Page 2 of Cuckoo

‘Oh, God, is that what the balloon by the door is? Gave me a fright this morning,’ Sukhi laughs.

‘Guilty,’ I admit, glancing at the giant pink heart balloon that I tied to the coatstand. ‘We celebrated last night with dinner. He’s working straight through lunch today. Some big meeting or something. I want to see he doesn’t starve,’ I explain.

‘You guys make me sick,’ she jokes.

A flush of smugness warms my spine. It feels the tiniest bit toxic, a sharp mirroring of Mother and her loftiness, but I’m too busy basking in my happiness to reflect on that side of myself too deeply. It’s okay to be happy, to feel content in myself. It doesn’t make me like Mother.

It doesn’t make me like Mother.

‘Look at you, you’re absolutely smitten!’

‘Are you not, with your husband?’ I ask, genuinely interested as I glance down at the jewel on my left ring finger.

‘Well, I was at the start… It’s different, we’re childhoodsweethearts. Not sure it’s possible still to feel smitten after twenty years of farts and fights,’ she laughs.

I nod, understanding. ‘Yes, I suppose Noah and I did move quite quickly, but it feels as though I’ve known him forever. Though not too many fights– or farts– just yet!’

‘Nice that there’re still some things to look forward to.’ Sukhi grins, picking up her mug.

‘How young were you then? When you met?’ I ask as we head back to our desks. Sukhi gets to her chair and sits while I hover nearby.

‘Thirteen when we met. Our parents forced us to hang out in the hope that when we were older, we’d marry.’ She laughs. ‘He was an annoying idiot at first, and I was pleased that I wasn’t going to slot into that good-Punjabi-girl-marrying-right stereotype. But after a few years of occasional parent-organised meetings, we ended up actually getting along, and he asked me out properly when we were seventeen. My parents weren’t super strict, so they let us go bowling together on our own. No cousins spying on us, as far as I’m aware. I guess it all started there, love amidst the bowling balls.’

‘So your parents won?’ I grin.

‘I like to think we’re all winners.’ She winks.

I sit down as well, looking forward to lunch. I thought it would be nice to do a little surprise drop-off, something Noah would like. I haven’t visited his work in ages, even though it’s just around the corner, up Liverpool Street way. It’s always wild to me that one moment I can be rambling down Brick Lane, vintage thrift stores and Spitalfields food market screaming hipster at me, then five minutes later besurrounded by suits and skyscrapers. I prefer my side of the area, working down from Liverpool Street station towards Aldgate. It’s quieter, but a five-minute walk and I’m in the throes of Hipsterville. So Noah is always nearby, which is nice to know, but I don’t like to risk either of us feeling suffocated. This last year has been so lovely and perfect but I’m always worried that I’ll somehow mess it all up, freak him out and push him away. That he’ll wake up and realise he doesn’t want me. I have this fear with most people I meet, this overwhelming sense that I’m unwanted and driving them away without meaning to. I’d like to say it’s more complex than the cliché, but it’s definitely Daddy Issues.

Mother never let me forget that.

‘This is a bit messed up, isn’t it?’ Mother asked with a frown, holding up my homework sheet. I was eleven and had been asked to create a family tree for my history class.

I shrugged. ‘They said we had to start with our mums and dads and work our way back,’ I told her.

‘Don’t you ever call me “Mum”,’ she said with an overdramatic shudder. ‘It sounds common, darling. And we’re not common, are we?’

I shook my head, even though I wasn’t sure what being common meant. ‘No, Mother.’

‘Good. Well, I can tell you all aboutmyhistory, no problem,’ she said with a big smile, lounging against the back of the sofa as though preparing to sit for a full-body oil study. ‘But when they ask about your father’s side, you can tell them to sod off.’

I shuffled my feet, a seed of anxiety planted in my belly. ‘I don’t think I can tell the teacher that. I’ll get in trouble.’

‘Well, you can’t be the only child without both parents to ask, can you? What if he was dead? Or missing? It’s not very sensitive to be asking kids about these things. If you ask me, this homework here,’ she tapped the paper furiously, ‘is a load of shit.’

I stood there gripping my pen and notebook, unsure what to say or do. ‘You can just tell me about your side?’ I suggested, eager to move the conversation away from my mysterious father.

‘Okay. Well, settle down, this could take a while,’ she said, clearly pleased to move the conversation back to herself. ‘And if they ask about your father, you’ll have to tell them the cold, hard truth. Maybe they’ll feel so bad for asking that they’ll rethink this ridiculous homework task.’

‘What’s the truth, Mother?’

‘That he left us. Because of you, darling.’

Chapter Three

If I’m honest, another reason I don’t go to visit Noah often during working hours is because his office makes me feel uncomfortable. The glass building towers over the others around it and is filled with slick City bankers, their thinning hair gelled back and their suits pristine. The women are even more intimidating– willowy, with professional blow-dries, clattering through the foyer in their Louboutin stilettos and wearing glossy slicks of red lipstick over their whitened teeth. I always feel out of place there, like a little maggot squirming its way into a beehive. My curves, the ones that Noah always compliments, suddenly feel too voluptuous, borderline offensive beside the crisp, tailored dresses of his colleagues. The light spattering of freckles that dusts the bridge of my nose feels overwhelmingly distracting compared to their flawless complexions. How can girl-next-door compete with Bond girl, ever? Of course, Noah always tells me that I’m ridiculous, that I’m perfect as I am and that I shouldn’t compare myself to his boring colleagues, but it’s hard to be a woman in today’s world, constantly being told you’re not beautiful or thin or rich enough.

‘Can I come along with you at lunch? I slept terribly last night so I’m feeling a bit rotten this morning,’ Sukhi admits,popping her head back over the cubicle just before half-twelve. ‘A bit of fresh air and a takeout lunch will probably revive me.’

---