Austenistan

by Laaleen Sukhera

  The one exception had been an older man from out of town whom I’d met at a glamorous Lahore party. He was suave, well-spoken, and seemed really interested in what I thought about things, all of which was great till I discovered he already had a wife. Turned out he wasn’t really interested in what I thought about that.

  I had just turned twenty-seven when I met Princey. It was a balmy December evening and I’d been visiting Karachi for the city’s snootiest charity fundraiser of the year. The invitation list for the coveted Friends Against Dengue Society was always heavily oversubscribed. The grande dames on the fundraising committee vetted the attendees and only issued invitations if one made the cut—money, breeding, social standing—the usual. That was the whole point of going, really, no riff raff, and friends from all over the world. An unmarried man at such an event came pre-approved.

  I had gone with Ayana and we were staying with my college roommate and sister from another mister, Neha Dukanwalla, who was wearing a slinky black cocktail dress with a cheeky bow on the derriere. I was wearing a colour blocked midi in fuchsia with slim cut-outs on my waistline while Ayana sparkled in a silver Balmain mini worn with a corset belt.

  As we drove up to the closely guarded venue that had been revealed just the night before, we were confronted by endless rows of sedans often accompanied by their own protection unit—a pickup truck containing moustached bodyguards holding semiautomatic weapons. It was a private property on French Beach belonging to a textile tycoon; the hosts had outdone themselves with this year’s Nikki Beach-inspired theme, organised around a massive sculpted garden and infinity pool overlooking the Arabian Sea. The white marquee billowed and imported white blossoms fluttered in the sea breeze. The DJ spun pulsating tracks on a high platform.

  VIP guests who’d forked over the equivalent of thousands of dollars for lounges were placed on a superior level, overlooking the lesser round tables purchased for hundreds of dollars a head. Guests walked in with their BYOB stash and handed it to their allocated waiters. Dukanwalla Cooking Oil was one of the corporate sponsors so we were seated at a fantastic lounge with Neha’s parents and their cronies and spent our time discreetly eyeing the plumped and bejewelled glamazons below. Missonis air-kissed Puccis and Cavallis, while Hervé Légers sucked in sagging abdomens. Obscenely large solitaires dazzled on earlobes, throats, fingers, and wrists.

  Ayana was the only one under fifty who was thrilled when the hip lounge music turned to disco and she dragged us on to the dance floor. As it got later and later, the music went back to electronic, and the dancers got younger and younger as the night wore on.

  It was hard not to notice the attractive man in the lounge next to ours. At 6’3”, he was half a head taller than the average Karachi guy; his chiselled face bore Slavic cheekbones. When he started speaking to me, I almost looked around to check he wasn’t addressing someone else. But speak he did, was he…flirting? It seemed he was.

  My friends poked me and whispered his name. He was quite literally a nawab sahib with princely blood coursing through his veins. His khandaan had moved to Karachi at Partition, and then on to Dubai fifteen years ago. Architectural Digest had covered their flashy Emirati villa replete with designer décor and fleet of Skittles-hued sports cars. Princey was educated at Sandhurst which had given him an attractive physique for life, followed by Cambridge. He was given a seat on the board of directors at the family firm, and had dated an assortment of unsuitable models. His mother, who dressed in head-to-toe Chanel, had been a Czech stewardess on British Airways when she had served Princey’s father champagne in First Class, and subsequently, went from Stefania to Syma.

  I’d smiled that night and flirted along, my nerves allayed by the fact that someone like that couldn’t possibly be seriously interested in me. Well, you all know how that went.

  As the Uber approached Avondon Park, I gasped. I was expecting a pretty, rustic pile, but this was truly wedding-cake glorious, with a Palladian façade made with Bath stone surrounded by lush manicured foliage.

  I joined the queue of guests – in outfits ranging from the merely formal to the bizarre – on a red carpet leading up to the steps. The flash photography was relatively unobtrusive. I hoped this was a good omen—Scott would be dashing, sophisticated, urbane, and gentlemanly, and I would no longer be jinxed in love.

  The hall screamed Georgian glamour with its Rococo splendour and art works. I walked along a long gallery and gazed at paintings and sculptures, pausing before displays of exquisite snuffboxes, Dresden china and gleaming silver, before accepting a flute of champagne from a liveried footman. Reluctantly, I tore myself away from the gallery and entered the ballroom, with beautifully high ceilings amid a treasure trove of oil paintings, and pillars of gilt and marble. Guests twinkled among lustrous antique chandeliers, floral festoons, and silver candelabras juxtaposed with modern chrome. Throngs of beautifully dressed Tatler-Bystander types in dapper suits and glimmering gowns chattered. There were discernible Russian, Arab, and Indian cliques.

  The women were mostly stunning, but the same couldn’t be said of a lot of the men accompanying them, jowly things averaging sixty. A handsome man in a navy blue suit caught my eye and smiled at me. I smiled back and then blushed scarlet, making him laugh. I looked the other way, still flustered. I really couldn’t be making eyes at strangers, with a set-up with the heir to this magnificent property in the works.

  ‘Before I met you, I said “Inshallah”. Now that I’ve seen you, it’s “Mashallah”,’ said an unfamiliar, jocular voice.

  I raised an eyebrow and turned to see a young desi man dressed as a Victorian-era Raja. My eye immediately alighted on his strings of seed pearls fastened by a large ruby onto a garish silver-wire embroidered sherwani. Oh, please let it be someone who merely resembled Scott, a master of ceremonies, perhaps? Oh, please don’t let it…no, no it can’t be…

  ‘Roya? Hi there. I’m Scott. Welcome!’

  It was Saqnain. His eyeline was level with my neckline, which is where his eyes were focused.

  ‘Thank you, Scott,’ I said, heart sinking.

  I offered a hand but Saqnain awkwardly tiptoed up to kiss my check. That’s when I noticed a generous bald spot. Well, I guess if Prince William had one…

  ‘You have an exquisite home,’ I said, folding my arms across my chest to encourage him to look up at my face. ‘I’m so pleased I was able to be here tonight.’

  ‘Not half as pleased as I am!’ he replied. ‘There’ll be a bhangra on soon and I really want to dance with someone who can get the moves right instead of acting like they’re screwing on a light bulb.’

  ‘A bhangra? At your ball? At Avondon Hall?’ I said, hoping the Gainsborough on the nearby wall couldn’t hear us.

  ‘Absolutely. DJ Srilata is here, she’s brilliant. Let me get you a drink?’

  Without waiting for an answer, he beckoned a waitress who offered us a tray of mini test tubes filled with a green liquid that looked like kryptonite.

  ‘Absinthe,’ he smirked. ‘Bottoms up!’

  I sipped at it gingerly but it was vile. Blagh.

  ‘That’s not how you down a shot,’ he said. ‘Let me show you…’

  ‘Err, no thank you,’ I said hurriedly. The last thing I wanted was for Sweetie Aunty to reprimand me for getting plastered and humiliating myself and my loved ones aka zalaalat. ‘I’d love some Perrier.’

  Before the waitress could return with one, the thumping music began and next thing I know, he’d pulled me onto the dance floor and started gyrating to a Bollywood mash-up with Taylor Swift. His hands lurked at the small of my waist as I tried to move away, while also desperately scanning the room. You couldn’t walk fifty feet in London without running into a familiar Pakistani, but apparently this rule didn’t apply in Surrey.

  I found myself locking eyes with the man in the navy blue suit again, speaking to an attractive woman in a backless dress, but looking directly at me with a smile in his eyes.

  With nowhere to run, I had
no choice but to dance with the one person I knew at the entire ball, the reason I was here. Scott danced with wild abandon, all flailing limbs and comically unrestrained facial expressions. ‘Ooooh, lalalala, hai hai hai!’ he shouted, along with the chorus, throwing in a pelvic thrust for good measure. I swayed, moving as little as possible, longing for this moment to end. He said something but I couldn’t hear him over the music. He reached a hand out to pull me closer to him, he said it again, I didn’t hear it, but I nodded anyway just so he’d let go of me.

  Could a magnificent estate make up for zero chemistry? The hope that it could flickered and died. I needed to get the hell out of here. I was thinking of an escape plan when Scott executed a Michael Jacksonesque spin and elbowed me right in the boobs. I let out a wail and backed away, mouthing ‘excuse me.’ Once out of his reach, I practically ran off the dance floor and back onto terra firma. Looking around to make sure Scott hadn’t followed me into the panelled hall, I took a deep breath. The set-up had been a disaster but I could still take some notes and blog the party. I could make my return to writing, if not dating.

  ‘You and Scott make such a handsome couple!’ a deep voice said. I looked up horrified. It was the man in the navy suit. From up close, I could see that he had classic Hollywood matinee idol features, a straight nose, melting hazel eyes, full lips, and a rather attractive cleft in his chin. His lustrous, dark brown hair was flecked with grey and I could just catch a hint of a subtle, spicy cologne. ‘Tell me, what most drew you to him, his dance moves or his reserved demeanour?’

  He gave me a crooked grin.

  I was about to explain till I suddenly felt rage. Rage at having made this journey, rage at Scott being a total moron, rage at this being how I was spending my wedding day, and rage at a complete stranger, albeit a really sexy one, judging me for dancing with his host.

  ‘There’s a lot more to Scott than you seem to think,’ I said, icily.

  I unconsciously looked over to the dance floor—a space had cleared in the centre where Scott appeared to be trying his hand at breakdance. My heart sank further yet.

  Navy Suit laughed again. I started to walk away but he came after me. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ he said, ‘I’m sure Scott is actually brilliant. I don’t want to talk about him anyway. Where are you visiting from? You’re obviously not a Londoner, with your accent.’

  ‘Pakistan,’ I said. I waited for the inevitably tedious response – ‘Is it dangerous there? Do you know Malala? Do you know my random Pakistani friend from university? Your English is “so good.”’ But none came.

  ‘Where were you six years ago when I went hiking to K2?’ he said. ‘My one and only time there.’

  I was impressed. Also, the thought of him hiking made me rather shamefully think of what his torso may look like under his impeccably crafted shirt. ‘The most adventurous thing I’ve ever done is to go to a hill station for a yoga retreat. And then rush back after three days without Wi-Fi!’ I said.

  He reached over and pushed a strand of hair away from my face. It suddenly felt as though the ball was far, far away. He was close enough to kiss.

  Suddenly, I heard a screech. I quickly drew back.

  I turned around and saw the last two people I’d ever want to encounter in a dark corner: Emané Ahmed and Harry Gulzar.

  Emané was a socialite who attended ladies’ committee lunches by day and snorted coke by night. She had ash blonde hair extensions with a bulbous trout pout and was wearing a sequinned Moschino Pepto-Bismol pink mini dress with a crotch-skimming slit that revealed an inch of a Spanx corset. She carried a cocktail in one taloned hand and an Alexander McQueen skull clutch in the other.

  Harry was an event planner who hosted pop-up shops and retail launches while paying B-grade models to grace them with their presence. Lacklustre red carpet photos were then sent to glossies all over the country and Instagrammed with the hashtag, #SPOTTED. Harry wore a too-tight Gucci suit in dark teal accessorised with a Gucci belt and pointy Prada shoes. They were both fixtures on the Lahore social scene.

  ‘Who’s this hottie?’ Emané said in a too-loud whisper.

  ‘Jaani, share him with me too,’ Harry said, as he produced his selfie stick and captured a group shot before I had even spoken a word.

  I was mortified. What must Navy Suit think of this tackiness?

  Of course, when it rains, it pours, and soon enough, Scott had reappeared at my side, now sweaty from his dance routine. ‘Meri jaan, the DJ is playing “Laila O Laila” and you know what that means!’ It means the time has come for me to set myself on fire, I thought.

  Ignoring my protests, he literally wrenched my arm across the dance floor. He spun me with such ferocity that I only just righted myself without falling over. If ever there was a time to be grateful for Emané being resolutely socially ambitious, it was now. She sidled up to Scott and whispered something in his ear. He looked at her and giggled. She joined the dance, clearly trying to push me back on the dance floor and install herself in front of Scott. Standing with her legs akimbo, she started shimmying in the most fascinatingly vulgar manner. I took the opportunity to slope off the dance floor again. I looked back and this time, Scott seemed occupied. I breathed a sigh of relief and vowed to never complain about Emané again, at least not till I got to Lahore.

  I cast about, hoping to find Navy Suit—I didn’t even know his name. I wanted to apologise for the ambush by Harry. Actually, I just wanted to see him again, but all I saw were lots of unfamiliar faces. My feet were beginning to hurt; I think I’d pulled something when Scott had spun me around last time. It was time to call it a day. I pulled out my phone to call an Uber. I’d not had the opportunity to look at it since reaching Avondon and was alarmed to see that I’d missed a dozen calls from Myra. I walked to a quiet balcony and called her back.

  ‘Royyyyyyya!’ She screeched. ‘Why aren’t you checking your messages?’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, panicked, ‘is everything OK?’

  ‘Everyone is talking about how you’ve snagged the biggest catch of the season! Sweetie Aunty is so proud of herself and so proud of you. About how you got Saqnain to run after you, even before his visit here to the Sindh Club Ball and all the rounds with hundreds of girls and their mothers throwing themselves at him! Sweetie Aunty said she heard Princey is mad as hell that you got over him so fast and complaining about you at a party in Dubai. And…’

  ‘What are they talking about? How do they know anything? I’m going to have to call you back, Myra…’

  I walked down a corridor and began scrolling through my phone’s social media newsfeeds.

  670 notifications on Facebook alone. And my Instagram followers had swelled to 200,000+. And then I read why.

  The DailyTale

  Halal Burgerland heir Scott Tanvir’s 30th Birthday Ball is a smashing success with toffs, zillionaires, and society sirens

  Lady Avondon dons £20,000 Avondon Tiara for the first time since the Royal Coronation

  Beatrice and Eugenie photographed leaving worse for wear

  Scott Tanvir spotted canoodling with blogger Roya Khalil, estranged fiancée of ‘playboy’ Princey

  18K shares

  (Scroll down to view photos of the Best and Worst Dressed)

  This was accompanied by someone’s blurry iPhone photo. No wonder! I’d been papped by

  @HarryGulzarTheBestPR.

  There I was, held by Scott’s tentacles on the dance floor. In the next photo, his hand was on my waist. The DailyTale was virtually getting me married off, thanks to Harry’s photo leak that he’d hashtagged #ScottTanvir!

  Sweetie Aunty was probably distributing wedding sweets by now.

  I felt sick. I put my phone on the stone railing of the balcony and leaned against it to take a deep breath.

  ‘So, you and Scott, eh?’ said a voice I’d been longing to hear. I turned around and there he was, the Navy Suit, with that same cocksure grin.

  ‘Yes?’ I said, in a challenging tone.

 
‘Well, I was wondering about you and me.’

  ‘You and me?’ I said, a shiver passing through me. ‘I don’t even know your name’.

  ‘It’s Olivier’, he said. Olivier! It had such a nice ring to it. ‘And I’m not currently making out with your friend on the dance floor like Scott’, he continued.

  Aah, Emané, I thought. Sweetie Auntie would be horrified but I was delighted.

  ‘So again,’ he said, moving closer, ‘I wanted to ask you about you and me.’

  Before he could get as close as I’d hoped, a stately lady with a shimmering tiara in her flaxen updo approached.

  ‘Olivier!’ she said, in a clipped accent.

  ‘You’re with her?’ I said, somewhat surprised.

  ‘In a manner of speaking—I’m Lady Avondon’s bodyguard,’ he whispered.

  He straightened and turned to the older lady, whom I recognized as the Lady Avondon. She been born a Luxembourgian aristocrat and Lord Avondon had been her second husband. After his death, she’d sold his debt-ridden ancestral property to the Tanvirs and was now enjoying a more prosperous existence. She lived in the Dower House adjoining the Park.

  I supposed that Lady Avondon probably wanted to scold her employee for mingling with the guests.

  ‘Ma’am, if I may, it’s all my fault,’ I said quickly, before an introduction could be made. ‘Your bodyguard actually came to my rescue.’

  ‘Oh yes? My bodyguard, did you say?’ she commented drily, a single eyebrow raised several inches above her faded blue eyes. ‘Olivier?’ She looked pointedly at him.

  My phone buzzed and I excused myself to a corner. It was an attachment from Myra. ‘Lucky escape’, she’d written beneath it. It was Hi Society! Pakistan’s Instagram account of Princey sandwiched between a Lebanese model duo, determinedly living it up on what would have been our wedding night.

  I clicked my phone shut, shuddering to think I had come so close to having babies with this man. For the first time since the debacle of being betrayed, I realised I wasn’t feeling at all hurt. Olivier was walking from the balcony back into the party. It was typical of life that the most attractive man at a party full of wealthy and titled people should be the least appropriate, not even an invited guest. I would go from Princey to Tanvir the Tycoon to someone’s household help, I thought. I don’t care.