bow.
There was a universal intake of breath as the woman took the bowl and lifted it to her mouth, sipping the liquid, and then a collective exhale when she nodded appreciatively.
Then Haruka began the whole painstaking process all over again. Fiona watched each regimented move, marvelling at Haruka’s stolid patience and assiduous attention to every last detail. There was an almost balletic discipline and rigour to her movements and Fiona found her thoughts were not drifting so much as concentrating in one place. Where earlier her brain had been full of resignation, anger and despair, now she could see things more clearly, as if the calm environment allowed her thoughts to be filtered and rationalised.
The boiling water steamed gently into the air and Fiona imagined her pain dissipating like water vapour. She couldn’t change the way she felt about Gabe but the feelings were something that should be cherished. She should enjoy the brief time she had with him and make the most of it, celebrate the things she loved about him: his gentle respect for Haruka and her family, the care he’d taken with her at the tempura bar, the way he’d treated her like an equal at the shoot, his passion for photography which, although well-hidden, was still there. The way he made her senses sing when he touched her and how he’d championed her so quickly against her mother. How he’d made her feel beautiful that night in the studio. How he’d given her back some self-esteem. If he couldn’t see how Yumi’s manipulation for what it was, that was his problem.
The quick shushing of the whisk in the tea brought Fiona’s attention back as Haruka fluffed up the water into a deep, dark green, foamy froth with quick, firm strokes. Agitation, she thought. Sometimes you needed to shake things up. She had another week here and she was going to embrace every moment.
Setsuko approached with her small slow steps, turned the bowl, and with a bow offered it to Fiona – and with it came an insight. By taking the bowl, she was accepting what was offered and although she felt a little crack in her heart – it was going to take more than golden glue to mend it – she smiled to herself. She knew herself now. Knew who she was and what she was capable of. At eighteen she’d thought she was in love but it was only a facsimile of love. At eighteen she’d lost her self-esteem and sense of self-worth; now it was gradually coming back and that was something to celebrate.
She took a sip of the tea and nodded, making a silent toast inside to herself; a sense of wellbeing flooded her as if she’d completed a circle. This evening she would go over to Gabe’s studio.
***
Gabe was fascinated by the play of emotions that danced across Fiona’s face as she sat in a shaft of sunlight, so regal and elegant in the sumptuous kimono. That glorious hair … he remembered the silkiness of it sliding through his fingers and the clutch of his stomach when he’d nearly kissed her. God, he wished he had his camera. He could have taken a dozen shots, each seconds apart, and every one would have been different. Regret chafed at him. For not kissing her, as much as for not having his camera. It was a long time since he’d felt like that.
It was also a long time since he’d been to a tea ceremony, his overriding memory being boredom. He’d gone with Yumi and a couple of other people – he couldn’t even remember their names now, even though he’d partied regularly with them – and they’d fidgeted, tugging at their clothes, whispering in undertones the whole way through. Today he’d come on a whim, wanting perhaps to show Fiona that there was more to him than she thought. That he wasn’t the sort of shallow guy that slept with other people’s wives.
With a touch of shame at his previous behaviour, he watched Haruka carefully placing the bamboo cup back at exactly the same angle. She took great pride in what she did; there were centuries of learning here and it deserved respect. The person he’d been, when he was with Yumi back then, wasn’t someone he was particularly proud of. His mum and dad wouldn’t be particularly proud of him either if they knew what his life was really like. Suburban Sally and Jim in Esher with a marriage as durable