Читать книгу All Eyes On Her - Poonam Sharma - Страница 8

“WHAT’S STRANGE IS THAT THIS DOESN’T FEEL ODD,” RAJ HAD told me across the twelve inches separating our poolside massage tables that sunny March afternoon a year and a half before. “Wouldn’t you have thought that since we practically grew up together, this would seem bizarre?”

“You only moved back from London two months ago,” I pointed out.

To be fair, we weren’t moving fast at all. It was true that in the first few years since he had left for college in the UK, Raj and I hadn’t spoken much. We had no reason to; he was one of a group of about twenty kids whose parents had settled in Orange County around the same time in the 1970s and formed a mini Indian community to keep us in touch with our heritage. Amid the series of dinner parties and weekend picnics and poolside Sunday afternoons our parents took turns organizing at their homes, Raj was only one of the many boys and girls I grew up with but barely knew anymore.

Yet when my father passed away just after my college graduation, the Raj that I had scarcely remembered had burst back on the scene and was determined to be there for me. It began with the obligatory condolence call, and evolved into a sort of transatlantic e-mail penpal-ship with little more than the hazy image of him, aged seventeen, remaining comfortably etched in my mind. Perhaps the lack of romantic expectation was why we became fast friends. We opened up to each other to the point that when his work as a management consultant for McKinsey & Company brought him back to Los Angeles some three years later, he knew I would be there to receive him at the airport.

I was there, but I wasn’t prepared for the vision that was waiting for me when I pulled up curbside to LAX. Besides a much-needed growth spurt and a new truly fantastic European sense of style, Raj had become the sort of man whose stance made it clear that he knew where he was headed. And the moment he saw me the smile that spread across his face was at once familiar and full of things I wanted to discover.

“Yes, and you are certainly not the proper little girl I remember,” he teased and raised a mischievous eyebrow at me from his massage table two months after we sped away from the airport.

Besides his confidence, his clothes, and the encyclopedia of little British sayings he sprinkled casually throughout our conversations, he had even developed something of an aristocratic accent in all his years overseas. It made me think of horseback riding across the countryside and scoundrels whose flirtatiousness almost compensated for their bad teeth. Looking back on it now, I can see that I didn’t stand a chance.

“You’re not a bit proper either.” I bit my lip, savoring a flashback involving room-service bananas flambé all over my breasts the night before. “I don’t remember playing any of the games we played last night at those family dinner parties.”

“If we had been playing any of those games at those parties back then,” he stated resolutely, “I never would have left for London in the first place.”

So proper yet so naughty. Like I said, I didn’t stand a chance.

“If we had known any of those games back then, our parents would have sent us both away to convents in India,” I mused.

“Agreed. But I’m being serious. Our families know each other. My God, Monica, our fathers used to play thaash together,” he said for emphasis, and then reached to connect us. “We have a lot of history behind us, and yet none of this feels even the least bit awkward to me.”

And I remember watching his fingers inch toward me. That strong, familiar hand lifting and intertwining with my own. Until then I wasn’t sure what I wanted from all of his attention. A friendship? A relationship? Something in between? It wasn’t that I felt nothing, exactly. It wasn’t fire but it wasn’t apathy; and more than familiar, it was comfort. At the very least I could feel how definitely he wanted me to be ready for everything he was saying.

And why shouldn’t I be? I had asked, looking into those earnest eyes. After all, I had known him my whole life. And the last time I had felt so close to anyone had been in college…so why shouldn’t I give in to this?

I squeezed his hand, but remained silent.

“I think we should tell our parents that we’ve been seeing each other,” he said hopefully. “I think they’ll be absolutely thrilled.”

And the thing was, I knew that he was right.

Pushing up my sunglasses and tilting the sun visor to better shield my eyes, I switched off the radio, calculated the time difference to London, grabbed my cell phone and dialed Raj.

No answer.

“Listen, honey, it’s me,” I began. “I, umm…I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry with me. But we need to talk about it. So call me. Today.”

So I’m not the touchy-feely type. I never said I was. Besides, men are supposed to respond better to facts they can use, right? And the fact was that I was ready to talk, so now it was up to him. But he was so thin-skinned sometimes. And the truth was that he was the one who had overreacted. Although I wasn’t going to hold a grudge over it. Because in comparison to the irrational behavior I witnessed every day from my celebrity clients, Raj and I were doing fine. He was just testing my commitment by making a mountain out of a tiny pile of salt. Dust, even. And being a management consultant to major international corporations, he was paid to identify proverbial landmines and sand-traps, even where there weren’t any. So he probably couldn’t help himself.

All right, and in some small part, it could also have been about the peanuts.

“Whatever you fancy, darling,” he had told me over the phone two weeks ago as we both converged toward my apartment in the evening. “Just remember to make sure there’s no peanuts on the pad thai. And I’ll get a bottle of that chardonnay you like. I think you’re running low.”

He was right, I thought, tossing my cell phone aside. And how very like him it was to notice that sort of detail. After picking up the takeout from our usual Thai restaurant in Santa Monica, I made my way home. Sipping on my Thai iced tea, I heaved the door open to find that he had beaten me home. The candles were lit and the table was set. The Maxwell CD reminded us of high school as it played in the background. And the Riedel stemware was dripping with condensation from the chilled chardonnay breathing inside. As usual, he had thought of everything.

He hefted the takeout from my arms, planted a kiss on me and zipped off to the kitchen. I dropped my briefcase, kicked off my shoes and slipped off my suit jacket. I thought about heading into my room to change clothes before we ate, but something about the image of a man in the kitchen never failed to do it for me. So I snuck up behind him, nuzzled into his neck and indulged in the urge to be playful while he was defenseless, since his hands were busy ladling out the food.

“Madam, as difficult as I know it may be in light of my raw animal magnetism, I’ll have to ask you to keep your hands to yourself,” he said, putting down a dish of chicken with basil in order to pry my fingers from his lower abdomen and pull them instead toward his mouth. “Because as of six weeks ago, I’m permanently off the market.”

Since, in his opinion, I had such elegant fingers, Raj always kissed them individually. And to keep it interesting—since he knew how much I detested PDA—he would also lick, nibble and occasionally violate my fingers until I squealed or recoiled in disgust and wiped them on my clothes to make a point. Of course, my protests only encouraged his behavior. Normally it was also his way of teasing me because he knew that I was insecure about my hands. As a child, I used to bite my nails. But on that particular evening, amidst all the nibbling and giggling, he stopped when he reached my ring finger.

“Where is it?” he asked abruptly.

“It’s right here, baby.” I stepped around to face him, motioning at the three-and-a-half carat princess-cut ring dangling from a chain around my neck.

“I thought we talked about this,” he murmured, then switched his focus to the business of the basil chicken.

“Umm…we did talk about it,” I said haltingly, following him to the table. I took a seat and folded my arms across my chest. “But we did not resolve it.”

“So until we resolve it, you’re not going to wear the ring,” he huffed and sat down. “God, Monica.”

“I am wearing it,” I protested, “around my neck.”

“Like a noose.” He folded his arms to mimic mine. “Once again, your commitment to this relationship is astounding.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.” I waved his comment away, knowing before the words were out that I’d made a major mistake.

Because it wasn’t the first time that I had accused him of that, and the hurt registered clearly on his face. Raj had proposed to me during a moonlit stroll along the San Diego waterfront during a weekend getaway. We were sharing an ice cream cone, which he was holding, when he almost tripped over a shoelace. He asked me to hold the cone while he knelt down to tie it, and that was how he managed to catch me off guard.

Monica, he began and looked up from bended knee, I think I have always loved you. And although it took a tragedy to bring you back into my life, I like to believe that maybe this was the good that came out of that sadness. Your father was an honorable man, and he raised an incredible daughter…who will become a phenomenal mother…and who will make her husband a very lucky man. I have never met anyone I would rather share my life with than you. Will you be my wife?

I knew that I’d said yes because a moment later he was slipping the ring onto my finger and smothering me with kisses. I assumed the dizziness that followed was the result of some engagement-triggered chemical release in my brain. And I decided the best thing to do was to try to stay calm until things came back into focus. Why ruin the moment for Raj? It was fine. I was happy. Everything was fantastic. Really.

Until he said it. Tucking my hand into the bend of his arm, he took a deep breath and exhaled those fateful words: Monica Shah. The air was gone. The world stopped spinning. It was as if I had watched while the door to some small, previously unnecessary room was swung tightly shut. It didn’t slam, and it didn’t squeak. It simply slid closed, bolted itself tight and refused to entertain the idea of being reopened. Perhaps my own last name had crawled inside, and was packed away neatly in a cardboard box marked “Things I’ll Never See Again.” Maybe it had been greeted by what little connection I had left to my father, since Indians always believed that after marriage, a daughter no longer belongs to her birth family. It was possible that my detachment to being engaged was a defense mechanism against the idea of my former self being jailed away. None of this had anything to do with Raj, I reminded myself, and went about playing the role of the blushing fiancée.

But the next morning I awoke with his arm around my neck in what for the first time felt so much more like a thick rope than a bear hug. I tried to keep it to myself. I slipped out of bed and into the shower. However, in the time it took to shower and get wrapped in towels, I had realized exactly what I had to do. And I probably should have waited until the room service delivery guy had left before blurting it out, but…

I won’t give up my last name, I declared, for myself or my future children.

To his credit, Raj tipped and dismissed the confused delivery guy before responding to me.

Good morning to you, too, he replied, and collapsed into a seat before the beautiful breakfast spread. Okay, look, baby. I can understand you wanting to keep your last name, and I’m willing to talk about that. But on the topic of the children I think I am a bit more traditional.

Being an adult, I narrowed my eyes and dug my heels in further: Trust me, Raj. If this is going to be about who’s more stubborn, you’re not going to win. You’re not gonna negotiate your way through this one with me. So don’t even try it.

How can you be so unreasonable? He had gotten flustered. You aren’t even prepared to discuss it! Am I going to be a part of this marriage?

The thing about me is, I don’t tolerate weakness well—in men or animals. It’s the lawyer in me I’m sure, but basically I think that if you’re dragging the pack down, you should probably be shot or left behind. That’s why I reacted so…poorly. I knew it was a bad idea even as I did it…called him the adjective to end all adjectives: melodramatic.

That was the day I learned that even though both parties are usually well-aware of who’s more emotionally involved, nobody wants it announced out loud. Whereas a woman would have taken it as an observation, a man hears it roughly translated as: you’re the woman.

I might have tried to smooth things over, but his silence on the drive back to Los Angeles gave me no choice but to twist the knife. If this was how we were going to start our married life, I reasoned, then I had to set a precedent. So I slipped the ring off my finger and onto a chain around my neck, and it had remained there ever since. Later that night we agreed that we didn’t want to fight; everything didn’t need to be settled in a day.

Mistakenly, I assumed that refilling both of our wine glasses was Raj’s way of putting an end to our Mexican standoff over Thai food that night.

Thank God for reliable Raj, who never ever let things spin too far out of control.

“Actually, I have some news.” He spoke in between shoveling heaping spoonfuls of chili-doused pad thai into his mouth. “McKinsey has offered me a one-month assignment in London. They requested that I be on the team since I worked with this client on another project a few years back.”

“Mmm-hmm…” I played along, tipping back my glass and dropping my shoulders a bit. “And when would it start?”

“I could leave as early as tomorrow or as late as next week.”

“Oh.” I rubbed my ring between my thumb and forefinger, concentrating hard on the plate before me.

“A client requesting someone specifically is always good news, so it might even lead to a promotion if I can get enough visibility for the project. Could you imagine if it turned into a full-time offer?”

I’ll admit it. I actually laughed out loud. Through a mouthful of green coconut curry.

He glanced up without moving his head.

“Oh, yeah,” I joked, “because this is the 1920s and all women have to quit their jobs and follow their men across the ocean.”

“So you wouldn’t even consider it?” He spat out the words and his nostrils literally flared. Not sexy. A little scary, actually.

“Well, I mean…come on…” I was quite the articulate litigator. “It’s not really an option. They haven’t made you an offer, so we’re talking hypothetically here.”

“And you won’t even consider it hypothetically?” he asked, sucking at his teeth.

“Raj,” I said.

“Monica, has this whole thing always just been about you?”

“No, of course not.”

“I knew what I was getting into when we became friends. Partially this is my fault because our friendship was based on me helping you talk about losing your dad. And it was understandable when we started dating that the focus was originally going to be on you. But I always thought that…in time…in time, things might change. They might become more equal. But they haven’t, Monica. And I don’t know if that’s because of how I allowed this relationship to center around you, or if it’s because that’s who you are.”

“I resent that,” I began, but then stopped when he held up a hand.

“Oh, crikey!” He choked and dropped his fork, pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.

I was actually shaken by the sound of his yell. Never before had I heard him raise his voice.

“There’s sodding peanuts in the goddamn pad thai, Monica!” he said laughingly in disgust, while he shook his head. “And I just lost my appetite.”

He stomped straight into the bedroom, leaving me alone to think about what I had done. He didn’t help me clear the table, and he didn’t face me that night as we slept. When I awoke in the morning, he was gone.

His text message from the airport read:

Decided to leave this morning. Will be in London for at least two weeks.

We need a break anyway. This may be good timing.

It was cold, to the point, and exactly what I deserved. Not at all like him. For the first time since we had gotten together, I thought maybe he wasn’t the one with more skin in the game.

And I haven’t heard another word from him since.

All right, maybe you can never be certain of anything. But I am at least as certain that I am heterosexual as I am that some hot teen-queen celebutante under the age of thirty will one day make use of Steel’s promise that After your first four divorce proceedings, the fifth one’s on the house!

Still, even I couldn’t help staring at the buxom Angelina Jolie look-alike wiggling her way across the intersection of San Vicente and Bundy about twenty minutes later. Unlike most men in my position, I wasn’t wondering what it might be like to sleep with her. Instead, I was wondering if such a woman had any idea what it felt like to stare at a cell phone all day, willing it to boil.

Ring. Whatever.

Anyway, I was guessing the answer was no.

But mine did ring, a few seconds later. I sucked in my stomach, straightened my back and plastered a beauty-school-dropout smile across my face. It’s instinct. Seeing a woman like that reminds me Raj might be aware of her existence. This forces me to admit that no one will ever be anything but repulsed by the vision of my sweaty, spandexed self huffing to cross the street. Which makes me want to eat an entire bundt cake.

In my closet.

With my hands.

Also, I’m sure that being engaged means he can see me through the phone.

As I pulled over, rummaging frantically through my purse to catch the call before it went to voice mail, I realized that this wasn’t like me. I didn’t watch other women run. I didn’t do somersaults at the possibility of a boy calling. I didn’t smile without reason any more than I said my name as if it was a question. All of which meant one thing; my period was coming. Because unlike some women I knew, I only ever spent twenty-four hours each month—the day before my period—curled up in my bed licking trans-fats off my own fingers, watching reruns of The Golden Girls, and being convinced that I was fat, inarticulate and incapable of sustaining a normal relationship.

I made a mental note to pick up a pizza, a milk shake and a valium on my way home, yanked my cell phone out of my purse and exhaled.

“Hello?”

“Hello, my sweetheart!” she sang through the telephone in the British accent, which was a legacy of her college days in England. “It’s your mommy, darling, and I have got some wonderful news for the both of us!”

This was going to require two bundt cakes.

My mother was understated in much the same way that dating show contestants wear makeup. It didn’t help when she upstaged me at my Sweet Sixteen party in a dress cut-down-to-there, but it didn’t hurt when she told me on the day I left for college that As long as I was living happily and honestly no matter what choices I made, she would always be right behind me. Between mother and daughter, the good is just the other half of the bad.

Thankfully, my father always managed to cast her behavior in only the most positive light. And, after all, he had explained to me after a particularly embarrassing incident involving an impromptu conga-line to the tune of “The Rhythm Is Gonna Get You” at my fifth-grade dance that my mother had insisted on chaperoning, she had been hardwired for drama. How else could she have mustered the courage to defy her parents by wearing those tight blue jeans, which were like a bull’s-eye in that small Indian village for the motorcycle-riding, chain-smoking, loner Gujurati boy named Deepak who would eventually become my father?

As the story went, he invited her to meet him for a cup of chai in the bazaar one afternoon during her winter break from college, and she (having grown accustomed to the free-thinking of the 1970s London social scene) decided to accept. It wasn’t until the following morning, after news of mom’s—or rather, the self-important Renu Malhotra’s—brazen public liaison had reached every corner of the village, that word reached her of Deepak’s parents already having committed his hand in marriage. An incensed and insulted twenty-one-year-old Renu’s immediate response was to march over to Deepak’s house, bang on the door, stomp into the family’s living room and demand that he marry her as a form of reparation for thinking that he could sully her reputation.

Who could resist such a fiery pataka? he would recount to anyone who would listen, while my mother demurred and waved away any comparison of herself to a firecracker.

A bundook then? he would chide.

Do I look like I can spit bullets? she would mock warn him.

Only if I step out of line, sergeant. He would salute, with a clip of his heels for effect.

Do you see how your father mocks me, Monica? she would play along, despite the initiation of my gag reflex. Whatever you do, don’t marry a funny man.

Happy wife, happy life, my father would say, over the rim of his glasses, before returning his attention to his usual Sunday morning copy of India Abroad.

Theirs was the kind of love that every little girl imagines for herself—full of grand gestures, stolen kisses, clandestine rendezvous and passionate choices no one ever second-guessed. I held very firmly to that ideal through most of my formative years. I held on to it through the high school football player who brought me wildflowers, but didn’t love me enough to dance in public. And through that shy boy in my college freshman literature class who wrote poetry to me describing a sort of hunger that I never could have felt for him. I held on all the way to the film major with the dimples, who nearly dropped all those copies of his screenplay trying to hold the student union door open for me our first day of junior year.

His name was Alex, and that screenplay was the first of many that I would read and critique for him over the next few years. I can only describe it as the most consuming love I’ve ever had. Which is probably how it is for everyone, when it really happens, but still…

I might have held on to the grand idea of such a big love for long enough to let Alex become the man of my life, if I hadn’t seen what became of my mother once she lost hers.

One summer afternoon, I came home from lunch to find my father slumped over our kitchen table. My mother stood in the hallway just outside the kitchen. The backdoor key was still in her hand, and she was mumbling something repeatedly to herself about dinner. Later, I learned that there was very little my father hadn’t done for us. He had done so much, in fact, that my mother hadn’t the slightest idea of the terms of his life insurance, the balance of their mortgage, or the location of the key to the bank deposit box. In short, she was the girl in those blue jeans, wondering where the boy named Deepak had gone.

Two months after my father’s death, my mother moved to London to be closer to the extended family who we had visited every summer of my childhood en route to Bombay.

I swallowed and buoyed my voice. “Hi, Mom. Err…okay, so what’s the news?”

“Darling you’ll never believe it!” Her voice almost rose to a shriek. “I’m moving back to Los Angeles!”