The Object of Your Affections

by Falguni Kothari

  I didn’t know my medical history because no one had a clue who my biological parents were, much less had any information on them. All I knew was that I was the product of a classic high school movie cliché. My birth mother got knocked up by her math tutor when she was fifteen. To save her reputation and her future, her parents sent her many states away to an ashram in Pondicherry, a city in southern India, to have her baby among strangers and subsequently leave it—leave me at the ashram’s orphanage. After one of their vicious fights over who would get responsibility for me, Sandra, my first adoptive mother, had screamed that Jared was welcome to me as it had been his bright idea to rescue me from my fate. Both Jared, an eye surgeon, and Sandra, a dental surgeon, had been in India with Médecins Sans Frontières offering free health clinics and humanitarian help to the less fortunate. They’d met in Paris to train for the clinic. They’d begun slipping into love there, then fallen hard for each other that summer in Pondicherry. They’d fallen in love with me too. Until they’d come back home to the US, to real life, and fallen out of love. C’est la vie, oui?

  The Judge had called Sandra a schlub, a tasteless oaf of a woman not only in attire but also in comportment. The Judge passing judgment on Sandra never ceased to amuse me. He’d been a man of principle and integrity. A man of his word. A man who didn’t mince words. He’d presided over Sandra and Jared’s divorce, and appalled at what they’d done to me by “un-adopting” me, he’d petitioned the courts for my guardianship without consulting his wife.

  I put on a brave face even though I wanted to wrench free of Neal’s grasp and scream at him for even asking me this again. “I thought we’d decided on surrogacy, a biological bairn. But it’s up to you. Whatever you want, babe. The whole baby project is for you.”

  Neal sighed. “I just want to make this easier for ye.”

  Nothing about having a child was going to be easy for me. The only thing that was easy was loving Neal.

  “Let’s go. I’ll get late,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint and drop the discussion. We walked briskly, cutting across Foley Square, and drew closer to the courts.

  “So, we have a guest for dinner, aye? I can throw something together or are we ordering in? I’ll be stopping by the market for the meat. I can pick up things for a pasta and a salad too.” Neal slanted a smile in my direction. His blue eyes were full of hurt for me, and filled with patience once again. He wouldn’t push. Not about this.

  Was it possible for a heart to burst from love?

  “Don’t worry about dinner. Oh, you’re in for such a treat. Naira’s cooking tonight, she’ll get the groceries. Just pick up some cheese when you’re getting your meat. Something to pair with the wine you brought back from LA. And, get some rest, honey. Unless you have a busy day today.”

  Neal brought the back of my hand to his lips. “I’ve a meeting up at the Diamond District later this morning. That’s about it.”

  Neal’s work took him into midtown several times a week. “Who are you meeting?”

  “A watchmaker. Jamie introduced me to a friend of hers...a potential client if I can deliver what the lass wants and soon. I’m to design a pocket watch for her father’s ninety-fifth birthday. Don’t—” He raised his hand, ostensibly to stop me from passing judgment.

  Too late. My back was already stiff, and I’d already been ripe to gripe. “Seriously? Now we’re giving ninety-five-year-olds bespoke jewelry? Is he going to tote the thing about at his next hip replacement?”

  Exasperation clouded Neal’s long sigh. “People have a right to live as they wish and use their resources as they see fit. Ye can’t hold the whole world up to yer standards. It’s unfair. Anyway, I’d like a consult with the watchmaker as I don’t want the mechanics to affect the design I have in mind for the watch face. I need it figured out, and the costing, before I head back to LA with a couple of samples later this week.”

  “You’re off again?” My stomach flipped over at the thought of him leaving me so soon. I hated when he traveled even though I loved welcoming him back home, and even though I looked forward to having the apartment all to myself, messy and hot.

  “What about Diwali?” The five-day festival of lights began on Sunday, and we’d already committed to attending two parties over the weekend.

  “One-day trip, hen. You won’t even miss me.” He kissed my nose, a quick goodbye. And he was off, jogging toward Chinatown.

  I pushed the heavy brass-framed entrance of One Hogan Place and went inside, grumbling under my breath. This was exactly why I needed Naira through the baby ordeal. I refused to be stuck monitoring the kid alone. What if I broke it?

  You won’t even miss me. What a joke. It was dreadful how much I missed my husband already.

  chapter six

  Naira

  “I understand yer the reason my wife gave up meat, and why she thinks ‘draamebaaz’ is an insult?”

  “Guilty as charged.” I grinned, remembering how I’d tricked Paris into believing draamebaaz was a Hindi curse word when it simply meant a melodramatic person. “Or not guilty for saving the animals that might’ve otherwise become martyrs to her meals and her anger.”

  With my attention divided between cutting tempeh into bite-size pieces and sautéing onions for the rogan josh curry, it took me a few seconds to notice the wry look on Neal’s face. Oops. Had I inadvertently insulted his own carnivorous lifestyle?

  “I didn’t mean that you shouldn’t eat what you want. I’m not some card-carrying member of the Indian Vegetarian Congress...although my grandfather was and...oh, lord! I didn’t mean to... I have no quarrel with...” I shut up as I was only making it worse.

  Neal looked more amused than offended. “Relax, lass. Nothing I haven’t heard before as my younger sister is vegan.”

  He bent his head over the frying pan and inhaled so deeply that his chest cavity expanded, stretching his full-sleeved Henley taut. He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, displaying some lovely lean muscles, and I wondered bizarrely if he did yoga and not weights.

  “I’ve only ever had my grandmother’s lamb rogan josh. But if yer curry tastes as incredible as it smells, I just might convert.”

  “Really?” Delight shot through me, but it was a temporary high.

  “Nope. I love my meat, lass. No offense to the animals.” He winked, making me laugh.

  Though animal slaughter wasn’t a remotely funny subject, I couldn’t help but be charmed by Paris’s husband. His lovely manners had put me at ease from the moment I’d arrived. I’d been a little freaked that I’d been late—damn Vinay and his obnoxious messages that bordered on insults.

  What’s going on with the trust?

  Why is it taking so long to get the money out?

  Are you sure you know what you’re doing?

  And the last one from this morning: I WANT ANSWERS!

  Who did he think he was demanding answers from me? I fumed. With every passing day, I was even more determined to make a life in New York. And for that I needed to impress Neal and Paris with my business plan.

  I’d already got off on the wrong foot about making an impression due to my lateness because I’d had to stop at three grocery stores to gather all the ingredients I needed for the rogan josh. I’d still been missing two key ingredients when I’d arrived. Neal had handed me a pair of nonskid house socks from the shoe closet—their apartment was a no-shoes zone like my parents’ place in Mumbai—although here it had more to do with hygiene than offending a higher power residing inside the temple built inside the house. As I began the prep for dinner, Neal had run down to the closest bodega for the poppy seeds and dry bay leaves that I simply could not make the curry without.

  If I’d felt weird puttering around Paris’s kitchen in her absence, or ordering her husband about as if he were my souschef, the feeling was long gone. It had been my idea to cook my infamous tempeh rogan josh that Paris
loved as a thank-you for Friday and...whatever happened tonight. Only, I hadn’t expected to be cooking it in her home. I’d suggested making dinner. Paris had accepted. Then somehow the offer had been refurbished, and now, here I was, stirring the curry pot in her kitchen.

  Making tonight’s dinner wasn’t only about gratitude. Cooking was as much of a relaxing exercise for me as yoga or dancing was. And boy, had I needed to relax after such a stressful weekend. Damn Vinay. I wouldn’t let him spoil my evening. Stop thinking about him, then! I blew out a breath. Also, cooking for three people was so much more fun than cooking for one.

  When Kaivan and I had entertained, I’d preferred hanging—hiding?—out in the kitchen with our master chef rather than making small talk with guests I had nothing in common with, guests like Vinay. My passive-aggressive stance had given Kaivan no small amount of amusement. You can tell when Naira likes someone or simply tolerates them by the amount of time she spends in the kitchen. He’d once teased me about it in front of my parents who’d not been amused that I’d snubbed my wifely duties and our elitist guests in favor of befriending the hired help. My father had scolded me as if I were still a schoolgirl and living under his thumb, demanding that I make them and my husband proud. Kaivan had respectfully asked Papa to butt out of our lives. He’d said my behavior was no longer their concern.

  Everything had been overturned in the last two years, including my father granting me the respect of knowing what was best for me.

  “Refill?”

  I glanced at Neal as he gave the wine decanter a swirl. They were both blurry. I didn’t know if my eyes stung because I’d been staring at the curry for so long, lost in memories, or the memories themselves. I had sense enough not to rub my eyes with onion-stained fingers, and I blinked rapidly until my vision cleared. There were only a couple of sips of the Malbec left in my glass but I shook my head. “Not yet. I need to pace the reds or the tannins will give me a headache.”

  He set the decanter down, took a quick sip of his scotch and resumed dicing some vegetables for me. Neal had volunteered to be my kitchen helper/sous-chef, since I didn’t know where the colanders, sieves and nonstick pans were in this beautiful open-style, pristine white contemporary kitchen. He’d also proved to be an entertaining companion and had kept up a steady stream of conversation that didn’t feel forced or awkward. Probably because we had so many things in common to talk about like the latest Bollywood movies and appreciating the ghazals wafting out of the Bose wall speakers. His endless playlist shuffled between Indian and Scottish ballads.

  Kaivan had been partial to ghazals too when I’d forced him to relax every once in a while and enjoy some music. On rare Sundays, we’d give the house staff a surprise day off and I’d cook his favorite meal from scratch. We’d shed our responsibilities for the day and focus on each other, making each other happy, making each other laugh. My husband, the boss of thousands, would eagerly transform into my sous-chef, my cabana boy—whatever I wished him to be that Sunday. And we’d—

  I burst out laughing as Neal began crooning the ghazal in an accented nasal falsetto—the singer was female. It completely destroyed the gravitas of the song, which was about graves and wishes, but it kept the mood in the kitchen from getting maudlin.

  “I’m shocked the curry didn’t curdle with that rendition,” I felt bold enough to tease, which only made him warble louder. I shook my head when he urged me to sing. I was a dancer, not a singer.

  I hadn’t expected to like Neal so much. He wasn’t the person I’d imagined him to be—his nature, I meant, and not his looks. The good impression he’d created at Lavinia’s wedding was only getting crisper and clearer every time I met him.

  Section by section, I slid the tempeh into the simmering sauce. It wasn’t that I’d expected him to be an asshole. Why would Paris marry an asshole? But I’d worried we wouldn’t get along because Paris and Kaivan hadn’t, which was why I’d worn the rose pendant at Lavinia’s wedding, hoping it would serve as an icebreaker and we’d have a nice story to exchange.

  I realized I’d arrived from India with preconceptions planted in my head about him. Fashion magazines labeled him and his sister as temperamental divas. There was more than one piece of footage of him on YouTube, knuckle-deep in a drunken brawl or parading about with skimpily clad supermodels. Granted, some were old videos mixed with the latest fashion show footage that had likely been doctored by the media for maximum effect. Then there was the whole drama of his broken engagement. My family just didn’t think well of him—though at this point I couldn’t care less what my family thought about anything. I’d told Paris all the gossip when she’d first started dating him, but she’d laughed it off. “No wonder I’m attracted to him. Swoony McDreamy blue eyes, notwithstanding, he’s a baaad boy. Let’s see if I can make him worse,” she’d said gleefully, as if accepting a challenge.

  Clearly, Neal wasn’t worse off with Paris, nor she with him. They made a perfect couple. I was so happy Paris had found her mate despite her hard resistance to love and codependency. She hadn’t mangled the relationship at the first sign of trouble like she’d done with her other boyfriends. Not only that, her relationship with Lily had also changed. For the better. I was so proud of her.

  I ceased stirring the curry, which was simmering nicely, and tapped the wooden spoon against the pot in lieu of knocking on wood. Our lives had taken such sharp turns since college. Neither one of us were where we’d planned to be. And it was okay, I told myself. What didn’t kill me would only make me stronger.

  “And that’s that.” I vowed under my breath, settling a splash protector on the curry pot. If only life came with a splash protector to keep the hurt and taint away.

  “It’s done? That dinna take long,” Neal asked in surprise.

  Would Kaivan have entertained a friend of mine if I was late from work? I’d like to believe he would have though I couldn’t imagine it. Then I remembered that even while I was around he and Paris had found it impossible to be civil to each other.

  “Nearly done. We’ll let it stew for twenty minutes.” I turned the heat down low, then swept my eyes over the organized chaos on the countertop. I set the timer on the rice cooker and switched it on. “The wild rice will be ready in twenty too. Paris is on her way, right?”

  “It’s what her text says. She’d better get here before that timer goes off, aye? Because I’m no’ waitin’ a minute longer to eat that scrumptious-smelling curry.” He smacked his lips and groaned as if he was only a step away from reaching the Pearly Gates.

  The heat from the cooking range transferred onto my cheeks. His accent. Uff. No wonder Paris had melted like butter for him.

  I washed my hands in the sink, trying not to think about how similar “scrumptious” had sounded from Kaivan’s mouth. He’d had a British accent because of the decade or so he’d spent in London for university and then his first job at a hedge fund.

  Gah. Don’t think about him. Concentrate on making dinner.

  The salad had to be nice and chilled by now. I should toss it with the mango dressing and parmesan flakes. Maybe even plate it, since Paris was on her way.

  I grabbed the salad bowl from the fridge. I’d never been clumsy. Not in the kitchen—not anywhere. But I was then. One minute I had the bowl in my hands and the next my hands were empty. My heart rate rocketed into the stratosphere as I watched the large cling-wrapped ceramic bowl crash to the floor, and the carefully shredded leaves of kale, baby spinach and thinly sliced green apples explode from it.

  I stared in horror at the carnage around my feet, hands shaking. That was my life right there. Something scrumptious that had slipped from my fingers. A sob rose to my throat. Then I shattered too.

  At some point, I realized that my face was buried in Neal’s chest and he was rubbing my back in soothing circles, murmuring things to me in a mishmash of Hindi and English. “It’s all right, lass. Hota hai. Shit happens. W
e didn’t need that salad. Who eats leaves and fruit besides coos anyway?”

  I wanted to laugh when he said “coos.” He was being so nice.

  What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I find my footing? How was I going to make any of this work if I kept falling apart?

  “Come on. Come away from here.” With a hand on my back, he guided me around the dozens of pieces of fired clay and destroyed food to the living room area. He settled me on a lush white leather sofa and set a box of tissues within reach on a glass-topped coffee table. He dashed into the kitchen, came back with my wineglass topped off. After I’d taken a couple of sips and I was breathing somewhat normally, he went back into the kitchen and began cleaning up my mess.

  Kaivan wouldn’t have been so nice, would he? Had Kaivan been a nice man? God. I didn’t know anymore. I didn’t know anything anymore. Why was I fighting with Vinay? What was the point?

  I guzzled the wine down like it was water. Anything to get rid of the soup of nerves in my stomach. I was so embarrassed by my behavior that I couldn’t even bring myself to get up and help Neal. If my legs ever stopped shaking, I’d run out of the apartment and never come back.

  How had Paris done this? How had she found the strength to go on, to live on, when life had knocked her down over and over? I wasn’t that brave. But I wanted to be.

  When the kitchen floor was spick-and-span again, Neal brought the wine decanter and his own replenished whisky glass to the coffee table. He went back into the kitchen once more and brought back a platter of cheese, nuts and fruits that we’d munched on while cooking. Then he took the sofa opposite mine and smiled at me.