Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I’ll have the asparagus, and Dover sole,” said Priya.

  “And I’ll have the duck pâté, and a lamb chop,” said Seb, “and I’d like to order a bottle of wine.”

  “I don’t drink,” said Priya.

  “I’m sorry. What would you like?”

  “Water will be fine, thank you. But don’t let me stop you.”

  Seb checked the wine list. “I’ll have a glass of Merlot,” he said.

  “As a banker,” said Priya, “you’d approve of how well this place is run. Most of the courses are simple and easy to prepare, so when you return to your table at the end of each act, they can serve you quickly.”

  “I can see why you’re an analyst.”

  “And you head up the property division of Farthings, which must be quite a responsibility for someone—”

  “—of my age? As you well know, banking is a young man’s game. Most of my colleagues are burnt out by forty.”

  “Some at thirty.”

  “And it still can’t be easy for a woman to make headway in the City.”

  “One or two of the banks are slowly coming around to accepting that it’s just possible a woman might be as bright as a man. However, most of the older establishments are still living in the dark ages. Which school you went to, or who your father is, often outranks ability or qualifications. Hambros is less Neanderthal than most, but they still don’t have a woman on the board, which is also true of every other major bank in the City, including Farthings.”

  Three bells rang.

  “Does that mean the players are about to come out onto the pitch?”

  “As you’re a regular theatregoer, you’ll know that’s the three-minute bell.”

  Seb followed her out of the restaurant and into the auditorium as she seemed to know exactly where she was going. He wasn’t surprised when they were shown to the best seats in the house.

  From the moment the curtain rose and the little swans fluttered out onto the stage, Seb was transported into another world. He was captivated by the dancers’ skills and artistry, and just when he thought it couldn’t get any better, the prima ballerina made her entrance, and he knew he would be returning again and again. When the curtain fell at the end of the second act and the applause had died down, Priya led him back to the restaurant.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asked as they sat down.

  “I was spellbound,” he said, looking directly at her. “And I enjoyed Margot Fonteyn’s performance as well.”

  Priya laughed. “My father first took me to the ballet when I was seven years old. Like all little girls, I left the theatre wanting to be one of the four cygnets, and it’s been an unbroken love affair ever since.”

  “I had the same feeling when my father first took me to Stratford to see Paul Robeson in Othello,” Seb said as a lamb chop was placed in front of him.

  “How fortunate you are.” Seb looked puzzled. “You’ll now be able to see all the great ballets for the first time. Mind you, starting with Fonteyn won’t make it easy for those who follow her.”

  “My father once told me,” said Seb, “that he wished he’d never read a word of Shakespeare until he was thirty. Then he could have seen all thirty-seven plays without knowing the endings. I now realize exactly what he meant.”

  “I just don’t get to the theatre enough.”

  “I did invite you to The Merchant of Venice, but—”

  “I had something on that night. But I can now get out of it, so I’d love to go with you. Assuming you haven’t offered the ticket to someone else.”

  “I’m sorry, but two of my friends were desperate to see Olivier, so…”

  “I understand,” said Priya.

  “But I turned them down.”

  “Why?”

  “They both have hairy legs.”

  Priya burst out laughing.

  “I know you—”

  “Where do you—”

  “No, you first,” said Priya.

  “I just have so many questions I want to ask you.”

  “Me too.”

  “I know you went to St. Paul’s and then Girton, but why banking?”

  “I’ve always been fascinated by figures and the patterns they create, especially when you have to explain their significance to men, who so often are only interested in a short-term gain.”

  “Like me, perhaps?”

  “I hope not, Seb.”

  It could have been Samantha speaking. He wouldn’t make the same mistake a second time. “How long have you been with Hambros?”

  “Just over three years.”

  “So you must be thinking about your next move?”

  “So like a man,” said Priya. “No, I’m very happy where I am, although I do get depressed when inadequate men are promoted to positions above their actual ability. I wish banking was like the ballet. If it was, Margot Fonteyn would be governor of the Bank of England.”

  “I don’t think Sir Leslie O’Brien would make a very good black swan,” said Seb as the three-minute bell rang. He quickly drained his glass of wine.

  Priya was right, because Seb couldn’t take his eyes off the black swan, who mesmerized the entire audience with her brilliance, and when the curtain fell at the end of act three, he was desperate to find out what would happen in the final act.

  “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,” he said as they returned to their table.

  “I won’t,” said Priya. “But savor the moment, because sadly you can only have this unique experience once.”

  “Perhaps you’ll have the same experience when I take you to The Merchant of Venice.”

  “How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

  Here will we sit and let the sounds of music

  Creep in our ears. Soft stillness and the night

  Become the touches of sweet harmony.

  Sit, Jessica, look how—”

  Sebastian bowed his head.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Priya. “What did I say?”

  “Nothing, nothing. You just reminded me of something.”

  “Or someone?”

  Seb was rescued by the P.A. “Ladies and gentlemen, would you please take your seats, the final act is about to begin.”

  The final act was so moving, and Fonteyn so captivating, that when Seb turned to see if it was having the same effect on Priya, he thought he saw a tear trickling down her cheek. He took her hand.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m making a fool of myself.”

  “That wouldn’t be possible.”

  When the curtain finally fell, Seb joined in the ten-minute standing ovation, and Margot Fonteyn received so many curtain calls and bouquets she could have opened a flower shop. As they left the auditorium, he took Priya’s hand as they strolled back to the restaurant, but she seemed nervous and didn’t speak. Once coffee had been served, Priya said, “Thank you for a wonderful evening. Being with you was like seeing Swan Lake for the first time. I haven’t enjoyed a performance so much in a long time.” She hesitated.

  “But something is worrying you.”

  “I’m a Hindu.”

  Seb burst out laughing. “And I’m a Somerset yokel, but it’s never worried me.”

  She didn’t laugh. “I don’t think I can come to the theatre with you, Seb.”

  “But why not?”

  “I’m frightened of what might happen if we see each other again.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you my father had to return to India.”

  “Yes, I assumed on business.”

  “Of a kind. My mother has spent the past few months selecting the man I will be expected to marry, and I think she’s made her final choice.”

  “No,” said Seb, “that can’t be possible.”

  “All that’s needed now is my father’s approval.”

  “You have no choice, no say in the matter?”

  “None. You have to understand, Seb, it’s part of our tradition, our heritage and ou
r religious beliefs.”

  “But what if you were to fall in love with someone else?”

  “I would still have to honor my parents’ wishes.” Seb leaned across the table to take her hand, but she quickly withdrew it. “I will never forget the night I saw Swan Lake with you, Seb. I will cherish the memory for the rest of my life.”

  “And so will I, but surely…” But when he looked up, like the black swan, she had disappeared.

  17

  “SO HOW DID last night go?” asked Jenny, as she placed two eggs in a saucepan of warm water.

  “It couldn’t have been much worse,” Priya replied. “Didn’t work out at all as I’d planned.”

  Jenny turned around to see her friend on the verge of tears. She rushed across, sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. “That bad?”

  “Worse. I liked him even more the second time. And I blame you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because if you’d agreed to come to the ballet with me, none of this would have happened.”

  “But that’s good.”

  “No, it’s awful. At the end of the evening I walked out on him, after telling him I never wanted to see him again.”

  “What did he do to make you so angry?”

  “He made me fall in love with him, which wasn’t what I intended.”

  “But that’s fantastic, if he feels the same way.”

  “But it can only end in disaster when our parents—”

  “I’m pretty sure Seb’s parents will welcome you as a member of their family. Everything I’ve ever read about them suggests they’re extremely civilized.”

  “It’s not his parents I’m worried about, it’s mine. They just wouldn’t consider Sebastian a suitable—”

  “We’re living in the modern world, Priya. Mixed-race marriage is becoming quite the thing. You should take your parents to see Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.”

  “Jenny, a black man wanting to marry a white woman in 1960s America is nothing compared to a Hindu falling in love with a Christian, believe me. Did you notice in that film, they never once discussed religion, only the color of his skin? I realize it’s not unknown for an Indian to marry someone of a different race, especially if they’re both Christians. But it’s not something a Hindu would ever consider. If only I hadn’t gone to that cricket match.”

  “But you did,” said Jenny, “so you’ll have to deal with reality. Would you rather try and build a worthwhile relationship with Sebastian, or please your parents by marrying a man you’ve never met?”

  “I just wish it was that simple. I tried to explain to Seb last night what it’s like to be brought up in a traditional Hindu household, where heritage, duty—”

  “What about love?”

  “That can come after marriage. I know it did for my mother and father.”

  “But your father’s met Sebastian, so surely he’d understand.”

  “The possibility of his daughter marrying a Christian will never even have crossed his mind.”

  “He’s an international businessman who sent you to St. Paul’s, and was so proud when you won a place at Cambridge.”

  “Yes, and he made it possible for me to achieve those things, and has never asked for anything in return. But when it comes to who I should marry, he’ll be immovable, and I’ll be expected to obey him. I’ve always accepted that. My brother was married to someone he’d never met, and my younger sister is already being prepared to go through the same process. I could face defying my parents if I felt that in time they might come around, but I know they never will.”

  “But surely they must accept that there’s a new world order and things have changed?”

  “Not for the better, as my mother never tires of telling me.”

  Jenny ran across to the stove as the water bubbled over the rim of the saucepan and rescued two very hard-boiled eggs. They both laughed. “So what are you going to do about it?” asked Jenny.

  “There’s nothing I can do. I told him we couldn’t see each other again, and I meant it.”

  There was a firm rap on the front door.

  “I’ll bet that’s him,” said Jenny.

  “Then you have to answer it!”

  “Sorry. Got another egg to boil, and can’t afford to make the same mistake twice.”

  A second rap on the door, even firmer.

  “Get on with it,” said Jenny, remaining by the stove.

  Priya prepared a little speech as she walked slowly into the hall.

  “I’m sorry, but—” she began as she opened the front door to find a young man standing on the doorstep holding a red rose.

  “Are you Miss Priya Ghuman?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I was asked to give you this.”

  Priya thanked him, closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

  “Was it him?” asked Jenny.

  “No, but he sent this,” she said, holding up the rose.

  “I really must start going to more cricket matches,” said Jenny.

  * * *

  “On the hour, every hour?” asked Clive.

  “That’s right,” said Seb.

  “And for just how long do you intend to keep sending her a rose on the hour, every hour?” asked Victor.

  “For as long as it takes.”

  “There’s got to be one very happy florist out there somewhere.”

  “Tell me, Vic, do Jewish parents feel as strongly about their children marrying outside their faith?”

  “I have to admit,” said Vic, “when my parents invited Ruth to dinner three Fridays in a row, I knew the only thing I was going to be allowed to choose was the vegetables.”

  “How can we even begin to understand the pressure Priya must be facing?” said Clive. “I feel for her.”

  “On a lighter note, Seb,” said Victor, “does this mean you won’t be taking her to The Merchant of Venice at the National tonight?”

  “It seems unlikely, so you may as well have my tickets.” He took out his wallet and handed them to Clive. “Hope you both enjoy it.”

  “We could toss a coin,” said Victor, “to decide which one of us goes with you.”

  “No, I have other plans for tonight.”

  * * *

  “It’s Miss Jenny Barton on line three, Mr. Clifton.”

  “Put her through.”

  “Hi, Seb. I was just calling to say hang in there. She’s weakening.”

  “But she hasn’t replied to any of my letters, doesn’t answer my calls, won’t acknowledge—”

  “Perhaps you should try to see her.”

  “I see her every day,” said Seb. “I’m standing outside Hambros when she turns up for work in the morning, and again when she catches her bus in the evening. I’m even there when she gets back to her flat at night. If I try any harder, I could be arrested for stalking.”

  “I’m visiting my parents in Norfolk this weekend,” said Jenny, “and I won’t be back until Monday morning. I can’t do much more to help, so get on with it.”

  * * *

  It was raining when Priya left the bank on Friday evening. She put up her umbrella and kept her head down, looking out for puddles as she made her way to the bus stop. Of course he was waiting for her, as he had been every night that week.

  “Good evening, Miss Ghuman,” he said, and handed her a rose.

  “Thank you,” she replied before joining the queue.

  Priya climbed on board the bus and took a seat on the top deck. She glanced out of the window and for a moment thought she spotted Seb hiding in the shadows of a shop doorway. When she got off the bus in Fulham Road, another young man, another rose, another thank you. She ran to the flat as the rain became heavier by the minute. By the time she put her key in the front door she was frozen. She’d decided on a quick supper, a warm bath and early bed, and tonight she would even try and get some sleep.

  She was taking a yogurt out of the fridge when the door bell rang. She smiled, and checked her
watch: the last rose of the day, which would join all the others in the vase on the hall table. Wondering just how long Seb would keep this up, she walked quickly to the door, not wanting the young man to get drenched. She opened it to find him standing there, an umbrella in one hand, a rose in the other.

  Priya slammed the door in his face, sank to the floor and burst into tears. How could she continue to treat him so badly, when she was the one to blame? She sat in the hallway, hunched up against the wall. It was some time before she slowly picked herself up and made her way back to the kitchen. The light was fading, so she walked across to the window and drew the curtains. It was still raining—what the English describe as cats and dogs. And then she saw him, head down, sitting on the curb on the far side of the road, rain cascading off his umbrella into the gutter. She stared at him through the tiny gap in the curtain, but he couldn’t see her. She must tell him to go home before he caught pneumonia. She ran to the door, opened it and shouted, “Sebastian.” He looked up. “Please go home.”

  He stood up, and she knew she should have closed the door immediately. He began walking slowly across the road toward her, half expecting the door to be slammed in his face again. But she didn’t close it, so he stepped forward and took her in his arms.

  “I don’t want to go on living if I can’t be with you,” he said.

  “I feel the same way. But you must realize it’s hopeless.”

  “I’ll go and see your father as soon as he comes back from India. I can’t believe he won’t understand.”

  “It won’t make any difference.”

  “Then we’ll have to do something about it before he returns.”

  “The first thing we’re going to have to do is get you out of that suit. You’re soaking.” As she took off his jacket, he leaned forward and began to undo the tiny buttons on her blouse.

  “I’m not soaking,” she said.

  “I know,” he whispered, as they continued to undress each other. He took her in his arms and kissed her for the first time. They fumbled around like teenagers, discovering each other’s bodies, slowly, gently, so when they finally made love, for Sebastian it was as if it was for the first time. For Priya it was the first time.

  * * *

  For the rest of the weekend they never left each other, even for a moment. They ran together in the park each morning, she cooked while he laid the table, they went to the cinema, not watching much of the film, laughed and cried, and lost count of how many times they made love. The happiest weekend of her life, she told him on Monday morning.