The Object of Your Affections

by Falguni Kothari

  “I’m so sorry. I think my hands were wet and the bowl slipped.” My blood still raced around my nervous system like a horse at the derby. “Thank you.” I gestured toward the kitchen with my empty glass. Then realizing it was empty, I set it down on a coaster. “I didn’t even help you.” So much for trying to impress him and Paris with my unparalleled lifestyle skills.

  “Och. No trouble, lass.” His kind blue eyes lowered from my face to my fidgety legs. “Let’s make sure ye didn’t step on anything. Ceramic may not be as sharp as glass, but it can cut.”

  I looked down at my jeans, and one by one at the soles of the thick socks covering my feet. Apart from a few pieces of salad stuck on my jeans and socks, I was none the worse for wear. Still, I should’ve thought of it. I removed the leaves, wrapped them in a used tissue and tucked it away in my pocket to dispose of later.

  “Now then, are ye up to talking shop?” he said in a brisk, businesslike manner.

  I wasn’t. But I would. It was why I was here.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Paris?”

  I knew I’d overstepped the boundaries of friendship when I’d asked Paris to become my business partner. I wasn’t going to sugarcoat it. Money muddied all relationships, and I wanted full transparency. It would be her name on the paperwork—on the lease, on the bank loans if we needed them, and hopefully we would when we expanded—but in the beginning, it would be her name, her reputation, even if it was my money at risk. Business was about reputation and goodwill, if I’d learned anything in the last three years, it was that. If I missed a rent payment or absconded from this country or failed to pay off a bank loan or died, Paris would be liable for my debts. For that reason, I had to leave embarrassment and shyness aside and treat this evening like a business meeting—shattered bowl notwithstanding.

  I winced mentally. Was broken pottery an auspicious thing like broken glass, or was it bad luck? Whatever it was, I would amaze Neal with my knowledge and savvy.

  “She’ll catch up. And let’s spare her eyes from glazing over, aye?” Neal grinned.

  Smiling back, I began to tell him about An Atelier in Mumbai, which of course he’d heard of, and to my delight, he’d patronized a few times. He’d bought housewarming gifts for friends from the Delhi shop. He’d been directed there by the Hyatt concierge where he’d been staying.

  “How fantastic! We push marketing and publicity hard through hotels.”

  I explained how An Atelier in Mumbai had come about.

  “I’d wanted to launch it as an online store first, but Kaivan thought a physical store would make a bigger impact. He loaned me the capital and I opened my first shop on Linking Road, in the hub of Mumbai shopping. I never imagined that in just a few years I would be able to pay back Kaivan’s loan in full, and open another three stores across Mumbai, plus one each in Delhi and Hyderabad. When I sold it to...uh, sold An Atelier, we’d been ready to launch another three stores in India, and I’d been in talks to set up a franchise outfit in The Dubai Mall.”

  Then Kaivan got arrested. Our joint accounts, business accounts, even my personal accounts were frozen. Most of our assets were seized. We’d been strapped for cash, and I’d used An Atelier as collateral to borrow money from Vinay Singhal to pay for Kaivan’s legal fees, and eventually, I’d been forced to sell it to him. A few months ago, when I’d finally surfaced from my grief, or let go of it enough to salvage one tiny bit of my life, I’d focused on getting An Atelier back. But Vinay had refused to negotiate a buy back for anything less than several pounds of my flesh and every last drop of my blood. Business was business, and it had nothing to do with family, he’d said.

  Fair enough. Which was why I hadn’t bothered to tell him that I was no longer interested in buying back An Atelier in Mumbai.

  I didn’t tell Neal any of that. Instead, like a proud mama, I showed him An Atelier in Mumbai’s website on my phone. Vinay hadn’t changed a thing about it. Why would he? It was perfect.

  I pressed my lips together as they wobbled. I would not cry again.

  “This is the model I will mirror for An Atelier in New York. I...um...can’t use that name obviously because of branding. I signed a noncompete agreement when I sold it—which is also why it’s better if Paris’s name is on everything for the new store and not mine. I’ll have to come up with something catchy like An Atelier...but that’s for later. Can you see how easy it is to navigate, click and buy?”

  “This is...interesting. Let’s put it up on a bigger screen. I want to take a closer look. The computer’s in my office,” he said, standing up and giving me a hand.

  I got a belated tour of the spacious apartment as we meandered toward Neal’s office. A long thick gallery led from the main door straight down to the living room with passages or doors branching off to bedrooms on either side of it. A gorgeous terrace with a high glass railing skirted all along the outer perimeter of the apartment. While the views and the space was awe-inspiring, the decor itself was colorless. There was lots of glass and white and leather everywhere. No personal photos or artwork on the walls. There were some odd pieces of furniture that looked as if Neal or Paris had picked them out, like an ocher-colored chaise that graced a glass-walled alcove just off the living room. The space was very likely Paris’s den as the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind the chaise held full sections of law books.

  Just as I was beginning to get used to all the morbid white, Neal ushered me into his office, and I gasped in utter delight. Tartan tapestry, metals and sparkly things glittered out of the walls and furniture. Bursts of color were everywhere. A room fit for an artist, I thought.

  A wave of windows occupied one entire wall of the room from floor to ceiling, framing the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn by moonlight. I could only imagine the sunlight pouring in during the day, bringing the flamboyant and eclectic room into bright focus. A long, clear glass desk ran perpendicular to the windows. It was equipped with all sorts of fascinating thingamajigs and light fixtures that I wanted to look at closely, that I wanted to touch. But later. Behind it, against the wall, was a workstation. Above that, riveted into the wall, was a beaten-metal artwork of seven horses racing against the tide. It was too big for such a small space, and yet it was perfect. It reminded me of the painting Vinay had stolen. Husain did horses best, but these horses could give Husain a run for his money.

  I spun around, taking in everything. This room was all character, and none of it easy. Were Neal’s easygoing mannerisms a farce, then?

  “This room is so different than the rest of the place. You changed this room. You had it decorated, designed it.” Why hadn’t they bothered with the rest of the apartment?

  “Aye. I need this equipment to fit just so. I had the firm that handles the rentals in the building remove the furniture from this room to fit that in.” He patted his hand on the extralong, extrawide glass table.

  Ah. Now it all made sense. They were renting this apartment. It wasn’t theirs.

  The custom-made jewelry-designing table came with backlight options, USB ports and dozens of sleek drawers of different sizes running along its belly on two sides. One side of it was hinged: the glass top could be raised like an architect’s drafting table, Neal explained. I really wanted to try all the gadgets, but I wasn’t here to play.

  The computer screen sat on the workstation behind the designing table, sharing counter space with trays full of stencils, rulers, tiny bottles of paint, fine-tipped brushes and weird-looking quills in clear plastic holders, and sheets and sheets of paper—all of it arranged with regimented neatness.

  No, Neal couldn’t be an easy man to live with. Not for a woman like Paris who thrived in chaos.

  “Don’t you use a computer program to design?” I bent to admire a hand-drawn sketch of a clock...or, no. It was a detailed design of a pocket watch on his desk.

  “Sometimes. I prefer to draw the preliminaries by hand.”

&n
bsp; I tried and failed to imagine him drawing my rose pendant with its dozens of delicate diamond-studded petals by hand.

  “Wow. How long does it take to draw something so detailed and intricate? Doesn’t your hand hurt?”

  “Work hazard.” Smiling, he picked up a stress ball from the designing table and squeezed it. “Time depends on several factors. I start designing on paper, then transfer it to the computer once I’m happy with it. The CAD/CAM program converts it to a 3-D image, so I can check it from all angles. I used to do that by hand too. All the angles and perspectives. But aye, it hurts like the devil and gives me a migraine, so I don’t do it that way often now.”

  I preferred to use my hands too, wherever possible. It was the man against machine conundrum.

  “I went on a diamond and jewelry factory tour in Amsterdam some years ago. The designer used a drafting table like yours, only it had a computer screen built into it. He drew right on the screen with a stylus, using special software.” I ran my fingers over the fine lines of the rudimentary design of the watch face. “He designed a ring for me within minutes by picking and choosing different shanks and stones. A machine created a wax model of the design, and then the mold was cast into metal, and finally, the goldsmith set the stones and polished the gold to a finish by the end of the two-hour tour.”

  “That sounds about right for a standard ring.”

  Since my face probably broadcasted my absolute fascination with the process, Neal offered to show me how and where he had his molds cast, and how his pieces, which were the opposite of standard, came about.

  I accepted happily. “Thank you! I work with potters and glassblowers and fabric designers—I’d love to add jewelry makers to my contact list.”

  I loved visiting workshops and factories, watching people or machines—didn’t matter which—build things. I’d been the kid who’d taken the family electronics apart to see what was inside them, how they worked. I’d been the one to fix things around the house when I was too impatient to wait for a plumber or a handyman. Another thing I’d learned since my life had turned upside down: not everything could be fixed.

  I swallowed hard, thinking of my family again. No. No! They didn’t deserve to be missed.

  I pasted on a bright, bright smile and turned to Neal. “Let me show you the website. It does so much more on a desktop screen.”

  Switching on the computer screen, he pulled up An Atelier in Mumbai’s website in a couple of clicks. “Attractive. Dynamic. Aye, I see what ye mean by easy to navigate.”

  He scrolled through page after page, clicking on random items, asking me what I had in mind regarding pricing, import duties, delivery options—everything I’d worked out for the US.

  I told him the truth. “I don’t have the details. I didn’t know...this wasn’t even an idea when I sat on the plane. But it is now, and I’ll have numbers and projections ready for you by the end of the week.”

  “I don’t need the details, lass. Just throw some numbers at me so I have an idea. The India ones will do for now.”

  Those I knew like the back of my hand and he seemed...pleased...by the stats. He asked about the merchandise and my sources. Would they be the same ones I’d used in India or new ones for a US market and consumer base? Did I plan to buy the inventory or would it be on consignment? What would make up my inventory for the US market?

  I answered all his questions. The more we discussed, the more ideas came to me. There was nothing I didn’t know about opening a lifestyle store.

  “I want to start small here, smaller than Mumbai. That—” I pointed to the website “—is what An Atelier in Mumbai became after three years of blood and sweat. I’ll work out a five-year plan for here.” I hoped it wouldn’t take that long to lift off. If it did... I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.

  He didn’t ask me anything else, so I assumed that I’d managed to convey my vision. He continued to scroll through the website, scrutinizing each page for long minutes. Pondering my fate, he seemed less like an artist and more like the CEO of an A-list company even in his casual attire of dark jeans and a collarless shirt. Right then the similarities between Kaivan and Neal were too stark to ignore, too obvious for me not to compare them.

  My legs turned to rubber in a combination of fear and anticipation and grief, and I grabbed at the back of a jewel-green office chair for purchase.

  Then Paris walked into the room, and the relief I felt upon seeing her was so immense that I literally ran across the room and threw my arms around her. But even her snarky response to my weird behavior couldn’t save me from making an utter fool of myself in front of her husband for the second time that evening.

  * * *

  I hid in the bathroom until hiding in it began to upset me even more than my complete loss of composure in Neal’s office. I took stock of my face. There was nothing I could do about its puffiness or its blotchiness, so I ran my fingers through my hair until the ends of my blunt flipped out. It would have to do.

  I forced myself to step out of the bathroom sanctuary. Paris and Neal were in the kitchen, talking softly and making gooey eyes at each other over the trays I’d prepped with empty serving bowls. Their cozy bond shot a poker straight through my heart. Kaivan and I used to be like that. Like we simply had to touch each other, open our souls to each other every night.

  Snap out of it. I couldn’t start crying again.

  “Chef’s back,” I said extra loudly when it looked like they’d start kissing any second. “Please move aside so I can serve dinner.”

  Keep your hands and mind busy and you won’t have time for hysteria, I told myself sternly.

  As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, Paris blocked me with her body. “Nope. I got this. You and Neal did your share. Now you get to relax. Babe, pour Naira some vino.”

  I stared blankly at Paris. She’d removed her jacket—the one I’d sobbed on and stained with my snot—and had rolled up the sleeves of her work shirt. She brandished the wooden stirrer in the air like a baton. She was serious!

  I swallowed a manic giggle and accepted a fresh wineglass from Neal, then I hovered right outside the kitchen, just in case. Paris was no kitchen queen or helper or even a kitchen ghost.

  “Don’t stir the curry fast, you’ll crumble the tempeh. Get the condiments out from the fridge. The fried papadums are in that box on the counter.”

  “Exactly how incompetent do you think I am in the kitchen?” She rolled her eyes, but followed my instructions to the letter, adding a snarky comment or two about the stress of serving spicy condiments at the right temperature. And the woes we’d suffer the morning after eating said condiments.

  The giggle now tickled my tummy, but I was still too shaky to give in to it. It wouldn’t do to start cackling like a lunatic on top of sobbing like a hyena in front of prospective business partners.

  I got out of Paris’s way and helped Neal set the table. Inspired by the thick pillars of candles stored inside the side buffet, I even got fancy and arranged half a dozen pillars on a mirrored tray and placed the whole thing in the middle of the thick oak wood dining table. The fresh sea breeze aroma of the candles would dispel the smells of masalas and fried onions from the air. A major drawback to cooking in an open kitchen was the odors it spread through the space, even with a powerful hood exhaust. It took over the room, sank its oils into the furnishings, until you aired out the space. Or lit scented candles. Or tucked cinnamon sticks into the rolled up serviettes. The sticks would also absorb the smells. I had Neal slide open the doors to the terrace too, and a rush of air brought with it a fresh coolness.

  “Honey, where have you stashed the salad?” Paris called out as we aired the apartment. She had her head stuck in the fridge.

  I froze, my cheeks burning, and no amount of cold air blowing in from the open terrace could cool them down. My eyes darted to Neal’s instead of just confessing to the catastroph
e.

  “The dug et it,” Neal said, winking at me.

  What? I frowned, wondering if I’d misheard. His accent was so thick just then and the whirr of the helicopter outside had distorted his words even more.

  “What dog? You got us a dog without discussing it with me? What the hell, Neal?”

  Ah. He’d meant dog not Doug. Neal was such a dear, but I couldn’t let him cover for me.

  “I dropped it. I’ve probably damaged your gorgeous parquet floor. I’m sorry.” I would replace the bowl. And if there was a dent in the kitchen floor, I’d replace it too. It was only fair.

  Paris whipped her eyes from me to the floor, then back to her husband. “Why would you say a dog ate it? What is wrong with you?”

  I started giggling then. Who would have guessed that Paris and Neal were a twenty-first century version of I Love Lucy? As for what was wrong with Neal? From where I stood, nothing whatsoever. My best friend’s husband truly was the sweetest man on earth. I’d been worried about him for nothing.

  chapter seven

  Paris

  I lost my patience halfway through dinner.

  Naira was laughing again, largely due to my husband’s incessant jocularity. She’d even lost the deer-in-the-headlights look she’d sported back in Neal’s office. It was the perfect time to steer the conversation to Naira’s business quandary, but Neal was taking his own sweet time getting to the point.

  I suppose he was just being cautious. Her breakdown had shocked me too. I’d asked Neal if he’d been too critical of her idea, overtly harsh in his evaluation of her goals. Neal wasn’t one to beat around the bush or lead anyone down the primrose path with false praise or promises. If he’d found fault in her business plan, he’d have told her. Gently perhaps, but he’d have let his opinion be known.