The One She Was Warned About

by Shoma Narayanan

  He was holding her by the shoulders now, rather tightly, and she gave a little gasp. ‘I love you too,’ she said, and then his lips came down on hers in a hot and hungry kiss.

  It was a few moments before they realised where they were. Shweta emerged from his embrace with her hair tumbled and eyes glowing, took a look at the large and interested audience they had collected around them, and promptly buried her face in Nikhil’s chest.

  He laughed and swung her around, shielding her from the crowd with his body. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and they walked out of the mall, with Shweta hurrying a little to keep up with Nikhil’s long strides.

  Once they were in the parking lot, Nikhil took her into his arms again, kissing her unhurriedly and very, very thoroughly.

  ‘I want us to get married as soon as possible,’ Nikhil said.

  Shweta nodded. She was in a state of deliciously blissful confusion—if Nikhil had suggested moving to the Andamans and living under a coconut tree she would have probably agreed just as willingly.

  ‘Should I speak to your dad?’ Nikhil asked, after another short interlude punctuated with kisses and little moans from Shweta. ‘Ask him for your hand in marriage? Or do you want to tell him yourself?’

  ‘I’ll tell him myself,’ Shweta said. ‘Might as well do it now and get it over with. Somehow I don’t think he’ll be surprised.’

  He wasn’t.

  ‘I suppose I should have guessed,’ he said when they told him a little later. ‘Well, both of you look happy, which is good. Shweta, did you remember to buy the diyas for Diwali?’

  Shweta looked immediately guilty, but her aunt stepped in. ‘That’s all right—what a thing to ask the girl when she’s telling you she’s just got engaged! I’ll go and buy the diyas. I’ll also get some sweets and things, so that we can celebrate their engagement properly.’

  ‘Why don’t all of you come to Mumbai with me and Shweta?’ Nikhil asked. ‘We can celebrate Diwali there together—I was thinking of calling my family down as well.’

  Dr Mathur thought it over for a while. ‘Why don’t you get your parents to come here instead?’ he asked. ‘They used to live in Pune. I’m sure they’d like to see the place again.’

  ‘Just because you’ve turned into an old fuddy-duddy who hates travelling,’ Shweta said, leaning over and giving her father an affectionate hug.

  Nikhil’s eyes widened. Shweta hadn’t been lying when she’d said her relationship with her father had changed—right now it seemed as if Dr Mathur was the one in danger of being bossed around by a controlling daughter. He was even keeping his much talked-about opinions to himself.

  ‘What do you think, Nikhil? Would they like to come?’ Shweta asked. ‘Diwali’s more fun in a proper house than in a flat.’

  The words were light, but there was an unspoken question in her eyes and he tried hard to reassure her.

  ‘I’m sure they’d love to come—I’ll call them and confirm.’

  ‘Diwali’s the day after tomorrow,’ Dr Mathur said, getting to his feet. ‘Better call them now and start booking tickets. Airfares will be sky-high.’

  ‘You’ve started speaking to your parents again?’ Shweta asked, once her father and aunt had gone indoors, tactfully leaving the two of them alone in the garden.

  Nikhil nodded. ‘Amma called me, but she broke down halfway through the conversation—when I told her that we’d split up. Well, from something she said I gathered that I’ve probably got the wrong idea about my dad, and when he took the phone I didn’t start lashing into him right away.’

  Shweta raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, that’s what’s been happening the last few times we spoke,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure he sees it as an improvement,’ she said dryly. ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘Not much, really—just that there’s a reason why Amma feels she’s ruining my life. And that you know what it is.’ He looked Shweta squarely in the eyes. ‘That’s when I realised what a self-centred, bigoted idiot I’ve been. Even Amma confided in you rather than telling me what the real story is.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Shweta said gently, and she went on to tell him what Veena had told her in Mumbai.

  She kept the details of what had happened to a bare minimum, trying to focus on Nikhil’s father and how he’d been if not blameless, then at least acting for what he thought was the best. Nikhil’s lips tightened when she started speaking, but soon his eyes were moist.

  ‘Don’t blame Veena Aunty,’ Shweta urged. ‘It must have been traumatic. She’s a very private, conventional person, and the thought of you or anyone else knowing would have been unthinkable. It was only when she realised the extent of the harm she’d done you that she spoke to me.’

  Nikhil shook his head. ‘I’m done with blaming people,’ he said. ‘Poor Amma—to have carried this around with her all her life... And my poor parents too. They were trying to protect her, and into the bargain I turned against them.’

  ‘But now you know,’ Shweta said. ‘And you can make it up to them.’

  Nikhil’s parents forgave him readily, and they were ecstatic to hear that he was about to get married. Air tickets at ‘sky-high’ fares were duly bought, and they along with Veena were on their way to Mumbai the next morning.

  ‘I’ve hired a car to get them down to Pune,’ Nikhil told Shweta. ‘I could have gone and picked them up, of course, but I can’t bear to let you out of my sight—I’m so worried you’ll change your mind.’

  ‘And you’re even more worried you’ll miss out on all the sweets Anita Bua’s making,’ Shweta said. ‘She’s spoiling you rotten—I need to speak to her.’

  Nikhil shrugged and nicked a cashew from the bowl of dry fruits and nuts Shweta was chopping. ‘What can I say? Women can’t resist me.’

  ‘Wait till she hears you. She’ll chase you around the house with a broomstick,’ Shweta said, slapping his hand away. ‘Come and help me do the rangoli.’

  Nikhil trailed out behind her, but he was more of a hindrance than a help as Shweta used powdered colours to make the elaborate rangoli designs on the floor of the front veranda.

  ‘You’ve got that line crooked,’ he pointed out helpfully, after kissing her on the nape of the neck just as she began on the most complicated part of the design.

  Shweta glared at him. ‘Why don’t you ask Anita Bua if she needs any help? Go and buy some more sweets or firecrackers or something.’

  ‘Firecrackers—that’s a good idea,’ Nikhil said. ‘I don’t think anyone’s bought any yet.’

  He came back just as his parents arrived. His father shook hands with him formally, but both Veena and Ranjini burst into tears and threw themselves into his arms. He stood stock-still for a few seconds, then he hugged them back before pulling away.

  ‘Shh, you’ll frighten my brand-new fiancée away,’ he said, smiling into their faces. It was the perfect distraction, and both women turned to exclaim over Shweta. Nikhil gave his father a wry look. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I wish you’d told me.’

  Mr Nair’s eyes were suspiciously damp as he clapped his son on the shoulder. ‘If you’d known you’d have probably become a boring small-time builder like me,’ he said. ‘Look at you now—you’re a hundred times more successful than you would have been if you hadn’t rebelled so thoroughly.’

  Later in the evening, when the older women were busy making plans for the wedding, Shweta wandered over to the corner of the porch where Nikhil had piled up the firecrackers. Because it was Diwali, and because she’d just got engaged, she’d allowed Anita Bua to bully her into wearing a sari. The lovely pale-gold brocade benarasi was draped around her slim curves in graceful folds, and the colour set off her rather elfin looks to perfection.

  Nikhil watched her as she carefully opened one of the packets of firecrackers. His father and futur
e father-in-law were discussing a rather intricate twist in state politics. Normally he would have been interested, but now he couldn’t take his eyes off Shweta. The front of the house was lit up with strings of fairylights, and after she’d completed her puja Anita had lit the little oil diyas that were placed in the rangoli patterns on the porch. Shweta had now taken a candle out of one of the packets, and was lighting it at one of the diyas.

  ‘Careful!’ Nikhil exclaimed, getting to his feet as her sari pallu brushed the ground dangerously close to the open flame.

  Shweta gave him a teasingly provocative little smile. ‘Come and help,’ she said imperiously, and Nikhil went to her side without even listening to the point Dr Mathur was making about populism and regional vote banks.

  Dr Mathur gave a rare smile as he watched Shweta. ‘She reminds me so much of her mother,’ he said, and Mr Nair nodded in sympathy. He’d first met Mrs Mathur during one of those trips to the movies, long before Shweta was born, and the resemblance was striking.

  ‘I shall light an anaar first,’ Shweta was announcing. ‘Actually, I shall light several. Six, I think. Line them up in the driveway, will you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Nikhil said.

  Shweta lit a sparkler and lightly touched it to each of the anaars—they went up immediately, looking like a row of fiery fountains. Shweta took out a packet of rockets next. ‘Ooh, I like these,’ she said, and lit several of them in quick succession, her eyes following them as they shot up and exploded in a shower of multi-coloured sparks against the night sky.

  Shweta’s upturned face was too much of a temptation for Nikhil to resist, and he pulled her into his arms to kiss her. Shweta cast an agonised glance towards the porch, but Dr Mathur and Mr Nair were nowhere in sight. Screened from the people in the street by the rosebushes, she went willingly into Nikhil’s arms.

  ‘Do you think they’d notice if we slipped away for a bit?’ Nikhil asked, nodding towards the house.

  ‘Not until it’s dinnertime,’ Shweta whispered back. ‘Let’s light the rest of the firecrackers, and then I’ll smuggle you into my room through the back door.’

  ‘Why don’t we forget the firecrackers and go now?’ Nikhil muttered, bending his head to kiss her again.

  Shweta gave it due consideration. ‘I suppose we can,’ she said. ‘Make up for the week we lost.’

  And that was exactly what they did.

  * * * * *

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  ONE

  Olivia Wishart slicked ruby gloss on her lips, then checked her strapless cocktail dress in the mirror and frowned. ‘Red lips, red dress, red hair.’ She reached for her standby little black dress. ‘I don’t care if everyone’s decked to the halls in Christmas finery, it’s—’

  ‘Lovely, but not for tonight.’ Her best friend, Breanna Black, whipped the garment from her hand. ‘And not another word—you look sensational.’ She eyed the cleavage on display and nodded. ‘Wise choice—men will look.’

  ‘So long as they listen.’ Olivia wasn’t a fancy dress fan but the opportunity to talk up her charity to her fellow competitors in this year’s Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race was too good to pass up. And a little flesh never failed to get attention.

  ‘Try to remember, it is Christmas.’ Brie shimmied into a short mulberry all-in-one playsuit with a fur-trim neckline then tossed Olivia a white feather boa. ‘Here. It’ll put you in the mood.’

  Olivia’s lips twitched as she slung the silky feathers around her neck. ‘I assume you’re referring to the festive mood.’

  ‘That’d be a start,’ Brie suggested, brightly.

  Raising the Pink Snowflake Foundation’s profile was the reason for Olivia’s entry into the race. Being invited by yachting royalty to celebrate the festive season at the mega-million-dollar mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour was a bonus, but anything else...well, it wasn’t going to happen.

  Brie unravelled a luscious strand of silver tinsel. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind if Jett shares our suite?’ she asked for the umpteenth time.

  ‘This mysterious brother you’ve managed to keep out of the way for— How long’s it been?’ Stepping into red stiletto sandals, Olivia reassured her, ‘I told you I don’t mind. I’m interested to meet him actually.’

  Brie paused in her task of twisting the tinsel into her hair. ‘Half-brother. And it’s a slow, fraught process. Jett’s a hard guy to get to know. I’m not sure he even likes me.’

  Olivia smiled. ‘What’s not to like? And he accepted your invitation, didn’t he?’

  ‘Only because his initial plans fell through.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure.’ But Olivia was pretty sure she did. Classic irresponsible, egocentric male behaviour. Yes, she was absolutely interested to meet him, even if it was only to make certain he knew how much he meant to Brie.

  Sighing, Brie flipped her reef of long black hair over her shoulder. ‘It makes me feel bad that I’m going away for New Year’s Eve now, but he told me not to alter my plans on his account.’

  ‘And why should you? If you’re right about his plans, he’s the one who changed his mind and decided to come at the last minute.’

  It was obvious Brie cared but apparently the lost sibling she’d spent three years looking for didn’t give a toss. Even though they were as close as sisters, Olivia had decided it was a sensitive issue and none of her business unless Brie opened up to her. ‘When’s his flight due in?’

  ‘Any time. I’ll let the front desk know to expect him before I leave—’ Brie’s mobile buzzed and she checked caller ID. ‘That’s him now. Hi, Jett...’

  Olivia saw her friend’s smile fade, and the temptation to snatch the phone and give him a piece of her mind was overwhelming. She had to turn away. None of your business, remember.

  ‘Oh... Uh-huh. Okay. You’ve got the party’s address? I’ll meet you there. Text me when you’re here,’ Olivia heard her say before she disconnected. ‘His flight’s been delayed. Christmas rush; he hasn’t even left Melbourne yet.’ She flicked through the contacts on her phone, her smile returning. ‘Which gives me a spare couple of hours to meet the Horizon Three’s sexy skipper for a drink downstairs at the bar after all.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Olivia enthused, reserving judgement on Jett—for now. She slipped a wad of business cards into her evening purse, handing one to Brie. ‘Give him this and highlight our cause. And just remember, sexy skipper or not, he’s the enemy come Boxing Day.’

  Brie nodded, mobile attached to her ear, obviously waiting for Mr Sexy Skipper to pick up. ‘Don’t get smashed or pick up any strange men before I get there.’

  As if. Olivia preferred to wake up with a clear head and no regrets. Brie, not so much. Differences aside, they made a good team, trusted and looked out for each other. She flipped the end of the boa over her shoulder. ‘I promise not to get smashed.’

  ‘And...?’

  ‘Hey, it’s a party for yachties, there’ll be men. And I don’t care if they’re strange so long as they’re rich and I can persua
de them to part with large sums of money. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m hopeful.’

  ‘Good luck, then, and be careful, okay? Hi, Liam...’ Brie’s voice instantly switched to smooth sensuality.

  ‘Back at you,’ Olivia murmured as she slipped out of their suite and headed downstairs to summon the driver they’d organised exclusively for the entire evening.

  As the chauffeured vehicle made its way across the bridge, Olivia’s thoughts weren’t so much on the harbour’s glittering light show, but on the session she’d attended as a mandatory part of the genetics testing she’d undergone last week.

  Her counsellor had said it could take weeks before she had the results. A chill ran deep through her bones. She’d never have taken the test if her mother hadn’t made her promise to have it before her twenty-sixth birthday—the age her maternal grandmother had been when she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer.

  So she’d done it. Two months late, but she’d done it. Fulfilled her mother’s death-bed request. She’d been so busy, it had been easy to push aside her own needs—or as Brie had said, to bury her head in the sand—but now it was real and she could no longer deny the probability that she’d inherited the same mutant gene.

  She wrapped her boa tighter around her shoulders. At least the result, whatever the verdict, would bring relief from the uncertainty she’d lived with as long as she could remember. And she’d deal with it in her own way—she had control of that at least.

  Until then she refused to think about it. It was Christmas, she had a yacht race to win, a charity to run.

  A life to live.

  * * *

  He was late but Jett Davies skirted the massive gold Christmas tree dominating the black marble foyer as he made his way up yet another sweeping staircase. The third level was an outdoor entertainment area and he caught a waft of briny harbour and freshly mown grass. Winking party lights cast a muted kaleidoscopic blush over the elite guests wearing anything and everything from a token nod to the festive season to the full Christmas get-up.