“You don’t need to bring anything. I’ll see you this evening.”
Mrs. Ray put the phone down, grateful for once that Ganga was still in Siliguri, with still no concrete plans to return anytime soon. She did not want Ganga fluttering around and interfering when she was enjoying her evening with Upen. At first her home felt empty without Ganga, but she found she soon got used to it. Even though she had often been lonely, she realized that she had really never been alone her whole life. She had always been scared of being alone, but, and she knew she was probably thinking this way because of Upen, being alone was proving to be quite easy.
She had hardly even entered her kitchen while Ganga was here, but now she was planning to use some of her savings to have the kitchen redone. If the Jhas could move to Gurgaon, she could get a new refrigerator and microwave put in. Mrs. Ray was tired of falling into the role of widow that others were placing on her.
In any case, she could worry about all that later. For now, she had to worry about only one thing—Upen. He was coming over at eight and Shatrugan downstairs was quite a gossip. He did it in a harmless way, thinking he was just being a part of all their lives here, but he still did it. And Mrs. Ray knew that if Upen stopped at the front gate and asked how to reach her apartment, Shatrugan would ask him a dozen questions and then repeat the information to everyone. She pulled a shawl over her shoulders and went downstairs to talk to him. She found him sitting on his haunches near the main gate flipping through a tattered copy of Stardust magazine. He was wearing sandals despite the chill in the air.
“Shatrugan, come tomorrow morning and see me—I have an old pair of Mr. Ray’s shoes that I’ll give you. It’s too cold for sandals.”
“Madam, you are too kind. It was not nice of Ganga to leave you. These days, maids have no sense of duty. I will be here guarding all of you till the day I die.”
“Shatrugan, my accountant will be coming around eight this evening. You make sure you let him in and show him where my apartment is. And don’t start chatting his ear off.”
“Madam, your accountant makes house calls on a Sunday?” Shatrugan asked. “That is very decent of him. Madam, you know last week a woman died in the Leela Housing Complex? Her husband is still living, I have heard.”
“So?” Mrs. Ray asked.
“Just letting you know, madam,” Shatrugan said, wobbling his head from side to side.
“Just please let my accountant in when he comes,” Mrs. Ray said, and walked back up to her apartment.
Back at home, Mrs. Ray tied her hair into a bun and went to her cupboard and took out a gray silk sari and black blouse with long sleeves. She changed into the sari and looked in the full-length mirror that was attached to the back of her bedroom door. This was silly, she thought. Why was she putting on such a formal outfit for tonight? The whole point of having dinner at home was to be more casual. She undraped the sari and stood for a moment in front of her mirror in just her petticoat and blouse. She tugged at the sides of her stomach and pulled it back. Her skin was getting a little loose in parts but she was not fat. Even though she was home alone, Mrs. Ray closed and locked her bedroom door and removed her blouse. She wore a cream-colored bra. A dull cream-colored bra that had three hooks at the back and, despite looking industrial, allowed her breasts to sag and fall on two sides of her chest. She had no time today, but tomorrow she would go to a mall and buy some new bras. She was older now but not dead, and underwear these days was made to let women like her be sexual. She did not have to change into a thong and a push-up bra, but something with a bit of underwire would not hurt.
Mrs. Ray tugged at the string of her petticoat and allowed it to fall in a puddle at her feet. Yes, her thighs had some cellulite and her knees looked crumpled, but her legs were not so bad. Yoga had given her thighs a hint of a vertical line of muscle, and her body was strong. She did not look like a Bollywood star, but she also did not look like someone who had to spend her days in oversized nighties ignoring her body. Mrs. Ray pulled her jeans back on and put on a black sweater and a pair of small gold earrings. She went to her cupboard and found her brown wedge-heeled sandals and stepped into them. She dabbed perfume on her wrists and two coats of lipstick on her lips. She picked up her black eyeliner and lined her lower lids. She blinked in the mirror. She picked up the eyeliner again and lined her upper lids, lifting the line at the edges to create a slight cat-eye effect that she had not tried since her college days.
The doorbell rang at eight fifteen. Thank God Upen wasn’t the kind to show up at eight when invited for eight. Mrs. Ray walked through the living room to the front door and stopped to see the candles. How could she possibly have thought candles were a good idea? How embarrassing. She stooped to blow out the seven candles that she had lit across the room. A faint smell of smoke wafted through the air as the wicks smoldered. He would know she had candles lit earlier. The doorbell rang again and Mrs. Ray quickly waved her sofa cushions in the air to make the smoke disappear. She pushed the candles behind books and lamps and walked to open the door. Upen was there holding a bouquet with four orchids in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
“I hope you have a long vase,” Upen said, handing Mrs. Ray the flowers. “Or we will just have to drink four bottles of wine and place one flower in each bottle.”
She smiled and took the flowers from him—Shatrugan would be very suspicious of her accountant. Maybe she could have left the candles lit after all.
“Come in. Please sit. Make yourself at home. Shoes on or off is up to you—I don’t have any strict rules here,” Mrs. Ray said. “Would you like a glass of wine? Should I open this bottle? Or I can open the wine I have in the fridge, but it’s only Indian wine, I’m afraid. It’s hard to get imported wines in this neighborhood. I also have other drinks though—vodka, whiskey, gin. I can make you a gin and tonic if you prefer.”
She was talking too much. She hadn’t, she realized, had a drink with a man in this home since her husband had died. The only other men who even entered were workers—electricians, carpenters, plumbers—and Mr. Jha a few times, but always with Mrs. Jha, and always only for a cup of tea. No other men had entered her home in the past few years.
“Reema,” Upen said, laughing. “You seem tense.”
“No, no. Oh no. Let me just get us our drinks. Did you say wine? I’ll get wine. Oh no. Please—don’t come to the kitchen,” she said as he moved toward her. She didn’t want him to see her kitchen. Her kitchen was messy, countertops stained and sticky, the walls in need of painting. “Please just sit. I’ll bring us drinks.”