"So, are you feeling fully prepared for your upcoming exams, hah? Revision coming along well?"
We're approximately thirty miles into the car journey home when Dad's booming voice suddenly invades my umpteenth mental replay of yesterday's lunch with Al. Which was less about actual food and more about our tongues getting better acquainted. The question is an unwelcome intrusion into my daydream, and I respond curtly, hoping that Dad'll get the hint that I don't wish to be disturbed.
"Yes."
"Very good," he replies in a satisfied manner, smiling benignly as he stares at the grey expanse of road ahead, his hands fixed in the highway code-recommended position of ten-to-two on the steering wheel. "I know you will give an excellent account of yourself this year. Maybe even improve on last year's performance."
Whatever. I just hope I pass, that's all.
When it comes to driving a car, Dad would absolutely beast an exam. Every detail of his technique is an exact replica of a highway code diagram, from the correct way he feeds the steering wheel through his hands as he turns corners, to putting the handbrake on at every uphill stop (instead of balancing precariously on the clutch like I do). Even driving instructors aren't quite as anal as my Dad.
But enough about my father and his precision motoring. My mind wanders back to where it was before it was rudely disturbed, and I immerse myself in the sweet, sweet memory of Al Potter's sensual lips and skilful tongue.
I'm just disappointed we didn't cement this…thing before having to return home for the month-long Easter holidays. Five weeks apart is a very long time when we've spent less than twenty-four hours in a relationship. I'm not even sure twenty-four hours counts as a relationship. What if I'm imagining something that doesn't exist, and Al decides he's not interested in me at all when we reconvene for the summer term?
"Do you have a headache, hmm?" asks my Dad, and I blink, suddenly aware that I've been pressing my fingers furiously into my temples.
"Um no," I reply, hurriedly dropping my hands into my lap. "Just…thinking."
"What about?"
"Oh, nothing."
Dad gives me a funny sideways glance but doesn't say anything else. Instead, he carries on steadily cruising up the dual carriageway at a perfectly respectable sixty-five miles per hour, maintaining a safe braking distance and driving with all the due care and attention in the world. I'm just getting back into the juiciest bits of yesterday's date when Dad's voice interrupts my reverie again.
"Bloody idiot," he remonstrates, as a glossy BMW driver swerves into the slow lane in front of us with barely a hair's breadth to spare, almost clipping the bonnet of my Dad's navy Hyundai before continuing at break-neck speed to leave us choking in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Dad huffs, primly adjusts himself in his seat, and slows right down to fifty-eight miles per hour, as though trying to set some kind of shining example to the reckless BMW driver who has disappeared out of sight.
I sigh. It's going to take forever to reach home at the speed my Dad is currently doing. Not that there's anything in particular to rush home for, I suppose. I stare out of the window at the bare fields and dull grey warehouses that flank the side of the road and wish, for possibly the first time in my life, that the summer exam term was already upon us.
There's only so much drab landscape I can take in one day, and it's not long before I reach for my phone and scroll through my messages again, knowing full well that nothing new has arrived since the last time I checked it about twenty minutes ago. Yet I still can't help sighing in disappointment on finding nothing from Al. No text, no missed call…nothing.
Has he forgotten me already? Should I text him? No; that would make me appear super needy. I don't need him. I'm a fully-functioning grown adult who does not need a man, not even one as inhumanly gorgeous as Al Potter.
Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? Of course I bloody need him. I just wish he'd call.
I stare at my phone screen, willing it to spring into action. Of course it doesn't. Only my reflection, impressionistically decorated by greasy finger smudges, stares blankly back. In frustration, I recline firmly into the passenger seat and gaze upwards at the little holes in the faux leather ceiling instead.
After nearly three hours of driving, Dad pulls steadily into our driveway and gets out of the car to open the garage door. I get out too and look around, feeling a slight pang of nostalgia at seeing our familiar front garden with its mossy lawn, freshly tinted with patches of spring green. Our old blossom tree, whose branches almost reach my bedroom window, is at the brink of full bloom, simply bursting with candy pink buds and newly unfurled leaves. I pause to admire how pretty it looks before dragging my luggage out of the car boot.
In the interests of saving myself several trips in and out of the house, I practically give myself a hernia trying to manoeuvre all my bags through the front door in one go, whilst Dad is busy putting the car away. At first, I wonder why Mum isn't there to greet me like she usually is, then I hear her voice ring out crossly:
"You know I can't. Where would I even begin?"
Puzzled, I stare into the dimly-lit hallway, trying to work out why Mum is already angry with me, then I spot her, chatting to someone on the landline. At first I assume she's talking to an employee, then I realise it must be my Auntie, because as soon as she catches sight of me, she beams, blows me a kiss and seamlessly switches to speaking in Tamil. Which was, according to her, the language of our ancestors, and one she deploys when she doesn't want anyone else in the house to eavesdrop.
I catch the words "Marie Claire", "dementia", "Yorkshire Building Society" and a firm "No", and I have to wonder why she thinks I would give enough of a shit about those things that she needs to hide the rest of the discussion?
Naturally, I'm curious, but there's little point in trying to decipher what she's saying. It'll be something boring and irrelevant if it involves a bank and a fashion magazine, and is probably just Mum bitching about work again.
"Darling, hi! So lovely to have you home again!" As soon as she gets off the phone, Mum embraces me warmly before pushing me to arms length so she can gaze at me fondly. "You must be so hungry after that journey. So tell me - how did this term go? How's your friend Judith? And did I tell you about Sonali's youngest son Rupert? He's got to the semi-final stage of the National Spelling Bee. Only seven years old, imagine that. Isn't it marvellous? He might even win the competition! Such a clever child. And you know, he actually asked his mother to teach him how to make dosas the other week."
As usual, Mum's greeting isn't really a request to hear about my term, but more of an excuse to talk, this time about her friend's prodigal child, probably in the wild hope that I might follow his example.
"Did you actually want me to answer any of your questions?" I ask her drily, once she's stopped waxing lyrical about Rodney or Ralph, or whatever the precocious little bastard's name is.
"Would it hurt you to show some interest in your own culture, for a change?" retaliates Mum almost immediately. "Indian cuisine is so fashionable these days! But my own daughter can't even make simple idlis! Have you any idea how embarrassing that is, when the children of my friends can make such beautiful pooris and bombay chutney?"
"So don't tell them, then!" I retort, admittedly rather rudely, for which I feel a twinge of regret, but Mum has already adopted an offended expression and there's little point in apologising, because I know we'll be at loggerheads for the rest of the day, regardless of how much I beg for forgiveness.
"Jaan, she's a medical student! Soon to be Doctor Chandrakumar," Dad says proudly, strolling into the hallway and using Mum's pet name in an effort to placate her. "She will be able to afford her own chef one of these days. She won't need to learn how to cook!"
"Mani, everyone should learn how to cook," says Mum, her lips pursed into a thin line. "And I was never this abrupt with my parents. I had respect for my elders."
"So much respect, you don't even speak to your own father?"
The words slip out before I can stop them. I've overstepped a line and I know it. Mum's nostrils flare and she pinches the bridge of her nose as though it will help her refocus.
"Did I really raise you to talk to me in this insolent way?" Mum says tightly, once she has recovered her composure. She gives her throat a little pat and turns towards the kitchen. "Go and lay the table for lunch. And wash your hands."
"Mum," I begin, guiltily. "Look. I didn't mean…"
"Do as your mother asks, Sunita," says Dad, calmly but sternly as he follows Mum into the kitchen, murmuring soothing, appeasing endearments at her stiff back.
At least it gives me an answer to a burning, three-month old question. The way Dad's behaving, it's clear he's definitely in on the Grandpa secret too. For fuck's sake, why am I the only member of the family who doesn't know anything?
Grudgingly, I trudge into the dining room and begin to lay out place-mats and plates over the table, all the time muttering various profanities under my breath at this humiliating outcome. Mum can fuck right off if she thinks I'm going to let it go. There must be some way of uncovering the mystery. Fuck it; I have every right to meet my grandfather if I want to. Mum can't keep him hidden forever just because of some stupid situation she got herself into a million years ago.
Lunch is a stilted affair. Mum, obviously still pretending to be emotionally traumatised by my teensy outburst, snipes her way through the meal, contradicting pretty much everything I say. I keep talking to fill the silence that Dad's extremely noisy eating would otherwise occupy, to avoid any further grating of my nerves.
"Sunita, clear the table away" instructs Mum snippily as soon as we've finished eating and before I've even had a chance to offer assistance. She pauses at the table for long enough to glower at me, then she picks up the empty basket that once held freshly-made rotis and marches into the kitchen with it.
This is nothing new, by the way; Mum and I are always sparring with each other. She tells me it's lovely to have me back home, then acts like it's anything but.
"What about pudding?" Dad asks eagerly, patting his rotund abdomen.
"Mani, how can you have room for dessert?" Mum yells from the kitchen. "You had three rotis with potato curry and two rice courses! You can't possibly still be hungry."
"I need something sweet, jaan. Come on," begs Dad. "Are there any jalebis left?"
"You ate the last one on Thursday," replies Mum curtly, coming back into the dining room with a tea-towel tucked into the top of her trousers. "There might be some fruit-cake in the tiffin carrier if you feel you have to eat something else. No wonder your clothes are getting snug, Manish."
Dad mumbles something unintelligible.
I carry the last of the empty dishes into the kitchen and go to shove everything in the dishwasher, only for my Mum to flip out over that too.
"For goodness sake, Sunita; rinse the plates first before putting them in the dishwasher! No, not like that…don't stack them that way, stack them this way." Impatiently, she shoves me out of the way and bends down to rearrange the crockery.
"Rinsing? That's what the dishwasher's for! And does it really matter where everything goes? Or have I offended the psychic forces of nature because the spoons are in the wrong place?"
"It's not clever to be so rude, you know!" Mum snaps. "I bet none of your friends speak to their mother with such impudence."
"Probably not," I retort, "but their mothers don't speak to them like you do to me!" And with that, I dump the final rinsedplate in the dishwasher and stomp out of the kitchen, to the sound of my Mum muttering something about being an unappreciated servant in this household.
God, she's so fucking melodramatic at times. Aggrieved and in need of some alone time, I begin to ascend the stairs to my bedroom. I only manage to make it as far as the landing when my Dad's loud voice stops me.
"Sunita, where are you going? Don't disappear off upstairs so soon! We haven't seen you since January, beti! Come; sit with us in the lounge and tell us all about your news."
For fuck's sake, I want my life back to how it was a day ago.
Reluctantly obeying my Dad's instruction, I meander downstairs and into the living room to settle glumly on one of the sofas, mentally preparing myself for fielding a barrage of boring and potentially intrusive questions that neither parent is actually bothered about hearing the answers to.
Sunday afternoon crawls by slowly. The television drones in the background. Dad makes everyone cups of tea at regular intervals, just so that he has an excuse to keep cracking open the biscuit tin. Mum flicks through this month's edition of Vogue, and I sit and fiddle with the border of my hoodie.
Just as I'm contemplating dying of boredom, my phone unexpectedly springs into life and I silently give thanks to the Universe for this much-needed diversion, before checking the screen to see who's calling.
Oh my God, it's Al. On video call. Without waiting for permission to leave the lounge, I yell "Sorry! Phone!" and gallop upstairs and into my room to have this conversation somewhere a little more private.
"Al! Hi," I say as I collapse onto my bed, breathless and thankful I managed to answer in time.
"Hey, Sunny. Almost thought you weren't going to pick up!"
Damn, he looks so good, even on a poorly-lit phone camera. "Sorry, Al. I was just downstairs."
"Oh? I hope I didn't disturb you. Should I call you back in a bit?"
Honestly, I've waited ALL DAY for this and I'm damned if I have to wait any longer. "No! No, it's fine," I reply hurriedly. "Needed a reason to escape the living room anyway. Parents are already doing my head in and I've only just got here."
He laughs. "I hear you. My mum wasn't at all happy about me having a few beers yesterday afternoon. Went off on a rant about how irresponsible I'd been."
"Why? You weren't that drunk. Hang on - don't tell me you drove home?" I ask, horrified by his confession and readying myself to verbally attack him for getting behind the wheel of a car after having several pints during our lunch-date.
"Godr… no! I'd never do that. I don't even have a car! Nah, she just doesn't like me using, uh, transport, after a few drinks, that's all. Worries about me getting hurt, you know."
"It's true that drunk people are more likely to get beaten up on trains and buses," I reply, relieved that he's not so stupid after all. "It must have been a nightmare travelling on the train with all your luggage in tow, though."
At least I'm presuming that's how he got home, because what's the alternative? Hitch-hiking? A tardis? I almost let out a giggle at the silly thought.
"Ah, it wasn't a problem. I'm used to train journeys - it's how I always travelled to school and back."
"At least your Mum doesn't consider you a cultural failure," I grumble, more to myself than him. "Where are you, by the way?"
"In London."
"London? Oh. I got the impression you lived somewhere more…rural."
"Yeah, I do. Well, the family does."
"So what are you doing in the capital, then?"
"Well, it's why I didn't call earlier; the signal's absolutely lousy at home. Luckily for me, Mum and Dad have a flat in London as well as their main house in the countryside, so I decided to come here instead."
"You came all the way to London because of crap reception?"
He laughs and looks faintly embarrassed. "It's not that far. Only about an hour away on the train."
My heart soars. He took a train and travelled all the way to London just to call me? Can this boy get any more adorable?
Al continues. "I'll be able to get lots more revision done here because I can access the internet without it crashing spectacularly every two minutes. Plus, I'll be working in London over Easter so it makes sense to hang out in this flat."
I deflate a little at the news that it's not all for my benefit, but the mention of a job piques my interest. "Working, Al? You work during the holidays?"
He looks mildly uncomfortable as he runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah. It's only a few days per week in St…well, it's a small hospital that you won't have heard of. I guess it's kind of like work experience, you know?"
"In a hospital? So you're already starting clinical training? But nobody has to do that until they enter their fourth year," I frown.
"Well, it helps with my university fees," he mumbles.
"Hang on - they pay for your education?" How odd. I got the impression Al Potter was privately educated and reasonably well-heeled. Why on earth would he need to take a paid placement to get through University?
"They cover the University bills, and in exchange I work there part-time during the holidays, and I'll be employed by them once I graduate. At the moment, it's just menial stuff I deal with. Filing, mostly."
"Oh," I reply, suddenly recalling an army-funded student on our course who is getting her whole medical degree paid for, but in exchange, she has to work for the army during holidays and for a further five years after she's graduated. Al must have enrolled himself in something similar. "I think I understand. Sounds like a sensible plan."
"I'm so glad you approve," says Al, voice dry with sarcasm, but I know he doesn't mean anything by it as his dimple is dimpling and it only does that when he's trying not to grin. And he only tries not to grin when he doesn't want to make it obvious he's found something funny. But I'm onto his little secrets now. There's no hiding from me, Al Potter. I only wish I could reach out with my index finger and…
"Err, Sunny, why are you poking your phone screen?"
"Um, no particular reason."
"Is it my dimple?"
"Yes," I reply in a small voice as Al rolls his eyes.
"Strange obsession," he remarks coolly, but he can't hide his smile, which makes me smile too.
Feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, I relax a little. I'm intrigued to know where I - we - stand. Is this Al's idea of casual fun, or are we investing in something more serious? I want to tell him I miss him already, but it seems too full-on, too stalker-y unless we are - you know - a thing.
"Al?"
"What's up?" His voice is like the feel of soft velvet against my cheek. "Something on your mind?"
"Not really. I just, you know, wondered what…where, why are we? Me - to you. Us - I mean. Umm," I blurt out in a panicked rush before biting my lower lip and cringing.
For fuck's sake, must I really fuck everything up for myself? I tentatively gaze at my phone screen to see how he's processing the weird admission, only to find him looking adorably perplexed. His eyebrows have contorted themselves into the most marvellously expressive positions.
"Err, Sunny? Do you think you could you say that again, but in English? And slowly?"
I take a deep breath and shut my eyes before plunging again. "I'm sorry, Al. I mean, I should have asked you before. Waybefore. Do you…don't you have a girlfriend?"
"Well, yes. I kind of do. At least…I hope I do. Or I'd like to."
"Oh." My heart sinks, flip-flopping to the bottom of my abdomen at this revelation. "What's her name?" I whisper. "If not…Orla, then…who is she?"
Al shakes his head and begins to laugh.
"Honestly, Sunny! You! It's you, I mean."
"Me?"
"I mean, if you want to be, that is?"
"Are you asking?"
"Yes."
There's a brief pause as I revel in the joy his words have brought, before letting out a happy sigh and putting it beyond doubt.
"Yes."
It's comforting to know he hasn't discarded me yet.