Read Online The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel by Deborah Moggach - Free Book Online Page B

torn out of the Independent .
    Adam was fond of Dorothy; there was something intransigent about her strong plain face and gravel voice. During his days at the BBC she had been an inspiring boss and he owed her a great deal. In general, however, she had not been popular with her colleagues—too autocratic; too demanding, in others, of the standards she set for herself. She had been regarded with respect rather than love, and when he had told a fellow trainee “I’m a friend of Dorothy’s” the chap had presumed he was gay and asked him out for a drink. Adam was gay, of course, but he hadn’t meant it like that. Dorothy was good with gay men—maybe because, in common with many fag hags, her personal life seemed to have been a failure. She had subsumed it in her work.
    Adam still valued Dorothy’s opinion. That was why he had sent her the tape. But he also did it out of kindness, to make her feel needed. Over the years a subtle change had taken place in their relationship. Once she had been his mentor; he had been flattered to be asked to Dorothy’s dinner parties in her book-lined flat with its Howard Hodgkin painting above the fireplace. Once he had met a Labor cabinet minister there. But now she had retired; the dinner parties had long since ceased and when he visited her it was out of a sense of duty. He was even starting to humor her, for her fine, clear mind had become somewhat muddled—what had she blurted out? Something about being too big to wipe? She shouldn’t live alone; with nobody to listen to them, her thoughts became confused. Age had shifted the balance between them. Dorothy was a proud woman; if she had suspected that he was patronizing her, she would have been horrified.
    His own dinner party consisted of Brazilian friends of Sergio’s—dull but good-looking, like most of Sergio’s pals. Adam’s attention wandered.
    Suddenly he remembered the videotape. He had promised to phone Dorothy. Shit! He had also promised to send the tape to his parents, who were thinking about a possible retirement home. His father and mother lived in Devon. They were a game old couple, always off on some jaunt or other in their beige windcheaters, bird-watching in the Hebrides or driving to Portugal in their camper van. Recently, however, life had dealt them a series of blows. Their village shop had closed down, which meant they had to drive to Okehampton to do their shopping—no bloody buses, of course—and recently his father had crashed the van. “Eyesight on the blink,” he said. Neither of them, to be honest, was fit to drive anymore, and this had left them marooned in the middle of nowhere, suddenly shunted into dependency. Their neighbor, a farmer, had lost his stock in the foot-and-mouth crisis and had decided to sell up. People were sloughing off their responsibilities and decamping to warmer climes where the living was easy. No more leaky roofs! No more chores! Adam had heard about this retirement place in India, a country that had happy memories for his parents. He had written off for the details.
    Adam was thinking about this as he chewed the squid (somewhat rubbery). He was also wondering how long his relationship with Sergio was going to last. He thought: Those cheekbones are beginning to wear thin. Funny how a lover’s friends suddenly made you see them clearly. Adam’s sister, a frequent traveler along the bumpy road to love, said that relationships based on sex lasted exactly two years.
    He also thought: This Indian place might make a good documentary. While ruminating on this, Adam drank a great deal of Chilean Merlot. He forgot about the documentary and it was to be three more years before he plucked up the courage to leave his lover. But he remembered to get the video back and send it to his parents.
    Who put their house on the market and prepared to uproot their lives, for that was the kind of people they were.
    D orothy had her dream again. She was submerged in the gully behind her house.