‘There,’ Arvinder said. ‘Add that, Sheena.’
‘Who was it?’ Preetam asked quietly. ‘When?’
Arvinder sucked in her breath and said nothing.
‘Who was it?’ Preetam cried.
‘There’s no need to raise your voice at me, Preetam,’ Arvinder said. ‘I am still your elder.’
‘You’ve just admitted to doing the most dishonourable thing,’ Preetam said. ‘Who were you cheating on my father with? Did you wreck another family?’ Preetam looked around wildly. This was the role of a lifetime for her, Nikki realized. All of her angst and theatrics finally had an outlet. ‘Who was it?’
The other women shrank back into their seats, their eyes intently darting back and forth between mother and daughter. Nikki was reminded of her first impression of these two women. Their resemblance had been so obvious that she had mistaken them for sisters. But this conflict illuminated their differences. The sleeves of Arvinder’s white tunic hung loosely at her bony wrists and the hems had greyed slightly while Preetam’s widow attire was a classier affair – lacy trim on a cream dupatta. While Preetam’s eyes were bright with rage, Arvinder’s stare was distant and watery, her whole body heaving in the aftermath of her revelation.
Preetam fanned her face with her hands. ‘Hai, Nikki. I might faint.’
‘That’s not necessary, Preetam,’ Sheena said.
‘Sheena, don’t get involved,’ Manjeet said quietly.
‘Did you think about our family?’ Preetam asked. ‘About what you would have had to do if Papa found out? It’s still happening, you know. Look at how Maya ended up.’
‘That’s enough,’ Arvinder snapped. Preetam burst into tears and bolted from the room.
‘I think it’s time for a break. Ten minutes and then we’ll meet back here,’ Nikki announced. The women filed out silently. Nikki sat back in her chair. Her head throbbed from this whirlwind of revelations, the most confusing of which was the mention of Maya. How did she end up? The hints about her death, about being caught with texts on her phone. There was nobody to ask, no appropriate moment to do so. From the window, she could see them emerging from the building and walking towards the temple. Sheena and Manjeet walked together, giving space to Arvinder who lingered behind them. She stood under the temple’s awning and stared off into the distance, at the cars lined up in the car park. Nikki contemplated approaching Arvinder but she was wary of prying after her misstep with the old women earlier. Arvinder stepped into a puddle of warm light, which gave her white garments a soft, yellowish appearance. She wasn’t a widow any more, but a lithe young woman hungering for affection.
A navy sweater stretched across Jason’s shoulders to show off his physique. As they waited in line outside the art-house cinema, Nikki couldn’t help stealing glimpses at him. A shaving cut on his jawbone looked recent. She wondered if he had taken as long as she had to get ready. She had bought mascara, lipstick, eye shadow and new foundation from Boots after an eager salesgirl convinced her to let her do a mini-makeover. She chided herself all the way home for acquiring these things that she usually railed against. Make-up was oppressive. It created an ideal of women … didn’t it? But when she caught her reflection in a shop window, she discovered a version of herself with fuller lips and bolder eyes – and she liked it.
By the time they got to the front of the line, tickets for every film were sold out except for a French movie. ‘This one got good reviews,’ Nikki said. ‘It starts in an hour and a half though. Shall we take a walk and find a place to eat?’ Jason nodded.
‘Ever been to Paris?’ he asked Nikki as they strolled down the street.
‘Once,’ she said. ‘With a lover.’ She had meant to sound mysterious but it came out like a title for an erotic story. Once, With A Lover. She giggled.
‘That good, huh?’ Jason asked.
‘No, awful, actually. I met this French film student at a party last year. I got some cheap Eurostar tickets and went away to Paris for four days. It was meant to be romantic.’
‘But it wasn’t?’
‘We were both broke. He was out most of the day working – not on his art, mind you. He was working in McDonalds. I spent most of the day sitting in his flat watching television.’
‘You didn’t go out? Take in the City of Lights?’
‘He kept promising that we’d do that together when he came home. The flat was in a very unsafe area and my French is hopeless, so I was happy to wait. But each night he came back, brooding and tired. It went downhill quite quickly.’
‘That’s too bad,’ Jason said.
‘And you?’ Nikki asked. ‘Been to Paris?’
Jason shook his head. ‘Went to Greece and Spain with my ex. It was all the travel she was interested in doing. I never got to Paris.’ A shift in his voice caught Nikki’s attention. When he noticed her peering at him, he changed the subject. ‘There’s a place which does delicious gourmet pizzas up that way.’
As they headed in the direction of the restaurant, they passed a bookshop called Sally’s and something stirred in the back of Nikki’s mind. ‘Do you mind if we duck in? I want to check if they have something,’ Nikki said.
‘No problem,’ Jason said. As soon as they entered, he made a beeline for a section at the back. Nikki approached the counter and inquired about The Journals and Sketches of Beatrix Potter. The clerk looked it up on her system and said, ‘It’s out of print. Have you looked for used copies online?’
‘I have,’ Nikki said. And she had found two, but they were in very poor condition, the spines threadbare and the pages dog-eared. One copy appeared water damaged, with wrinkly, bloated pages as if somebody had dropped it into the bath. She thanked the clerk and searched for Jason. He was in a section marked Eastern Philosophy. She gave him a wave and headed to the Anthologies section. Scanning the titles, Nikki could not help hearing the voices of her Southall storytellers, urgent and rhythmic as they wove their sensual tales.
She went to join Jason. ‘What were you looking for?’ he asked.
Nikki told him about the Beatrix Potter book. ‘It was in this little bookshop in Delhi which was crammed from floor to ceiling in textbooks and novels. You could spend a whole day there,’ she said.
‘You don’t remember the name of the shop?’
‘No. Just that it was on Connaught Place, sort of wedged behind a boutique in one of those restored colonial buildings.’
‘Amongst at least ten other bookshops of the same description,’ Jason said with a smile. ‘I know people go to Connaught Place to escape the mayhem of Delhi but I’m drawn to the pushcarts and makeshift stalls that find their way in somehow.’