Читать книгу Secrets and Sins - Jaishree Misra - Страница 9

Two days later, Riva sat in the darkened BAFTA theatre and sneaked another look at the time on her mobile phone, holding it under her pashmina so that its light would not disturb the person sitting next to her. Eight o’clock. Her heart sank. She would need to leave soon as Ben was expecting to meet her by nine at the restaurant.

The film had started half an hour ago, soon after the chairperson of BAFTA had announced that their chief guest was running late, ‘held up by the inclement weather’. Despite her disappointment, Riva had not been able to help smiling at that, remembering what a wimp Aman had been about the English weather when he had first arrived as an overseas student from Mumbai. But surely he didn’t have to worry about the snow in London now, given the fleet of cars and chauffeurs he probably had at his disposal whenever he visited?

The programme on BAFTA’s website had stated that the evening would begin with the Aman Khan interview, followed by the screening of Afterwards – the film that, according to reports on various Bollywood sites, had catapulted him to international recognition, with talk of an Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Film. Riva’s plan had been to watch Aman’s interview before slipping out of the hall to make her restaurant rendezvous with Ben. The little porkie she had told about a drink with her agent and publicist couldn’t really stretch her evening beyond nine. Now it looked like she would have to leave without seeing Aman after all. But it was probably worth waiting just a little while more…after all, the BAFTA man had said Aman was on his way. She frowned again at the screen, trying to concentrate…

Although Riva had enjoyed Afterwards at the London Film Festival, and was quite accustomed to watching some of Aman’s films twice, even three times over, she was finding it hard to focus on the screen today. She cast a glance around the darkened hall, wondering if others in the audience were similarly distracted by the imminent arrival of its lead actor. But all she could see were rows of half-lit faces intent on the screen.

Riva sat back in her chair, trying to settle. Pictures were flickering on the screen – they had come to the part where Aman’s character tells a friend he is leaving for Kerala – but, instead of hearing his dialogue, Riva reflected with amusement on the apology that had been made by the hapless BAFTA bod charged with announcing that the film would be stopped as soon as Mr Khan arrived. He had timorously suggested that it would be best not to delay events any longer as heavy snow had been forecast for later tonight. But the crowd had remained cheery and upbeat, someone even whistling very loudly at the announcement, one of those piercing finger-in-mouth toots that had made people turn around in startled amusement. After that, very unusually for a BAFTA screening, the crowd had sung and clapped in time to the song that played under the opening credits of the film, one already popularised by the Asian TV and radio channels. This was a predominantly Indian crowd that had turned up in full force to see one of their biggest stars. Certainly BAFTA would have never seen a fan event like this before: all these Asian women wearing spangly salwar kameezes under drab winter coats, not to mention the air of general enthusiasm and bonhomie. In the crowd was the usual token sprinkling of white faces, most likely movie buffs trying to educate themselves about what they thought of as world cinema.

Aman Khan’s handsome face was filling the screen now in an extreme close-up and Riva, leaning her head back on the seat, remembered the young Aman with sudden sharp clarity. The years had been kind to him. Although she had observed his onscreen persona filling out in his twenties, an obvious new health regime in his early thirties had made him leaner and brought out interesting shadows on his face. Oh yes, still the old Aman, and – as Susan had observed – still quite, quite gorgeous.

Riva sighed softly, sinking down in her seat and trying once more to concentrate on the movie.

But the next few minutes brought a flurry of activity at the door – Aman Khan must have arrived because a wave of excitement was passing through the front rows of the audience. Riva felt the surging collective exhilaration and suddenly…there he was! The real Aman, being escorted onto the stage by Siddharth Jose, the young British director who was due to interview him. The crowd erupted into a tumult of clapping, some people even leaping to their feet to applaud their favourite star. As the film was halted, the BAFTA chairperson walked over to the lit podium while Aman bowed and waved at the crowd. But the applause kept coming, wave upon wave, and the BAFTA man smiled indulgently, turning to nod again at Aman, who now looked faintly embarrassed.

Finally, when the seemingly interminable ovation had abated slightly, the man tapped the mic lightly and asked for silence. When the crowd had settled, the star and director took their places on two armchairs that had been hastily brought out from the wings for them. Aman looked very fit indeed, slim and broad-shouldered in a black silk Nehru jacket. He leant over to pour water from the bottle placed on the table before him and Riva watched as he put it to his lips.

Aman looked into the crowd as the house lights brightened and Riva’s heart heaved as she felt his eyes looking into hers. She reddened as his gaze moved on, telling herself to stop being so fanciful. For heaven’s sake, she was sitting about ten rows away from the stage and Aman’s long-distance vision had never been very good anyway. On the other hand, it was entirely possible that he knew that she lived in London now – after all, her own name had made it to the papers when she’d won the Orange Prize; Indian journalists had showed particular interest in her at the time. Aman’s attention was, however, now on the interviewer who was asking his first question.

‘Why London, Aman?’ Siddharth was asking. ‘It’s a city you make it a point to visit every year, I’m told. For someone who lives and works in this grimy old city, I can’t help wondering why anyone would leave balmy Bombay for London, certainly not when it’s in the grip of winter like this!’

Aman laughed and settled back in his chair. ‘I love it here, especially in the grip of winter,’ he said in his familiar deep voice. To Riva it sounded as though the crowd around her was sighing with happiness as Aman continued to speak. ‘Don’t forget how sultry it gets in Bombay – and how unrelenting the heat can be. There’s something very…’ he searched briefly for the right word ‘…very appealing about the changes of season when you live in a place that doesn’t have them. And London’s so full of energy, it’s such a great city. I love being here in any season really, and so does my son apparently. Although I think when he says “London”, it’s the inside of Hamleys he’s thinking of! But a winter trip has always been compulsory anyway, so that my wife can wear her Gucci coat and Prada boots, which otherwise never get the chance to be worn in Bombay.’

He paused as the crowd laughed affectionately. Salma Khan’s shopping penchant had been much written about in the gossip magazines and Aman had hit just the right note of affectionate exasperation in his voice. His English had improved considerably too, Riva noticed, trying to remember whether she’d ever heard him use words like ‘unrelenting’ before. Of course, they had been mere freshers when they had last met and, although Riva knew that Aman had never gone on to complete his graduate studies, such a big star as he would almost certainly have had the advantages of media training.

The audience around her was laughing again and Riva realised with dismay that she had missed something amusing. Aman was looking relaxed and responding to a question he had just been asked about his early life in England.

‘It was only for a year, although it gets mentioned quite a lot – as if I spent all my college years in Oxford or Cambridge or some grand place like that! Actually it was Leeds University and I only spent first year there – in the English Department.’ Siddharth Jose cocked an enquiring brow at Aman who explained. ‘You see, my uncle was working in Leeds and, because my parents were worried that I was just hanging around in Bombay, not doing anything after school, he sponsored me to come here for my studies. Didn’t last! I just wasn’t good enough and so, at the end of that first year, I dropped out of the course and went home.’

‘Ah, but that was what took you to the Film Institute, was it not?’ Siddharth Jose cut in. ‘So, if you had been “good enough”, as you say, for Leeds’ English Department, Bollywood – and all of us – might have missed out on one of our finest actors!’

‘Indeed, who knows – Bollywood’s loss may have been Leeds University’s gain!’ Aman joked, making the audience laugh again.

And mine…maybe, Riva thought, recalling that long ago time up in Leeds. How torn she had been between Aman’s attentions and Ben’s for a few days before she had made her decision. Irrationally now, she tried to will the interviewer to quiz Aman further about the decisions he had made as a young man. Such as, ‘Why, Mr Khan, had you not thought to fight just a little harder for Miss Riva Walia’s affections before upping and leaving Leeds University?’ Annoyingly, however, interviewer and interviewee had already moved on to something else.

Aman was talking about his early career. ‘Well, I took what I got in those days,’ he was saying to Siddharth Jose. ‘Beggars and beginners can’t be choosers, as they say. When I was offered my first role, I did not even stop to ask what type of film it was or even if I was to be a hero or a villain. I just jumped at it and asked all my questions later, once I was signed up and safely on the set.’

His candour and lack of pretension was disarming. Riva could see that he certainly had this audience eating out of the palm of his hand. But now Siddharth Jose was leading him into less personal areas and they talked about his film career for the next half hour.

When the interview ended, Riva used the short break before the film restarted to slip out of her seat. She tugged on her coat and gloves as she hurried through the foyer. It was now a quarter to nine and, even if she took a cab to the restaurant, she would be late. Ben did so hate to be kept waiting, she thought with a sense of slight panic as she ran down the stairs towards the main entrance. She drew in her breath at the sudden cold outside, annoyed with herself for forgetting to carry her umbrella and woollen cap. As had been predicted, snowflakes were now drifting against the tall streetlights of Piccadilly while a brisk wind, bitter with cold, stung the tips of her ears and nose. A small gaggle of people was huddled against the railings outside BAFTA and Riva heard one of them loudly cry out Aman’s name. Unthinkingly, she joined the crowd of fans, momentarily forgetting her lateness and the no-doubt steadily growing impatience of her husband awaiting her in the restaurant.

Standing on tiptoe, Riva saw that Aman had emerged from BAFTA’s main entrance – perhaps he had been just a few steps behind her! He was now getting into a long black limousine along with a couple of other people. As it pulled away from the kerb, the group of fans started waving and blowing kisses at the car. Riva joined them, running a little way down the pavement to where the crowd was thinner. Inside the car, Aman’s head turned to look back as he was driven away. The car disappeared into the distance, leaving Riva with the distinct impression that Aman had spotted her.