Absolutely no one.
The first day had flown by. They’d touched down at nine o’clock, her, John Davidson and three pharmaceutical representatives. From the arrivals hall, they were whisked into cabs and driven off to a two-hour meeting. Then they were carted off to an upmarket sandwich bar, where Monisha was offered speaking engagements. John Davidson had whispered in her ear.
“You could dine out on this for a long time.”
They’d returned to the jam-packed conference hall, where people scattered to attend a myriad of meetings. The pharma reps disappeared. John Davidson had taken her cell-phone number and rushed out to a lecture. And she’d found herself sitting through a presentation from a Japanese group, not understanding a single word.
At half past three, her turn finally came. There she’d stood, on the podium, before hundreds of shining faces. She could hear it now: the crackling of the microphone and the throat clearing and coughing as her pinky-purple microscope pictures flashed by on the enormous screen.
Looking back, it was such an anti-climax! Her paper was one of thousands. Her ten-minute slot had come and gone, swiftly. When she’d finished, John Davidson had simply shaken her hand and vanished into the crowd. Then, in place of the adrenaline rush, came a bleak, pervasive emptiness.
She’d wandered aimlessly amongst the hordes of delegates and made a wrong turn into a hall lined with posters. Fortunately, she’d bumped into a pharma rep. Dinner was at half past seven, he told her. They were meeting in the foyer. After an hour or so of reading the dreary abstracts, she was back in her room.
Monisha ran a bubble bath and soaked in it. She bit into a Belgian chocolate cookie, hoping that the sugar rush would be a substitute for the empty feeling. Two bites later, her cell phone began ringing. She climbed out of the bath, dripping suds onto the marble floor, but by the time she got to it, it had rung off. She shrugged her shoulders and wrapped herself in a towelling robe. It was probably her father.
When she picked up her phone and listened to the message, her heart skipped a beat.
“Monisha! It’s John. Just wondered if you wanted to join me for a predinner drink? I’ll be down at Rosie’s Bar at seven o’clock. See you there… or with the others at half past seven. Bye.”
Monisha listened to the message once more. All morning they’d sat, sandwiched in amongst pharma reps, discussing their study and agreeing to speaker meetings. He’d been remote and professorial. But now he sounded different. Calm. Chatty. Oh God! She had just twenty minutes to style her hair, change into her cocktail dress and do her makeup. Twenty minutes!
The heat from her hair straighteners burned through her head, into her body, down her legs. What the hell was happening? Was she crazy? He was married!
But unhappily. Like she’d been, once.
She curled her lashes with thick mascara. A smoky-eyed whore stared back in the mirror. Who was that?
Surely one drink wouldn’t hurt!
Her cell rang again.
“Daddy! I can’t talk right now. I’m off to dinner with the reps. Everything went fine.”
She was lying already.
The sequins on her low-cut cocktail dress shimmered under the mirrored ceilings. She strode into the lift, a silver clutch tucked under her arm. Her heart beating against it. A whooshing thrill rushed through her as they descended. Oh God! Oh God!
He was sitting at the bar, wearing a cream shirt with the top buttons open. The creases on his forehead had melted away. When he saw her approaching, his chiselled jaw dropped an inch. Rock-and-roll drums beat loudly.
“You’re late,” he said, pulling up a high stool.
She could barely hear him.
“I was in the bath, so I got your message late,” she replied.
He blushed.
“Nice hotel,” he said, trying to shake the image of her naked soapy body out of his head. “What would you like to drink?”
Her mind went blank. She raised her eyes. Red wine on an empty stomach would go to her head. A beer would be unladylike. What to order? What did they drink in the movies?
He looked at his watch, only fifteen minutes before the others would be down in the foyer. Fifteen minutes of alone time.
“Gin and tonic please.”
He handed her a bowl of salted nuts. Was she hungry?
So fatherly!
He sipped his beer quietly and pulled his stool closer, until they were almost touching. Inside, she felt the heat of the gin against the cool sharpness of the ice cubes and tonic, and, in the background, a bitterness.
If you were falling for a married man, gin and tonic was your drink.
Their time was up. He told her to go on ahead to meet the others. He had to say goodnight to his boys.
Reality reared its ugly head. Moments later they were huddled in with industry people. He was Professor John Davidson again and Monisha was just one of his many research students. He kept his distance, joined in the conversation now and again. They discussed films and their favourite songs. His was one of Bob Dylan’s.
“That song’s about leaving a woman, isn’t it?” somebody asked him.
Professor John Davidson laughed. Monisha looked away.
When dinner was over, they all headed for Rosie’s Bar. He left the group, making the excuse that he was turning in for an early night. After one drink, she thanked the reps, yawned and said the same.
The corridor that led to her room was dimly lit. She kicked off her silver stilettos and carried them, feeling the softness of the carpet under her toes as she went. When she arrived at her door, she couldn’t believe what she saw.
John Davidson was standing leaning against it.
He gathered her up and kissed her passionately. They lingered together for some time. Lips locked. Smooching. Seconds. Minutes. Her shoes dangling in one hand. Her hips sliding like waves, between his trouser legs.
Suddenly, she pulled away, tapped the card into the slot and opened the door. Her suite sprang into view. The super-king-size bed and feathery pillows. Her makeup bag, half open. The untouched bottle of rosé.
John Davidson looked shell-shocked.
“I can’t do this to you, Monisha. You’re too smart. Too beautiful. Too vulnerable.”
She stumbled into the room, alone, and fell fast asleep.
40
The next year her research was far easier. She knew the rules and booked the equipment early. The lab work flowed. Their second paper was accepted; a third was in the pipeline. And her meetings with John Davidson were conducted several times a week. At her apartment.
Their routine was cosy and discrete. She left the lab by half past eleven and rushed back home to shower and change. At twelve o’clock he told his secretary he was going jogging. Ten minutes later, he arrived at her door, all sweaty in his running gear. After he washed, they made love. By one o’clock he was ravenous.
She’d tease him. Hide grapes and strawberries on her body, and make him find them with his mouth. When his lips tickled her crevices, she’d screech with pure delight. As he tasted her flesh, she orgasmed. Over and over again. OOOH!
And only after he’d satisfied her completely would she get up and make him a sandwich.
They knew each other’s stories now. He told her about his idyllic childhood and university life, where he’d met Lisa. And how they’d fallen in love and been happy. Until they found out that Oliver was autistic. She was carrying James at the time. Then post-natal depression hit. A ruthless double whammy.
She told him about the ramshackle house on Sitara Road and her family’s visits to chaotic Mumbai. About life in twenty-three Adam Court. The weekly dance lessons and dinner parties. How her mother had hunted down the perfect Indian husband. Who’d turned out to be a perfect liar.
Often, in a fit of insecurity, she’d stare into his eyes, run her fingers through his stubbl
e and ask him if he still loved Lisa.
“I don’t love the woman she’s become,” he’d say.
She’d imagine a beautiful, buxom blonde. Sucked away by the vortex of motherhood.
Then it would hit. Like a herd of stampeding bulls.
Choking, crushing guilt.
When he saw it, he’d wrap his arms round her shoulders and kiss her neck. Tell her she was beautiful and charming. A breath of fresh air, after his painful past. That he wanted to be with her. Forever. But he’d have to extricate himself from his marriage first, gradually.
Gradually?
When she heard that, her throat would tighten and she’d arch up, like a cat. Claws at the ready. Forcing him to leap off her and collect his things.
By half past two, she was back in his office, where the oak door was now wide open. Their meeting was brief. The conversation was work-centric. Cold and clinical. So his pesky secretary could walk in anytime and not suspect a thing.
Even though she remained little more than his ‘dirty secret’, it was a small price to pay. Invitations rolled in to speaker meetings, product launches and conferences. Her bank account swelled. They spent weekends away in New Orleans, Toronto and Chicago. Eating in small groups at fancy restaurants or holed up in plush hotels.
And she seemed quite content with the arrangement. Apart from plane trips and cash gifts, he’d help her in other ways. When she couldn’t locate her landlord, he mended a leaking pipe. When one of her tyres blew, he put on the spare. He even took time out one Sunday to wall mount her new flat screen television. In fact, John Davidson tried his damnedest to make up for what he couldn’t give her: validation.
But, into the last year of her PhD, she began to grow weary. She was annoyed at having to creep around and became bored of listening to his grandiose plans of becoming departmental head or taking over the medical school, when he’d made no plans to leave his marriage.
NO PLANS WHATSOEVER!
Who could blame him. Once or twice he’d mentioned it and the logistics sounded grim. Lisa would get a hefty pay out and keep the house. He’d have the boys alternate weekends, even more if he could. Monisha would be the main breadwinner. And she’d have to look after his kids. Thinking about it made her stomach churn.
The images that flashed before her had been unsettling. Unruly children, she wasn’t allowed to discipline. A dark-skinned half-sister they hated. How would her family react? Oh dear God! Her mother!
When the invitation to Tina’s wedding came, the truth hit home. Her friend had been so busy planning her nuptials, they hadn’t seen each other for months. Now she was going to be married, while she herself would remain non-validated. In limbo.
Perhaps it was better to be a second wife, than not be a wife at all.
It was a beautiful summer wedding. The service took place in Montpelier, at a quaint little Episcopal church. The bride and groom rode round in a 1925 Model T Ford. Monisha floated along behind them with the other bridesmaids, in lilac taffeta, fighting back tears.
Swanker took on the role of her plus one, reluctantly.
“Seriously, Neesh,” he said as they made their way over for lunch, “If you don’t find someone soon, Aunt Romila will put your profile on Shaadi.com.”
Monisha gulped hard. The marriage website. God no!
She looked round the room. Each table was packed with chattering guests, tucking into bread rolls and sipping wine. Amongst them, heavily made-up women dressed in trouser suits. In elegant, but unexciting colours, such as cream and grey. Nothing like an Indian wedding, but quietly sophisticated. She smiled sheepishly.
“What if I have found someone?”
Swanker rolled his eyes. “Well, why isn’t he here then?”
Monisha unfolded a serviette and placed it on her lap.
“What if he’s not quite ready?”
A glowing Tina swooped down on them. Veil gone. Strawberry curls tucked under a cherry-blossom flower crown. Ears pricked up.
“You’re still with that supervisor of yours, aren’t you?”
Monisha’s face turned pale with shock. She’d kill her! Kill her! In the mid-afternoon sun, Tina’s flower crown shone like a halo.
“Been there, done that. Let me tell you. It always ends in tears.”
She pointed her clear-varnished finger at Monisha.
“And they won’t be his!”
Swanker looked puzzled. Monisha stood up and began walking.
“I need to use the ladies,” she said.
Tina called out from behind. The champagne was well and truly in.
“That’s exactly what you need to do. Walk away. Just like that!”
Monisha wobbled passed the seated guests. Eventually, she found the disabled cubicle. In the floor-length mirror, she saw her lilac taffeta dress, now all crumpled. Clumps of black mascara trickled down her face.
“He needs a timeline,” she told herself, wiping her eyes.
“A timeline… then an ultimatum.”
41
The Burlington sky was a deep, dark grey. It was gone four o’clock when they landed. The twenty passengers clambered out into the bitter wind. Amongst them John Davidson, Monisha, an oncology resident and a company rep, each clutching their laptops and weekenders. It had been an eventful few days in Philadelphia. Now they were anxious to get home.
At the conference, John Davidson had been grilled about one of his papers. A rival research group questioned his findings. They were nasty. Combative. And to rub salt in the wound, later that evening, Monisha had delivered her ultimatum.
She didn’t want to completely end things, but he’d have to hire a lawyer and move out. Perhaps they could keep it platonic. Sex was becoming a chore. A hurtful, resentment-filled task, which left her feeling wounded and trapped. Like an injured bird.
But he couldn’t be platonic! He told her that he needed to make love to her, be close. Feel her warmth. That he’d slept in separate rooms to Lisa for years.
Then she’d punched him. Delivered a useless girly punch. On the arm. Even when she’d used all her knuckles he hadn’t flinched.
So, she ran out on him and spent the next day at the movies. Crying along with Meryl Streep and Sandra Bullock. Thoughts whirling round her head, like clothes in a wash cycle. What would the lawyers advise? What if he didn’t leave?
Her thoughts spun out of control. What if she stayed his mistress forever? Like one of those women in the magazines. Creeping around in dark glasses and a camel coat. Caught sneaking out of a hotel. Hiding behind a Hermes handbag. Oh dear God!
When she saw him next, he was teary eyed and remorseful. He’d made an appointment with a lawyer. And he was looking at rentals. But they couldn’t go public until her PhD was awarded and after her interview for the oncology job. That way he couldn’t be accused of favouritism and she wouldn’t lose face.
Finally, a result.
Previously, when she’d returned from conferences, there was anguish. A sudden realisation that the party was over and that real life would start, any minute. But, on this occasion, she felt hopeful. She strolled into the arrivals hall with confidence. A few more months of hardship and she’d be with the man she loved. Out in the open.
Who cared what anyone thought.
She knew the parting drill. The four of them would collect their luggage, shake hands and say their goodbyes. John Davidson would be driven home by the pharma rep. And she would make her own way back. Usually by taxi, but, because it was such a short flight, she’d brought her car.
Monisha cleared away the ice, and started it up. She let the engine run a little before inching out of the car park. As she hit the highway, she pondered the emptiness that lay ahead. In just twenty minutes she’d be back in that fur-lined prison cell. Alone once more. Sprawled out on the L-shaped couch, clutching a glass of red. At only half past five.
“She’s walking,” shouted one paramedic. “I saw her walk out of the car!”
“Amazing!” said the other running over. “Ask her something.”
Monisha didn’t hear the first question. Her head felt heavy, her foot prickly. It was her right foot and on the side of her face, something was stinging. Utterly uncomfortable. She gently placed one hand over her temple and felt shards of glass.
“Where were you headed, young lady?” asked the man.
In the half-light, she could just about make out a trail of spattered blood along the crisp snow.
“Home,” she replied and fainted.
She woke in a hospital bed. A nurse, middle aged and Hispanic, mentioned an accident and told her that she’d had a head scan. It was fine. There were minor cuts and bruises, and she was concussed. But that was all.
“Lucky escape my dear!” said the lady.
The other guy was on life support.
What other guy? Some teen drag racer, who’d almost killed her.
Bastard!
“Is there any one you’d like me to contact, Miss Bastikar?”
Monisha looked her straight in the eye. “Professor John Davidson.”
“Did you want to make the call or shall I?”
Her right hand was bandaged. Monisha found the phone and scrolled down to his name. She pressed. No answer. Straight to voicemail.
He was with his family!
“Did you want to try again later?” asked the nurse.
She told the nurse her battery was dying, wrote his number down and asked her to ring it from the front desk. If it was the hospital, he’d pick up for sure.
The nurse called her over when he answered. Monisha hobbled up. Her feet and face still prickly. Her back, neck and legs were stiff with pain.
“Hi John.”
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