Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors

by Sonali Dev

“Hey, you all right?” His expression was so kind, she almost let the choked-up feeling welling inside her turn into tears. It was a horrifying thought. Just as horrifying as the fact that she hadn’t been able to get the feel of his chest off her hand. And now she had the feel of his fingers on her arms to deal with.

  She pushed him away with both hands and swept past him down the steps. “I’m fine.”

  “All right then.” He stretched the words out in a weirdly British way and fell in step next to her.

  “Whose car is that?” A beast of a yellow Porsche stood to one side of the sweeping driveway. “You don’t own that thing, do you?” Where was the adorable pink Beetle?

  “No, I just stole it to drive you to the city in the style to which you’re accustomed.”

  She turned around and glared at him. “Don’t be tasteless. That’s not what I meant.”

  DJ WONDERED WHAT else Trisha Raje could possibly have meant.

  He didn’t bother with asking the question. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t afford a Porsche right now and there was no point pretending to be offended when other people recognized that fact.

  Emma’s Beetle had sprung a flat when he had driven her to Green Acres that afternoon. Emma’s friend Betsy had told DJ to take her car—and she could be utterly insistent when she was coherent. It was Betsy’s late husband’s car. She refused to sell it. Instead, she parked it at Green Acres and used it as bait to get her nieces and nephews to come see her.

  When she had pressed him to take it, DJ had accepted gratefully, and hurriedly, because he hadn’t wanted to be late for the meeting with Trisha. As it turned out, the good doctor had been running late herself and had ordered him to meet her at her parents’ mansion.

  After his conversation with Julia yesterday, he’d considered calling Nisha and begging off the job. But it was too important a job to walk away from and they were tangled up in far too many knots for him to avoid her. At least not until Emma was taken care of.

  If it hadn’t been for the fact that Betsy owned a Porsche Neunelfer, his mood would be complete bollocks right now. But it was a fecking 911 Carrera! Who could be in a bad mood driving that?

  The beauty might not be his, but he couldn’t bear to watch Dr. High and Mighty giving her the stink eye. “It doesn’t meet your approval?”

  “I usually make it a point not to approve of things that guzzle gas by the ton,” she said tightly.

  “Ah, so that Tesla there is yours then?”

  She nodded at the bright red car with so much fondness she looked almost warm and fuzzy for a moment. Of course it would be an expensive car that was softening her up. Fitting.

  “But I see it’s charging, so we’re going to have to take the gas guzzler,” he said with a touch too much delight.

  He shouldn’t have. She was, after all, the Client.

  “How’s Emma?” she asked with the kindness she saved up for his sister, and he was reminded of all the reasons why he should keep his feelings to himself.

  “She’s fine. She’s at Green Acres. And I . . . I’m really glad she’s getting to do that.”

  She paled, then opened her mouth and shut it again. Finally, she took a deep breath. “About Green Acres. That woman you were with. Is she . . . um . . . you two seemed um . . . actually . . .”

  “You mean Julia?”

  She stepped back as though he’d said something offensive again, and rage at what she’d done to Julia rose inside him.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but my family can’t work with anyone who has any relationship with her.”

  Sodding hell, was she threatening to fire him again? When they were on their way to check out the venue?

  “I’m not threatening you,” she said quickly, but her voice held none of the softness from before and her eyes held all the arrogant power that was the one thing he had no trouble associating with her. “I have to know. Because between the fund-raiser and Emma’s surgery . . .”

  Unbelievable. Now she was throwing Emma’s surgery into her threats? “But you are threatening me,” he wanted to say. Except he wasn’t quite that reckless and he was not losing this gig because of her pettiness. “There’s no relationship,” he said flatly. “I had barely even spoken to her until that day.” But I know what you did to her.

  “Okay,” she said, but there was something icy and brittle about the way she said the word, as though trusting him was not an option. “She isn’t the kind of person you should be associating with.”

  Excuse him?

  Those boys aren’t the kind of people you should be associating with. It’s what Ammaji had said to him when she’d seen him come home from hanging with Gulshan and the crew.

  Every single time he came in contact with this woman, he ended up here, his worst memories surfacing, and all the rage he’d put away long ago dredged up with them.

  And yet there was no getting away from her. Nowhere to go. There was never any bloody where to go. One of these days, he’d turn around and there would be no corner behind him. He wouldn’t be trapped. He’d be able to breathe.

  Today was not that day.

  “Shall we?” He held the car door open for her out of habit.

  “Thank you.” She sank into the seat as though it was her birthright to have doors held open for her.

  He took his time walking around the car and focused on the beautiful lines, stroking the glossy metal as he went. The pleasure of fitting himself behind the wheel of a machine this perfect anchored him in the present. If anything could make the journey ahead bearable, it was a ride like this.

  She looked at the gold-appointed dashboard. “It’s cute.”

  “The gas guzzler thanks you,” he said, not bothering to curb his sarcasm. “She’s probably never carried an outstanding surgeon before.”

  Her only response was a weary look. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one dreading the afternoon ahead. But there was something so tired about her eyes that despite himself he felt like an arse. What was it about this woman that made him want to be a prick? Oh yeah, it was the fact that she was a callous snob and she made him feel like—what was the phrase?—ah, the hired help.

  On the upside, there was something comforting about knowing that he hadn’t been wrong about her after that disastrous first meeting in the Raje kitchen. No wonder all those times when she’d been endearing had felt like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole.

  Her fingers rested on her temples and for a moment he wondered what was bothering her in her perfect life.

  The car purred under his foot as he circled the sweeping driveway. “Nisha well?” He tried not to think about how sad she had looked when he had run into her. Before she had shoved him away as though he were disease ridden and then proceeded to threaten him again.

  “She’s fine. Why would you think she’s not?” she said shortly and he kicked himself for not leaving her be.

  “Well, she was sick the last time I saw her, and apparently something is wrong enough that you’re going through all this trouble to keep anyone from finding out what it is. So excuse me for checking to make sure she’s fine.”

  Her hand pressed into her belly, a gesture she seemed to reach for every time something overwhelmed her or made her uncomfortable. As he evidently did every time he was near her. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  Was he hearing things? Had she just apologized? The woman was giving him whiplash and it was irritating the hell out of him. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until the leather practically squeaked beneath his fingers.

  She wasn’t done. “I’m also sorry that I was late and that you had to drive to Woodside to get me.”

  Two whole apologies? Had Christmas come early?

  But of course it hadn’t because when he didn’t respond immediately, she went right back to her most sunny demeanor. “The least you can do is acknowledge my apology!” she snapped, and it set the world straight again.

  They passed un
der the arch that spelled out the words The Anchorage. What kind of people lived in a house with a name, with sliding gates? The indignant frown on her face made him imagine her as a little girl, driving down the thickly wooded street, knowing nothing of the world outside it where there was no anchorage for those cast out in storms, no easy acknowledgment of meaningless apologies.

  “What good will my acknowledging your apology do?” he said, despite every instinct telling him to shut up.

  “It will make me feel better, for one.”

  “Ah, that most pressing reason.” He pulled out of the private street and just like that they were in city traffic.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Apparently she wasn’t in the mood to let things go either.

  “It means I accept. There, you should feel all better now.”

  “Thanks, but I think you have to actually mean it for me to feel better.”

  He had to laugh at that. “Well, maybe if you’d meant the apology, you wouldn’t need my acknowledgment for it to matter.”

  Her brows drew together, the flame-colored flecks in her eyes sparking with indignation. “It’s not like I meant to be late.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  For a few minutes she didn’t say more. But she glanced at him several times before saying, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re thinking it, you might as well say it. It’s too long a drive for awkward silences.”

  He very much doubted any drive with her would be too short for awkward silences. “Fine. Being late is a form of selfishness. It shows that you value your own time above others’.”

  She made an appalled sound. “That’s the most ridiculous accusation I’ve ever heard. I’m a neurosurgeon, my life literally revolves around being selfless.”

  How could he not laugh at that? Had no one ever bothered to tell her that being a neurosurgeon did not absolve her of practicing common decency? Her entire family was incredibly gracious and kind. For all their poshness, Mrs. Raje, Nisha, and Ashna had always treated him with consideration and respect. Not one of them had ever said a single obnoxious thing around him. And this one had rarely said anything that wasn’t obnoxious.

  Naturally, she didn’t like that he laughed. “I’ll have you know that I’ve never been late to a single surgery or consult ever.” She scowled, but in her eyes was genuine hurt.

  “So someone has to be dying for you to value their time? Normal old healthy blokes don’t deserve your consideration?”

  “I was all of fifteen minutes late. I can’t believe that you don’t have the grace to pretend to be okay with that. How much consideration are you showing me?”

  “I was trying to do just that. You’re the one who insisted on having me share what I was thinking.”

  She emitted a grunting sound. Good. There was no reason why he should be the only one exasperated. For a while neither one of them spoke. And yes, the silence was awkward as hell.

  Until her stomach let out a long low growl and she sat up, cheeks flushed. With a sheepish smile that transformed her into someone else entirely, she looked at the plastic box on her lap. “I might be a little hungry. Do you mind if I eat in the car?”

  “By all means.” God, if eating would improve her demeanor, he’d feed her himself.

  The thought brought to mind the way she had eaten his food at the tasting, and he struggled to push the memory away.

  Lifting a smooth round ladoo out of the box, she held it up. “It’s a ladoo. An Indian dessert.”

  She held the box out to him and as soon as he took one she popped one whole in her mouth with near desperation.

  “I know what a ladoo is. Are these rava or besan?”

  The way she blinked at him he might as well have unexpectedly spouted Enochian. The ladoo poked into her cheek and her surprise seemed to make it hard for her to chew and swallow at the same time. “Right,” she said on a gulp. “Your specialty is fusing traditional north Indian flavors with classical French technique.” She took a second ladoo out of the box. “This is rava. You probably know how to make these and everything. But my aji—that’s my grandma—makes the best ones.” A worshipful smile danced around her lush mouth, which was glossy from the ghee. A few grains of semolina clung to her full lips. With a delicate and slightly self-conscious flick of her tongue she licked them off.

  He took a bite. “They’re pretty good.” They were great, actually. The kind of great that came from internalizing recipes from prolonged and organic repetition. The kind of great that trained chefs found the hardest to achieve.

  “How did you get interested in Indian food anyway?” Another sweet round ball went into her mouth whole. She was going through them so fast he was having a hard time keeping his eyes on the road.

  The way she had eaten his food in Nisha’s kitchen flashed in his mind once again. Eyes suffused with pleasure, body limp with satisfaction. Artless, with nothing held back. This time he had a harder time pushing the memory away. It settled in his gut and sent the strangest buzz coursing through him. “Well, it is the official cuisine of London, didn’t you know?” he said finally.

  That made her smile and relax into her seat. Or maybe it was all that sugar and ghee.

  “My father was Indian.” He had no idea why he added that. He had hardly learned how to cook Indian food from Dad. “Anglo-Indian, actually. Or at least that’s what my father liked to call being half British and half Indian.”

  “You’re Indian?” This time her shock wasn’t a surprise. Both Emma and he favored their Rwandan mother.

  “My dad was born in England, but his family migrated from India a few years before Indian independence. I’m not sure, but I think my grandfather was born there. He married an Englishwoman.”

  “You’re not sure?” she said with the puzzlement of someone who couldn’t imagine families who didn’t know each other, didn’t know their own history. For a moment he wanted what she had so badly, he couldn’t speak.

  “My father’s family threw him out when he married my mum. She was a refugee from Rwanda. We never really knew his family.” All DJ knew of his family history was what he’d pieced together from overhearing his parents’ conversations before his father died.

  He had never talked about his parents to anyone, but something about how much his words seemed to horrify her made him go on. “It had taken my father’s family a few generations to wash the brown out of them, so by marrying Mum, my father basically nullified half a century’s worth of effort for whitening up the Caine line.” He tried to sound nonchalant but ended up sounding more bitter than he actually felt about the entire sordid business.

  “That’s terrible.” She twisted in her seat as though what he’d just told her was so disturbing it made it impossible for her to sit still.

  It struck him suddenly, the realization that he’d never met a brown person more comfortable in her own skin than Trisha Raje. He wondered if it had always been this way. If she’d ever struggled with her identity.

  “My mother quit her movie career in India and ran away with my father against her father’s wishes. He never spoke to her after that and died soon after their wedding. Ma never talks about him—but there’s this distinct pain in her that surfaces if he ever comes up.”

  DJ couldn’t imagine anything cracking Mrs. Raje’s pleasant demeanor. For all their shared beauty, how very different the two women were. He wondered what their relationship was like. His own mother’s softness had been snuffed out by hardship. The world never saw her warmth. But the love in her eyes had always shone strong and open for him and Emma. And saved them.

  “Did your dad ever reconcile with his family?” Trisha asked, studying him, her voice catching a tiny bit on the word reconcile. “They must’ve been heartbroken when he died.”

  He gave her the ugly laugh he saved especially for his Caine relatives. “Not in the least bit.” One would require a heart to be heartbroken. “They threw us out on the street after Dad died, took
our home, and never spared a second look on us.”

  Another stretch of that neck followed by another deep swallow. “So your mother raised you by herself?”

  The pain in her eyes made him mirror her swallow. “Yes. She died when I was eighteen.” Somehow it felt important to say that. To highlight the differences between their lives.

  “Emma and you really only have each other.” Her voice fell to a gentle whisper.

  He nodded. Emma was all he’d had for a very long time.

  “I’m sorry.” Her eyes blazed and dimmed at once, and it felt like the old pain in his own heart finding fresh release.

  He reminded himself that the tale of one’s orphaning usually made even the most hard-hearted sorry.

  “I’m glad she’s getting to spend this time with her work and with her art,” she added in the same gentle whisper, as though his pain actually meant something.

  He noticed she didn’t include him in the list.

  “She’ll still have you after the surgery,” she said and he hated being transparent to her.

  There were just two ladoos left in the box. She put the one in her hand back. Apparently sympathy made her lose her appetite. Or maybe after eating eight, she was finally full. He had no idea where she put it all.

  “I hadn’t eaten all day,” she said, reading him again. Not that any normal human would not be thinking what he was thinking after seeing her devour upwards of a day’s worth of calories at one go.

  He shrugged and they fell silent. The next time he looked over she had fallen asleep. He couldn’t decide if it was relief he was feeling at not having to continue their conversation or regret. There was a slight sheen of sweat on her upper lip and he lowered the temperature and adjusted the golden vents in the borrowed dream. The redirected air lifted the loosened wisps of hair off her forehead and she relaxed deeper into sleep.

  She was a whole different person in sleep, beautiful in a way that was so guileless and real that for one unguarded second he craved knowing this person—the woman beneath all that arrogance and prickliness. The one who sparkled with anger and hurt at the thought of a family casting out its own. The one who read her patients’ innermost demons with so little effort.