Grapes from Thornbushes

‘Oh, stop bloody sulking,’ Theodora said to me half an hour into our flight, as she saw me put my Ray Bans on and turn permanently to the window where thin transparent clouds sprawled under the airplane’s rime-covered wing. She hung on to her Britishisms even more now that she was leaving England for good, making me fear she would end up adopting a fake English accent once she arrived in LA. I was feeling so rotten all day, I felt like lashing out on her, about to tell her that her English sounded endearing but unnatural, when she added, ‘You’re not the only one who’s flying to LA with a broken heart.’

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‘Eh?’ was all I managed to utter, taking my shades off and turning in my seat to face her.

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‘Yes, you heard me right,’ she said, fixing her gaze on a whiskey glass on the fold-out table in front of her.

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‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked, trying to decide if I was supposed to sound offended or indifferent.

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She didn’t reply, but pulled at an almost invisible chain around her neck, producing a small silver (or was it platinum?) locket from underneath her brown silk shirt. She pressed it open, and I leaned over to see what was inside. Once I saw the miniature black-and-white image, all I could do was stare. Inside Theodora’s locket was a picture of Tom, smiling an open, unguarded smile, his long blond hair in his eyes, looking straight into the camera with a mixed expression of confidence and childlike vulnerability. I then had to look at Theodora. Her face was expressionless as she snapped the locket shut and hid it under her shirt.

‘Don’t tell anyone I wear a locket,’ she said. ‘It’s the height of bad taste.’

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‘Wow,’ I said, feeling something akin to pity for her, and forgetting the resentment I sensed mounting against her in the taxi on the way to the airport, all the way during the check-in, while boarding, and then sitting next to her for the first half an hour of our flight. I even felt like saying something to comfort her, but couldn’t choose the right words, so I ended up sitting there staring at her, unable to articulate anything meaningful.

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‘I would never have thought someone like Tom would get to you,’ I finally said clumsily.

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‘It’s the talent, stupid,’ she replied with what sounded like spite in her voice.

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‘What do you mean?’ I asked, not quite getting whose talent, and for what.

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‘It’s not the looks, it’s not the money, it’s not the power people fall in love with,’ she said tersely, her cheeks turning pink.

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‘What is it then?’

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‘It’s the brilliance everyone loves. The inspiration that’s behind any great talent. It’s aways an artist who gets to you, not a moneybag or, god forbid, a politician, or a model. Art and talent go straight for the spirit, bypassing the brain.’

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‘Oh, I see,’ I said, pretending not to care, but at the same time thinking glumly that I was the last person she should have been explaining this to. ‘I remember you telling me rock stars married models and millionaires’ daughters. So maybe when Tom finally makes it, you could still have your chance.’

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Theodora gave me a short look full of disgust, took a sip out of her whiskey glass, flung back her hair, and finally replied in a surprisingly aloof voice, ‘Those who are truly great don’t seek greatness in their lovers. Tom is talented enough not to long desperately for someone whose brilliance would illuminate his life. He certainly doesn’t look for that in a lover. His own light is bright enough. Great men are content with the mundane and the banal in their women. But those who are ordinary will never stop wishing for an extraordinary lover. Someone who’d make their life worth living.’

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‘So when I’m a star I’ll be looking to marry a checkout girl,’ I said, trying not to let too much sarcasm seep into my voice.

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‘Being a star and being brilliant are two entirely different things,’ she said.

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We sat in silence for a few moments while she drank her whiskey and I continued watching the sky and the clouds from the window.

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‘So how did your girl take it?’ Theodora suddenly asked.

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‘What girl?’ I said, looking her in the face, and suddenly feeling nothing but hatred for her. ‘There was no girl.’

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On Amazon: Grapes from Thornbushes: Ordabai, Alissa: 9780955982606: Amazon.com: Books