Love Tastes Like Strawberries. Rosamund Haden

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      “Not selfish. She was an artist, that’s what she did. I was trying to remember about that holiday. She’s in India now,” Stella adds quickly. Suddenly the last thing she wants to talk about is her mother’s death. She can’t. She won’t.

      The therapist looks confused for a second. She checks her notes.

      “She’s uncontactable. She’s on an ashram in India.” If Stella says it firmly enough perhaps she can leave now. It can all be a mistake, coming here.

      There is a terrible awkward silence. A battle of wills begins, one the therapist knows she will win because Stella will be forced to talk.

      “I’m going to her house in Ashville this weekend to pack up her studio. I haven’t been able to before. It’s been six months since she left. She wants to rent the house out.”

      “Does it feel overwhelming for you, the packing up?”

      Stella stares at her.

      “She’s on an ashram in India,” she repeats.

      The therapist shifts her pad around on her knee. “It says here, in your doctor’s file, that your mother is dead. Is that why you agreed to come?” she asks Stella. “She was killed in a car crash six months ago. Is this the first time you are going back to the house, Stella, after she died?”

      She nods.

      When Stella gets up to go, she is humiliated and angry. But she finds herself agreeing to another session at the same time the following week.

      She leans against the therapist’s white picket fence and tries to breathe deeply. Her head feels dizzy. Then she walks, in a daze, to the bottom of the road and turns left and then right. The street sign says Kingston Road.

      That’s when she hears the music and walks towards it. It is coming from No 54. A house behind a high wooden slatted fence.

      54: 5 + 4 = 9 and 9 is her number.

      She moves closer so that she can see between the slats of wood. It’s a free-standing Victorian with a front room with a bay window. The curtains are open and she can make out what looks like an easel in the centre of the front room. Yes, it’s definitely an easel.

      Now she can hear the lyrics of the song clearly. The singer’s voice streams out of the windows into the sunshine. It is deep and full of longing.

      Love is fast like pinwheels flying

      Love is soft like tears a-crying

      Wine and spices interlaced

      Love’s got a fresh strawberry taste

      She thinks she might faint as she leans against the fence for support. The palms of her hands are clammy with sweat.

      She recognises the words of the song and the melody. It is the song her mom played when she was feeling nostalgic, usually in the late afternoon after a glass or three of wine, when melancholy set in, which was often. It was the song they listened to in the hot summer evenings lying in the hammocks on the stoep in Ashville.

      But this is a different version. The same song, but a different singer. Not the summer light flirtation of Miriam Makeba and the soaring sax of Hugh Masekela.

      This is a darker, heavier, sadder, more seductive version.

      And when the peddler cries strawberries . . . then my heart replies strawberries – strawberries. Love tastes like strawberries . . .

      “Are you waiting for someone?” Stella spins around. There is a girl, a student, standing far too close to her. She must have come up behind Stella very quickly and quietly and she makes Stella jump. The student has very short dark hair – recently shaved – and is wearing a dress that looks like it is on back to front, a vintage Fifties summer frock with a rosebud pattern. She is very pretty. Her hem is coming undone.

      “No, I . . .”

      “It’s okay, I’m waiting too.” The girl looks at a huge watch shaped like an apple on her wrist. “My boyfriend – my lover,” she corrects herself, “is in there. They are painting him.” She raises her eyebrows and whispers, “I’m Jude. Are you waiting for a life drawing class? Are you a model?”

      “No, I was just passing. The house – it’s beautiful.”

      “Yes. Pity I’m not allowed in. Not when they’re painting him.”

      “I have to go,” Stella says.

      “Stay, please stay. I want someone to talk to.”

      “I’ll be late for work,” says Stella.

      “Please,” says Jude.

      Stella stays.

      They stand on the pavement for ten minutes and in that time Stella learns that Jude is studying politics and philosophy at the university, had met Luke at an art exhibition, had “fucked” Luke two hours later, liked sushi and wanted to join the art class but Luke wouldn’t let her.

      “Luke’s not good looking. In fact, he could be quite ordinary. And of course he’s depressed, but there’s something about him that’s so magnetic, so addictive. He should have a warning attached to him.”

      “Like toxic waste,” says Stella and Jude laughs and Stella is pleased.

      The door opens and a tall lean student runs out, opens the gate, and takes Jude in his arms. He kisses her neck and then he sees Stella.

      “Did you talk?” asks Jude, forgetting all about Stella.

      “Why are you such a voyeur, Jude?” Luke is talking to her but assessing Stella over her shoulder. Stella blushes.

      “So, did he paint the whole of you?”

      “No, Jude, he painted my penis. He’s a sad fucker.” They laugh. “Of course he painted the whole of me.”

      “Did you talk?” Jude says again. She is looking really intense now. Stella feels she should walk away, but she can’t.

      “Of course we talked. What was I supposed to do? Just lie there looking at the fucking ceiling?”

      “What did you talk about?”

      “Who’s your new friend?” he asks, looking at Stella again. It makes her uneasy. She can see what Jude was talking about when she described her lover.

      “Oh, this is Stella,” says Jude nonchalantly. “She’s joining the life drawing class.” Stella opens her mouth to object. “She’s thirty . . . something . . .” says Jude.

      “Wow,” says Luke, impressed. “Hello, Stella,” he says softly, staring at her with fresh interest.

      “What did you talk about? Tell me, Luke.” Jude’s voice is suddenly urgent.

      “About you.”

      “Really?”

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