‘No.’
He watches my face as realization dawns. I’d accused her in front of half of Delhi’s WAGs. I should be grateful that my little performance hadn’t made it into the dailies. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, reaching for him.
I think about the people on that terrace. I’d barely even glanced at them as I walked out but the faces come back to me now. Arjun’s friends, distant cousins, society women his mother lunched with and men his father met for golf. Arjun is far too mannered to spell it out but I know what he’s thinking. This is not how people behave in his circle.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, finally, pulling me into a hug. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
I rest my forehead against his shoulder, willing my heart to slow down.
Arjun isn’t having an affair.
I should be relieved.
So why does it feel like my marriage is crumbling before my eyes?
It takes less than twenty-four hours after my meeting with Faraz for the call from the party president to come through. It’s about campaign strategy and budgets, but the campaign we’re discussing is not mine. He tells me the party wants me to continue visiting the constituency. They want me to attend every campaign rally and fundraiser but my sole purpose in every public appearance, every press conference, every parliamentary meeting is to talk up Faraz. They want me to throw my full weight behind his campaign. The message is clear. The party needs my help to win the election, but they don’t need me. I suppose it’s saying something that they aren’t throwing me out of the fold. But in many ways, what they’re asking for is worse. They’re asking me to do the one thing I’ve fought against my whole life. They’re asking me to become invisible.
SABAH
I pull my scarf tight around my neck as I step out of London Bridge station and walk through Hay’s Galleria to the South Bank. The first thing that strikes me is how quiet London is, how people march past each other, headphones on, eyes wary, a disengaged, soundless army of grey and black hurtling towards an unknown enemy.
Funny what a fortnight in Delhi will do for your senses.
I spend the morning locked in the conference room with Andrew, Rachel and the Amazon commissioner. As is usually the case with these things, the general meeting is little more than a muscle flex, the network reminding us that while they want us to have creative control, we’ve got to deliver on the promise of the pitch. We talk about access, run through skeletal character arcs, go through the key narrative beats and overall tone and style. The misconception with documentaries is that there’s no writing involved, and although there is an element – a huge element – of capturing moments as they happen, there’s a difference between documentary film-making and news reporting. I feel like a fortune-teller as I run through all the possible arcs the story could take and the commissioner highlights the ones he thinks would be the most compelling. The suspicious death angle, of course, is top of the list and as we move on to the legalities, I shoot Andrew a look, wondering how much he had blagged to get us this deal.
We bring in Jenny once the commissioner leaves and the focus of the meeting shifts from creative to housekeeping. My insistence that the series premier on the anniversary of Noor’s death means we’ll be running a tight diary, and Jenny’s smooth twenty-something forehead creases as she jots down the dates for the rough cut, picture lock and final delivery.
It’s only when the meeting is over and the conference room empties out that I let myself acknowledge the thought that has been circling my brain all morning. An idea that if played right, will give Amazon the scoop that it wants, and get Noor the justice that she deserves.
The next few days pass in a blur. With the office closing in two days for the TV industry’s traditionally long Christmas break and a delivery date of 1 March, we’re all on our toes and Andrew, Jenny and I spend the rest of the week playing musical chairs as one meeting bleeds into the next. Producers, researchers, editors and camera crew step in and out of the huddle room, the cloudless sky going from blue to purple to black as we go over everything from planning and logistics to budgets and equipment. By the time Friday evening rolls around, I’m ready to collapse, my body losing the race against the heady mixture of jet lag and total, utter exhaustion.
I grab my bag and walk out quickly. I have no intention of getting guilt-tripped into going to the office Christmas do. It’s one thing to pop out for a quick drink, but Andrew tends to go all out with elaborate themed events. Last year, he had dragged us all to a burlesque bar. This year he seems to have outdone himself by booking us into a boozy escape room adventure. My plan is to escape before the adventure begins.
I make it as far as the lift.
I rest my forehead against what is possibly the only concrete wall in this glass cage, its tangible solidity comforting.
‘You’re coming, right?’
I blame the exhaustion for what I do next.
I pull my lips into a smile and turn to face Dan. ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
Dan and I trail behind the others, the conversation flowing easily as we walk down side streets and badly lit alleyways.
I turn to Dan as the group crowds around the entrance to a nondescript townhouse near Borough station. Jenny’s shepherding everyone in one by one, handing out wristbands and tote bags emblazoned with the Arch Films logo.
‘Here we go,’ I say, falling in line.
Dan scoffs. ‘Why do you hate her so much?’
‘I don’t hate her. She’s just annoying.’
He rocks back on his feet and nods, eyes twinkling. ‘Sure.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just funny, that’s all. She’s a lot like you.’
His remark gives me pause. With her detailed lists and schedules and that laser-sharp focus, she is a lot like me. A younger, happier, infinitely more Instagrammable version of me. My own bitterness takes me by surprise.
‘Right, shall we?’ Dan says as the queue shuffles forward.
I hang back, hesitating.
He steers me to one side, letting the group of edit assistants pass. ‘Or we could skip this and go for a drink instead?’
I look at Dan, surprised at the strange sense of longing that’s appeared out of nowhere. He’s not handsome in an obvious way, certainly not the kind of man I’d pick out on Tinder, but with his biscuit-brown skin and softly chiselled chin there is something undeniably attractive about him. As he peers at me, thick eyebrows knotted together, I realize it’s the kindness in his eyes.
I look at the entrance, where Jenny is waiting, two tote bags dangling from her arm, and then back at Dan, at those kind, sincere eyes that I want to sink into. I weigh up both the options in front of me. I think about Noor.
And Vineet.
And Faraz.
I step back. I take the third option.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, with a regret so deep it feels as though my bones are made of putty. ‘I have to go.’
I wake to the sound of pelting rain.
I go into the app on my phone and cancel the yoga class that I’d ambitiously signed up for the day before. I make a cup of coffee and settle down on the sofa with the thick bundle of mail that had been waiting for me at the office, secretly pleased for an excuse to avoid the downward dog crew.
I leaf through the stack of envelopes and flyers. Cards, Christmas party invites, discount vouchers and letters telling me I’m eligible for another credit card I can’t quite afford. Not yet, anyway. I toss them aside one by one until an engraved envelope catches my eye.
I rip it open and pull out the thick card. It’s an invitation to a private view at an art gallery in west London. I’m about to throw it away when the name of the show catches my eye. This is Everything.
This is everything.
My stomach drops.
I remember hearing those words, thrown away so carelessly as if they meant nothing.
I flip the card over and look at the image on the other side.
It’s a picture of a painting depi
cting two girls on a boat.
One girl is standing at the bow of the punt, pole in hand, head thrown back in laughter. The other girl is sitting down, eyes wide, head tilted up towards her friend in admiration.
I close my eyes and I am back there, the twigs scratching my legs, the smell of the mossy banks making me nauseous, the sound of laughter grating my ears. It all comes back to me in an instant, as sharp as if I was still there, hiding in the bushes.
This is everything.
I’d bristled as those words skipped and bounced across the water.
I don’t need to read the caption below the picture to know the painting depicts a summer evening in Oxford.
I was there, spying on Noor and Alia through the tangled branches.
And there’s only one person who knows that.
The boy that Noor had loved toying with, giving him just enough attention to leave him wanting. The boy who had followed Noor around for years. Who had written her love letters and poems that sent us into fits of giggles.
Ankit.
SABAH
The gallery is on the corner of Westbourne Grove and Monmouth Road. It’s a huge space, already packed by the time I pass through the glass sliding doors, every wall filled with paintings. A large sign on the front wall announces the name of the show: This is Everything. Large canvases depicting subversive landscapes hang on the walls. The detail is incredible, woodland creatures peeping through hooded forests, vast seascapes with hints of menace underneath. I find myself mesmerized as I move from one canvas to the next.
I come to a stop in front of the painting that brought me here. It’s massive, nearly three times the size of the others, and even more magnificent in real life. I lean in to look at the texture, the layered underbrush, the soft ripples on the water, each detail drawn out for maximum effect. My eyes linger over the girls’ faces. The girl holding the punt is dark-skinned, with deep green eyes that mirror the surroundings. Her hair is a bright red, wavy and voluminous but nothing like Noor’s. The other girl, the one sitting down, is blonde and light-skinned. They look nothing like Noor or Alia, but the expressions on their faces are all the proof I need. Even though it is just a painting, that peculiar teenage air of trepidation and invincibility is unmistakable.
My eyes travel to the edge of the frame, the overgrown branches, the mossy underbrush and that’s when I notice it, the shadow lurking within the thicket. The pale man, concealed behind the branches, standing there watching, waiting. A shiver runs through me despite the warmth of the space. Ankit.
‘This one is my favourite,’ I hear someone say and I nearly jump. It’s a man wearing a bow tie and shiny brogues. I give him a quick smile.
‘Are you familiar with the artist’s work?’ I ask.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ He holds out his hand. ‘I’m James. I’m the gallerist. This is the third show we’ve had here and it looks like it’s going to be another sell-out.’
‘Impressive.’ I flick through the catalogue in my hand. There is no artist biography or even a name, which is not entirely unexpected. My search online had provided no answers either. All I’d found was a link to the gallery’s website with page after page of beautiful art and zero information. ‘I was trying to find the artist’s name but there doesn’t seem to be one mentioned. Does he live in the UK?’
‘I believe so, though I’ve never met the artist myself.’
I nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the painting in front of me. I’m not entirely sure what it is that I’m expecting to find, but I know that this is the missing link I’ve been looking for. It’s like when you find a spare screw after you’ve finished painstakingly assembling a piece of IKEA furniture. I have the missing piece. I know what it looks like. I can feel it in my hand. I just don’t know where to put it.
‘That’s a shame. I’m redoing my house in Delhi and I would have loved to commission a few pieces,’ I say, putting on my best trophy wife impression. I lean in to whisper conspiratorially. ‘My husband prefers art that hasn’t been displayed anywhere else.’
‘Of course.’ He nods. I can see the cogs in his brain turning. One of my Tinder hook-ups had been with an aspiring art curator. I don’t remember much from that drunken evening but I do remember him saying that the high-end art market in the UK is pretty much driven by rich Asian buyers. A commission in a private residence in India . . . It’s the stuff of any gallerist’s dreams.
‘Thank you for your time anyway,’ I say, smiling sweetly. ‘Good luck with the show.’
I turn around, making as if to leave. I keep my face set in a nonchalant smile but my heart is pounding though my chest.
I need this to work.
I need to find Ankit to figure out just how he fits into all this.
‘I could see if the agent is able to get in touch with the artist?’ he says finally, the lure of a big sale too hard to resist.
I stand still for a moment, letting him fret in the silence.
I turn around slowly, my lips drawn into a grateful smile.
‘That would be great,’ I say.
I hesitate before I give him my email address. But if I’m right, and Ankit is the one who sent me the invite, he already knows who I am.
‘I’m only here for a few days, though, and I don’t commission anything unless I’ve met the artist.’
‘Of course,’ he says, bowing his head. ‘I’ll make sure the agent gets back to you within the next couple of days.’
I spend the next day hitting refresh on my email and wandering through London, eager to lose myself amidst the tourists and shoppers, hoping that by rubbing shoulders with them I might be able to pinch some of their happiness for myself.
After a few hours in the exceptionally crowded British Museum, I wander into a restaurant in Bloomsbury. I thread through the outdoor tables, empty in the winter chill, and step inside. It’s a cosy space, indicative of the kind of clientele you would expect in the area. Even though it’s only three p.m., there are candles on every table, a vertical garden takes up the entire back wall and cosy blankets and sheepskin rugs are draped over every chair. It’s an Instagrammer’s dream, a woodland paradise mere steps away from the jungle that is Oxford Circus. Save for a group of ladies in their late seventies having tea, and two women with prams chatting about their NCT group, it is empty.
The waiter comes over in an instant and hands me a menu.
‘Red wine, please. Large,’ I say, not bothering with the wine list. ‘And some olives.’
He nods brusquely, reminding me why I love London. There is no awkward chit-chat nor any judgement about the mid-afternoon wine. People just get on with things, leaving you to yourself.
It’s also why I hate London. You could go weeks without having a real conversation.
He returns a moment later and places a massive glass of wine in front of me along with a ridiculously small bowl of olives.
I take a long swallow, enjoying the familiar sensation of wine slipping down my throat as my mind takes me back to the trip to Oxford fifteen years ago.
Even though we weren’t technically talking, I’d noticed a change in Noor on that trip. She had seemed on edge, disappearing for hours on end, sometimes with Alia but usually alone. I’d bet anything that Alia had never asked her where she was going, or why. She had always been far too enthralled by Noor to question anything.
I’d seen Noor slip out of the college nearly every night but on that final night, as Noor and Alia climbed out of the window, I followed them. I told myself that I was doing it because I was worried about Noor – she had just spent a month in rehab and I didn’t want her relapsing – but if I’m honest, I followed them because I was jealous. I crept along after them, keeping my distance. It wasn’t long until I ran into Ankit. He fumbled over his words, told me he was supposed to meet Noor on Magdalen Bridge, acting like it was all pre-arranged. It was obvious that he was lying but I was hardly in a position to tell him off. Instead, I followed them all the way to the river and watched q
uietly while Noor stole a punt and nearly toppled it over. I didn’t pay much attention to Ankit, who was standing next to me the entire time, unobtrusive as ever. But then he’d always had a talent for becoming invisible. Noor and I hadn’t even noticed that he used to follow her around until the poems started, and suddenly we began to see him everywhere, lurking, hiding in the shadows, hungry for even one moment of Noor’s time. At one point, he even joined Noor’s art class to try and get close to her and now that I think about it, I’m pretty certain that he’d spent half his time in Oxford bent over his sketchbook.
I run through the possibilities in my head. Though I teased Noor about having a stalker, I had never really thought of Ankit’s fascination with Noor as more than a somewhat disproportionate crush. Of course, she had led him on – Noor had a peculiar power over boys and she liked to use it to toy with them – but he was a meek, skinny boy with too many pimples and no friends. Did he really think he stood any chance with the most popular girl in school? But then, perhaps a sweet smile or a kind word meant far more to him than either of us could have imagined. Perhaps it was enough to feed an obsession. He wouldn’t have been the first boy to be hypnotized by Noor, but then what?
I glance at my watch, trying to work out the time in India before ringing Alia. She answers on the first ring.
I fill her in on everything, my cheeks burning as I tell her about how Ankit and I had followed them in Oxford. She has the grace to let it slide, not calling me out on my hypocrisy.
‘I haven’t seen him in years,’ Alia says after I tell her that I’ve already tried looking for him online.
‘He left school around the same time that you did,’ Alia continues. ‘He must have transferred to a different school but I don’t – I don’t actually know where he went. I haven’t seen him at any of the reunions.’
I’m not surprised. That boy had no friends. And other than Noor, no one ever really bothered with him. But that doesn’t explain the fact that I’ve trawled through every social media website, checked phonebooks and electoral registers, even called the school’s admissions office and still drawn a blank. It’s as though he just disappeared, dropped off the face of the earth at almost exactly the same time that Noor was murdered.
Can You See Me Now? Page 24