FLAWLESS

by Leena Varghese

  A silver SUV slid to a stop ahead of them. Max had seen the group waving their hands by the roadside from afar. He had recognized Toby instantly as the little chimp flailed his arms, imitating the adults with a grin. Then he had seen Giana standing by the open bonnet, her beautiful hair blowing in the breeze, her pink, cotton sundress swirling around her curvy body and shapely legs. The two occasions he had met her were enough for him to know that the voluminous fairy gown and the ugly apron had hidden a fragile thing of beauty, clearly visible now in the bright afternoon sunshine that was pouring on her head. Max had not been able to take his eyes off. The rampant reaction had brought down his booted foot on the brakes with the need to enquire about the reason she was looking worried.

  Giana stood rooted to the spot like a chicken about to be slaughtered when she saw the tall man step out of the SUV. He was simply the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. He strode to where the motley group stood in a cluster. His dark suit and stylish aviators were a definition of subtle, understated sophistication and affluence. Noting his dark hair ruffled by the breeze and his navy silk tie fluttering away in the wind, Giana was unable to curb the helpless lurch of her heart. It had to be a very bad joke, she decided, with her usual air of doom.

  She saw Carol stiffen and Annabel smother a grin as she recognised Table no.5. Giana turned away to bend into the open bonnet, flustered by his appearance, pretending to examine the engine again, hoping that someone would take over the conversation and she would be spared the ordeal.

  Her face turned a fiery blush when Max addressed her directly, “Is there something I can do?”

  Carol stepped in between, offensive as usual, “I think we can manage on our own Mr. Martineau. You don’t have to...”

  “Could you give us a lift to St. Dominic’s church, er...I didn’t catch your name, young man,” Fr Da’Cunha’s cheery voice interrupted Carol’s brewing tirade.

  “Max Martineau,” he extended his hand politely to the priest. “What is the problem here?” he asked once again, his eyes on Giana.

  Giana felt her whole body go rigid with an unfamiliar emotion, painfully aware of her mother’s annoyance. She was sure that there would be another barrage of questions coming her way later. She turned to Max, indicating the open bonnet. “It won’t start. I was trying to call the garage.” She stepped away, giving him a wide space to look inside.

  He checked the valves and shut the bonnet decisively. “This can’t move without a check up,” he quipped with a faint smile. “Who does the auto servicing for you?”

  Giana named the garage. Max called them immediately and arranged for the vehicle to be picked up.

  Then he addressed everyone, “I could give you a lift to wherever you want to be dropped.”

  Fr Da’Cunha was mighty pleased, hurrying to take up the offer as Max held the front door open. Without having much to say, the Francois women piled into the back of Max’s spacious vehicle.

  Toby was the happiest and expressed his joy by clutching Max’s shirt as he got behind the wheel to turn on the ignition. Giana pulled his chubby clinging hands away, noting Max’s gaze darken as it settled on Toby’s sweet face.

  Max turned his attention to the road deliberately ignoring the child’s warbling insistent questions. It was a mistake, he thought, angry with himself. He should have driven past without noticing. But he had been unable to look away from Giana and Toby, reminding him again of a different time in his past...another woman and another baby. His woman and his baby.

  Giana noted the grim lines deepening on Max’s face in the rear-view mirror. His jaw tightened as his big hands navigated the vehicle through the traffic with suave expertise.

  “I remember seeing you last month at St Dominic’s. Where do you live?” asked Fr Da’Cunha, clearly interested in having a conversation.

  “I live nearby,” said Max, evasively, unwilling to give out his address. “I travel a lot so I haven’t been to the church very often.” He had gone to St Dominic’s once and had felt lost in the crowd of strangers. He wasn’t interested in religion anymore. He had a bone to pick with God, a huge pile of unanswered questions and too much bottled-up angst at the irreparable loss that he had suffered.

  “The bane of modern life!’ expressed the old priest disapprovingly. The abrupt silence from Max was no deterrent to Fr Da’Cunha’s lively inquisitiveness though. “Where’s your family?”

  “In Bangalore.” Max was now sorely regretting having given in to the urge to give them a lift.

  Fortunately, Fr Da’Cunha did not probe further. Instead, he proceeded to elaborate upon the fete they were organizing for the church fund and the new chapel.

  Giana was relieved that Max had not given out his address. It would have been disastrous! Max would know immediately that they were neighbours. So would Carol! Since Carol had refused to exchange pleasantries, Fr Da’Cunha had decided to continue with the conversation unhindered.

  The silence in the back of the car was like a heavy weight on all of them. Giana sat sandwiched between her sister and her mother with Toby squirming to create his own space on her lap. In exasperation, she prevented him from squiggling into the gap between the front seats. She wished she had protested more vociferously, when Max had stopped to give them a lift. She raised her eyes to the rear-view mirror to find Max’s faintly mocking eyes flicking on her reflection. She averted her gaze hastily lest he see the trouble that was brewing for her.

  Blissfully unaware of the tension filling the car like a huge balloon about to burst, Fr Da’Cunha narrated tales of the times gone by. “The fetes were grand affairs in those days where everyone participated with enthusiasm. These days even the youngsters are so busy!” He adjusted his spectacles to scrutinize Max whose responses were limited to a cryptic ‘Yes’ and ‘No’.

  “Why don’t you help us with the arrangements, Max? After all, now you are a part of our parish.”

  Max was enraptured by a pair of beautiful but troubled eyes in the rear-view mirror. It took him a few distracted moments to realize that he was being asked a question. He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what the question was, but felt that since the number of affirmatives and negatives he had doled out in the past fifteen minutes were too many, he settled with a ‘maybe’ this time. And that was when the door of the cage clanged shut.

  “Thank you, Max! We need more gentlemen like you in the church. You can help the core group of organizers with me!”

  Fr Da’Cunha’s thrilled exclamation startled Max into shifting gears too hard.

  “Excuse me?” Max turned partially in his seat keeping his hands steady on the steering.

  A weaker mortal would have quailed under the black glower that Max threw his way, but Fr Da’Cunha was as happily ignorant as a traipsing lamb in high grass infested with foxes.

  “Why, Max, you just agreed to be a part of the core group of organizers at the fete at St. Dominic’s. I am really pleased to hear that.”

  “Er...I don’t think...”

  “Of course you can,” pounced Fr Da’Cunha with robust enthusiasm, suddenly not the innocent lamb anymore.

  The suppressed snigger from the backseat came from Annabel. She was promptly struck down by Carol’s baleful glare.

  Max had a vague feeling that he was being crowded into a corner.

  “The fete is next Sunday and we have only a week from now. You will be required to come only for a couple of hours after work in the evenings.”

  Max was about to spout a hundred reasons why he couldn’t spare a minute.

  “Giana is helping with the food stalls. Now that her van is in the garage, both of you can come together in your vehicle!”

  Fr Da’Cunha beamed beatifically at his own clever idea with the aspect of a man who had solved at least one problem of the world, completely oblivious to the collective Francois gasp that was heard at the back. Toby seemed to be the only one focused on the traffic chaos outside, shrieking and clapping at the cars passing by.

&nbs
p; Max’s quick glance once more in the magic rear-view mirror, into those champagne eyes, revealed shock and mortification. Much against his own misgivings, he heard himself say quietly. “If no one has a problem, I can spare time in the evenings after six.”

  Fr Da’Cunha beamed appreciatively, reeling off a list of things to be done when Carol broke into his premature plans.

  “Giana will have to work overtime at the Cafe, since Annabel has exams coming up.”

  “Now Carol, don’t be a spoilsport! The work done for our Lord should be done without reservations. I am sure Giana can spare some extra time to clear up the issues that have cropped up last week. Benjamin is quite harassed doing everything alone at the parish council and he would really appreciate a helping hand. He mentioned Giana twice.”

  Annabel gave her sister a nudge and Giana cringed at the thought of providing the kind of helping hand that the middle-aged father of three children, Benjamin Fernandez, required. The last time she had nearly gagged at the prospect, scurrying away with excuses to avoid his unwanted attention. She rolled her eyes in pure desperation, unaware of her expression being duly noted by Max.

  When they reached the church, the stilted conversation among the ladies were in complete contrast to the effervescent responses of gratitude from the old priest and little Toby who waved at Max with a shriek of delight, “Mak favy!”

  Giana froze, her frantic eyes turning to Max pleadingly. Max’s smile was lopsided, instantly aware that Giana had probably not mentioned about the encounter at his house the other night.

  He patted Toby’s head and drove away quickly before anyone could probe deeply about the reason why a six-foot, ultra-masculine man had been christened as ‘favy’.

  Three

  Giana dismissed the incessant thoughts of Max from her head as she gave Toby a wash while he pretended to be a fish in his bathtub. Toby was at his mischievous best, almost dipping his hand into the commode, hollering in protest when Giana pulled him back with a yelp of disgust. He sang into his little plastic mug enjoying the booming sound of his own voice. He then proceeded to apply soap on his mother’s face, sloppily giving her a ‘bath’. She laughed, swatting his bottom, and washed him quickly before he could escape into the bedroom, dripping wet. Her son had played truant all afternoon, following Venkaiyya the old gardener, and gambolling in the shrubbery, which the man had been trimming. She wrapped Toby in a towel and dumped him on the bed as he tried to wriggle away again.

  Her thoughts returned to Max, as they seemed to do every now and then. Sunday had gone by and she had thought of him all day. It was a useless practice that she had fallen into and she needed to get rid of it as fast as possible. The trip to the church yesterday had been memorable for more reasons than one. Max was way too attractive. It was absolutely necessary to avoid him. She felt her skin singe with embarrassment just thinking of travelling with him to the church next week. She wanted to disengage from that obligation but Fr Da’Cunha had made it impossible for her to escape.

  Fortunately, Max had not been present in the church for the Mass today. He had not shown any interest in exchanging addresses or phone numbers to make plans for the next week either. She hoped to convince Fr Da’Cunha against the idea of travelling with Max.

  She dressed Toby in his pyjamas and read out from his favourite storybook, but he refused to sleep, crawling under the bed. “Toby! Come out, right now!” she scolded in exasperation.

  Annabel poked her head around her bedroom door. “Mamma wanted to know if you have finished yesterday’s calculations of the bakery sales.”

  “Bel!” Toby was delighted to see his best pal, and crawled out from under the bed to hang on to Annabel’s nightgown like a limpet. Annabel picked him up and twirled him around making him giggle.

  “He has decided not to sleep tonight. I have so many things to do!” Giana huffed, changing her clothes behind the colourful screen in the corner.

  “Why don’t you get on with your work? I will put him to sleep. Come on, you little chimp!” Annabel scooped a ragged teddy from the bed and a few colouring books and raced ahead of him. Toby toddled after her, clutching his pyjama bottoms which were slithering down owing to his exertions.

  “Bring him back if he gets fidgety!” called out Giana, switching on her laptop. However, they were already running out of the room in haste.

  An hour later, all became silent in the next room after a lot of giggling and singing. She went in to check upon them to find both aunt and nephew cuddling the same teddy and sleeping soundly. She smiled, switched off the lights and tip-toed out.

  Giana was grateful that after her divorce and Toby’s birth, Annabel had emerged as her staunch supporter. She loved her little sister as her best companion. Annabel was only two years younger to her and absolutely trustworthy. She had stood beside her with unconditional love when Giana had fallen and struggled to limp back to life.

  Setting aside her morose thoughts, she tallied the numbers once more. It was midnight before she switched off the lights, and crawled into bed.

  A few minutes of silence ticked by and her gritty eyes were drooping when she heard a splintering crash from the house next door.

  She sat up. The silence was ominous afterward. Instinct goaded her to go down to the gates. But she suppressed the urge to check, waiting for long minutes, but found it impossible to sleep.

  A hoarse cry startled her. She leapt out of bed and rushed to the balcony. Something was wrong. Then, as if under the influence of some power over which she had no control, she raced back into the room, grabbed the torch and the key from her drawer and rushed out again. She unlocked the wrought iron barricade that led down the spiralling steps to the garden. Uncertainty gripped her as she stood on the brick-lined path to cross over to the backyard gate. Hesitatingly, she went back two steps. An expectant hush in the air compelled her to move. Then changing her mind, she raced over the grass. Her rubber slippers made no sound as she reached the back exit. She unlocked the gates and crossed the tiny patch of wild grass to the gates of the villa. The bolt, as she lifted it, sounded rusty.

  It was pitch dark! Buzzing sounds emanated from the dry thatch around her feet. She hated darkness. This place was barren, unlike her own garden which was blooming with flowers and thriving vegetables, and lit up with the boundary wall lights. She dithered, unwilling to barge into a dark area. Every good sense she possessed screamed that she was being reckless.

  Soon, she was standing at the backdoor. If the door was locked she would just have to walk back. She bit her lip uncertainly, knowing very well that she was putting herself at risk. For all she knew, Max Martineau was roaring drunk and most probably dangerous. She knocked once, just in case. There was no answer. She shook the door handle.

  The door creaked open softly. The darkness inside was absolute and she was really frightened now, calling herself a complete fool to have come this far! Her courage crumbled and she nearly turned back the way she had come in before something terrible could happen to her.

  A feeble masculine groan sounded in the room above. It gave strength to her intention to help. She entered the darkened hallway and climbed up the wide marble stairs, quietly following her instinct and his voice. She was certain now that something was wrong. The bedroom door was wide open and she stepped into the room and focused her torch on the bed. No one was sleeping there. Another groan came from the bathroom across the elegant but sparsely furnished room.

  She ran to the bathroom to find Max lying on the floor, face down. A broken bottle rolled away clanging against the wall when he tried to raise himself. The faint smell of alcohol permeated the air. He groaned again when he saw the torchlight focused on him and put up a hand to block the light from his eyes.

  “Max! Are you hurt?”

  She looked around for the switch and found it. Bright light filled the spacious bathroom, its pristine whiteness marred by the blood drops near the bathtub. She rushed to him and knelt beside him. The cut on his temple was covered in blo
od. She turned on the hand shower faucet and directed the water over his head. He coughed roughly and swiped at the water dripping down his face and torso. The blood seeped away revealing a long gash, but not too deep to be stitched. He raised himself, his eyes unfocussed and bleary, the shock of the bang on his head turning into blinding pain.

  “Had too much...to drink!” he muttered, his voice slurred and distorted.

  “I can see that!” she consoled gently.

  She helped him rise with an arm around his waist. But as he stood up, he swayed putting all his weight on her. He clutched at the doorway to prevent himself from toppling. Swearing under his breath, he shoved her roughly.

  “Out!” And he slammed the door shut.

  Giana stood bewildered, and then heard him retching into the toilet. She switched on the bedroom lights and sat on a chair, waiting. He was too proud to admit weakness, she guessed. After a few minutes he opened the door and stood straighter to face her. He had washed and changed into a clean T shirt from the wardrobe attached to the bathroom. The stubble on his chin gave him a disreputable look which was somehow appealing on him.

  “I must be really dead,” he drawled, unsteadily. “I guess they finally sent an angel to haul my carcass back to heaven to face the Lord before flinging it back to hell.”

  His bitter words bleached the colour from Giana’s face.

  “But you are too delicate for this job, sweetheart!” He continued to look at her through blood-shot eyes, leaning on the door frame, expecting her to berate him for his less than gentlemanly behaviour. But she didn’t. Her face bore the same look of kindness he had seen before. Unnerved by her quiet composure he touched a hand to his temple with a trembling hand. His cut was bleeding again, though not profusely.

  Giana stood up stiffly. She wasn’t afraid anymore. “Let me attend to the wound. Do you have a first aid box?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone, looking around.