea."
Marguerite chooses that moment to enter with a tray of iced tea. Without even so much as a second look at Jude, who shouts an enthusiastic "yo, homie" to her, she dispenses the chilly drinks with a friendly smile before disappearing into the house.
Lifting the glass to eye level India fishes out the sprig of mint and tossed it over the railing before she takes a long appreciative sip. "Do you like what you do, Jude?"
"Like it? I love it." It is obvious. When she talks about her career she grows taller. Her eyes blaze in the way that the camera loves. Her hand signals become bigger, her language more elaborate. "It's a blessing to do what you love and get paid for it."
"Is there anything at all about it that you don't like?"
Sipping slowly at her tea Jude ponders. "Of course. Nothing is without its drawbacks. Privacy is rare. What we've been able to enjoy here doesn't happen for me often. I can't have lunch with a friend without a lens peeping in from somewhere."
"But didn't you sort of choose that, doing what you do?"
A light frown creeps up on Jude's forehead. "Choose to have no privacy? I don't think anyone chooses that, unless they've opted to live in a glass box in the middle of Times Square. I suppose some trades are more public than others, but I'm just like anyone else, doing what I love."
"Actually very few other people get to do what they love. Don't you think, though, that it's a little hypocritical to complain about the loss of privacy when in the same breath you're admitting that you're using what you do to fuel... what did you call it... Brand You?"
For a moment India is worried that she has gone too far, but Jude surprises her with a hearty laugh.
"My father would have liked you. I don't know what the answer is. I expect I want it all my way. It's just not that easy, having to be perfect all of the time."
"You make it seem effortless."
Jude shares a charming smile with India. "It's entirely wrong, but I'll choose to see it as the compliment it's meant to be. Thank you. That's very kind of you. Not to shatter your image of me, India, but I can't always say the things I like to say. Do the things I want to do. I wanted to do some good in the world, but now it's always tied to what I'm supposed to be. What people know me as is what I'm allowed to let them know. In exchange for the so-called perfect life I have to be the perfect public figure." She shakes her head, almost as if to herself. "You know how it is. I've traded one sort of happiness for another. There always is a cost."
"Is there?"
"You ask me this when you've almost been killed?"
"I suppose I saw it as punishment rather than cost."
"What do you think you're being punished for, India?"
"Being a fake. It's the same thing, Jude. Punishment, cost; they're just two sides of the same coin."
7. Your number has been called
("Butterflies and Hurricanes" - Muse)
It has turned into a ritual, their shared conversations. India has known it is not one that can last, but it is still an unforeseen shock when their time runs out for the moment being and Jude has to fly to Iran for a shoot.
They stand in the kitchen, India leaning on her cane for more than just physical support. Jude looks astounding. She is dressed for the first meeting that will take place on the private jet sent by the production company, and gone is the casual Jude who loiters around in comfortable jeans. This woman is every inch the celebrity in her pressed suit.
"I'm not looking forward to the flight," she admits a little warily. "I've worked with Günter before and he's such an ass. He'll get drunk and spend the entire time trying to get into my skirt." Smoothing down the article in question she adds for India's benefit, "He's the director for this project."
"Tell him you'll get him fired. You can, right?" India studies Jude's stiletto heels absent-mindedly. "You look ... amazing."
"Thank you." A flush rises in Jude's cheeks, but she hides it commendably. "I'll get Chi to call him. She threatens a lot better than I do. You should hear her screaming in German - it's bloodcurdling. And awesome."
"She speaks German?"
"She speaks six languages, and swears fluently in another four." Lifting her head Jude takes in the gleaming pots hanging from the rail above the butcher's block, the bottles of olive oil neatly lined up on the upper shelves, the rich dark cherry wood of the cabinets. "I'm going to miss this house. I never realised how much I loved it until now. I had a really great time here. Thank you, India."
"Thank you, Jude, for taking me in. I realise it was just pity, but it's a good payoff for staying in this place and ... having you for conversation."
"It was not pity."
"You'll be late."
"Don't change the subject."
"You are going to be late."
"You piss me off so much sometimes."
"Ditto, Limas." They share a smile before India speaks hesitantly. "You're sure you're alright with me staying on while you're gone?"
"Of course. Marguerite's here, the pantry's stocked up, and nobody will bother you with the security on detail. I know you have some things to sort out, so stay as long as you like. I'll probably be back in about two weeks, if all goes as planned." She looks through the sliding doors to the view beyond. "Enjoy that cocktail every evening for me."
"It won't be nearly as much fun without you to provoke."
Instead of the snappy retort India is expecting, Jude pushes herself away from the counter and envelopes the other woman in a very brief but firm hug. "Thank you." Then, quickly and purposefully, she turns away. "I'll call now and then to chat, if you're okay with it?"
"Sure. We're friends, Jude - I'd love that."
"Bye, India."
She leaves as she does everything: as if it is her sole objective.
The house is empty. India has expected it, considering that Marguerite lives in a cottage on the property and not in the house itself, but she isn't ready for the feeling of complete desertion. For two mornings in a row she catches herself on the bottom step of the gym, sitting with her chin propped on her knees, seeing Jude spin and kick in her mind's eye. She even turns on the music, once, and tries to recall which motions go with what rhythm. On the patio she can hear Jude's laughter, rich and throaty - she has always secretly taken pleasure in hearing it because it is a sound that so obviously comes right from the other woman's soul. She can remember how, when she had tried hard to be insufferable and had succeeded, Jude would not lift her head from the document she was reading, but would merely peer at India over the rim of her much-maligned reading glasses with those bright green eyes.
Pulling herself away from the recollections she shakes her head angrily. "You're being pathetic, India."
Jude's voice comes through clearly in her thoughts. "You're a blessing."
"Even when you're not here you get under my skin, Limas."
But India is smiling.
"Hey, it's me."
"Who?"
"Oh, for heavens' sake. Me me. Don't piss me off."
"Your language, Miss Limas, your language... How was the flight?"
"Terrible. Günter's hands should have a separate Visa for the amount of wandering they do."
"Cute. Did you get Chi to give him a call?"
"That was the highlight of everyone's flight ... bar Günter's, of course. Chi screamed so loudly that the pilot thought his orders were changing and almost landed in Munich."
"I hear it's Oktoberfest season there."
"If there were a season for Oktoberfest I would assume it'd actually fall in October, India."
"You really shouldn't assume."
"Fine. Next October we're going over there to prove my point. Verstehen sie?"
"Yes, Captain."
"That's the spirit. How's the house?"
"Empty. Drinking alone closely resembles being an alcoholic, wouldn't you say?"
"Somewhat. Marguerite could always be your drinking buddy."
"She's lacking in the annoying repartee department."
"I'll cut her salary immediately. But seriously, India, are you doing okay?"
"Yeah. I just have to get used to the silence."
"Nice way to say I'm an incessant talker." Silence. "Did you call me cute just now?"
"No, Miss Limas. Now go and get some sleep. You have a long day tomorrow."
"Hey, it's me... "
"Hey you."
"At least you know who it is this time. I can't talk long - I have to be in front of the camera in about five minutes, but I wanted to tell you something quickly."
"Yeeeees?"
"India, Paul Ashe had a minor heart attack yesterday."
"Huh. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Although I wanted so much more for him."
"Yeah. While he's in recovery his new assistant, Guy Hunter, is dealing with his clients. They say he's pretty good, too. I foresee problems for Ashe when he gets back into the office."
"Hunter used to be my personal assistant. He's good. His first name is Guy?"
"Uh huh. Rather unfortunate, seeing as Guy Hunter is as straight as they come. Now he has all the closeted macho guys hitting on him something terrible."
"Really?"
"Really. Oh no, here comes that asshole director. They think I'm really into line dancing here, with the rate at which I do-si-do sideways when he gets close. Got to go."
"Hey, it's me."
"Hey you. How's it going?"
"Two weeks have never been this long before. I wish I could just come home."
"You sound really tired, Jude. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, all things considered. I'm pooped."
"... and you don't have a whiskey buddy there?"
"... and I don't have a whiskey buddy here."
"What are you working on?"
"War. Always war. People can't ever stop fighting."
"Be careful, please?"
"I'll try." A whistling sound in the background. "I have to go. Take care, all right?"
"India, it's Jude."
"You're saying it wrong."
"What?"
"You're supposed to say 'Hey, it's me'."
"What are we, the Marx Brothers?"
"What does any of this have to do with politics?"
"Not that Marx. It was a television programme of the early... you're messing with me."
"Never heard of that time period before."
"India."
"Yes. I'm messing with you. But it's fun."
"Is it? I hadn't noticed."
"You really should pay more attention. Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Good day today, or at least as good as it can get. I found some positive amongst all of this rubble."
"Good. I think you need that."
"I think everyone needs that. How's life at Chapala?"
"No complaints. I've been talking to Jonathon Mackey - he's cleared up the final dregs of the Ashe contract. He's been chatting to Chi, too. I'm sure she'll let you know when they've crossed their t's and dotted the i's..."
"That's good news for you."
"Yeah. I'm considering buying an apartment in SoMa. Or maybe I can buy something up here. Or even in Cape Town. Anywhere nice. What do you think?"
"I think you should do that. But not at Lake Chapala."
"Why?" There is a slight touch of hurt in India's voice. "You wouldn't like me as a neighbour?"
"I like you better as a houseguest."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh. So buy the one in SoMa."
"What about Cape Town? It's lovely there."
"It's too far away."
"From?"
"Everything."
"Hey, it's me."
"Isn't it the middle of the night there, Jude?"
"Yep."
"Why aren't you sleeping?"
"How do you know I'm not?"
"Funny. But I'm serious. You need your rest."
"I can't sleep. It might help if you talk to me a little."
"About what?"
"About anything, India. Tell me something about yourself."
"You know everything."
"I doubt it."
"Why do you want to know?"
"No reason."
"There's always a reason with you, Jude."
"Fine. Because I like the sound of your voice. It puts me at ease."
"Huh. Really?"
"Yes. Really."
"Oh. Thank you. I... You always come up with the nicest things."
"That's my charm."
"Amongst other things."
Yawn.
"Okay. I'll tell you about Warren. Real boring, but you keep asking, so you deserve to suffer. I met him when I was twelve years old. His parents lived next to the convent, and even though the sisters would have had several apoplectic fits before they would let us girls talk to boys, I still managed to make friends with him through the holy fence."
"Sounds like an unholy fence to me."
"Cute. Go to sleep. Anyway, we went to the same college, and ended up on the same campus, and that was kind of it. Friends for life. Or so I thought, I suppose. He couldn't understand why I never told him."
"Have you spoken to him since?"
"Yeah. We chat now and then, short little conversations with no substance. It hurts to hear his voice. Every time we talk I remember him and me, the way things were, and then I know it can never be like that again. It makes it a little worse that it's my fault. But I'm fine now. It's bittersweet."
"Were you ever lovers?"
"You certainly don't waste time... No, we weren't. He didn't think of me like that. He liked his girls wild."
"And you?"
"Damn, Jude, aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" Sigh. "Fine. He was my first big love. I never let on, because it would have ruined the friendship. He didn't feel the same."
"How long?"
"A long time. I don't know when it began to peter out; I suppose after Guinee. The amount of destruction sort of took my mind off it."
"Did you ever see anyone else?"
"Sure. If I'd held off he would have noticed, and that would have mortified me. So I dated some. A guy from the college, one of Warren's friends..."
"Do you still miss him?"
"Lyle?"
"India..."
"Sometimes. If I catch a movie we saw together, or hear a song he just loved. He adored watching wrestling, the real over the top nonsense. But that feels like a long time ago. I'm just interchanging some of the memories with better ones now."
There is a contented silence.
"Jude?"
Just deep and even breathing.
The soothing sounds of string instruments drift through the hallway. Leaving her handbag on a little side table to her right Jude walks quietly into the kitchen.
"What are you listening to?"
At the counter India turns, a dishcloth casually slung over one shoulder and a large chopping knife in her hand.
"You should know, it's from your collection. According to the CD cover it's Albinoni. Am I saying that right?"
"Yep." Leaning back against the opposite counter Jude folds her arms. "I suppose more correctly my question should have been
why. You don't even like classical music."
India cocks her head to one side cheerfully. "Well, Jude, I for one am never averse to learning new things. There must be something to it if you like it. You have impeccable taste."
Jude's elegant eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. "Hm. Now you're complimenting me? There's something odd going on here." Sniffing the air experimentally she studies India through half-lidded eyes. "Is that a roast I smell?"
With a dashing wave of the chopping knife India makes an exaggeratedly dramatic face. "Creepy. You're positively Sherlock Holmesian."
"Shut up, Waits. It must have been Marguerite, then."
"What, are you insinuating that I can't cook?"
"Not so much insinuating as saying it blatantly to your face."
"Wow. That hurts. Ye of little faith."
"So did you cook?"
"No." At the slight smirk curling around the gorgeous woman's mouth India sniffles pointedly. "But if I had you would just have broken my little heart."
Clutching her hands to her chest Jude pouts. "Oh, poor baby." Then, realising the inadvertent familiarity of the phrase, she speaks again, almost too hastily. "So what is the occasion?"
India's smile is at once shy and a little bemused. "You're home. That's the occasion."
Her smile is echoed by the woman across the floor, and an indefinable flicker passes between them. "That's thoughtful. Thank you."
"I have my moments." Turning away India chops the remaining onion and scoops it into the waiting pan, then put the knife down carefully in the sink. "I realise that you won't eat the roast, but I did add three carrots for you, and also a bushel of spinach, should you be feeling reckless tonight ..."
"Blah blah blah," Jude interrupts her, but the laughter is close behind.
Jude ends up eating a surprising amount of the roast, though she maintains it is just to spite India, and afterwards they sit in their customary chairs outside on the patio enjoying nightcaps. It is later than usual, but it feels as though no time had passed since their last bickering conversation there.
Leaning back in her chair the journalist gives a long satisfied sigh. "I missed the house. And the lake. And the drinks..."
India takes a sip of her whiskey. "The first step is admitting you have a problem, Jude."
"... but not so much the mouthy friends."
"You pined. I know you did."
Taking a sip of her own drink Jude peers at India over the rim of the glass, her eyes a soft green in the dimmed light. "Didn't you used to be a shy retiring girl who hated talking to me?"
"Hm." A little smile appears on India's face. "Once upon a time."
"So what in the world happened?"
"Even the hardest heart will melt in the face of your persistence." Laughing faintly at the sceptical look on Jude's face India looks away. "It's true. You don't know when to quit. That's what makes you a good friend."
There is a moment of silence. "Thank you."
India shrugs. "My pleasure. Do you have to go back soon?"
"I only have a week here. Then I have to go into the studio in New York to do a few voice-overs and re-record some audio." She yawns. "I think with some editing the director may have something really good in the bag. I'm just glad it's over."
"It sounds like it was hard on you."
"When isn't it?" The question is serious, and Jude tries to lighten it up with a smile, but something distant has seeped into her expression. Lifting her hand she rubs absently at her brow.
"Headache?"
Jude nods. "Won't go away. I thought it was the dust in the air over there. Maybe it is. Maybe I just need some time to get the grit out of my system."
Leaning forward, India brushes her fingers over the journalist's hand still resting on the table. It takes a moment before Jude suddenly pulls her hand away sharply.
"What are you doing?" There's an edge to her soft voice that India doesn't like.
"That feel better?"
Jude doesn't say anything, but India knows. The glow rising in the other woman's face is evidence enough.
"Don't you do that again." The journalist's eyes are suddenly hard.
"Jude?"
"I've spent two weeks talking to maimed people, injured people, people who have lost other people. To be honest, the last thing I need is a reminder that I can't help and you can ... and you won't. But for a simple headache you'll do it like it's nothing."
"It's different." India sits forward, her dark eyes fixed on Jude. "It's you."
"Everyone's '
you' for someone!" The echo of Jude's raised voice circles out over the silence of the lake.
Taking a deep breath India gets up and walks inside, leaving Jude to stare out into the night.
Two hours later she wanders back outside and finds Jude curled up in the hammock. Hearing the footsteps Jude turns her head, but doesn't look at her.
"I'm sorry. I'm horrible and I'm a bitch."
"You're not, Jude." Standing next to the hammock India gazes down at her friend tenderly. "I can hear that you're tired and that it was tough on you."
For once Jude is the one who looks like a vulnerable child. "Are you still angry with me?"
"I never was. I didn't walk away because I was angry - I thought you needed some time to yourself." Hearing Jude's sigh India gets into the hammock, "Move over," and the two women briefly shift around, trying to find a comfortable position.
When India has pulled Jude's head to her chest and is combing through the long dark hair with her fingers, the journalist sighs, her breastbone rising to meet the small curve of India's ribs.
"I always think I've gotten used to it."
"How can you?" India's nails scratch at the nape of Jude's neck soothingly. "You're singularly perfect, but you're still just human. Right?"
"But I should... "
"Shush. You're always focused on what you
should be doing. Take it easy on yourself for once."
Jude turns her head into India's body, and her voice is muffled by India's shirt. "Why is there so much hate, and hurt, and so much anger?"
With a sigh India turns the head-scratch into a slightly firmer scalp massage. "I don't know, sweetheart, but you can't fix it all. You can only do what you can do. That needs to be enough for you."
A chuckle sounds against her chest. "Isn't that what I've been telling you all this time?"
"Ironically, yes," and India raises her eyebrows mockingly at herself, "but we're not talking about me now. We're talking about you for once. Let's just say that if I can repeat it, then maybe I've been listening."
"Hm."
With her hands tucked tightly under her chin like a child Jude drifts off, until India realizes this by her even breathing. Wiping gently over the smooth forehead, making absolutely sure that there's no lingering pain, India nudges her.
"Jude?"
"Hm?"
"Are you falling asleep on me?"
"I'm just resting my eyes."
"Sure you are." She smiles over the other woman's head. "But you're resting your eyes on my arm, and it's dead."
"Oh. Oops. I'm sorry."
"Jude?"
"Hm?"
"That's your cue to get up, sweetie. Go to bed."
"Oh. Right." Stretching like a cat Jude groans, and India can feel her chest vibrating. "Thanks, India." To India's surprise the journalist gives her a quick peck on the cheek before rolling off the hammock.
"I'm glad I'm home."
It's no more than a murmur, but it makes India smile.
That night India cannot sleep. She lies awake, staring at her ceiling.
"Everyone's 'you' for someone!"
She has never seen Jude so upset.
India had lied when she said that she wasn't angry. She had felt it reverberate to the soles of her feet, but for once she'd made the right decision when she'd walked away. Because when she'd been inside, on her own, she'd stopped thinking about herself and starting thinking about Jude. About how she must have been feeling to snap so suddenly. About what had pushed her so quickly to the edge.
She feels too much, and you refuse to feel at all.
A memory surfaces like a dolphin; Jude's breath warm in her neck, just before the warmth of lips on her cheek. India realizes that she hasn't been touched like that by anyone in a very long time, and with a grimace of displeasure she pushes it all away. For a moment she is successful; then, as if told by the first memory that the water is safe, a second memory bobs up. The two slight dimples appearing at the corners of Jude's mouth as she is about to smile.
Shaking her head India rolls over and presses her warm face into her pillow.
It is definitely not appropriate to think of one's friend in such a ... lingering way.
As if to taunt her, a sudden memory of Jude, downstairs in the gym, sweaty and weaving rhythmically to the hypnotic music, pops up.
Grabbing the pillow India shoves it over her head and presses down in frustration. Irritation: fine. Sleep: even better.
The faint awareness of desire: unsettling.
No good at all.
Continued...