The Disappearance

15 July 1973 (#ulink_02cdf1b3-8236-5152-a833-db22e036a89c)

Barnes, London (#ulink_02cdf1b3-8236-5152-a833-db22e036a89c)

Audrey walks to the front door, turns around, then walks through the entrance hall of the Barnes house and into the drawing room, trying to imagine how it will look to the dinner guests seeing her home for the first time. For London, the four-storey semi is generously sized. It’s also been beautifully decorated and fitted out but, for Audrey, there’s a hollowness at its heart: something is missing.

She pauses on the threshold of the ground floor drawing room, enjoying the way the light from the well-placed lamps pools in the room. She likes the elegant furniture that the interior designer has chosen; she likes the soft colours of the décor. Her eyes roam the room and everything she sees is pleasing to her but still something isn’t right. Audrey breathes in the scent of the house and, in that moment, in that deep inhalation, she realises what it is that’s absent from her impressive London home: India. The damp-earth smell of India; the faint stench of the city, stronger near the slums, but noticeable even in the area where she and Ralph had lived. Even though it’s mid-summer, London’s been grey and overcast all week, the sun steadily losing its game of hide and seek with the clouds. Outside the house, the most dominant smell on the busy street is that of exhaust fumes. Audrey has the sense that she’s living on tarmac and concrete; that she’s disconnected from nature. She misses the dirt, the earth, the mud and the rawness of Bombay. As she stands in her beautiful home, a sob rises in Audrey’s chest; even after being in England for a year, her longing for India is still visceral.

Audrey gives herself a little shake and walks over to the gilded mirror that hangs above the fireplace. ‘You’re very lucky,’ she tells her reflection. ‘You have what so many women dream of: a beautiful home. Two children. A husband who loves you …’ She pauses, rallies herself. ‘You’re turning thirty,’ she says firmly, ‘and you’re very lucky.’

The priceless piece of artwork which she bought with the inheritance from her parents hangs in the downstairs cloakroom, its colours judged by the interior designer to be discordant with their home’s colour scheme. It tickles Audrey just a little that the most valuable item in the house hangs in the loo; that neither Ralph nor the disapproving designer have a clue.