His Until Midnight

by Nikki Logan

  He was really quite remarkably good-looking, Shweta thought. It was a wonder she hadn’t noticed it in school, but she had an explanation. In those days she’d been completely obsessed by a rather chocolate-faced movie star, and had unconsciously compared everyone she saw with him. Nikhil was the complete opposite of chocolate-faced—even at fourteen his features had been uncompromisingly male. Her eyes drifted towards his shoulders and upper body, and then to his hands on the steering wheel. He had rather nice hands, she thought, strong with square-tipped fingers. Unbidden, she started to wonder how those hands would feel on her body, and she blushed for probably the twelfth time that evening.

  The car negotiated a final hairpin bend, after which the road seemed to shake itself out and lose steam. It went on for a couple of hundred metres through a rather dense copse of coconut trees and ended abruptly on a beach.

  ‘Are you lost?’ she enquired. He shook his head. ‘Come on,’ he said, opening his door and leaping down lightly.

  He was at her door and handing her down before she could protest. Locking the car with a click of the remote, he put an arm around her shoulders and started walking her to the beach.

  Their destination was a small, brightly lit shack thatched with palm fronds. There were small tables laid out in front, some of which were occupied by locals. Nikhil chose a table with a view of the beach. The moon had risen now, and the sea had a picture-postcard quality to it. A motherly-looking woman in her fifties bustled out, beaming in delight when she saw Nikhil. She greeted him in a flood of Malayalam which Shweta didn’t even bother trying to follow. She wasn’t particularly good at languages, and Malayalam was nothing like Hindi or any other language she knew.

  ‘Meet Mariamma,’ Nikhil said. ‘She’s known me since I was a kid.’

  Shweta smiled and Mariamma switched to heavily accented English. ‘Am always happy to meet Nikhil’s friends,’ she said, dispelling any notion that this was the first time Nikhil had brought someone here with him. ‘Miss Shweta, do sit down. I’ll get you a menu.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t have one?’ Nikhil murmured.

  Mariamma said chidingly, ‘You haven’t been in touch for a long while. We got a menu printed—Jossy designed it on his laptop.’

  ‘I’d love to see it, but I know what I want to order,’ Nikhil said. ‘Shweta, any preferences?’

  ‘If you could order for me...’ Shweta said, and Nikhil promptly switched back into Malayalam and reeled off a list of stuff that sounded as if it would be enough to feed the entire state for a week.

  Mariamma beamed at both of them and headed back to the kitchen, her cotton sari rustling as she left.

  ‘You come here often?’

  ‘I used to—when I was a child. My grandparents lived quite near here, and Mariamma was one of my aunt’s closest friends.’

  ‘Your grandparents...?’

  ‘Died when I was in college.’

  Nikhil was frowning, and Shweta wished she hadn’t asked.

  ‘Are you in touch with anyone from our class in school?’ she asked hastily.

  He began to laugh. ‘You need to be more subtle when you’re changing the topic,’ he said. ‘No. I e-mail some of my old crowd on and off, but I haven’t met up with anyone for a long while. Ajay and Wilson are in the States now, and Vineet’s building a hotel in Dehra Dun. How about you?’

  ‘I’m not building a hotel in Dehra Dun,’ Shweta said, and made a face. ‘I’m in touch with Vineet too. He’s difficult to avoid. And a couple of other people as well.’

  ‘Have they got used to your new avatar?’ He was still finding it difficult to reconcile Shweta who looked like a million bucks but sounded like the old tomboyish Shweta he’d known for most of his adolescent years.

  Shweta frowned at him. ‘What avatar?’

  ‘I remember you as a serious, pigtailed little thing, very grim and earnest all the time—except when you were climbing trees and challenging me to cycling races.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘And now...’ He smiled and leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, you’ve chosen a grim and serious profession, all right, but in spite of that...something’s changed. You’ve been rebelling, haven’t you? You look different, of course, but that’s just the contact lenses and the new hairstyle.’

  A little piqued at his dismissal of the change in her looks, she said firmly, ‘Well, I haven’t been rebelling.’

  ‘Sure?’ he asked teasingly. ‘You came away with me instead of staying back with that extremely eligible, extremely boring young man.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you for fifteen years,’ she pointed out. ‘I see Siddhant every day.’

  ‘And your shoes...’

  She looked down at them defensively. They were rather lovely shoes—high-heeled green pumps that struck a bright note against her sombre black trousers and top. She was wearing a silver hand-crafted necklace studded with peridots—the stones perfectly matched the shoes. In spite of having read a dozen articles that condemned matching accessories as the height of un-cool, she found it difficult to stop herself, especially when it came to shoes. Speaking of which...

  ‘What’s wrong with my shoes?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, looking amused. ‘They’re...very striking, that’s all. But otherwise you’re very conservatively dressed.’ Before she could protest, he said, ‘Sorry, I’ve been reading too many articles on pop psychology. But I stick by what I say—it’s a slow rebellion, but you’re rebelling all the same. I always thought your father was way too strict with you.’

  ‘I’ve been living away from home for over seven years,’ Shweta said indignantly. ‘All my rebelling is long over and done with. And he’s changed. He’s not the way he used to be.’ Her father had been a bit of a terror when she was younger, and most of her classmates had given him a wide berth. It had taken Shweta herself years to muster up the courage to stand up to him.

  ‘If you say so.’ Somehow seeing Shweta again had brought out the old desire in Nikhil to wind her up, watch her struggle to control her temper—except she was now all grown up, and instead of wanting to tug her pigtails and trip her over during PE class he wanted to reach out and touch her, to run his hands over her smooth skin and tangle them in her silken hair...

  Realising that his thoughts were wandering a bit too far, he picked up the menu and started leafing through it. A thought struck him. ‘You haven’t turned vegetarian, have you?’

  He looked relieved when Shweta shook her head. ‘Thank heavens. I’ve ordered mutton stew and appams and prawn curry—I just assumed you’d be OK with all of it.’

  ‘Of course I am. I’ve always loved prawn curry. Your mom used to cook it really well, I remember.’

  ‘Which mom?’ he asked, his mouth twisting into a wry smile.

  Shweta felt like kicking herself. Nikhil was illegitimate, and had always been touchy about his family. His father had taken a mistress after ten years of a childless marriage, scandalising everyone who knew him, and Nikhil was his mistress’s son. Perhaps it would have been less scandalous if he’d tried to keep the affair secret, but when he’d found out that Ranjini was pregnant he’d brought her to live in the same house as his wife. Until he was four Nikhil had thought having two mothers was a perfectly normal arrangement—it was only when he joined school that he realised he lived in a very peculiar household.

  ‘Veena Aunty,’ Shweta said.

  Veena was Nikhil’s father’s wife. If they’d been Muslims Nikhil’s father could have taken a second wife, but as a Hindu he would have been committing bigamy if he’d married Ranjini. Veena had taken the whole thing surprisingly well. People had expected her to resent Ranjini terribly, even if she couldn’t do anything about having to share a house with her, but Veena appeared to be on quite good terms with her. And she adored Nikhil, which perhaps wasn’t so surprising given that she didn’t have children of her own. In his teen years at least Nikhil had been equally attached to her—all his sullenness and resentment had been dire
cted towards his parents.

  ‘How’re they doing?’ Shweta asked. ‘Your parents, I mean.’ She’d met them only a few times—her father had made sure that she didn’t have much to do with Nikhil.

  Nikhil shrugged. ‘OK, I guess. I haven’t seen them for over four years.’

  Shweta’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Aren’t they still in Pune, then?’

  ‘Dad has some property in Trivandrum. They moved there when Dad retired. They’re still there—though now Amma is pretending to be a cousin and Mom tells everyone that she’s married to Dad.’

  The words came out easily enough, but Shweta could see his jaw tense up and was very tempted to lean across the table and take his hand, smooth away the frown lines. He’d always called his own mother Mom, while his father’s wife went by the more affectionate Amma.

  ‘I guess it’s easier that way,’ Shweta said. ‘Rather than having to explain everything to a whole new set of people.’

  ‘Pity they didn’t think of it when it really mattered.’ His voice was tight, almost brittle. ‘I don’t know why Amma is letting them do this.’

  ‘I’m sure she has her reasons. Maybe you could visit them now that you’re already in Kerala?’ Shweta believed strongly in women standing up for themselves—in her view Veena was quite as responsible for the situation as Nikhil’s parents.

  ‘Not enough time—I’ve got to be back in Mumbai for another gig. Plus I’m not on the best of terms right now with my father.’ He was still frowning, but after a few seconds he made a visible effort to smile. ‘While we’re on the subject of parents, how’re your dad and aunt?’

  ‘He’s retired, so now he bosses the gardener and the cleaners around instead of his patients,’ Shweta said, and Nikhil laughed.

  Shweta’s father had been a doctor in a fairly well-known hospital in Pune, and he’d inspired a healthy respect in everyone who knew him. Shweta’s mother had died quite suddenly of a heart attack when Shweta was three, and her father’s unmarried older sister had moved in to help bring up Shweta.

  ‘And your aunt?’

  ‘She’s still keeping house for him. Though she grumbles about him to whoever’s willing to listen—wonders how my mother put up with him for so many years.’

  A lot of people had wondered that, but Nikhil didn’t say so. He’d met Shweta’s father several times—he’d been on their school board, and had chaired the disciplinary hearing that had led to his final expulsion from the school. Nikhil didn’t hold that against him. He’d been on a short wicket in any case, given that the smoking incident had followed hard upon his having ‘borrowed’ their Hindi teacher’s motorbike and taken his best buddies out for a spin on it. But he had resented Dr Mathur telling Shweta not to have anything to do with him.

  The food arrived and Mariamma came across to ladle generous portions onto their plates. ‘Eat well, now,’ she admonished Shweta. ‘You’re so thin—you girls nowadays are always on some diet or the other.’

  ‘I can’t diet to save my life,’ Shweta said. ‘I’m thin because I swim a lot.’

  Mariamma sniffed disapprovingly, but Nikhil found it refreshing, being with a woman who wasn’t obsessed with her figure. His job brought him into contact with models and actresses, all of whom seemed to be afraid to breathe in case the air contained calories. In his view Shweta had a better figure than all of them—she was slim, but not stick-thin, and her body curved nicely in all the right places.

  ‘Like the food?’ he asked, watching her as she dipped an appam into the curry and ate it with evident enjoyment. For a few seconds he couldn’t take his eyes off her lush mouth as she ran her tongue over her bottom lip—the gesture was so innocently sexy.

  ‘It’s good,’ she pronounced.

  He dragged his eyes away from her face to concentrate on his own untouched plate before she could catch him staring.

  ‘Everything’s cooked in coconut oil, isn’t it? It adds an interesting flavour to the food.’

  Nikhil thought back to the last time he’d taken a girl on a date to a restaurant in Mumbai that served authentic Kerala cuisine. She’d hardly eaten anything, insisting that the food smelt like hair oil. She’d been annoying in many other ways as well, he remembered. Rude to waiters and refusing to walk even a few metres to the car because the pavement looked ‘mucky’. Not for the first time he wondered why he chose to waste his time with empty-headed women like her rather than someone like Shweta. He didn’t want to delve too deeply into the reasons, though—self-analysis wasn’t one of his passions.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Shweta said as she polished off her last appam. ‘Why were you out to get me in school? We used to be good friends when we were really little—till you began hanging out only with the boys and ignored me completely. And when we were twelve or something you started being really horrible. You used to be rude about my clothes and my hairstyle—pretty much everything.’

  ‘Was I that bad?’ Nikhil looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I remember teasing you a little, but it was light-hearted stuff. I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe it was because you were such a good little girl—listening to what the teacher said, doing your homework on time, never playing truant... It was stressful, studying with you. You set such high standards...’

  He ducked as Shweta swatted at him with a ladle. ‘Careful,’ he said, his voice brimming over with laughter as drops of curry sprayed around. ‘I don’t want to go back looking like I’ve been in a food fight.’

  ‘Oh, God—and your clothes probably cost a bomb, didn’t they.’ Conscience-stricken, Shweta put the ladle down. ‘Did I get any on you?’

  Nikhil shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. If I find any stains I’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill.’

  She looked up swiftly, wondering whether he was being serious, but the lurking smile in his eyes betrayed him. ‘Oh, you wretch,’ she scolded. ‘I’ve a good mind to throw the entire dish at you.’

  ‘Mariamma will be really offended,’ he said gravely. ‘And if you throw things at me I won’t buy you dessert.’

  ‘Oh, well that settles it, then. I’ll be nice to you.’ He hadn’t really answered her question, but she didn’t want to destroy the light-hearted atmosphere by pressing too hard. ‘But only till we’re done with dessert.’

  Copyright © 2013 by Shoma Narayanan

  ISBN-13: 9781460321423

  HIS UNTIL MIDNGIHT

  Copyright © 2013 by Nikki Logan

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