A Scandalous Secret

by Jaishree Misra

  Her parents were watching The Weakest Link when Sonya floated silently into the living room, trying to be subtle and unobtrusive. She caught sight of her father cocking a glance in her direction before raising a quizzical brow at his wife. ‘I saw that!’ Sonya warned.

  Richard Shaw had the grace to look sheepish. He got up and kissed his daughter on her forehead before holding her by the shoulders at arm’s length. ‘You look beautiful, darling. It’s just that we don’t usually see you with so much make-up on. It makes you look … well … older. Isn’t that right, Laura darling?’ He turned to his wife with a pleading expression on his face. Sonya realized how studiously he’d avoided mentioning the Indian look, even though she had been talking about her planned Bollywood costume for days and it was now staring them in the face. Laura Shaw smiled briefly at Sonya and nodded in appreciation, but she soon returned her gaze to the television screen. Her rather anxious expression made it seem as though far more interesting events were unfolding in the BBC studio than in her own living room.

  Sonya threw her eyes upwards. ‘C’mon, guys, it’s just a fancy dress party, for God’s sake!’ she cried in exasperation. ‘You’d have thought I’d seriously gone native, the way you’re behaving!’

  ‘Don’t be dramatic, darling,’ Richard said, going across to the sideboard in the hall to search for the car keys. ‘You must admit, though, that it’s quite strange seeing you dressed like that, given everything.’

  ‘Given what?’ Sonya asked, flouncing after her father into the hall, ‘that I’m off to India? For Chrissake, Dad, it’s a two-week holiday, not a religious conversion!’

  ‘I know, darling,’ Richard said, coming up to Sonya to tap her arm with the back of his hand. He dropped his voice. ‘And Mum knows it too. However, you must understand her distress at this sudden decision of yours to go to India, Sonya. It has come out of the blue a bit. Go on, darling, go in there, beg a compliment off her and you’ll both feel the better for it.’

  Sonya hesitated for a moment before returning to the living room. She stood at the door for a second before walking in. ‘I’m off, Mum,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Wish me luck. Stel’s even lined up a prize for best costume, you know.’

  Laura roused herself on the sofa and looked up at Sonya again. Taking in her daughter’s exotic beauty with nervousness she was eventually unable to prevent herself from melting at Sonya’s sheer loveliness. Laura patted the sofa next to her and said, ‘Come here, you.’ As Sonya approached, she added, ‘You really do look lovely, Sonya darling. Dad and I don’t mean to be nasty. It’s just that you don’t look like our little girl when you’re dressed up like that, you know … and, to be honest, I really can’t bear such a harsh reminder. Not at this time anyway. Just before you go off in search of her … you know what I mean …’

  ‘I know, I know, Mum,’ Sonya said, kneeling before her mother. ‘But it’s only a spot of fun, dressing up like this. It certainly doesn’t mean I’m trying to become someone else. Or make some kind of bid for acceptance by my birth family. Remember I’m always and only your little girl. I don’t need to keep telling you that no one else will ever matter to me as much as you and Dad, do I?’

  They held hands briefly as Sonya rested her cheek against her mother’s knee. Then she got up, fumbling awkwardly with the folds of her sari. ‘I’d better go easy with this thing,’ she said, ‘there’s about a million safety pins stuck around me to keep it in place and I must return it to Priyal without tearing it!’

  ‘Yes, I bumped into Priyal’s mum at Asda this morning … Mrs Guptee?’

  ‘Gupta,’ Sonya corrected.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gupta. And she did go on a bit about how lovely you looked when you first tried these clothes on at her house. She kept saying “Stunning,” and that English women generally didn’t look right in saris. Well, she’s obviously never seen Princess Di and Jemima Khan when they wore them, has she? Why, even Cherie Blair didn’t look half bad in Indian costume, despite being a bit ungainly, so I don’t know what Mrs Gupta was on about.’ Laura hesitated for a moment before asking her daughter, ‘By the way, she doesn’t know, does she?’

  Sonya restrained herself from rolling her eyes upwards in exasperation again. She knew exactly what her mum was talking about and it both amused and saddened her to think that her beloved mother was feeling so threatened, even by a passing compliment from someone as harmless as Mrs Gupta. ‘No, she doesn’t know, Mum,’ she lied firmly, ‘and nor does Priyal. I’ve told you, apart from Stel and Tim, no one else knows why I’m going to India.’

  Laura looked marginally reassured. ‘Best keep it that way,’ she said, ‘after all we don’t know yet what’s going to happen once you’re there, do we?’ Then, taking a deep breath, she put on a bright air that did not convince Sonya at all. ‘Well, off with you then,’ Laura said. ‘Don’t forget to take the salads out of the fridge, and the marinated lamb chops. I’ve added extra Tabasco, just like Estella said. And have a lovely time, won’t you.’ Laura nodded gratefully at Richard who was standing in the doorway, already carrying the two large plastic boxes full of salad. ‘Oh, and let Dad know when you want picking up from the mill?’

  In the car, Sonya leaned over to give her father a peck on his cheek as he started the car. ‘What’s that for, Princess?’ he queried, although Sonya could see how pleased he was with the unexpected display of affection.

  ‘For always being such a skilled peacemaker. And for knowing exactly how to make both Mum and me feel instantly soothed.’

  ‘Ah, long years of practice,’ Richard said. ‘Don’t forget I grew up in a house full of women. Three sisters is enough to drive most fellers around the bend but, golly, what an education that was!’

  They drove to the outskirts of Orpington in companionable silence, Richard humming along to a Phil Collins track on Radio 2 while Sonya straightened her smudged eye make-up in the car mirror, unused as she was to wearing kohl rather than the customary eye-pencil. ‘So, what are you listening to these days, sweetheart? I notice you’ve put all your old Kurt Cobain CDs in that pile for Oxfam,’ Richard said suddenly.

  Sonya smiled. Dad tried with such sincerity to be matey and she had never had the heart to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to get through naming half the bands she listened to without having him keel right over in shock. She had, in fact, carefully hidden the new Fuck Jesus CD under her bed to minimize the chance of offending her very innocent and strait-laced parents. ‘Oh, nothing special, just this and that,’ she replied vaguely, looking out at the streetlights on the Sevenoaks Road. ‘The mill comes up somewhere here, Dad,’ she added. ‘We’d better slow down.’

  Richard peered through the dusk. A few stray raindrops were falling on the windscreen. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘it’s been spitting and spotting like this all evening. I do hope it doesn’t start to pour and ruin your party! Now, if I remember, there’s a sharp bend in the road just before you see the sign for Wentworth Mill.’

  ‘Good memory!’ Sonya said. ‘It was at least six years ago that we all came here for that bread-making course.’

  ‘Well, I was here more recently with the Council on one of our team-building days so I should know where it is, really. Ah, and bingo, there we go!’ Richard swung the car onto a small dirt track that wound its way through an open field in which a few sodden sheep were grazing. They drove past a pond that sat next to the water mill and pulled up in a small yard where Estella’s Polo was already parked. Sonya disembarked, holding up the edges of her sari to prevent it from getting muddy.

  ‘Hey Bollywood princess, don’t you look just gorgeous!’ came a cry from the door where Estella was emerging in her stewardess cap and uniform.

  ‘Actually not such a great idea on a wet evening,’ Sonya replied, ruefully looking down at her shimmering clothes. She cast an envious look at Estella’s short skirt and flat-heeled pumps, ‘Look at you – not just smart but sensible too!’

  ‘Ah, but then that’s me all over: smart and sensibl
e! Oh, and surely you merely forgot to say “sexy” too,’ Estella replied, twirling a plump leg in what she imagined was a coquettish manner before yelling a cheery greeting to Richard who was getting out of the far side of his car. Richard blew a kiss at her and then turned to get the salad and lamb chops out of the back seat. Someone – possibly one of the Wentworth cousins – came running out of the mill to help. He was dressed as a bishop but, as he heaved the boxes over his shoulder and carried them into the building, a pair of stout and very unbishoplike Doc Martens was revealed under his robes.

  Richard turned when another car pulled into the yard. Its four occupants – Spiderman, Wonder Woman, a vicar and a tart – emerged amidst a hail of raunchy greetings. It was definitely time to go. Richard waved to Sonya and Estella before climbing with haste back into his car, grinning widely as he reversed. ‘Have fun, girls, and be good!’ he said, rolling his window back up before driving off.

  Sonya followed the others into the bakery part of the mill, which is where the food and drink were to be laid out in the event of rain. Estella’s mother ran a small artisan bread business from the premises, supplying local restaurants and delis with her popular sourdough bread. Mrs Wentworth had obviously been baking furiously for the party as Sonya could see piles and piles of crusty rolls and her famous giant white bloomer loaves at one end of the table.

  Unable to sustain the demure Indian look for very long, Sonya was swigging her second can of Corona when Timothy arrived. His face brightened as it always did when he saw her but, because his Roman toga was too long, he stumbled on the top step of the mill while stepping over the threshold in a pair of outsized gladiator sandals. What would have been a nasty tumble was fortuitously stopped by his colliding with Wonder Woman, which led to both of them falling in a giggling heap onto a few bags of wholemeal flour. It was a funny sight that had all the observers bursting into affectionate laughter, but Sonya looked away from her boyfriend making a spectacle of himself, mortified. Tim was unfazed, however, and Sonya guessed that he was probably already a little drunk. Being a naturally shy sort, he often downed a bottle of beer before leaving for a party. ‘A pint of Dutch courage,’ he had once said while waving a lager glass of Stella Artois in a pub, and Sonya was sure he had meant it. She watched the burly Benedict pull Tim up now and stick him back on his sandaled feet. Benedict, who had gone by the name of Big Ben since Year Seven, twinkled across at Sonya. ‘I know I just said you were a fabulous eyeful tonight, Ms Shaw, but I failed to realize this was the effect you would have on poor old Tim!’

  ‘Mind you don’t distract him when he’s stood next to the water wheel,’ someone else warned.

  ‘Too right. Can’t have Julius Caesar die in a drowning accident, for fuck’s sake,’ came another quip.

  Cheerfully ignoring them all, Tim wandered across to Sonya for a kiss but received only a perfunctory peck on the cheek. ‘What’s that about?’ he asked; charged up, Sonya was sure, by the beer. He was never aggressive normally. She shrugged and turned away. If she was to be honest, it wasn’t merely the drink. She had been feeling distinctly cooler towards him for days anyway, the only problem being that good old bumbling Tim had completely failed to take the hint so far! Typically, Estella noticed her discomfiture, however, and Sonya saw her shoot a sympathetic look in her direction as Tim leaned in proprietorally to insist on sticking his tongue into her mouth.

  Sonya shrugged away from his grasp, cheering up slightly when she saw Chelsea Brigham-Smith walking into the mill, her face almost unrecognisable under layers of luminous green paint and a witch’s hat. She was exactly the person Sonya needed to talk to on the eve of her departure for India, because it was Chelsea who had told her about the Adoption Register at another party a few months ago. She had just been through the procedure of searching for her own birth family at the time, a story that had provided Sonya with the impetus she had perhaps been subconsciously seeking.

  ‘Hey, Chels,’ Sonya said, waving to catch her attention.

  ‘Hi, Sonya,’ Chelsea replied, walking over, ‘don’t you look super in your Indian clothes! Sure suits you, all this drapey, shimmery stuff.’

  ‘Oh thanks. Don’t suppose you want me to return the compliment, given your witch’s garb! This is Tim, by the way,’ Sonya added, mumbling, ‘my boyfriend,’ as an afterthought under her breath. She turned to Tim. ‘Chelsea was my classmate back in primary school before she went off to Cheltenham Ladies’ College,’ she said, waiting while Tim and Chelsea shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Then she grabbed Chelsea’s arm, unable to contain her news any more. ‘You’ll never believe this, Chels. I’ve been meaning to call and say – I did eventually follow up your advice and contact the Registrar General, you know.’

  ‘You did!? And?’

  Sonya took a deep breath, aware that the more people she told, the more she was breaking her promise to Laura. ‘And …’ she paused, unable to resist a bit of drama, ‘And I’ve traced my birth mother too. All the way to India, as it happens.’

  ‘Cor! I remember you said you were half Indian but, bloody hell, that’s a long way away. Not quite like my little trip around to that council block in Merton I told you about, eh?’

  Conscious of Tim standing by, Sonya said, ‘You don’t mind if I put Tim in the picture, do you, Chels?’ She waited until Chelsea nodded before explaining, ‘Chelsea’s an adopted child too, Tim, and, when she turned eighteen recently, she went off in search of her birth parents. I more or less got the idea from her when we met at Tabitha Stott’s birthday party recently.’

  ‘Was it difficult, your search?’ Tim asked Chelsea.

  ‘Took all of two weeks,’ Chelsea laughed, ‘and eventually I found the couple who gave birth to me living not more than a mile away from where I grew up in Wimbledon Village!’

  ‘Wow!’ Tim responded, ‘What was that like?’

  ‘Terrifying, I can tell you now,’ Chelsea said, her blackened witch’s teeth gleaming as she laughed. ‘I took to waking up in a cold sweat for days after, imagining them trying to break into my parents’ house to get me. And anything else they could find while they were there!’

  ‘But you’re still glad you did it, yes?’ Sonya asked.

  Chelsea nodded. ‘I think I needed to plug a few gaps in my head. Luckily, I had the full support of my parents who helped me every inch of the way. My dad especially. But he was an adopted child himself, you see, so I think he really understood. Are your parents okay about your search?’

  Sonya hesitated for a moment, reluctant to say anything disloyal about her parents. ‘Poor Mum and Dad,’ she said. ‘They’re just a bit confused right now. But they’ll come around in the end, I know. They love me far too much.’

  ‘Well, what have you found out so far?’ Chelsea persisted.

  ‘Not a great deal. Just that the woman who gave birth to me lives in India. Apparently, she refused to divulge the name of the man who’d fathered me so there’s nothing on him in the records. But, as I’m going to India next week, I may have more to tell you after that.’

  ‘Going to India? Hey, what an adventure – my trip to Merton does rather pale by comparison! Are you going too?’ Chelsea asked Tim.

  ‘No,’ Sonya responded swiftly, ‘I’m going with Estella, actually.’

  ‘Cool,’ Chelsea repeated, although Sonya knew that was not how Tim felt at all.

  A couple of hours later, Sonya told herself mournfully that the party wasn’t quite working. Only for her, that is, going by the general whoops of merriment that were audible from the yard outside and the growing mountain of empty beer cans she could see just outside the door. She cast a glance around the mill from her uncomfortable perch on a wooden stool. She was sitting as close as she possibly could to the ovens without singeing her eyebrows because she had found herself freezing to death in her skimpy sari. It was also preventing her from helping Estella, who was at this moment laying out great platters of food on the trestle tables at the far end of the kitchen. This was supposed
to have been a joint party, Sonia thought with an annoyed humph. But here she was, stupidly forced into being a guest because she was sure she would trip and snag Priyal’s mum’s beautiful sari if she ventured to undertake domestic chores while wearing it. How on earth did Indian women go to parties and do their household chores wearing these things, she wondered.

  Chapter Five

  Sharat walked towards the breakfast room, humming a jaunty tune. Last night’s party had been an unqualified success and the icing on the cake had been the Home Minister’s promise as he’d left. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with the PM,’ Vir-ji had said, leaning out of the window of his liveried car. ‘Leave it with me for a few days, Sharat. And keep your fingers crossed – there are many vying for the same seat, you know!’

  It had been less than a year ago that Sharat had first voiced his ambition of becoming an MP to a few friends with political connections and, even though he knew what an asset he would be to any party, the haste with which the Congress party had opened its doors had been astonishing. Now, from his very energising conversation with the Home Minister last night, it was clearly only a matter of time before the offer of a safe seat came. One of the South Delhi constituencies would be best, Sharat thought, areas where the educated newly rich were desperate to see the face of politics change for the better. And better he would make it, that he was sure of. It was a natural calling, to be mindful of the welfare of other, less fortunate people. He had insisted on egalitarianism even as a child: persuading his mother to give away his clothes to the cook’s son before he had even outgrown them and preferring to play cricket with the children of their factory workers rather than Scrabble and caroms with Shashi, his sickly and rather snobbish cousin who was Sharat’s only companion in the family home. Most of all, he was fortunate to have money from the cloth mills started by his grandfather and didn’t see the need to waste his time building up more wealth, especially when there were no children to pass it on to. Even his cousin, Shashi, was childless.