The Object of Your Affections
Page 13
I couldn’t wait to ask Naira now, and began devising a plan as to how to go about it. I had to present the idea in such a way that the possibility of her saying no diminished to nil.
I was no longer tired. I was wired, and decided a shower was just the thing to help me decompress. A quick one, as I did need to sleep. I had a long, vile day ahead of me tomorrow, starting with a special victims case that had been on the docket for months. Then the task force. Always the task force these days.
I stripped off my clothes and stepped under the shower. The gush and throb of water sluicing down my body felt instantly amazing. The fatigued nerve endings on my skin were soothed. It took my brain slightly longer to wash itself clean of thought, but it did. Finally, when I was on the verge of catatonic happiness, I cupped my hands beneath the automatic wall-mounted soap dispenser, and caught the pool of foam it spat out. I began to lather my body, then hummed when an extra pair of hands joined my endeavors. I turned, raised my face up to my husband’s. We kissed beneath the rain. We helped each other get squeaky-clean.
“I’m sorry,” he said once we were. He bit my ear, ran his tongue along my wet shoulder and back to my lips. “Forgive me?”
For what? I wondered. For putting up with me? For being nice to my friend? Or was he apologizing for thinking badly of me?
I’d seen it on his face, the judgment, the confusion, the distaste he hadn’t quite been able to hide when I’d told him the Big Idea. He thought I was a coward, deep down. I knew Neal didn’t really understand why I didn’t want children. He was a product of his environment, and his environment was a Norman Rockwell family.
While my world was full of vile things and hateful people and I didn’t know how to explain that to him. I never talked to him about any of my cases, I refused to taint him like that. The Judge had never brought work home either, for the same reasons. But what I did and what I saw every day at work was the worst of humanity. It left a terrible stain on my soul.
But I didn’t want to focus on our differences tonight. So, I kissed Neal deeper, sliding my tongue into his mouth, making him groan. I wrapped my hand around his throbbing penis, squeezed until he cursed. Until he gripped my wrist and forced my hand away. The shower area was large, and there was a bamboo bench fitted to one wall. He sat, pulling me to stand between his legs. I wrapped my arms around his head, kissed him again. His hands roved all over my body, circling, rubbing, tweaking, pushing in until I was squirming for breath.
“Are ye with me now?” The intensity of his gaze, so sexy, so blue, unnerved me.
He’d known I was upset all along. Distracted. He’d known I needed space to clear my head so he’d taken my friend off my hands and entertained her on my behalf. He knew, without being told, when my heart was heavy and my soul felt raw. How? How? When I took such care to hide it.
My head had cleared and I didn’t want a speck of space between us. I pressed into his hands, tugged parts of him in recompense, and had both of us panting for release in minutes. I set my right foot on the bench by his thigh, bracing a hand on his shoulder, another on the wall behind his head. I touched my forehead to his and began to lower my body onto his lap. I stared into his teal blue eyes, wet with lust, drowning under the rain shower as he pressed up and into me. His hands gripped my hips, helping me move, controlling my movements. Ah God! I closed my eyes, let my head fall on his shoulder. I had no breath left even to groan.
This was how we communicated best. Where our minds were in total sync and our souls sang a benediction to our love. It was when we were apart that we floundered, where our differences were highlighted.
That was why I’d agreed to have a bairn with him. So that we’d have one thing in common, at least.
chapter eight
Naira
Crystal Lang sold the Central Park West apartment within days of the showing, as promised, and for more than the listed price. I was both giddy and stunned by the warp-speed velocity of the whole process—poles apart from the shameful auction of the Mumbai flat that had dragged on for months because no one had wanted to buy a place that had brought ill luck to its owners, certainly not for a fair price. In New York, not only had the sale been quick, the new owners wanted to move in by mid-November, which gave me about three weeks to find a new place, sort out the paperwork and move lock, stock, and barrel into it. Talk about pressure cooker stress.
I’d narrowed down a list of potential rentals off the Realtor’s website, but the two flats I’d seen so far had been blah at best. I needed light in my house, and air circulation—that was not negotiable. I’d also love a positive energy flow, and I wouldn’t say no to a fluid layout, one that didn’t have abrupt walls rising out of nowhere or no walls at all to demarcate spaces. In my mind, those weren’t unreasonable demands, but it had been pointed out to me that for Manhattan and my budget, I was asking for the moon. I couldn’t get over how pathetic some of the apartments had been on the website.
“Don’t settle for something you hate. Just move in with us,” said Paris from her perch across the room. “You can have the guest room. No one except Neal’s mother stays with us, and she isn’t planning to come anytime soon—or at least I hope not.”
Paris had come over to help me pack up my life—it was my sixth move in ten years—since she was free as a bird for the evening as Neal was in LA tending to his watch fob client. She’d come straight from work, craving a bitching session. Paris was in some sort of battle-to-the-death competition with a coworker, whom she had a touchy work history with, while they worked on some major case together. She’d been sidelined because of him before, and just today he’d tried to make her look stupid by giving her only half the message and then claiming she’d misheard him. Paris had looked ready to punch someone when she’d walked into the flat an hour ago. Pizza, wine and a vigorous vent had put a dent in her mad. I’d put her to work, hoping the physical labor would further calm her down. Paris was a problem solver, not a problem handler.
“I’m sure it won’t come to that, but thank you for the offer,” I said in answer to her question. My heart warmed at the unconditional support she and Neal were giving me. “I mean, it’s Manhattan, concrete jungle. How hard can it be to find a rental here?”
Paris looked at me like I was crazy. “Is that a trick question? It’s a buyer’s market, Naira. You might want to consider buying rather than renting.”
Crystal had told me the same thing, and that I’d have a better selection of apartments to choose from if I were to buy. But buying was out of the question. I couldn’t lock down that kind of money. However, if I accepted Neal’s job offer with Fraser Bespoke, I would possibly be able to make mortgage payments without breaking out in sweat. But, did I want to put down roots in New York so fast? What if things didn’t work out?
I made a face. “I don’t know. The thought of being homeless is surprisingly freeing. Metaphorically speaking.” No obligations. No shackles.
I’d been rooted all my life. Been Naira Dalmia née Manral forever. It would be good to just be Naira for a while, unattached and maybe a tad irresponsible. I imagined myself flitting from rental to rental, free as a bird, without tethers binding my flight or baggage weighing me down. What if I shrugged off the debts placed on my shoulders? What if I reneged on my promises? What would it feel like to cruise along life’s highway in a top-down convertible, my hair blowing in the breeze?
I crash-landed back to reality because I had baggage and boxes and responsibilities and I couldn’t shrug them off. And if I was going to start up the online atelier, I needed a place—even a semipermanent one. Permanent would be even better. I was so tired of packing and unpacking my life, I thought, in a one-eighty-degree switch from my earlier convertible pipe dream. But maybe the first choice I had to make wasn’t about buying or leasing an apartment, it was about my own shop versus Fraser Bespoke.
I was still reeling from the shock of Neal’s offer, eve
n though we’d discussed it again in more detail over the phone. I still couldn’t believe he’d made me the offer. He barely knew me. Not that I couldn’t be trusted with such responsibility. Still.
We’d also discussed the best way to start a business in this country, change my visa status, start immigration paperwork. Neal had been super helpful with his suggestions, his advice and his time. So, either way, I owed him and Paris big-time. “A thousand home-cooked meals, is what ye owe me,” Neal had said when I’d asked how I could ever repay his kindness. He was such a sweet man.
I raised my arms above my head and bowed back into a shallow backward bend, groaning as my vertebrae popped and stretched into a seamless line again. I was knee-deep in bubble paper and boxes and I was only halfway done. When had I accumulated so many things, so many burdens? When had Kaivan?
I’d hired movers for the heavier tasks. They would come over on the weekend, box things up and take everything away to a storage facility. But they’d cautioned me to handle the things I didn’t want manhandled or broken myself.
Paris had shucked her shoes and her jacket by the sofa as soon as she’d arrived, tackling her frustrations from work by popping Bubble Wrap until I’d screamed at her and put her to work. She was sitting cross-legged on the carpet now, her forest green pencil skirt hiked up to her panties, and was carefully wrapping a jade Buddha in cotton first, followed by two rounds of Bubble Wrap. Exactly as I’d shown her.
“I don’t know how to thank you and Neal,” I said softly, trying not to feel embarrassed or needy or weepy. I’d turned into such a crybaby. I had to start my daily exercise routine and power up my endorphin levels.
“You put him up to it, didn’t you? The Fraser Bespoke offer? I can’t accept it if that’s the case.” I had to know the truth.
“Have you lost your mind? I’d never interfere in his business even if he let me—which he doesn’t. He means it, honey. He is super impressed by your atelier in Mumbai. And so is his brother,” she said while ripping off short pieces of sticky tape and tacking them on her forearm.
Relief made my spine hurt a little less. “Really? God, Paris. He’s the sweetest man. You know that, right?”
Paris snorted, smiling wryly. “Yeah, yeah. But fair warning. He’s not all that sweet when it comes to Fraser business. If you screw up, you’ll face the entire Fraser firing squad and God help you then. That’s the board of directors made up of the whole extended Fraser clan. Uncles, aunts, cousins, everyone except Flora, Neal’s younger sister. She’s sort of a free spirit and wants nothing to do with business—family or otherwise.”
“They sound lovely,” I said wistfully. They sounded exactly like my family—or how we’d been before the shit hit the fan.
“Does that mean you’re on board?” Paris asked, her head cocked to one side.
“I don’t know.” I blew out a breath. I needed to talk to someone about these life-altering decisions. No. Not just someone, I needed to talk to Kaivan. He’d have known what to do. He’d have known how to finesse the offer or demand better terms or understand the fine print in the contract. He’d have known how not to get screwed over. I had no delusions about the role I’d play in Fraser Bespoke no matter how well Neal presented the package. I’d be working for them, not with them. I’d have no autonomy, no decision-making powers. I’d simply be an employee. Expendable.
If I opened my own store, I’d have the power to do whatever I wanted, however I wanted—like with An Atelier. But, as Neal had pointed out, it would be a solo enterprise and I’d bear all the risks. Could I afford that? However, I’d also reap the profits.
“Do you see the dilemma?” I asked after explaining it all to Paris.
“That is a tough decision,” she agreed with some sympathy. “I have no idea what to tell you. What are you going to do?” She set the Bubble-Wrapped Buddha in the carton by her side, then crawled through the mess to hug me. “Don’t look so miserable.”
I wanted to cling to her. But I forced myself to behave.
“Have you talked to Neal?” She sat back on her haunches. “You should, you know. He’s great to bounce ideas off and to streamline knotty thoughts. He’ll help clear some of your doubts, which may make your decision a little easier. And he won’t pressure you one way or another. I know that for a fact. Do you want me to talk to him?” she offered when I continued to look unsure.
“Absolutely not!” My hand shot out and grabbed her arm as if she might call him right then. “I’ll sort it out. I’ve taken up enough of his time. He’s been very helpful. As have you. He’s gone above and beyond for me and... Seriously, Paris, your husband is the dearest man. Please don’t bother him with this. Promise me.”
Paris rolled her eyes. “He’s not that sweet. Not all the time. Catch him in one of his moods and you’ll see just how anal and obstinate he is. Ha! No wonder you bonded so well. You both are two peas in a pod.”
“I’m not moody or anal,” I said defensively. I never used to be, at least.
Paris grinned. “I see you didn’t dispute obstinate.”
“Like you’re not any of those adjectives? You’re a nightmare to deal with. How we ever became friends remains a mystery to me,” I said dramatically.
“Spoken like a true Bollywood aficionado.” Paris scooped up her phone from the carpet when it began to vibrate. I prepared to grab her again in case it was Neal and she told on me.
“It’s Lily,” she said after checking the caller ID, then groaned. “Shit. I ditched our weekly dinner and came here instead, and now... Drat it. I should take this. She’s called me six times already.” She stood up and walked to the windows. “Lily! What’s going on?”
It had been time to take a break anyway, I thought, standing up and stretching too. Then I went into the kitchen and reheated the leftover extra large pizza pie we’d ordered for dinner. I poured us two fresh glasses of the rosé I’d opened earlier and started on the dishes in the sink while Paris finished her call.
“I can’t believe you actually return your mother’s calls now,” I commented when she came in ten minutes later, after I’d heard her discuss what sounded suspiciously like Hollywood gossip. “I can’t believe you even know who Jude Law is much less whom he’s sleeping with.”
Paris grimaced, picked up a slice of jalapeño and pineapple pizza straight from the oven and bit into it. I did the same. I was too tired to lay out fresh plates or do the hostess dance. And as both of us had warmed our bums long enough, we ate standing up at the kitchen counter.
“Can you believe it?” Paris muttered around a mouthful of pizza. “She calls me twice a day, morning and evening. If I miss her calls, she messages incessantly until I call her back. I’m so grateful she’s not comfortable yet with video chat or I’d be screwed. Add to that, we have weekly dinner plans and a standing Sunday brunch date with my handsome young man.” Paris batted her eyelashes, imitating her mother, I suspected. “Feh. She’s like my parole officer that I have to report to every week. She’s become clingy after the Judge.”
Did all widows become clingy? I wondered, acknowledging my own need to do so. These days it was Paris, but I’d clung to my mother after Kaivan had died—no, from even before that, since his arrest. It was another reason I’d left Mumbai. I’d needed to cut the cord so my father or Vinay couldn’t use her to manipulate me.
“It’s nice that you’re bonding,” I said, meaning it.
Back in college, Paris had had a tenuous relationship with her adoptive mother. She’d professed to hate Lily, and I’d stared at her stunned that she’d dared to say such a thing, to even think it, and mean it. What kind of person hates their mother? I’d been naive and sheltered all my life and I hadn’t been able to fathom that families could hate each other—not outside of books and movies. I was no longer that innocent.
“It’s nice. Mostly.” Paris chucked the calorie-laden pizza crust into the garbage.
“It’s like I’m taking care of a teenager. I think...she’s going senile,” said Paris, wincing.
I knew exactly where she was coming from and that was why I didn’t dismiss her worries with meaningless platitudes. The same thing was happening to my father-in-law. His brain’s deterioration wasn’t pronounced, but it would be in a few years, the doctor had said. When that happened, I’d have to move closer to them and take care of them. Kaivan would’ve expected it. I wanted to do it. But I had a few years until that eventuality.
“She’s growing old. It’s inevitable.” God. It was never ending, life’s suffering.
“She used to be sensible, biddable. She’s just bizarre now. There’s no other word for it.”
“What are her doctors saying? Have they diagnosed her with...” I coughed into my fist, wondering which sounded less horrific: dementia or Alzheimer’s. “Anything?”
“Not yet. Her reports show she’s healthy as a horse both in body and mind. But I don’t trust them. My therapist says...”
I’d picked up the champagne flute to take a sip of my rosé, but I set it back down hard enough to chip the thin glass base against the stone countertop. I was really having bad luck with crockery this week. Or was it good luck?
“Wait!” I did a double take. “You have a therapist? Why?”
“Hello? I’m head to toe a morass of issues. Of course I have a therapist. I’ve had one since I was six.” Paris frowned. “Don’t you?”
When I shook my head, she gaped at me and I couldn’t stop gaping at her. How did I not know this about her?