by Zee Monodee
She blinked when she opened her eyes. Darkness swathed the room, not one sliver of light peeking in to diminish the gloom. Great—her father had found how to add black-out curtains to the shades already present over the windows in her attic flat.
The softness under her forced her to reconsider, though. This wasn’t her bed; her sheets were never this buttery soft. Try as she might, she still held on too much to her thrifty Indian roots to splurge that much moolah on thousand-thread-count sheets. She made do with the two-hundred count, which suited her just fine. But this? Nowhere close to what she was used to. It was even better than the stuff in the luxury hotel she’d stayed in during a trip to India.
Where the hell was she?
As she sat up in the bed, she frowned at the sight of the pajamas on her. Wait a second. There were tiny cotton shorts edged in soft, frilly lace, the sleeveless top in the same fabric, with the lace straps running up to join as a racer-Y-back lying flat between her shoulder blades.
She never wore nightwear like this. Too frilly and again, expensive for her simple tastes. An old T-shirt suited her perfectly. And whose clothes were this? Whose house was she in?
As she pushed the covers back, a weird, metallic taste in her mouth registered, and this prompted her stomach to lurch. No sign of the basin anywhere, so she hastened out of the gigantic bed, rushing to the closed door on the side. She hoped it was a bathroom, and she let out a sigh of relief, with her hand still clamped over her closed lips, upon spotting the toilet seat at the back. Rushed steps took her there, where she fell to her knees and chucked her guts out.
Pausing to gather her breath, she then stood and flushed. Again, no light in here, but the porcelain with the gold trim gleamed so much in the dark, it wasn’t hard to make out where everything was. There seemed to be a gold-etched switch on the wall next to the open door, and she shuffled there to turn on the light.
Okay, where on Earth had she landed? This bathroom looked like the kind of immaculate picture that graced lifestyle magazines or super-sophisticated Pinterest boards. Who even had bathrooms like these in real life?
The light spilling over the threshold illuminated parts of the bedroom, and Megha gasped once again. This place looked like something out of the Ritz, with its opulent carpet and tasseled velvet curtains, gold trim on the walls, complicated wallpaper, and luxurious furniture.
People lived like this? Unless she was at a hotel? But what would she be doing at such a refined establishment, she of the lowly origins? She wouldn’t be able to pay for this kind of place in the UK even in her dreams.
A sudden urge to pee prompted her to go to the loo again, and she made the mistake of looking down at the water before flushing. There, against the stark-white bowl, lay a reddish-orange pool. The smell of bitter medicine floated up to her nostrils, but just the sight of that dreadful colour—doxorubicin wasn’t called the ‘red devil’ for nothing!—proved enough to make her stomach churn once more. Prompted to her knees again, she dry-retched for a moment until the feeling had passed. With her eyes closed, however, she flushed the toilet and then got up to go to the sink.
Goodness, she could play a zombie extra without needing any makeup, if the reflection from the lit mirror was anything to go by. A splash of cold water on her face did her good, as did washing out her mouth.
As she traipsed back to the door, sounds coming from the room stopped her in her tracks. Female voices. Light also seemed to bathe the space even more—they must’ve opened the curtains.
Standing by the wall, she leaned forward and peeked into the bedroom. Three blonde Amazons lay sprawled all over the bed. One of them lifted her head and caught Megha’s eye.
Drat, she was screwed!
Chapter Five
“Hey! Come on back in. You look like a wreck!” said the blonde with the long, flowing hair that resembled spun gold.
The blonde with the razor-edged pageboy cut slammed her with a cushion. “Watch that mouth, Agneta! What is she gonna think of us?”
The youngest of the lot, who looked like a teenager who’d just reached adulthood, turned to Megha and smiled. ‘Hello, älskling.”
Her voice was soft and gentle, which pacified Megha a bit. And who could resist that sweet smile?
“Sorry about Agneta. She doesn’t think before she speaks,” the one with the short hair said before she turned to the others. “See? You’ve scared her.”
The girl called Agneta looked chastised. “I did not! And what was I supposed to say? That you look gorgeous?” She flicked her grey eyes to Megha. “You are gorgeous, by the way, but that ashy pallor is not helping you out at all right now.”
A cushion landed on her again, and she squirmed. “I swear, if my baby is hurt—”
“Oh, no. Not again with that baby,” the short-haired girl lamented.
These words prompted Megha to look more closely at Agneta. Indeed, a rounded bump protruded from her mid-section.
The youngest girl had stood, and Megha blinked when she found her standing across the threshold.
She held out her hand. “I’m Elin. And these are my sisters, Agneta and Tindra.”
It all rushed to her then. And it made sense, though horror filled her. These were Magnus’ sisters. She must be at the Trammells’ residence, in London. Images of the past day flooded back, especially that moment when she had asked him to take her anywhere but home in Daimsbury.
So he’d brought her to his family house. And speaking of the devil …
“Magnus?” she croaked.
“At a business meeting,” Tindra—the short-haired girl—said. “He’s been at it since early this morning.”
“Sweetie, I don’t know what you’ve done and how you’ve done it, and I don’t care, frankly,” Agneta started, “but the change in Magnus? I say it’s all because of you. Our brother’s finally growing into a man, and it’s all thanks to you.”
Megha blinked. What were they on about? And more importantly, what time was it?
“Would you let that poor girl rest?” an exasperated voice said.
Megha glanced up to find another tall blonde entering the room. She bore a striking resemblance to Elin, with the same delicate good looks that were a tad hardened by age and maturity.
Drat, that must be their mother. Mrs. Trammell. A gulp and a step back took her into the bathroom again, suddenly registering that the marble felt far from cold. Goodness, heating cables under the floor?
“Okay, out with you lot. Shoo!” Mrs. Trammell had reached her by now, and with a gentle yet firm hand, grabbed hold of her arm to pull her back into the bedroom and steer her to the bed. She straightened the sheets, puffed up the foremost pillow, then bundled Megha under the covers once again.
“Mamma, we just wanted to meet her—”
“Later,” she chastised. “Megha needs to sleep, not having you chattering cows around her.” She turned to Megha. “I apologize, darling. Magnus did tell us you needed your rest, but these girls …” She sighed. “Oh, he left this for you. Anti-nausea meds. I still think putting something in your stomach would help best. No?”
Just the thought of food made her want to jump to the loo again. So, she shook her head.
“Not even a little dry toast? It helps with nausea. Tided Agneta all through her first three months with the morning sickness.”
“Damn, is that what it feels like?” Agneta exclaimed. “Sweets, I so empathize with you.”
“Out!” softly shouted their mother—if someone could shout in a soft tone, that is. But Mrs. Trammell had mastered that perfectly.
Anticlimactic silence fell over the room as the other three went out, leaving her alone with Magnus’ mother.
“Mrs. Trammell, I—”
“Oh, none of that. Call me Elsa.”
Uhm, no, she didn’t think so … “Thank you for letting me stay. I’m sorry I was imposed on you—”
“Oh, nonsense. Magnus explained it all to us, and frankly, there would’ve been someone to attend to you at
any moment here. Not that I’m saying your father wouldn’t, but the poor man must already be so taxed seeing you going through this plight. My poor child …”
Her words dwindled off as she reached up and ran a hand over Megha’s head. Something her dad or Ben had done too many times to count, but a woman never had. Her mother had not been there— No, she wouldn’t think of her now. Not when fatigue was crashing down on her. Though she could also ascribe that to the Trammell women’s over-enthusiastic chatter.
How rude of her to be falling asleep without having properly thanked Mrs. Trammell for her hospitality, but before she could fight her way out of the lethargy, sleep had claimed her once more.
***
When she next awoke, the darkness in the room was broken by the soft glow of the lit Tiffany lamp. The green and blue stained glass made to look like a wisteria vine threw delicate light over the room, the shadows comforting rather than appearing menacing as they hovered in the corners.
Megha stretched and sat up in the bed. Seemed like she had slept for most of the day. The growl of her stomach, this time without any accompanying nausea, comforted her that the worst had passed. She should try to get up … and leave. Nobody liked an imposed guest who overstayed their welcome.
A glance around the space showed her no telephone, and the battery on her cell had probably died over there in her bag. There was, however, a little string with a tiny bell one could pull on the other side of the bed headboard. Huh, she’d seen those on Downton Abbey. Far from her to go call for a member of the downstairs staff to come attend to her. She was herself on the same level as those people.
But she had to get away. Find Magnus first, thank him for all he’d done, ask him to extend her gratitude to his family, and then, she’d be out of here. Gotta find him first, though.
She went to the bathroom where she washed her face and used her finger to cleanse her teeth with some toothpaste—she wouldn’t dare break the seal on the travel-type toothbrush still in its case. She wasn’t that lofty a guest, thank you. Then she darted out and tried the wardrobe. Strangely empty. Where were her clothes, the ones she’d worn when coming in? Pink fabric hanging from a peg on the door of the bathroom caught her attention, and she pulled the terry robe on. It wouldn’t do for Mr. Trammell to land on her in her skimpy clothes as she roamed the corridors of his house. She shuddered from the mere thought.
Megha went to the door on the other side of the room and pushed it open. Light from lit wall sconces showed a carpeted and gilt-bedecked hallway that looked like it belonged more in a palace than a town home. As she stepped out, the sound of giggles and voices carried over from the far end, and she made her way there, only to encounter a staircase going up.
The sounds came louder here—seemed like the Trammell sisters were at their bickering again. Was that what having a big family was like? When she’d been little, she’d yearned to have a slew of siblings. She’d once asked her father why she was alone, and the sharp look of pain on his face before his smile had covered it had remained with her ever since. She’d never asked the question again, because it would mean making her father hurt once more.
With a furrowed brow, she made her way up the steps, surprised to find the staircase opened directly into a big room above. Thick carpet everywhere here, as well, the furnishings soft and inviting, the décor less regal Ritz and more lived-in luxury. Over across on the wall, a huge TV screen was lit, an electronics logo softly bouncing around the surface, looking as if it were in screensaver mode.
On the over-sized and over-stuffed sofa—no way that wasn’t custom furniture, because who in their right mind would buy such a gigantic piece from a shop?—the three blondes lay sprawled once more. They were arguing; if she gathered right, about what show to watch.
Agneta’s sharp gaze zeroed in on her, making her squirm. Drat, no way out. The tall blonde reached her in three long strides to pull her by the wrist into the room, almost flinging her to lie on the cushy, three-foot-wide ottoman in the middle.
“Okay, how about we ask Megha what she wants to watch?” Agneta said.
“Gosh, Agneta, let her breathe,” Tindra said.
“You hungry, älskling?” Elin asked.
Her stomach chose that moment to make itself known. Before she could fathom an answer, Agneta had pulled a cord similar to the one in the bedroom, and a starched-looking butler appeared as if conjured by magic.
“Carson, can you tell Ona to send up some dry toast and tea? And maybe some of that chicken broth with pho?”
“Certainly, Miss Agneta. Anything else?”
“No, that will be all. Thanks.”
As suddenly as he’d arrived, the man left, dismissed, and she’d swear it didn’t take five minutes for a young woman decked out like a maid from olden times to come in with a loaded tray that she deposited in front of her.
Silence had filled the room, but it was broken now as the discussion resumed.
“So, Megha, what do you want to watch with us?”
She blinked at that. Us? There was an ‘us’ in there? Truth be told, she was more ‘us’ with the maid rather than these glamazons here. Agneta Trammell filled up society pages with her many charity and other partying outings, whereas Tindra Trammell was often touted as the creative brain behind the stellar window displays at all their shops worldwide. Elin Trammell was still too young to have made her mark, though the tabloids had her flagged as a figure to follow.
Who was she, the Indian-origin brown chick with the village restaurateur father, in all this glitz? Absolutely no one, that’s who.
Still, she detected no malice and nothing but genuine good vibes coming from the girls, so in order not to be rude, she decided to play along. What could it hurt? It already looked like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole into this world of luxury and glamour—a few more hours couldn’t upset the status quo even more. She’d ascribe it to a dream-like state later on.
“I’ve got no clue,” she replied. “What are you lot into?”
“How about Game of Thrones?” Tindra asked.
“You want to make me sick or what?” Agneta railed. “With my sensibilities right now—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tindra countered. “Stranger Things?”
“Euw! That demi-whatever thing in there? Makes me want to vomit!”
“It’s called a Demogorgon, Agneta.”
“How about The Royals?” Elin quipped.
At this, Megha’s head snapped to her. “You guys watch The Royals?”
Agneta rolled her eyes. “Lies, secrets, scandal, power games, hot men, sex, great fashion, and did I say, hot men? What’s not to like?”
Megha sat there flummoxed because that was one of her favourite shows, for many of the reasons Agneta had ticked off. It was like a salacious soap opera in the world of a sexy and beautiful but terribly flawed fictional royal family of England in today’s times.
“So The Royals it is, then,” Tindra said and got the first episode rolling.
Megha stared at the screen before looking at them one by one. “You’re watching it from the very start?”
“Duh. How else do you binge-watch something, sweetie?” Agneta asked. Then she pulled the cord again, the butler manifesting a few seconds later. “Carson, popcorn, please. Lots of it.”
“Certainly, miss.”
Big, almost bottomless bowls of popcorn were brought to the room, each girl settling down with one in her lap. Two bowls remained. For who? Or was that stock?
“Eat, silly,” Agneta told her as she pushed a tub onto Megha. “Popcorn is dry, so good for nausea. Trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about.”
There was still another bowl.
“What are you lot watching tonight?” came the male voice from the threshold.
Magnus. Megha hadn’t seen him since the past day at the hospital. A hot blush crept up her cheeks, making her look down so no one would notice. Thank goodness her hair was still long and flowing, thus further masking her face. She w
ouldn’t have this indulgence in a few weeks—as things went, large amounts of her locks were already staying on her brush every time she untangled her long hair.
This thought sobered her. Soon, she wouldn’t have any hair on her head. The twins had already told her not to worry, that they were sourcing a wig of the best quality for her, but a wig was still a wig. Something artificial, not of her.
And this made her think of something else, but she wouldn’t dwell on that for now. Time enough for it later down the road. Assuming she even made it …
No, she couldn’t think that way. She would make it.
“Megha. How are you doing?” he asked.
She looked up then, and smiled. The least she could do, given the circumstances. This man had stopped her loved ones from seeing her in the catastrophic state she’d been in the day before. For sparing her father and Ben that image, she would be eternally grateful to him.
“Better,” she said. “Finally able to eat a little.”
He nodded and smiled. “Don’t overdo it.”
“I won’t.”
Agneta tugged on his trouser leg. “Will you shut up? This is one of the best Jaspenor moments.”
He frowned. “The best what?”
“Jaspenor. Jasper and Eleanor. She’s the princess. He’s her bodyguard.”
“He’s blackmailing her for sex,” Tindra added.
He shook his head. “What the heck are you watching?”
Agneta pulled on his trouser leg again, harder this time, forcing him to plop down with all his heavy weight onto the sofa next to Megha. The bowl of popcorn in her hands flew into the air, showering them with little white balls.
The girls peeked up, exchanged a look with their brother, then all of them burst out into laughter. Megha couldn’t help herself, and she also joined in. The sofa, ottoman, and the carpet between them now looked like a popcorn winter wonderland.
When the laughter had subsided, Magnus reached for a handful of fallen popcorn and stuffed it into his mouth. He then loosened his tie and ditched his jacket before settling down beside her on the sofa.