Secrets and Sins
Jaishree Misra

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Jaishree Misra 2010

Jaishree Misra asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

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Ebook Edition © APRIL 2010 ISBN: 9780007352326

Version: 2018-06-27

I dedicate this to Shalini Misra who is no relation and yet showers my Rohini with the kind of love only the closest relatives give.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Epilogue

In Conversation with Jaishree Misra

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue

She gazed up at the cinema screen. He was larger than life, the close-up zooming in on his face causing his sleepy brown eyes to look directly into hers as he smiled into the camera. His hair was still black and shiny, exactly as she remembered it from back then. How many years ago was it? Every so often, she counted…ten…eleven…always surprised that the yearning hadn’t gone away…

Something indefinable caught at her heart as she saw his face soften. She cast a look around at the rows of faces staring intently at the screen, all of them absorbed in the drama of the tender love scene unfolding before their eyes. He continued to be Bollywood’s most popular actor, equally loved in action as well as romantic roles – but undoubtedly it was his romantic persona that carried abiding appeal for his throngs of doting female fans.

As he leant down to kiss the heroine on the nape of her neck, the same thought came to her as it always did when she watched one of his love scenes on screen. She sighed and sank down in her seat and wondered, with the same old feeling in the pit of her stomach, what all these hundreds of people watching the film would do if they knew…if they only knew that she, Riva Walia, was the very first girl to whom the iconic and adored Aman Khan had ever made love.

Chapter One

LEEDS, 1994

The Union Bar was more crowded than Aman had ever seen it since joining the university. Unsurprising, he supposed, seeing that the Man U versus Barça match was due to kick off in fifteen minutes. The din was unbearable but everyone else seemed oblivious to it; both the groups of students gathered around the cheek-by-jowl tables and the bar staff who were by now probably all stone deaf. Aman looked around for the only person he was hoping to see, and soon spotted Riva. She was with a gang at the far end of the room, seated around a scuffed circular table near the back door that was sticky with spilt drinks and littered with crumpled crisp wrappers and cigarette butts.

Shouldering his way through the throng, Aman saw the usual crowd surrounding Riva, including a few people whom he knew by face rather than name. Aman had watched Riva acquire at least a hundred new friends in this first year at uni; she was always surrounded by people. Riva’s best friend, the chirpy redhead Susan, was the first to spot him. She said something to Ben that made him look up and give Aman what was definitely an unwelcoming glare. And then Riva spotted him. Her face broke into one of those lovely smiles that did strange things to Aman’s insides. She raised her arm and waved enthusiastically at him. He nodded as she pointed to the empty stool next to her, and continued to make his way through the crowd in her direction. Could he really hope that she had kept that seat waiting for him? Ben was still glowering as Aman neared the table but Susan’s medical student boyfriend, Joe, was friendlier and moved his bag aside to make room for Aman.

‘Hi, can I get anyone a drink?’ Aman asked. He licked his lips – his mouth had gone suddenly dry. Everyone had full glasses and so Aman sat down. He would get his orange juice later. It wasn’t what he was here for anyway.

‘Didn’t know you were a football fan,’ he said, turning to Riva with a smile.

‘Oh, I’m not,’ she replied cheerily, taking a long swig from her glass. He watched the golden lager passing through her lips, thinking of how badly he wanted to kiss them. Putting her glass down, she said, ‘And I didn’t know you were a footie fan.’

‘I’m not either,’ he replied, slipping into the same merry tone of voice she had used.

‘Shall we escape this shit then?’ she asked. ‘Or did you have other plans?’

Incredulous at the unexpected change of fortune and momentarily robbed of speech, Aman nodded dumbly. Then, gathering his wits, he said, ‘I was going to make myself something to eat back at the hall, actually. You know, take advantage of everyone being here to get free use of the kitchen.’

‘Make something? You can cook?’

The truthful answer would have been ‘Hmmm, a tiny bit – toast and scrambled eggs mainly.’ But Aman, his heart surging with bravado, said, ‘Of course I can cook. I’m quite good actually. Why, don’t you believe me?’

He couldn’t help but imagine the peals of laughter his mother would have broken into had she been around to hear his blatant lie. Luckily Mum was as far away as she could possibly be, probably fast asleep in her bed in Bombay and blissfully unaware of her son’s evil machinations.

‘I only ask because Sonalika, my mate back at school, used to say she knew no Indian men who cooked,’ Riva smiled. ‘My dad certainly can’t, but I don’t know too many other Indian men apart from him, so I shouldn’t judge.’

‘Chicken makhani’s my speciality actually,’ Aman said, warming to his theme.

‘Cor!’ Riva looked gratifyingly impressed. ‘Teach me!’ she demanded.

‘Teach you? Now?’

‘Now!’

‘But the match…’

‘Stuff the match! We’re neither of us here for the footie anyway. C’mon, let’s escape this hellhole.’ Riva knocked back the last of her lager and picked up her coat and bag from under her chair. Aman, needing no further invitation, got up and looked apologetically around at the others.

‘Hey, guys, Aman and I are off in search of some nosh,’ Riva said casually as she pulled on her jacket. ‘Be back by the end of the game.’

Aman did not miss the renewed glare from Ben, who looked ready to get up and punch him, but none of the others seemed too bothered as it was nearing kick-off and the attention of the whole bar was starting to focus on the screen. Riva was already halfway out of the back door and lighting up a cigarette by the time Aman caught up with her.

‘Don’t think Ben was too pleased,’ Aman said.

‘Ben? Why, what makes you say that?’ Riva blew a plume of smoke out into the cold air.

‘He is your boyfriend, isn’t he?’

‘Naaah.’ Riva shrugged and asked, ‘Have you got the stuff you need, Aman?’

‘Stuff?’

‘You know, the chicken, onions…what else will we need? Rice? Oh, chicken makhani sounds great. I’d love to learn how to cook it.’

‘Er, no, I haven’t got the stuff…I was thinking of buying it from the campus shop on my way back.’

‘Okay, we’ll do it together then. And I’ll buy a bottle of wine – that’ll be my contribution to the meal. God, I’m starving! So much nicer to sit down to a proper meal and conversation, rather than spend the evening watching a sport I hate. Overpaid prima donnas who call themselves sportsmen, tribal warfare, loutish crowds…I loathe the whole shebang, honestly!’

Aman felt weak at the knees as he walked along beside Riva. He could not tell if it was due to the prospect of a whole evening alone with such a beautiful, clever, sassy girl, or the fact that he had no idea at all how to make chicken makhani. It was his favourite dish at the dhaba around the corner from his house in Bombay and, occasionally his mother got the bai to cook a version of it at home as well, but the thought of making it himself had never crossed Aman’s mind before.

At the shop, he did his best to look masterful, throwing two onions and a bulb of garlic into his shopping basket, next to a cling-filmed pack of chopped chicken. The shape of the pieces (long and narrow) didn’t look quite right to him but it would have to do. Remembering in the nick of time that he would need a substance to fry everything in, Aman added a block of butter to his shopping. It stood to reason that chicken makhani would bear some relation to ‘makhan’, which was Hindi for butter. Good idea to use plenty of it, he reckoned.

Riva was waiting at the till with a bottle of red wine and insisted on paying for it, even though Aman tried to persuade her to let him take care of the entire bill. It was only when they walked into his hall fifteen minutes later, stamping their feet to get rid of the snow and mud from the soles of their boots, that Aman realised he had nothing but salt and pepper by way of seasoning. While Riva went to the toilet, Aman frantically opened a few cupboards, hoping to find a stray bottle of spices. He finally stumbled upon a can of mixed herbs and sniffed its contents. It smelt vaguely of pizza. Quite clearly, no Indian masala had been anywhere near this bottle – but it would have to do. Aman rolled up his sleeves and began to yank the peel off the onions before chopping them into large rough chunks. Riva returned and rooted around inside a drawer to unearth a corkscrew and a pair of wine glasses. As she busied herself opening the bottle she had bought, Aman wondered if he ought to confess that, apart from not having a clue how to cook this meal, he did not drink either. He wasn’t sure if Riva had already noticed his variety of fruit juices on the few occasions they had been in bars and pubs together, and he was worried that she would think he was a stick-in-the-mud, rather than just an obedient son to Muslim parents.

‘Do you mind if I have OJ?’ Aman asked as Riva started to pour the wine into two glasses.

‘I’ll let you off for now, seeing as you need to concentrate. That’s a rather delicate operation you’re carrying out there,’ Riva replied, watching nervously as Aman ham-fistedly attempted to light the gas cooker.

Eventually (with some help from Riva), Aman got a weak blue flame going and began piling the pieces of chicken, onions and garlic together into the pan and stuck it on the hob. Riva was halfway through the bottle of wine by this time. Aman stirred the mixture together to form a pale white sludge. He continued to stir it in a determined fashion, willing it to change colour and look more appealing, but the best it could do was deepen to a pale brown as the onions started to burn in their pool of butter. Riva did not appear to notice, however, but sat on a kitchen stool throughout his exertions, chatting about her school and family back in Ealing. Aman wasn’t sure where exactly Ealing was but, from Riva’s few mentions of London, he gathered it was a suburb of the capital. She had questions for Aman about his Bombay upbringing too, carefully referring to the city as Mumbai, even though Aman himself almost always referred to it as Bombay. He kept his answers brief, standing near the stove, terrified that his dish would go up in flames if he did not keep stirring it. It looked terribly pale compared to the chicken makhani that he so enjoyed back at Sardar’s dhaba, which was usually bright orange and served up with giant wedges of pillowy soft naans.

‘I don’t have all the spices I need, so it’s a bit colourless I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically to Riva.

She got up and peered into the frying pan. ‘Yes, something’s missing. Could it be…hang on, you need tomatoes to make a curry, don’t you? I’m sure I’ve heard my mum say that…’

Aman froze. Of course a curry needed bloody tomatoes! He closed his eyes and slapped his forehead, making Riva throw her head back and laugh.

‘Never mind,’ she said, ‘as long as the chicken’s cooked through, it’ll still be edible. I might have mine on toast. Be a shame to waste all that butter.’

Aman looked at her hopefully. ‘Now? Shall I make you some toast now? I have bread in the fridge…’

‘Later. I’m not hungry yet,’ Riva said. ‘Shall we take this somewhere else?’ she asked, picking up the wine bottle. ‘Or we’ll both be stinking of food. You must have a glass too, seeing that it’s my pressie to you.’

‘Good idea, let’s get outta here,’ Aman said, switching off the flame with relief. He washed his hands as Riva poured him a glass. Hopefully, by the time Riva had finished the bottle, she’d be too drunk to remember to eat. Aman took a tentative sip as he followed her down the corridor, the taste making him want to pucker his lips and spit it out forthwith. Aman had never been able to tell why people drank the stuff but it was sure making Riva laugh a lot tonight, her cheeks turning a pretty soft pink as the colour rose in her face. She stepped back for Aman to open his room door and he hoped desperately he’d left it in a reasonable state earlier. Luckily it was neat enough, except for a small pile of discarded clothes that Aman hastily kicked under his bed while Riva wandered around his room looking at the pictures on the wall and table.

For another half hour, they talked, Riva sitting on the bed and Aman at the table. Or rather Riva talked, while Aman gazed at her animated face and shining dark eyes, nursing his glass of wine and pretending every so often to be sipping at it. He thought it incredible that Riva trusted him enough to sit here on his bed, in his room, while everyone else was down at the Union Bar. Especially when all he could think of was grabbing her and kissing that lovely mouth. But Aman did no such thing, of course, having been brought up to be a gentleman. He hadn’t had much practice with being alone with girls before, except for his large band of cousins, who didn’t really count. But something told him it wouldn’t be wise to use this opportunity to shower Riva with passionate kisses. And yet, when the bottle of wine was finished and Riva got up to leave, Aman felt bereft and stupid, his best chance presented to him on a platter before being snatched from under his nose.

He got up from his chair and asked weakly, ‘Do you not want to eat? My chicken…’

‘Ah, yes, your chicken…of course…you took such trouble and here I am…’ Riva was slurring slightly. She suddenly swayed alarmingly on her feet. Aman caught her just as she crumpled, stopping her from falling to the floor. For a few stunned seconds, he just stood there, holding an unconscious Riva in his arms, wondering what to do. Then he lifted her up and carried her to his bed, trying to push aside the duvet with one foot. The cheap wine had knocked her out cold and she barely stirred as he pulled off her fleecy boots and covered her with his duvet. Her face wore a slightly anxious expression.

Aman stood next to the bed, unsure of what to do next. He certainly couldn’t leave Riva here on his bed, not least because he had nowhere else to go. And now that it was past eleven o’clock, he didn’t think he would find Riva’s friends down at the bar either. Besides he too was desperate to catch some sleep, the rigours of his hour-long culinary effort having completely exhausted him. He took a pair of sheets out of his cupboard and tried to fashion a bed for himself on the floor, using the small cushion and rug he had inherited from the previous occupant of this room. It was terribly uncomfortable in comparison with his bed, but he was nevertheless pleased to see Riva sleeping soundly, the earlier worried crease in her forehead having cleared as she fell into a deep slumber.

When Riva opened her eyes the next morning, it was with a strong sense of being somewhere she was not meant to be. It was either getting on for late evening or close to dawn because there was a sliver of light showing around the edges of a drawn curtain. Where the fuck am I, Riva wondered, raising her throbbing head, alarmed to see a figure huddled on the floor next to her. The events of the previous night gradually returned as she recognised Aman’s sleeping form and remembered his dismal attempts at impressing her with his chicken makhani. He’d made a total hash of it and she had fortunately managed to wriggle out of eating any. But her empty stomach was probably the reason why she had keeled over so unceremoniously after just three glasses of wine…or was it four? All Riva could remember now was the room spinning around her as Aman had grabbed her. He must have led her to bed and tucked her in…bloody hell, and taken off her boots! She felt about her nether regions in sudden panic, relieved to find she was still wearing her jeans. Overcome with mortification, Riva convinced herself there had been no rumpy-pumpy after she had passed out; surely she would remember if she had had sex with Aman?

God, that would have been just terrible, she thought, laying her head back on the pillow in sudden relief. Perhaps Aman was of the slow ‘n’ steady school of seduction, rather than a fast mover. Riva had recently confessed to Susan how appealing she found Aman’s eager adoration of her, and Susan had wagered that Aman’s good looks were a hugely contributory factor to Riva’s inability to tell him to bog off. Susan didn’t know, however, how much Riva enjoyed Aman’s company. The fascinating insights his background gave her into her own Indian heritage were a large part of his appeal. Above all, it was his gentleness that drew Riva in, a rare quality in the boys she generally met. And now here she was, wrapped snugly in Aman’s duvet while the poor bloke lay shivering in a sheet on the floor…

Later, Riva would try to understand what prompted her to do what she did next. After all, she had never been particularly promiscuous. But there, in the early hours of that February morning, Riva raised her head and called softly out to Aman before stretching her hand down towards him to touch his arm. He looked startled as he opened his eyes and his confused gaze met hers in the half darkness.

‘You must be freezing,’ Riva said, whispering for some unfathomable reason. ‘Come up here,’ she invited, moving the duvet aside. Aman sat up and she saw that he was still wearing his jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Take off those bloody jeans,’ she said, smiling, as he got up. When he had done so and climbed in to lie next to her on the bed, she rubbed her hands up and down his cold arms to warm them. By now Aman looked wide awake, his dark eyes shining in the diffused moonlight filtering through the curtains. While Riva rubbed his shoulders and then his chest through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, he cupped her face in the palms of his hands. They kissed gently at first, then more passionately. They began to undress each other, Riva sitting up in bed and raising her arms so that Aman could slip off her top before lying down next to him again. As he kissed her again, pressing her down on the bed with the force of his ardour, she lay down and arched her back to tug off her jeans. Finally, when they were both naked, their bodies shining in the half light, they made love, tentative and fumbling at first. When Riva felt Aman come, she held him close as his body trembled against hers and they stayed like that for a long time.

When they finally drew apart, Aman lay back, his head next to hers on the pillow. Riva could hear him panting slightly. A few minutes later, he spoke, looking at the ceiling rather than at her, his voice shy.

‘You might have guessed, that was my first time.’

‘I didn’t actually,’ Riva replied, but she was being kind. Even though she wasn’t hugely experienced herself, it hadn’t been hard to tell from Aman’s nervousness that he had never had sex before. It also suddenly occurred to Riva that they had not used a condom and she cursed her stupidity for assuming Aman would have had one handy.

Aman’s next words followed a logical thread. ‘Was it the first time for you too?’ he asked quietly, now turning his head to look at her.

His expression was strangely hopeful and Riva wondered momentarily if she should tell him the truth or not. But, honesty being one of her unfailing traits, Riva replied, ‘No, not really.’ Aman continued to look at her questioningly and so she elaborated. ‘There was a boy in high school I was quite mad about. And I sort of thought he loved me too. Well, he said he did and I believed him but, the following week, he went on to say the same to my best friend who slept with him too. So that was that!’

They were too tired to talk much more and soon Riva drifted off into slumber again. In the morning, Aman got up while Riva was still asleep and made two mugs of coffee. She deliberately kept the conversation light and friendly as they sipped their drinks, recognising the faint embarrassment that now lay between them. Riva hoped it would soon dissipate, for she was keen to stay friends with Aman. He seemed like such a nice lad, and so different from the boys she had met so far. She was held rapt whenever he talked of India, her own memories of the place she had come from now being far-off and fuzzy. There was, however, little chance of her relationship with Aman going any further than friendship – despite his astonishing good looks, they were a bit like creatures from different planets. Besides, it somehow felt wrong to be going out with someone who was even less worldly wise than her! Finally finishing her coffee, Riva got out of bed and pulled on her clothes before going down the corridor to use the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, she popped back into Aman’s room to collect her bag and coat. He was sitting on the edge of his rumpled bed, holding his empty coffee mug. Riva felt a rush of sympathy for the little-boy-lost expression on his face. She bent and kissed him on the cheek. ‘We must do that curry another time,’ she said. Then she grinned, straightening up and waving a forefinger at Aman, ‘No, really a curry, not using euphemisms now!’

‘Shall I walk you back to your hall?’ Aman asked.

‘Don’t be daft, it’s broad daylight now so I think I’m perfectly safe. Typically sweet offer, though, Mr Khan. You’ve obviously been dragged up proper. Not like the boorish lads one usually gets around here…’

Nevertheless, Aman did accompany Riva down the corridor of his hall of residence and she kissed him lightly on the lips before stepping out into the morning sunshine.

He stood at the door, unable to take his eyes off her as the black of her duffle coat disappeared around the corner, feeling his body surging with an odd mixture of hope and disappointment.

Chapter Two

LONDON, 2009

The foursome emerged from the Comedy Store, blinking in the bright lights of Leicester Square. Riva shivered as a cold gust whipped around them and swiftly pressed herself up against the warmth of Ben’s coat, slipping one ungloved hand into his pocket.

‘That was good, wasn’t it? Terrific to see Paul Merton return to form,’ she said, looking over her shoulder as she talked to their friends.

Joe, walking a few paces behind, replied, ‘Good is an understatement. Those guys are so clever. Certainly one of the best uses you can put twenty quid to in London.’

He pulled on an ancient woollen bobble cap, earning an affectionate slap on his behind from his wife.

‘For God’s sake, Dr Joseph Holmes, where do you manage to unearth that ugly bit of headgear every winter!’ Susan said in exasperation. ‘I thought I’d sent it off to Oxfam last spring.’

‘You nearly did. Very sneaky, if you ask me. But no flies on me: I managed to retrieve it in the nick of time,’ Joe retorted, putting both hands to his hat and pretending extreme relief.

Susan rolled her eyes skywards. ‘I’ll soon have to scrape it off your head!’ she muttered, linking her fingers with his and dragging him along to keep pace with Riva and Ben. ‘Fancy a coffee, anyone?’

‘More like a stiff brandy on a night like this, methinks,’ Ben said.

‘Too right,’ Joe grinned. ‘There’s De Hems just around the corner from here. Hopefully the crowd’s thinned out a bit by now.’

‘Or Bar Italia just up Greek Street?’ Susan chipped in.

‘Intent on nudging us in the direction of some cake, ain’t ya, Mrs Holmes?’ Riva said.

‘Oh, you know me so well, Riva,’ Susan responded, laughing.

‘Well, I have got thirty years’ worth of research on your cake-eating habits,’ Riva joked.

‘Is that really how long you two have known each other?’ Ben asked. ‘I thought it was more like twenty.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Ben, we’ve known each other nearly fifteen years now and Sooz and I go back so much further. South Ealing Primary, that centre of academic excellence – remember, Sooz?’ Riva asked, putting her arm around Susan’s waist.

‘Do I remember? Took you a whole week to stop crying for your mum – and then only because I took you under my wing!’ Susan said, squeezing her friend’s arm.

Ben, who had been counting in his head, interrupted them. ‘Fucking hell, Riva, you’re right, it’ll be fifteen years for us next autumn. 1994!’ He turned to Joe. ‘In fact, you guys met the same year too. We should have a joint celebration.’

‘What a lovely idea,’ Susan cried. ‘Not quite a wedding anniversary because you two pipped us to the marital post by three years. But we could have a sort of joint the-day-I-laid-eyes-on-you sort of celebration, couldn’t we? Couldn’t we, Joe?’ Susan repeated, nudging Joe with her elbow, who was now busy examining the interior of De Hems through its misted glass panes.

‘Hmmm, yes, of course, darling,’ he replied distractedly before turning to Ben. ‘What do you think, old chap, too crowded?’

‘Naah, it’s fine,’ Ben dismissed, though the throng inside the pub was overflowing onto the windswept street.

‘Oh, please, I want to go somewhere where we can sit down. I’ve been on my feet all day in the classroom!’ Susan protested.

‘Let’s go to All Bar One on the other side of the square, that’s usually quieter,’ Riva suggested.

‘Good idea,’ Susan said. The women turned and started to walk back to Leicester Square. Their husbands reluctantly brought up the rear, moaning and grumbling loudly. Susan and Riva ignored them as they walked on, arms linked. Riva fished in the pocket of her coat for some change as they passed an old busker playing ‘Moon River’ on a saxophone, for which she received a huge toothless smile.

As they passed the Leicester Square Odeon, Susan gazed up at the posters that were being pasted on for the Friday show changes. She clutched Riva’s arm. ‘Get a look at that,’ she said, jogging Riva’s arm.

Riva looked up and saw a massive poster for a new Hindi film. The words ‘Iske Baad – Afterwards’ were printed above an image of Aman Khan’s handsome face gazing broodingly into the middle distance.

Susan giggled. ‘Goodness, he’s still a bit of a dish, ain’t he?’

Riva cast a glance over her shoulder, but the men were still engrossed in their conversation and had not noticed the poster. She looked up again and felt her heart do its familiar flip. She had seen this film at the London Film Festival but hadn’t Googled Aman’s name for a while, so did not know anything about its wider release. She couldn’t help wondering if Aman might be in London for the press junket. Perhaps he was just around the corner, signing autographs or cutting red ribbons or doing whatever it was that film stars did of an evening…

Riva did not particularly want Ben to see Aman’s poster for a variety of reasons. Luckily Susan seemed to take her cue, and called out in mock exasperation to the two men, ‘Come on, you two, this ain’t exactly a stroll in the park, y’know! Do let’s get moving, chop chop!’

Chapter Three

Two days later, Riva sat in the darkened BAFTA theatre and sneaked another look at the time on her mobile phone, holding it under her pashmina so that its light would not disturb the person sitting next to her. Eight o’clock. Her heart sank. She would need to leave soon as Ben was expecting to meet her by nine at the restaurant.

The film had started half an hour ago, soon after the chairperson of BAFTA had announced that their chief guest was running late, ‘held up by the inclement weather’. Despite her disappointment, Riva had not been able to help smiling at that, remembering what a wimp Aman had been about the English weather when he had first arrived as an overseas student from Mumbai. But surely he didn’t have to worry about the snow in London now, given the fleet of cars and chauffeurs he probably had at his disposal whenever he visited?

The programme on BAFTA’s website had stated that the evening would begin with the Aman Khan interview, followed by the screening of Afterwards – the film that, according to reports on various Bollywood sites, had catapulted him to international recognition, with talk of an Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Film. Riva’s plan had been to watch Aman’s interview before slipping out of the hall to make her restaurant rendezvous with Ben. The little porkie she had told about a drink with her agent and publicist couldn’t really stretch her evening beyond nine. Now it looked like she would have to leave without seeing Aman after all. But it was probably worth waiting just a little while more…after all, the BAFTA man had said Aman was on his way. She frowned again at the screen, trying to concentrate…

Although Riva had enjoyed Afterwards at the London Film Festival, and was quite accustomed to watching some of Aman’s films twice, even three times over, she was finding it hard to focus on the screen today. She cast a glance around the darkened hall, wondering if others in the audience were similarly distracted by the imminent arrival of its lead actor. But all she could see were rows of half-lit faces intent on the screen.

Riva sat back in her chair, trying to settle. Pictures were flickering on the screen – they had come to the part where Aman’s character tells a friend he is leaving for Kerala – but, instead of hearing his dialogue, Riva reflected with amusement on the apology that had been made by the hapless BAFTA bod charged with announcing that the film would be stopped as soon as Mr Khan arrived. He had timorously suggested that it would be best not to delay events any longer as heavy snow had been forecast for later tonight. But the crowd had remained cheery and upbeat, someone even whistling very loudly at the announcement, one of those piercing finger-in-mouth toots that had made people turn around in startled amusement. After that, very unusually for a BAFTA screening, the crowd had sung and clapped in time to the song that played under the opening credits of the film, one already popularised by the Asian TV and radio channels. This was a predominantly Indian crowd that had turned up in full force to see one of their biggest stars. Certainly BAFTA would have never seen a fan event like this before: all these Asian women wearing spangly salwar kameezes under drab winter coats, not to mention the air of general enthusiasm and bonhomie. In the crowd was the usual token sprinkling of white faces, most likely movie buffs trying to educate themselves about what they thought of as world cinema.

Aman Khan’s handsome face was filling the screen now in an extreme close-up and Riva, leaning her head back on the seat, remembered the young Aman with sudden sharp clarity. The years had been kind to him. Although she had observed his onscreen persona filling out in his twenties, an obvious new health regime in his early thirties had made him leaner and brought out interesting shadows on his face. Oh yes, still the old Aman, and – as Susan had observed – still quite, quite gorgeous.

Riva sighed softly, sinking down in her seat and trying once more to concentrate on the movie.

But the next few minutes brought a flurry of activity at the door – Aman Khan must have arrived because a wave of excitement was passing through the front rows of the audience. Riva felt the surging collective exhilaration and suddenly…there he was! The real Aman, being escorted onto the stage by Siddharth Jose, the young British director who was due to interview him. The crowd erupted into a tumult of clapping, some people even leaping to their feet to applaud their favourite star. As the film was halted, the BAFTA chairperson walked over to the lit podium while Aman bowed and waved at the crowd. But the applause kept coming, wave upon wave, and the BAFTA man smiled indulgently, turning to nod again at Aman, who now looked faintly embarrassed.

Finally, when the seemingly interminable ovation had abated slightly, the man tapped the mic lightly and asked for silence. When the crowd had settled, the star and director took their places on two armchairs that had been hastily brought out from the wings for them. Aman looked very fit indeed, slim and broad-shouldered in a black silk Nehru jacket. He leant over to pour water from the bottle placed on the table before him and Riva watched as he put it to his lips.

Aman looked into the crowd as the house lights brightened and Riva’s heart heaved as she felt his eyes looking into hers. She reddened as his gaze moved on, telling herself to stop being so fanciful. For heaven’s sake, she was sitting about ten rows away from the stage and Aman’s long-distance vision had never been very good anyway. On the other hand, it was entirely possible that he knew that she lived in London now – after all, her own name had made it to the papers when she’d won the Orange Prize; Indian journalists had showed particular interest in her at the time. Aman’s attention was, however, now on the interviewer who was asking his first question.

‘Why London, Aman?’ Siddharth was asking. ‘It’s a city you make it a point to visit every year, I’m told. For someone who lives and works in this grimy old city, I can’t help wondering why anyone would leave balmy Bombay for London, certainly not when it’s in the grip of winter like this!’

Aman laughed and settled back in his chair. ‘I love it here, especially in the grip of winter,’ he said in his familiar deep voice. To Riva it sounded as though the crowd around her was sighing with happiness as Aman continued to speak. ‘Don’t forget how sultry it gets in Bombay – and how unrelenting the heat can be. There’s something very…’ he searched briefly for the right word ‘…very appealing about the changes of season when you live in a place that doesn’t have them. And London’s so full of energy, it’s such a great city. I love being here in any season really, and so does my son apparently. Although I think when he says “London”, it’s the inside of Hamleys he’s thinking of! But a winter trip has always been compulsory anyway, so that my wife can wear her Gucci coat and Prada boots, which otherwise never get the chance to be worn in Bombay.’

He paused as the crowd laughed affectionately. Salma Khan’s shopping penchant had been much written about in the gossip magazines and Aman had hit just the right note of affectionate exasperation in his voice. His English had improved considerably too, Riva noticed, trying to remember whether she’d ever heard him use words like ‘unrelenting’ before. Of course, they had been mere freshers when they had last met and, although Riva knew that Aman had never gone on to complete his graduate studies, such a big star as he would almost certainly have had the advantages of media training.

The audience around her was laughing again and Riva realised with dismay that she had missed something amusing. Aman was looking relaxed and responding to a question he had just been asked about his early life in England.

‘It was only for a year, although it gets mentioned quite a lot – as if I spent all my college years in Oxford or Cambridge or some grand place like that! Actually it was Leeds University and I only spent first year there – in the English Department.’ Siddharth Jose cocked an enquiring brow at Aman who explained. ‘You see, my uncle was working in Leeds and, because my parents were worried that I was just hanging around in Bombay, not doing anything after school, he sponsored me to come here for my studies. Didn’t last! I just wasn’t good enough and so, at the end of that first year, I dropped out of the course and went home.’

‘Ah, but that was what took you to the Film Institute, was it not?’ Siddharth Jose cut in. ‘So, if you had been “good enough”, as you say, for Leeds’ English Department, Bollywood – and all of us – might have missed out on one of our finest actors!’

‘Indeed, who knows – Bollywood’s loss may have been Leeds University’s gain!’ Aman joked, making the audience laugh again.

And mine…maybe, Riva thought, recalling that long ago time up in Leeds. How torn she had been between Aman’s attentions and Ben’s for a few days before she had made her decision. Irrationally now, she tried to will the interviewer to quiz Aman further about the decisions he had made as a young man. Such as, ‘Why, Mr Khan, had you not thought to fight just a little harder for Miss Riva Walia’s affections before upping and leaving Leeds University?’ Annoyingly, however, interviewer and interviewee had already moved on to something else.

Aman was talking about his early career. ‘Well, I took what I got in those days,’ he was saying to Siddharth Jose. ‘Beggars and beginners can’t be choosers, as they say. When I was offered my first role, I did not even stop to ask what type of film it was or even if I was to be a hero or a villain. I just jumped at it and asked all my questions later, once I was signed up and safely on the set.’

His candour and lack of pretension was disarming. Riva could see that he certainly had this audience eating out of the palm of his hand. But now Siddharth Jose was leading him into less personal areas and they talked about his film career for the next half hour.

When the interview ended, Riva used the short break before the film restarted to slip out of her seat. She tugged on her coat and gloves as she hurried through the foyer. It was now a quarter to nine and, even if she took a cab to the restaurant, she would be late. Ben did so hate to be kept waiting, she thought with a sense of slight panic as she ran down the stairs towards the main entrance. She drew in her breath at the sudden cold outside, annoyed with herself for forgetting to carry her umbrella and woollen cap. As had been predicted, snowflakes were now drifting against the tall streetlights of Piccadilly while a brisk wind, bitter with cold, stung the tips of her ears and nose. A small gaggle of people was huddled against the railings outside BAFTA and Riva heard one of them loudly cry out Aman’s name. Unthinkingly, she joined the crowd of fans, momentarily forgetting her lateness and the no-doubt steadily growing impatience of her husband awaiting her in the restaurant.

Standing on tiptoe, Riva saw that Aman had emerged from BAFTA’s main entrance – perhaps he had been just a few steps behind her! He was now getting into a long black limousine along with a couple of other people. As it pulled away from the kerb, the group of fans started waving and blowing kisses at the car. Riva joined them, running a little way down the pavement to where the crowd was thinner. Inside the car, Aman’s head turned to look back as he was driven away. The car disappeared into the distance, leaving Riva with the distinct impression that Aman had spotted her.

Chapter Four

It was twenty past nine by the time Riva finally spotted the garish neon sign of Maroush glinting through the curtain of sleet that veiled everything in a thin grey. The normally colourful and welcoming shops of Arab Town had their doors closed against the wretched weather and the windscreen wipers on passing cars were going nineteen-to-the-dozen. Despite the rain, pedestrians were thronging Edgware Road as usual. Who were all these people out shopping and celebrating on a ghastly night like this, Riva wondered, elbowing her way past wet shopping bags and umbrellas. Despite her shortness of breath, she sped up again, imagining Ben’s irritation when she eventually stumbled into the restaurant. He had been in a bad mood for the last couple of days and only the other night he had complained, ‘You’re never ever on time, Riva. Well, not for me anyway. Deadlines for publishers, yes. Appointments with that agent of yours, of course. Lunches and meetings with friends, oh, it goes without saying. You’re on impeccable behaviour for all of them. But the simple matter of being on time for me seems completely out of the question.’ He hadn’t seemed angry when he had said it – merely sort of weary – and Riva had not argued, knowing that the remark had emerged from his present depressed view of the world. She sighed. It wasn’t easy for an ambitious man like Ben to find himself in the unlikely position of househusband.

She ducked under the awning with relief, her head and clothes momentarily lit pink by the flashing neon sign of the restaurant. She knew she must look a right old state, her hair wet and in clumps, her Ugg boots soaked through. She had hopped on a bus at Piccadilly and ended up trotting the half-mile distance from Marble Arch rather than hailing a cab, quite simply because there had not been one with its light on. But it would annoy Ben if she said that she had walked – he was quick to assume these days that her habitual frugalities were due to his being out of work. Every so often he took pains to remind her of the fat payout he had received from the bank when he had been made redundant. In Riva’s view this was quite unnecessary – she hadn’t been financially dependent on Ben for many years as her own account now received regular injections of royalty payments. But it was curious how even a man as liberated as Ben preferred to be seen as the breadwinner rather than an equal partner in the kind of joint endeavour they had always agreed their marriage would be.

Riva stamped her boots outside the entrance and tried to retie her mussed-up hair with a wooden clip. Of course she wasn’t going to confess to Ben that Aman and his film were the reason for her lateness. She had always hidden those little jaunts to the cinema from Ben, assuming that he would be jealous of the unlikely success of their old classmate, particularly as he was also her old flame. It was one of Riva’s more awkward memories when Ben had once spotted a cinema ticket to Feltham Cineworld in her purse, after she had told him she had been to see a Hollywood film starring George Clooney. He had had the good grace to laugh off her white lie, and even jested a little at the memory of Aman’s crush on Riva back at uni. But Riva had, of course, been mortified to have been caught red-handed with the ticket to Ishq in her purse, a feeling akin to the time her father had spotted seven Crunchie bar wrappers in her bin, bought using the change she had pinched from the bowl in the hallway.

Riva thought up her excuses now, rehearsing them as she stepped through the doors of the restaurant and spotted Ben sitting by one of the tables at the window, looking out at the rain. She slipped off her coat and handed it to the waiter before making her way across the crowded room towards him. Her heart melted at sight of his slumped shoulders: everything about him spelt out his depression.

‘Oh, Christ, sorry to be so late, love,’ she said, lightly kissing Ben’s cheek and sinking into the seat facing him. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘What excuse do we have today, huh?’ Ben asked, raising his left arm and waving his watch at her, his voice uncharacteristically peevish.

‘Oh, don’t ask! No cabs to be had for love nor money on a night like this. And the meeting at Gideon’s just dragged on and on. Antonia, the PR girl from the publisher’s was there too, and wanted to discuss the digital media campaign for the new book. You’ll never believe this but they’re talking about a seven-city tour across Europe, which, of course, would be lovely, except…’ Riva realised that Ben was no longer listening, his attention focused quite deliberately on the wine list.

Riva lapsed into silence, glad to have been stopped in her tracks while lying so shamelessly to her husband. It really did make her feel quite hateful. Not that all of her utterances were lies exactly, as Riva had indeed had several conversations with both Gideon and Antonia in the course of the day, but it was certainly not true that she had been in a meeting with them this evening. It suddenly crossed Riva’s mind that Ben may have read something online about Aman Khan being in London to promote his new film. She flushed at the thought – it would not take much for him to put two and two together and guess that she had gone to see him at BAFTA. Nervously, she reached out for Ben’s glass of water and watched him over the rim as she sipped. His face looked more drawn than usual today, his grey-blue eyes bloodshot, and Riva wondered if he had spent all day staring at his computer screen. She sighed and sat back in her chair, feeling an inexplicable surge of sadness overcome her. Riva had always striven not to rub Ben’s nose in the success of her publishing career, conscious of the fact that Ben had been the one with real writing ambitions back in college. Of course, he had greeted Riva’s unexpected book deal with excitement and good grace at first, perhaps anticipating with typical confidence that his own chance would surely follow before long. He had even joked of how they might one day become the ‘golden couple in publishing’, both of them enjoying flourishing literary careers. But, as the years passed with submission after submission of his being turned down, Ben had not been able to help becoming just a tiny bit bitter. Riva had done her best to assist in whatever way she could, but she cringed when she recalled the weary look that would come over her publishers’ faces whenever a husband with writing ambitions was mentioned. The most brutal blow had come when Gideon, Riva’s own literary agent, had returned Ben’s manuscript with a terse and uncomplimentary letter of rejection. Ben had found it astonishing that the man had not even done him the courtesy of a phone call and angrily reminded Riva that it was her sizeable royalties that were keeping Gideon ensconced in his fancy Covent Garden offices. In Riva’s opinion this wasn’t true at all – Gideon had many other successful writers on his list – but Ben had not wanted to hear that, and accused her of taking sides with her agent. They had ended up rowing that day and Riva had subsequently stopped advocating on Ben’s behalf. Recently he had complained again about the stand she had taken, claiming to be writing much better material now that he no longer had his job at the bank distracting him from concentrating on the book, but Riva had held firm, quite sure that he should try his chances like all other aspiring writers did, rather than expecting favours merely because he was married to a published author.

‘What do you want to drink?’ Ben passed Riva the menu, interrupting her train of thought. ‘There’s a rather nice Bordeaux listed…’

‘You choose, Ben. Although I think I’ll have a mint tea first, to warm my poor icy fingers,’ Riva replied. Once, a chance remark like that would have had Ben promptly reaching out for her hands to massage warmth into them. But Riva rubbed her own palms together now, feeling saddened again by the distance that had crept into their marriage somewhere along the way. Where did these cold gusts fly in from, she wondered, blowing aside all life in a marriage and leaving only the carcass of something that was once so warm and loving?

Riva folded her pashmina and pushed it into her bag before running her fingers through her hair and sitting up in her chair. She was determined to enjoy her evening out with her husband and hoped – both for her sake and Ben’s – that she had managed to cover up her silly secret outing to BAFTA. It suddenly seemed so terribly sad to have snuck off to gawp at a film star she had once vaguely known – one who, in all likelihood, would probably look right through her if he saw her today! But it was even sadder, Riva thought, that she should have to hide such a thing from the man she was married to. It was daft and mean and Riva resolved she would never do such a thing ever again.

Ben, sitting across the table from Riva, scanned the extensive menu without seeing it. He had spent the past hour assiduously reading its contents in minute detail while waiting for Riva to turn up and knew exactly what he was going to order. What was preoccupying his mind was not Riva’s lateness. Nor was it anything to do with her carefully elaborate explanations of her whereabouts this evening. He and Riva never questioned each other about whom they had met in the course of the day; theirs simply wasn’t that kind of a watchful, possessive relationship. Tonight, however, Ben simply could not erase from his mind the conversation he had overheard between Riva and her dislikeable little sister, Kaaya, the previous night. It had left an acrid taste in his mouth and Ben wondered now if he ought to tell Riva about how hurt he was feeling. It would, of course, ruin their meal out and Ben knew that would only make him feel more wretched. It was true what they said about eavesdroppers never hearing good things about themselves – although he had not been eavesdropping, but had merely stumbled upon an accidentally overheard conversation. It must have been close to ten o’clock by the time he had come in from the pub. He had entered through the kitchen door and the sisters, sitting in the living room, had not heard him come in. He was just about to stroll into the hallway to say hello when he heard Kaaya’s loud voice ring out in her horrible brassy manner.

‘Admit it, you’re just too, too soft on Ben, Riva, constantly tiptoeing emotionally around him and thinking up various imaginative excuses for what is plainly typically selfish male behaviour.’

As Ben froze at the kitchen door, he had been relieved to hear Riva respond tetchily. ‘Look, it’s not as if he’s never worked, Kaaya. Don’t you go forgetting, honey, that Ben not only supported me for the time it took to complete my creative writing course at East Anglia, he bailed you out too with that loan for your PR diploma. Besides, he was a rock to us all when Papa died.’

But Kaaya – in Ben’s opinion, a self-seeking opportunist who mysteriously had every single man in her immediate circle seemingly wrapped around her little finger – was typically ungrateful. He could imagine her waving a dismissive manicured hand in the air as she spoke.

‘I paid back Ben’s loan years ago, in case you’ve forgotten! Yeah, sure, he even helped Papa once financially. But Ben was a different man then. Not the grumpy old git he is now. People change and you’re mad to keep clinging to some lost notion of what he once was. Chuck him out, sis,’ she advised coolly, as though Ben were no more than a carton of something going slightly whiffy in the fridge. It had taken superhuman self-control to keep from striding into the living room to let the pair know he had overheard their conversation. But Ben had stopped himself. Not to save Kaaya the embarrassment but, quite simply, to hear Riva’s response. Surely, surely she would spring to his defence.

Instead, he had heard Riva laugh. Perhaps it had been with astonishment or wryness, rather than amusement – it was hard to tell without seeing the expression on her face. But Ben had been so incensed by the sound of Riva’s laughter at Kaaya’s suggestion of ‘chucking him out’ that he had turned on his heel and walked out of the house, leaving the kitchen door swinging open on its hinges for the two women to puzzle over later. He had subsequently stayed at the pub until closing time, getting more and more drunk and wallowing in sadness and self-pity, trying desperately to convince himself that Riva would surely have defended him after his departure.

The worst part of it all was that, at some level, Ben knew Kaaya was right – what was Riva doing with a man like him anyway? It wasn’t like it had been when they’d all been young and full of promise back in their university days. After all, any one of them – Riva, Susan, Joe, Aman – could have turned out successful back then. It was all a matter of luck and chance. Despite one’s best efforts, life had a totally arbitrary way of dishing out favours, Ben knew that now. The pity of it was that back at uni, it was he, Ben, who had seemed most likely to be going places, the only one in the gang to be hand-picked by a bank when the milk rounds had started in their final year. It would be no exaggeration to claim that he had once been the most popular student on campus, not just a top student but also an ace debater and captain of the cricket team. Would anyone even remember now that he had been the first among them all to have landed a job, one that everyone was so certain would lead to a glittering career as a banker?

Twelve years down the line, however, events had taken a direction that no one would have predicted back then: Riva was a successful, award-winning novelist; Joe a consultant psychiatrist at one of London’s biggest teaching hospitals; Susan, the special needs co-ordinator at a primary school praised for its innovative teaching methods; and, most gallingly, Aman Khan of all people was now a fucking film star, earning megabucks in Bollywood, gracing magazine covers and being worshipped by droves of women in the farthest corners of the world. To Ben, Aman Khan’s resounding success had been the biggest surprise of them all. Kaaya’s came a close second – vacuous, self-absorbed Kaaya who had done amazingly well for herself as a Hollywood film publicist. Who in their right mind would have ever imagined that brain-dead Kaaya would one day turn into a better have-it-all feminist than her much brighter and nicer sister? Whenever Ben reflected on life’s vagaries (something he had a lot more time for since the bank had laid him off two years ago), he could see it all quite clearly: Riva Walia, one-time president of Leeds University’s student union and founder of Bitten Apple, the campus feminist rag, had merely got unlucky and was now trapped in a lacklustre marriage that was like a drug habit, impossible to break. And there, in her swanky Holland Park apartment across town, was Kaaya Walia – once considered the pretty airhead sibling – having her cake and eating it (and by God, was she eating it) with an office overlooking Soho Square, a designer apartment in Holland Park, two flash sports cars in the double garage, a wealthy investment banker husband and, as if all that wasn’t enough, an endless string of admiring men on the side. Ben had seen them, hanging adoringly around Kaaya at the fancy parties she threw – a besotted young colleague here, a well-heeled client there, men went mad for her. As they would have done for Riva too, had she been a different sort of woman. Riva was equally, if not more, attractive than her sister, but was not given to the sultry come-ons that Kaaya was so adept at. Riva was hard-working, sweet-tempered and persevering but, when all was said and done, it was Kaaya who was materially more successful. How unfair was that?

It made Ben feel wretched to think how easily his golden prospects had gone dark and sour, and how he had dragged Riva down with him. It was incredible to think that he, Ben Owen, should be out of a job. Incredible but true. Perhaps Kaaya had been right last night: he was holding Riva back and she was too kind to admit it herself. He ought to do the right thing by her and leave. Vanish into the ether. Perhaps allow her to pick up with Aman Khan where they had last left off. Which had been at the end of that first year at university when he, Ben, had thought he was king of the world, simply because he had got the girl, while poor luckless Aman Khan had left uni with neither a girl or even a degree. And now, there was Aman Khan gracing posters overlooking Leicester Square, gloating at the tiny luckless mortals that passed beneath!

Chapter Five

Kaaya delved into her handbag for her BlackBerry, wondering how illicit love had been managed in the era before mobile telephony. Perhaps spouses just caught each other out more frequently in those bad old days, when lovers had no choice but to use home phones after work hours. Kaaya, of course, called on Joe’s home phone only if it was Susan she needed to speak to. Which wasn’t often, as Susan was really her sister Riva’s friend more than hers. Nevertheless, there had been the occasional call – to invite Susan and Joe to dinner or, more recently, to help organise Riva’s surprise birthday party. Kaaya would be the first to admit that there had been a curious thrill in speaking to Susan, knowing that Joe was probably listening in at the other end of their conversation, longing to grab the phone and shower kisses into it.

She glanced at the time on her phone. This was the best time to catch him, just as he would be finishing his daily workout. He was in fact probably just settling down before one of the computer terminals at his snazzy wi-fi enabled gym, from where he used his new secret email account to write her long and sentimental emails. Kaaya preferred telephone conversations to emails, writing being much more Riva’s thing than hers. Besides, tapping on a keyboard was murder on her delicately French-manicured nails.

She inspected their perfect pearly sheen now as she stretched out on her chaise longue, listening to the distant buzz of Joe’s phone. On her face was the smile that Riva used to describe as ‘Kaaya’s cat-smile’ when they were children. But Kaaya’s smile faded as the ringing tone continued and she realised that the answering service was going to kick in. Kaaya was accustomed to having men grab hurriedly at their phones to answer it without delay when her name flashed up on their screens. Still, she reckoned she could give Joe the benefit of the doubt this once. He had, after all, proven to be a most attentive lover this past month. Unsurprisingly, actually, given that she was his first (and, quite likely, would be his only) extramarital dalliance in the ten years he had been married to Susan. He had, in fact, all the gauche charm of the first-time adulterer, as eager as a puppy with his affections. Kaaya was familiar with the sort, and she found she enjoyed their attentions rather more than those of the more blasé seasoned cheats. The only problem with a lover as ardent as Joe was that there was every danger he would get too serious and start talking divorce and remarriage. And that was definitely territory Kaaya was not interested in. She already had a husband, for heaven’s sake, and a rather high calibre one too! No, Joe was merely a timely emotional prop to help her through this rather bleak time.

Kaaya’s thoughts stopped drifting when Joe’s phone stopped ringing. ‘This is the Vodaphone messaging service. Please leave a message after the tone.’

Kaaya kept it brief. ‘Hi, it’s me. Call when you can.’ She did not need to specify who she was and that she was alone. Joe already knew that Rohan was in Japan for a week and had vowed to see her every day in his absence. Or rather, every night after work. Except Tuesday, he had said, as it was his old classmate’s birthday. Kaaya glanced at the digital calendar on the wall. Of course – Tuesday, that’s where he was. The bloody birthday party!

Kaaya clapped her phone down on the coffee table, trying to quell her rising irritation, and used the tip of her forefinger to pick up a fleck of dust that was shining silver on the glass surface. It wasn’t like Manuela, her fanatically hard-working housekeeper, to miss even the tiniest smear or speck. Kaaya glanced around the room, forcing herself to take pleasure in its perfect designer chic – the Italian sofa in soft cream suede, the sweeping chrome down-lighters, the bunches of fresh yellow rosebuds arranged on the mantelpiece in small square glass vases. It was the perfect setting for an elegant woman like her. After all, Anton, Kaaya’s Parisian jeweller, had once explained how even the highest quality gold was just metal without the embellishment of a perfect stone. But what a waste to be looking as fabulous as she did tonight when there was no one around to appreciate it.

Kaaya got up, sighing as she walked into her bedroom. She peeled off her Chanel jacket and hurled it onto the floor. Manuela would put it on its upholstered hanger and return it to its rightful place in the walk-in wardrobe when she came in tomorrow morning. Divesting herself of the rest of her office clothes, Kaaya riffled through her vast collection of home outfits, wearing only her mauve lace lingerie and a towering pair of purple patent leather Jimmy Choos. Without too much ado, she chose one of her many Joseph silk kaftans and threw it onto the clothes horse. Then she slipped off her bra and panties and surveyed her curvy but gym-toned naked figure with momentary satisfaction before finally pulling the kaftan over her head. Kicking off her five-inch stilettos, Kaaya slipped her feet into a pair of gold chamois slippers and padded her way back across the pile carpet to fetch herself a drink from the cabinet. As she walked, she could feel the soft fabric of her kaftan brush rather pleasurably against her bare nipples. Oh, what a bloody waste to be feeling so sexy on a night when her lover was unavailable. If Kaaya had been a little more adventurous, there were numerous others she could have summoned with a click of her fingers – suave old Rodney Theobald from the art gallery, for instance, or Henry from the accounts department at work, the latter no doubt ready and willing for a quick bonk at five minutes’ notice! Henry had held a candle for her ever since she had joined Lumous PR a year ago and, last Christmas, he thought he had hit the jackpot when she snogged him in the broom closet and allowed him to slip one hot hand under her bra. But he – single, adoring, available – was far too easy for Kaaya. She generally preferred a chase to be more exciting, even when it was a new client she was wooing at work. Which was why affairs with seemingly happily married men were the bigger challenge. But they certainly came with some irritating constraints. Damn Joe and his friend’s birthday party! Kaaya considered calling him anyway, to make him sweat just a tiny bit under the scrutiny of his wife and friends…That would serve him right for leaving her in the lurch on a night like this, she thought, picking up her phone again.

She stopped short, deciding to call Riva first. The juicy tidbit of news she had for her sister could not wait any more. The din of a noisy restaurant was apparent in the background as Riva’s voice came down the line. She was shouting to be heard over the clamour. ‘Hello? Hello? Kaaya, that you?’

‘You sound like you’re in the middle of a railway station,’ Kaaya said, enjoying, as always, being rude about the kind of downmarket places her parsimonious sister tended to hang out in.

‘It’s a restaurant, actually, Kaaya dearest.’

‘Really? I don’t exactly detect the hush of discreet waiters and thick white linen in the background…or the tinkle of crystal, for that matter,’ Kaaya said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

‘What? Can’t hear…hang on, I think I need to walk towards the door,’ Riva said.

‘I said, it – sounds – too – noisy – to – be – a – restaurant. Oh, never mind.’ Kaaya sighed but Riva had heard her this time.

‘Well, I’m hardly one for shelling out six months’ worth of royalties on a minuscule platter of nouvelle cuisine, just because it’s got some jumped-up cheffy name attached to it, am I?’ she retorted, refusing to rise to her sister’s snobbishness.

‘Now, I can think of various responses to that, Riva darling, but I’ll spare you while you’re dining, lest you choke on your sausage and mash. Who’re you with anyway? Not that sad specimen you call a husband, by any chance? In which case, you must be dining at the finest greasy spoon. Or – I know – a greasy chopstick basement in cheapest Chinatown. Yes?’

Riva laughed. ‘Cheapest Arab Town, actually. Wassup, anyway?’

‘Okay, won’t keep you. Just that I have news for you. You’ll never guess whom I met this arvo.’

‘Who?’

‘A college mate of yours…said he remembered you…Care to wager a guess? Oh, I can’t bear this so I’m just going to tell you. It was Aman Khan, King of Bollywood, no less!’

There was a pause before Riva spoke again, her voice calm. ‘Aman Khan? Where on earth did you meet him?’

‘At my office, believe it or not. He came with a director – some oily bloke called Shah – to talk about getting a publicist for a forthcoming crossover film of his. Indrani down in reception recognised him from her regular diet of Bollywood. She was all aflutter, near fainting point, I can tell you. And I do have to say he’s really quite a looker in the flesh. You never said he was so dishy or I’d have taken more trouble keeping up with his films!’

‘How did my name come up?’ Riva asked.

‘Oh, we got chatting and I told him that my big sister was his classmate at Leeds Uni.’

‘I wish you hadn’t. He’s hardly likely to remember me, is he?’

‘That was the peculiar thing, Riva: he did! He suddenly got all animated too, telling me about how you cornered him on his first day on the campus to stick a placard in his hand. Typical of the shop-stewardy sort of thing you would do, come to think of it!’

‘How curious he remembers that!’

‘Or was the placard just a chat-up ruse on your part? Clever, if it was. He still remembers it anyway…’

‘Of course it wasn’t a chat-up line! There was some kind of protest on in uni when he joined, if I recall.’

‘Well, I told him you were still a bit of a trade unionist and rabble-rouser. Putting pamphlets through people’s doors and doing your soapbox thing down at Speaker’s Corner every Sunday morning.’

‘Kaaya, you didn’t!’

‘Sure did.’

‘Oh Kaaya!’

‘Course I didn’t!’ Kaaya cut through Riva’s wail. ‘What do you take me for? He wasn’t there to talk about you anyway so we swiftly moved on to other things.’ Her voice became smug. ‘Think I may have netted a big fish today, sis.’

‘Well done, you,’ Riva said quietly, not sure if Kaaya meant that she had netted a new client in Aman – or a new admirer. The latter was not an unlikely scenario, given the earthy sex appeal Kaaya oozed in such abundance. Surely Aman Khan, like most men, would not be impervious to Kaaya’s beauty? Riva wondered why the thought should make her suddenly feel so despondent.

But Kaaya was now ending the conversation in her usual abrupt manner. ‘Better let you get on with din-dins, then,’ she said, before adding a cheeky postscript. ‘Love to you but none to that crabby hubby of yours. Oh, and mind you don’t choke on a bit of cartilage, eating all that cheap meat.’

Chapter Six

Aman walked up the metal stairs to board his flight for Dubai. He was impressed by the sheer bulk of the massive Airbus A380, remembering a letter he had recently received, signed by Sheikh Al Maktoum himself, which contained all sorts of lavish promises to revolutionise the whole concept of luxury air travel. But even Aman Khan, for whom luxury was now a byword for existence, found himself impressed with the private suite the air hostess was now ushering him into. He looked around with pleasure, feeling comfortably cocooned, as the air hostess hung up his Armani coat in a small closet. Since becoming a star, he had learnt the value of privacy, but air travel had remained the one arena in which no amount of money could buy this precious commodity. He had toyed many times with the idea of a private jet, but had not taken it any further because of his fear of small aircraft. Sitting down in a capacious seat, Aman resolved to get his secretary to write to Sheikh Al Maktoum and thank him for coming up with the idea of private cabins on board flights. He kicked off his Loake loafers and settled himself down. After the rigours of the publicity hoopla for his latest film release in London, the air hostess’s standard patter about his seat converting to a flat bed was unobtrusive and reassuring. Adopting his usual method of tackling long-distance air travel, Aman asked for lime juice with soda and angostura bitters.

‘No, nothing to eat, thanks,’ he insisted, ignoring the anxious expression on the woman’s face. The food earlier in the evening at the Mayfair house of the Bindra brothers had been the usual rich Punjabi fare and was still sitting heavy in his stomach. The Bindras were the biggest distributors of South Asian films across Europe and a visit to their home had become compulsory on his London trips; which wouldn’t have been too trying, were it not for the fact that Mrs Bindra always assumed he must miss Indian food terribly when he was travelling abroad. And she sure went to town on all those ghee-laden gravies, when all he really wanted was some soup and toast.

After the air hostess had left, closing the door to the suite softly behind her, Aman strapped himself into his chair, feeling his spirits lift as the behemoth he was ensconced in started to trundle down the runway, picking up speed before it pulled upwards into the eastern sky. Very civilized, he thought, fiddling with the technology around him after his drink had been served. Aman picked up the in-flight magazine and leafed through to the entertainment section. He had over a thousand films on demand – and only seven hours to watch them in! He decided to order a second drink before turning the privacy button on, which, as the air hostess had explained, meant that he would be left alone to watch as many films as he liked until ten minutes before landing. ‘Except in the very unlikely case of an emergency, of course, Mr Khan,’ she had said, smiling. He had smiled back, not voicing aloud the passing thought that, in his current bleak state of mind, the idea of an emergency was not such a worrying proposition.

He looked out of the minuscule window at the empty vastness beyond, dark and purple at its edges…Who would ever imagine that an unsatisfactory marriage could bleed so much of the happiness out of life?

Still, he had many other things to be grateful for. Aman picked up the remote control to search for one of those…Ah, here it was, the Bollywood selection, including eight films in which he played the lead! He scrolled downwards to the earliest of them – Krodh – and clicked on it. He watched his younger self appear in a few fragmented black and white shots under the opening credits. Only the tie he was wearing was imbued with colour, glowing an arty fluorescent red. Very James Bond, he thought, breaking into a sudden grin. He sat back as the film started and watched himself appear on the screen alongside Amitabh Bachchan. As a twenty-something sidekick, in comparison to the great Bachchan, the towering real hero of Krodh, the young Aman Khan was just a boyish young runt! Perhaps it was true what the rags said…Aman had grown better looking over the years, although it wasn’t due to plastic surgery, as some of the magazines had imputed.

Aman leant his head back on the leather upholstery, remembering his excitement at being offered that first big break. It was a year after Aman had returned from England, having decided to give up on university there. And the break couldn’t have come at a better time, when his life appeared to have ground to a complete halt with a failed attempt at a university education and a broken heart. Even now, it wasn’t hard to recapture the gut-wrenching disappointments of that summer.

Aman took a deep breath, searching his memory…Had he imagined Riva’s face in the crowd as he had left BAFTA earlier this evening? He’d always thought of her as a Londoner, an idea he’d picked up from a small newspaper piece he had read in India when she had won that prize a couple of years ago. He had never heard of the Orange Prize before but, from the tone of the piece, it appeared to be something fairly major in the world of books. It had come as no surprise to Aman that Riva had gone on to become an acclaimed author. She had always been so intelligent, even as a teenager, and had diligently read every single book on their reading list in that first year, sometimes helping Aman by giving him compact précis of the more difficult ones. She’d been unfailingly sweet to him during all that time, and Aman had been sure she had been as much in love with him as he had been with her. But in the end Riva had succumbed to Ben’s persistent attentions and Aman had stupidly allowed her to drift away. Looking back now, Aman knew he ought to be kinder to himself. It hadn’t been stupidity that had led to his losing Riva but a lack of confidence; today, of course, he would have dealt with things quite differently. Then Riva had seemed so superior to him, so clever and so smart. It was no surprise she’d chosen the English guy over him really…

Aman looked unseeingly at the pictures flickering on the screen before him. He’d never forgotten that distant past, even though he had firmly walked away from it and not stopped to look back. But this afternoon, he had thought about Riva a lot, his memories sparked by that chance meeting with her sister at the PR firm. The sister had confirmed that Riva did indeed live in London. And – this was the bit that still stuck slightly in his craw – that she had finally gone on to marry Ben. At least, the sister had mentioned the name Ben; it had to be the same guy. It sounded exactly like the kind of golden life Aman would have expected Riva to be enjoying by now. So what would she have been doing lurking among a crowd of his fans at the BAFTA entrance today?

Aman shrugged. As before, he must have imagined seeing Riva in the crowd. It was silly but quite often he imagined he had spotted Riva when travelling in England, seeing her standing on railway platforms or across crowded shop floors. Aman pulled out the small clutch of business cards that was still in his pocket. ‘Kaaya Walia’ was the name printed in a large curly font, flamboyant gold on ivory. Aman had never met Riva’s sister before, and during their meeting this afternoon she had mentioned still being in school when Riva had joined university. She was a good-looking woman, though not a lot like Riva, being harder and far more sophisticated than the teenage Riva of Aman’s memories. But then, Riva might by now have changed a great deal herself.

Aman picked up his drink again, reflecting on how Riva’s success – unlike his own – was completely unsurprising. Even as a first-year student, she’d shown signs of making it big some day, being so bright and focused and determined. And yet she was one of the most gentle girls he had ever met. People like her deserved their success. Unlike him, who had merely got lucky. His own mother sometimes joked that fame had dropped into his lap when he had been half-asleep and lounging on the sofa one lucky day.

Aman took a long swallow of his lime soda, wondering, not without embarrassment, if Riva ever watched any of his films. Perhaps she and Ben laughed at the thought that the shy and rather silly young suitor she had humoured (and Ben had had to fight off) back at college was now a film star. Famous enough to be featured on the cover of Time magazine recently. He looked out of the window and, in its black emptiness, saw his own face looking back. The Time article had described him as ‘handsome’ and ‘aloof’ but what Aman saw when he looked at his own reflection was the rather diffident and uncertain man he had always been. Stardom hadn’t changed him that much. It certainly hadn’t made him any happier.

Aman smiled now, wondering whether he could blame his ‘aloofness’ on his early heartbreak over Riva. If he were honest, he had never completely gotten over her. The easiest explanation was that Riva had been the first girl he had fallen for and maybe it was true what they said about the first cut being the deepest. Or perhaps it was something to do with the fact that she had dumped him – in contrast to all his subsequent relationships where he had been the one to end things. Aman became pensive again. The most likely explanation for the warmth with which he remembered Riva was that his marriage to Salma had turned out to be such a calamity. It was wrong but, every time Salma behaved in a difficult fashion, Aman was unable to stop himself imagining what it would have been like to have married someone as kind-hearted and lovely as Riva instead.

Their becoming classmates had been something of a happy accident. That English degree had been a disastrous choice of subject for Aman but it was all that had been on offer for a green school-leaver from India with unimpressive grades. The course apparently demanded A’s and B’s but his Uncle Naz had been breezily confident about getting him admission, assuring his anxious parents back in Bombay that British universities were now desperate to get full fee-paying international students to join up. ‘Better than having the boy hang around a city like Bombay, getting bored and getting into trouble,’ Naz Chachu had cheerily assured his parents on the crackly long-distance line from Leeds. Aman’s parents had agreed without too much hesitation. Bombay colleges had all closed their admissions, even their second lists. And, after all, Naz himself had once been the family black sheep, whom life in England had straightened out in a way no one would have imagined when he had first left India with a few hundred rupees in his pocket. Just ten years down the line, Naz Chachu not only owned a string of petrol stations, he was branching out into motorway cafés and – three years ago – had shown further good sense in marrying a girl from a moneyed family. In a move that signified his total and complete redemption, he was offering to take the next generation’s black sheep into his home in Leeds to sort him out.

But Aman had arrived in Leeds in the midst of a grey autumn, and he could recall that the only thing that had prevented him from jumping onto the first flight back home was the sight of a pretty young Indian girl in a red miniskirt who had accosted him on his very first day at the university outside the Chancellor’s office to insist that he join the Union’s protest. ‘But what are you protesting against?’ he had queried half-heartedly, not keen at all to spend his very first day at college being thrown out of it. Not after the trouble and expense poor Naz Chachu had gone through.

‘The hike in the tuition fees that overseas students are required to pay! It’s downright shameful,’ the girl had replied, her face frowning and pink with annoyance. And Aman had been too shy to confess that, despite being an overseas student himself, it was an issue he knew absolutely nothing about. Besides, the girl was far too attractive to be disagreed with, and so he had meekly allowed himself to be press-ganged into joining the small band of predominantly brown-faced students, all of whom were carrying placards and shouting a great deal. She had disappeared into the crowd with a pert flash of her skirt after that but, fortunately, soon popped up again, handing Aman a dustbin lid and a wooden ladle with instructions to ‘Make as much noise as you possibly can, okay? Yell, if you must. That’s the only language they understand.’

Even though he did not know whom she was referring to as ‘they’, Aman had obediently made as much of a din as he could, shouting and clanging for all he was worth, all the while keeping an eye on the red miniskirt as it flashed around the quadrangle. Its pretty owner appeared to be quite definitely in charge of events as they unfolded. Aman recalled how, finally, about an hour later, a great cheer had broken out among the protestors as the Bursar emerged from his office. He wore a harassed expression on his face as he beckoned to the miniskirted girl. When she disappeared into his office along with a couple of others, the remaining protestors seemed to lose both interest and momentum and Aman heard the word ‘pub’ mentioned as, one by one, people started to put their placards down and drift away. Only Aman continued to stand there, shivering in his too-thin jacket as the sun set over the roofs of the college buildings and the evening drew in.

When she emerged from the Bursar’s office an hour later, the girl looked startled to see him still standing under the tree, holding the dustbin lid and ladle she had given him.

‘Goodness, you’re not still protesting, are you?’

‘Well, I’m not shouting any more but I had to return these to you,’ Aman said, handing her the dustbin lid and ladle as though they were prize possessions. She took them from Aman, looking around at the empty quadrangle with a huge frown.

‘Don’t tell me they left you here by yourself to decamp to the pub? What utter bastards!’ she declared, looking in concern at Aman’s thin, shivering frame. He nodded dumbly and was astonished when she proceeded to take his arm. The discomfort of the cold autumn evening was instantly forgotten as she beamed up at him and squeezed his arm. ‘Well, our victory makes it all worthwhile, eh? We won! The Bursar’s going to take the matter up with the uni’s governing council so it’s only a partial victory at this stage. But well worth a celebration.’ She took her hand from his arm and added, a little more shyly, ‘Hey, thanks for joining in. Can I buy you a drink for your pains? Least I can do. I’m Riva, by the way.’

Aman leant back on the headrest of his aircraft seat, remembering that long-ago time. No doubt anyone who knew him then would declare that he had changed unimaginably – and not necessarily for the better! Fame had converted his boyish shyness to ‘aloofness’ and his open, trusting nature to cynicism. Even the susceptibility he once had to the sort of kindness Riva had shown him was now transformed into the deepest suspicion of people’s motives. But, back then, he had been so easily touched by Riva’s friendship and the manner in which she had firmly taken him under her wing. That day outside the Bursar’s office, she had marched him into the smoky warmth of the Hare & Tortoise and introduced him to everyone as though he was her best friend. The others had been faintly curious but eventually accepting of him, despite his being a bit of a fish out of water: a teetotaller, fresh out of India and completely clueless about some of the jokes they tossed about so nonchalantly. Looking back, Aman realised that they had all been nice enough – all except for Ben. Aman had soon worked out that the fellow was already madly in love with Riva and consequently jealous of the attention she was showering him with. Ben wasn’t to know that she was only feeling sorry for the lost soul Aman had been back then! In fact, it was probably pity that had led to her first sleeping with him four months later too. But, mere weeks after that, she had gone off him again, and slipped back into her own circle of friends; people who were like her and with whom she would naturally feel more at home.

Aman chewed on a slice of lemon, trying to recall the names of all the others…Susan was Riva’s best friend, a gregarious redhead who had been to the same school as Riva and had joined Leeds Uni too, but in the History department. Her name had stuck in Aman’s head for some reason but, try as he might, Aman could not now remember the name of the medical student Susan had been going out with…a tall, gangly, serious type who talked a lot about joining Médecins Sans Frontières when he had completed his MBBS…Jack? John? No, it had gone…

With all those young faces now floating around in his head, Aman tried to settle into his aircraft bed. But, after half an hour of trying to fall asleep, he was still awake, wondering if, like Riva, Susan had gone on to marry her college sweetheart. They had seemed a well-suited pair, the chatty redhead and her medical student boyfriend who had such a grave and serious air about him. Aman had heard them talk about joining VSO together…Perhaps they had, and were now working side by side in some corner of the world, helping the poor and dispossessed. Some couples were like pieces of a jigsaw slotting in perfectly together, Aman thought as he finally fell into a troubled sleep.

Chapter Seven

The sudden clear knowledge of Joe’s infidelity came like a physical blow to Susan’s stomach. The unease had been growing for days but she had so far had nothing definite to put her finger on. One could not possibly make an accusation, or private judgement even, on the basis of such vague observations as a spouse’s far-off look, for heaven’s sake! Not if she did not want to be seen as completely paranoid.

There had been other things, though. Until last month, Joe’s BlackBerry had been an instrument carelessly strewn about the house, often beeping insistently while Joe raced about the house searching frantically for it, or nearly getting chucked into the recycler along with the Sunday papers. Now, however, Susan had observed the damn thing become a permanent accessory to her husband, looped around his neck on a cord, and glanced at frequently and surreptitiously. If Joe had been seventy, Susan would have understood the neck-cord thing but he was thirty-five, for God’s sake, and far from requiring memory aides! Before the suspicion had crept in, sitting like an unmoving lump between them, Susan had quite casually asked Joe about his sudden attachment to his mobile phone. He had looked confused for a moment – clearly not realising he’d made it so obvious – before speaking quickly, thinking on his feet. He was considering dispensing with wearing a watch, he said, and had Susan noticed that youngsters never wore watches any more? Their whole array of technological needs was now being met by their phones, apparently. Susan had at first accepted Joe’s explanation without question, even agreeing that most of her older students had in fact dispensed with wearing wristwatches.

What was more difficult to ignore was Joe’s more recent tendency to veer from overblown expressions of love to irrational snappishness, as though Susan had simultaneously become both her husband’s most loved person, and his most hated. There had even been that ghastly scene last month when they had been driving up the M4 to visit her parents in Stoke Poges. Joe had been silent for much of the journey, responding to Susan’s attempts at conversation with monosyllables or grunts. He had also been driving unusually fast and, when Susan had reminded him that they were in no particular rush to get there, he had slammed on the brakes and swung onto the hard shoulder in a quite terrifying manoeuvre, only narrowly missing a coach travelling on the inside lane. The angry blare of the coach’s horn was still ringing in their ears as Joe turned on Susan in a fury to yell, ‘Do you want to drive then?’ Startled by the unexpected aggression, Susan had silently swapped places with her husband and taken the wheel, unwilling to let Joe drive when he was in such an agitated state. Joe had calmed down just as rapidly, soon reaching out to cup his hand over Susan’s on the gearstick and mutter an apology. But, needless to say, the lunch at her parents’ home had been awkward.

Despite Susan’s rather affable and trusting demeanour, she was no fool, and had contemplated the possibility of Joe having an affair with a pragmatism that had impressed even her. Then she had hastily put the thought away, feeling disloyal for even considered it. Besides, the very idea was too exhausting in its potential for grief.

But now, tonight, proof was here staring her in the face.

Curious how the tiniest of actions could escalate into an event so big, so devastating. Who would have thought that five minutes could change your life? All she had done that evening was to excuse herself to use the ladies’ at the restaurant. Wending her way through the other tables, she had seen Joe leave the gents’ just ahead of her; but he did not return to their table as she expected, instead walking out of the restaurant into its herb garden, all his attention on the keys of the BlackBerry he was jabbing. Still thinking nothing of it, she had followed him, planning to give him a mischievous private snog before they returned to their table of celebrating friends. It had been a noisy evening, with everyone congregating at the River Café after work, and Susan had barely managed to grab a few words with Joe before they had been caught up in the general merriment of gift-giving and catch-up chatter. A hug was now in order, especially seeing how unusually tired Joe had looked as he had walked into the restaurant, his tie askew, that distant expression on his face again.

She could just about hear Joe’s deep voice as she came up behind him, expecting him to turn at the crunching sound of her heels on the gravel path and smile at her. But his attention had seemed consumed by his call, his head bent, his voice low and caressing. Perhaps it was that which made Susan stop – the intimate tone of voice that she had always previously assumed was reserved for her. She came to a halt just before she reached out to touch him, her heart lurching sickeningly when she heard him say, ‘I have only a couple of minutes, darling, but I had to call you…Where are you?’

Oddly, there was a part of her that, instinctively recognising an intensely private moment, had wanted to slink away. Later, talking to Riva, Susan would even exclaim ruefully at that memory – laughing at her typically doltish instinct to be considerate to her husband, even at her own expense. But then that irrational moment had passed, and she reached out to touch Joe’s elbow. He had swung around and visibly flinched at the unexpected sight of her; almost as though she were not his wife at all but a crazed mugger carrying a knife. Their eyes had locked for a few confused seconds in the moonlight. Susan could see Joe struggling to remember what he had just said that might have been overheard. Comically, the silence between them was filled by the unmistakably female voice that continued to emerge from the mouthpiece of Joe’s phone, crackling from somewhere far away, unaware that it was not being responded to any more. Then Joe had cut the line dead, muttering a lame excuse to Susan about a patient needing emergency advice, before stuffing his phone back into the top pocket of his shirt. Susan had nodded, looking blankly at the small bulge that the phone formed against Joe’s chest, almost as though expecting it to involuntarily start speaking and offer a more credible explanation than the one she had been given.

Susan had accepted her husband’s blatant lie, quite simply because it was far less devastating than the truth. Then she had swiftly and silently walked back into the restaurant, Joe following her. They had weaved their way past all the other diners, making painfully slow progress back to their own table at the far end of the restaurant, and soon were swallowed up once more in the noisy warmth of their celebrating group of friends.

It was the fortieth birthday party of David, Joe’s oldest friend, now a paediatrician at Great Ormond Street Hospital and one of Susan’s best chums too. David’s plump face was by now quite pink from all the Shiraz he had been consuming. As Susan now slipped back into her chair, he enveloped her in a bear hug, slurring fondly, ‘Dear, darling Ginger…’ (David was the only person Susan ever allowed to call her Ginger) ‘…where have you been? I was quite lost without you, y’know…don’t be running off like that again…’

Susan, still trying to calm her racing heart, smiled at David, but, over his head, she could see Joe excusing himself from the table again, walking swiftly back in the direction of the toilet. Of course, he was going to call and apologise to the person he’d so rudely cut off – Susan knew that without a doubt. And, despite the smile for David that was still frozen on her face, she could feel her heart break into a million bits inside her chest.

Chapter Eight

Joe woke on the morning after David’s party, unsure for a moment of where he was, blinking in confusion at the sun streaming in through the thin linen curtains. Then he groaned as he felt his stomach churn and a dull ache hit him between the eyebrows. He’d drunk way too much last night. But that had seemed the only option after that ghastly mishap with Susan and the phone call. He wasn’t sure how much she’d overheard of his conversation, especially as she’d seemed fine later, laughing and joking with David as usual.

He recalled feeling his knees physically buckle underneath him when Susan had materialised behind him in the garden of the River Café, while Kaaya’s voice had been caressing his ear. How strange was this thing called guilt – on the one hand, it had the power to make him feel as if a knife was slashing away at his insides and yet…yet, there were times when he was so completely inured to it, he could look straight into his wife’s face and lie, coolly and blatantly, without the slightest pang. Why, there had even been the day – at the birthday party Susan had recently thrown for Riva – when he had lost control and kissed Kaaya full on her lips, his hands running all over her lithe body as he pressed her against the fridge, all the while hearing Susan’s laughter in the next room. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was himself a psychiatrist, he would have thought this behaviour a form of madness.

But that was what women like Kaaya did to men like him. She was just so beautiful and so captivating, he was like a ball of putty in her hands. Joe knew he wasn’t a weak man, never had been. Not with alcohol, not with women. It was something he prided himself on. But it was literally as though he had had no choice at all once Kaaya had set her sights on him. Of course, they had met many times over the years – he had even attended her wedding to Rohan, for Christ’s sake – and although he had long thought of her as the most gorgeous thing he had ever laid eyes on, he had never even considered flirting with her. Not least because he would never have dreamt of hurting Susan with that kind of behaviour. Now Joe realised, of course, that the only reason he had not fallen for Kaaya before was because he had thought her completely inaccessible; he had never once imagined that she would spare him more than a moment’s thought. Until that night, when they were all gathered quite casually at Riva’s house and Kaaya had caught him looking absently at her cleavage. Instead of doing that thing that women like Susan did – rather sheepishly adjusting their necklines and swiftly looking away – Kaaya had deliberately bent over to pick up an almond out of a bowl, further revealing the alluring swell of her breasts. Then she had looked up at him through her lashes and smiled knowingly as she delicately placed the almond on her tongue and chewed on it, leaning back and running one finger along the rim of her wine goblet.

That had been the start of it and Joe still felt giddy at the memory of the days that followed – the snatched flirtatious conversations at parties and restaurants edging them closer to very dangerous territory, that first kiss on Riva’s wet driveway last Christmas, stolen while the others were busy collecting their brollies and drunkenly kissing everyone else in the hallway, and finally, one frozen day in January, a long, lingering lunch at China Tang, which he had managed by pleading a trumped-up illness at work to be able to leave at midday. It was only after that lunch, convinced by Kaaya’s passionate air and seeming sincerity, that Joe had finally plucked up the courage to take their relationship to the next logical step, one he was quite sure he would not have taken for a mere physical fling. It was something he had only rather wildly dreamt about before, listening with some amusement to other people gossiping about such things in half-horrified, half-admiring tones. Adultery. Infidelity. Big words, as though it required more than a couple of syllables to express such major transgressions. At what stage exactly did one describe a relationship as adulterous? When a man first held his wife’s body and imagined she was someone else? When he first lied to a woman he barely knew about the state of his marriage, allowing a near stranger to believe that his wife of ten years could not make him happy? Even if it had to be a physical act, at what precise point in the continuum between kissing and having full-blown sex did an affair slip into the realm of infidelity? The simple truth was that, by the time Joe had decided to have sex with Kaaya, he had seemed to have no choice in the matter at all. He was, in fact, so ready to burst with love and longing for this beautiful, beautiful creature, so convinced that it was nothing short of a gift to be offered her love, that turning away from it would have seemed the bigger travesty. He had loved Susan well enough, but now it was as though he simply loved Kaaya more.

It had been a perfect day too, nothing about its clean white snow and crisp sunshine indicating that something immoral could be afoot. They had driven out that morning through the peaceful Oxfordshire countryside bathed in winter sunshine, heading for Bray. After a light lunch at a country pub – both of them being too nervous to eat very much – they had checked into a local B&B, and made fervent love all through the afternoon. It was only when the sun had started to set beyond the fields, and the plane tree outside their window was filled with the noise of returning birds, that Joe had even remembered they both had homes and spouses to get back to.

He had told Susan he was attending a day conference at Oxford and she seemed to think nothing of it when he returned late that evening, exhausted and unwilling to talk. Odd that he had never before noticed how tatty Susan’s pink bathrobe was, or how annoyingly she slurped on her mug of bedtime cocoa while watching TV. But he had managed to blank it all out, turning away from Susan in bed and pretending to be asleep until he could hear her breathing lapse into soft snores. But sleep did not come easy to him that night, his nerves jangling from being on edge – not from guilt, surprisingly, but because of the plan that had been made to spend a whole night at Kaaya’s apartment the following week. Luckily, Rohan’s job involved a great deal of travel and Susan was not unaccustomed to Joe needing to do the occasional night shift. It would not be difficult to manage.

All Joe knew that night, as he drifted into sleep remembering Kaaya’s warm, luscious body in the hotel bed, was that he could not wait – not just to make love to Kaaya all night but to experience the magic of waking up in the morning and seeing that she was not just a dream he had conjured up in the night.

Susan prepared a cafetiere full of coffee before calling up the stairs for Joe to wake up; it was a habit formed over the years since they had moved in together – eleven this year, ten since they were married and fifteen since they had first met. Susan noted the figures with sudden shock, never having been one for showy anniversary celebrations. For fifteen years, she had loved one man so wholly that the possibility of losing him now seemed so tragic it was almost laughable!

With one ear cocked for the creaks and sounds of Joe moving about upstairs, Susan made her sandwich, wrapped it in a bit of foil and tucked it into her handbag alongside an apple. Normally by the time this was done Joe would have appeared in the kitchen – tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed in his pyjamas – just in time to collect a kiss from her before she left for school. It was his job to clear away after her, of course, collecting the milk and newspaper from the doorstep and waving her off as she reversed her car down the drive.

Today, however, there was no sign of Joe, even after the sandwich had been made, and things had gone very still upstairs. Susan wondered if she ought to go up to the bedroom to make a pretence of saying goodbye. She took a quick look at her watch and hesitated. It wasn’t the lack of time – she still had ten minutes to spare – but the wrenching memory of the overheard phone call last night that was stopping her. There had been no point confronting him with it last night, not when they were surrounded by their friends and everyone had been so drunk. After that, either because of the alcohol or sheer exhaustion induced by shock, Susan had slept the sleep of the dead, waking up far too late to do her customary half hour of yoga. And there wasn’t the time to start hurling accusations at Joe right now, not when she had so little time before she needed to leave for work. It would have to wait till the evening. Or perhaps she needed to ‘gather more evidence’ first. There was every chance Joe would just deny it outright, telling her she had imagined it. Would premature questioning not merely present him with the opportunity to cover his tracks more efficiently, giving him time to come up with a plan to deceive her better? Perhaps he would even put his head together with the person he had so casually addressed as ‘darling’ to come up with a finer plan to fool her and string her along a bit more…

Who was this other woman? And why on earth would she have gone after a married man? If she knew Joe was married, that is…Susan felt her stomach twist and quelled a sudden desire to retch. What was she to do? There had never been a template for responding to a husband’s infidelity in all the books she’d read. As far as she knew, infidelity wasn’t something anyone in her inner circle had ever had to cope with anyway. Not her mum, her two sisters, or her best friend, Riva. And it was much too late to go rushing out to buy those trashy magazines she saw at the dentist’s that emblazoned problems across their covers such as: ‘My husband is gay’ or ‘He slept with my mother’…

Keeping her voice calm, Susan shouted upstairs again and this time heard Joe’s muffled voice as he emerged from the bathroom.

‘I’m off now,’ she called, before picking up her bag and shutting the door behind her. She was managing to impress herself with all this calm, poised behaviour. Of course, everyone at school had probably always seen her as impossible to ruffle, whatever the crisis at hand. Even that time when little Patrick Hoolihan had badly cut his arm and blood had gushed out of the wound in a jet that flew across the art room, it was Susan who had kept her head, stemming the flow with a tourniquet and silencing the child’s screams with a swiftly made-up story involving an ambulance that was too polite to flash its lights and scream its way through the traffic.

It was only once Susan was in the car, driving down her leafy Wimbledon road, that the magnitude of what she was so coolly coping with hit her. A social worker had once told her that cars did that to people – something about their rocking, womb-like environment making children suddenly disclose abuse and other horrors kept hidden from the world. More effective, the social worker had said, than a hundred carefully controlled psychotherapy sessions. So that was it, then. All it took was sliding into the front seat of her little blue Mini and, suddenly, Susan could feel everything magically well up inside her: a huge wave of anger and sorrow and pain that she could not hold at bay any more and that now threatened to drown her as she drove along the A23. She would have to pull in somewhere, she thought in panic as the tears started to slide uncontrolled down her face, blurring her vision. But the traffic was heavy and moving along in brisk single file on this busy Friday morning.

She tried to stem her tears. It would be shameful to walk into the school with her face all red and blotchy; what would the poor children think! But, for now, it was such sweet relief to simply let go. Susan drove on, feeling the tears roll down her cheeks and drip off her chin onto the woollen fabric of her skirt.

Somehow she made it from the car park to the school toilets without bumping into anyone. Once she had washed her face, Susan felt calmer and took out her phone. She had to talk to someone, to help restore that terrible lost sense of reality that was overwhelming her, as though she had somehow managed to wander into one of her worst nightmares.

Riva. Her best friend was the only person who could possibly help sort this tangle out.

Chapter Nine

The phone started to ring just as Riva jabbed with relief on the full-stop key. Chapter Nine done, hallelujah. More importantly, her main character had reached the crossroads she had spent five chapters propelling him towards and had finally decided which way to go. The rest of the book would be a freewheeling exercise downhill, Riva knew. With one successful book under her belt, she was starting to get familiar with the routine.

Her mind still miles away in a fictional town in the Peak District, Riva said ‘Hello?’ absently into her phone, her eyes still scanning the screen of her laptop. Instead of an answer, she got a strange muffled snuffling at the other end of the line. Just as she was contemplating hanging up, she heard the sound of Susan’s voice suddenly emerge, not bubbling with laughter as usual, but drowning in a flood of tears.

‘Sooz?’ Riva called out in alarm. ‘Is that you?’

The snuffling gave way to a horrible low wail. ‘It’s me, Riva. The most terrible thing’s happened,’ Susan said, her voice suffused with tears. ‘Joe…he’s…oh Riva!’

‘What is it, Susan? What’s happened to Joe, for God’s sake?’

How many conflicting possibilities was it possible to have racing simultaneously through the mind in the space of a few seconds? Riva’s brain collected them all: accident, heart attack, cerebral thrombosis, serious domestic spat…until it stopped short at the one possibility that Susan was now blurting out through distraught tears.

‘Affair…Riva, he’s having an affair!’

‘What?’

‘I said, Joe’s having an affair.’

‘Joe! An affair?’ Riva asked, unable to match up those two words, even have them occupy the same sentence. Nevertheless, she repeated the words slowly and blankly, trying to digest them. ‘Joe’s having an affair.’

Perhaps her reaction wasn’t so obtuse. Of all the people in Riva’s very wide circle of friends and acquaintances, the one person who seemed furthest removed from the possibility of an extramarital dalliance was Joe. Goodnatured, serious, contented old Joe, who had loved no one but Susan since day one at uni, who had steered a steady course through their years of separation when he was at med school, and who had married his college sweetheart the moment he had started earning a pittance as a junior doctor because he had said he could wait no longer.

‘Susan, are you sure?’ Riva asked, knowing it was a stupid question but waiting, biting her lip, hoping that Susan was only joking. Not that Susan was given to puerile pranks, so it really was a very stupid hope. While her friend noisily blew her nose, Riva enquired more gently, ‘Where are you, Sooz? I just realised it’s a weekday – are you at school? Are you able to talk from where you are?’

Susan had recovered herself a bit by now. ‘Yes…I’m at school but I can talk for a bit. I desperately needed to speak to you, Riva.’

‘Okay, so tell me what happened.’ Riva tried to sound calm while quelling her own growing panic.

‘Oh, Riva, I’m as sure as I can be about it. The suspicion’s been growing for days now but I hadn’t mentioned it before because I wasn’t sure. But yesterday…yesterday I overheard Joe on the phone to someone, Riva. I wasn’t imagining it.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘Not a lot. But he had sneaked away from the crowd and he addressed her as “darling”…’ Susan broke off again in sobs.

‘Was that it?’ Riva asked, relief flooding through her.

‘What do you mean, was that it? Isn’t that enough? Pretty much confirmed it for me, I can tell you,’ Susan replied, reverting momentarily to her more spirited self.

‘Hang on,’ Riva replied. ‘People often get away from crowds to take calls, Susan. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re sneaking off…’

‘Yeah, right. In a freezing garden and without a coat. That’s why I followed him, actually, to tell him off for being outdoors without a coat…’ Susan’s voice was edging into tears again.

For want of anything else to say, Riva tried another tack. ‘Besides, addressing someone as “darling” means nothing in most circles, right?’

‘Joe doesn’t address anyone as darling, Riv, not even me!’ Susan was now sounding quite indignant.

‘His mum?’ Rev asked, clutching at straws.

‘Christ, no! How many men do you know who call their mums “darling”, Riva? For God’s sake!’

‘I don’t know…maybe I was thinking of Indian men and their mums…’ Riva trailed off. Then she added, ‘Where were you when you overheard him, Sooz?’

‘At the River Café. David’s birthday party. And it wasn’t just the fact that I’d overheard Joe, Riva. It was his reaction to seeing me appear suddenly behind him. He was guilty as hell. It was written all over his face.’

‘What did he do? Did he say anything?’

‘That was the other thing, Riv,’ Susan said, weeping again at the memory. ‘He lied…he…he…he looked me in the face and lied so idiotically. Said something about a patient who needed medical advice, for God’s sake. As if he would have ever given his private phone number out to a patient and as if they’d ever call him close to midnight. That was the really grubby bit, Riva, that he actually thought I’d be thick enough to buy such a fucking unlikely story.’

‘Oh, Susan,’ Riva whispered, recoiling at Susan’s uncharacteristic use of strong language. The import of what Susan was saying was only just starting to permeate her consciousness. ‘Did you tell him, Sooz? Tell him you didn’t believe his fib, that is?’

There was a small pause before Susan replied, ‘No I didn’t, Riva. And, before you ask me why not, it was because…because I just couldn’t bear to hear the truth. I…I preferred to have Joe stand there and lie through his teeth to me, rather than have him be honest and tell me he’s having an affair with someone.’

Riva felt her chest squeeze painfully as she heard her friend’s voice dissolve in tears again. In her confusion, she offered another stupid alternative. ‘Maybe he isn’t…sleeping with her, Sooz. I mean, maybe it’s not that sort of an affair but some kind of friendship thing…’ Riva trailed off, realising that an emotional attachment was perhaps worse than a physical affair.

‘For God’s sake, Riv!’ Susan cried. ‘Even if he isn’t fucking her now, he obviously wants to, doesn’t he? I mean, why the fuck would a man sneak away from his wife and call another woman and address her as “darling”? Why the fuck, if it isn’t to shag her…’

Riva nodded, her head reeling from Susan’s uncustomary flurry of f-words. Even ‘shag’ seemed too strong for someone so well brought up. The strongest language Susan normally used went no further than ‘damn’ and ‘bloody’. Riva gathered her thoughts together again, trying to stay calm for Susan’s sake. ‘Have you any idea who he might have been talking to, Sooz?’

‘You know, I haven’t even got as far as that, Riva. Because what I still can’t cope with is that Joe’s been lying to me. It’s almost as if it doesn’t matter who she is. You know?’ Before Riva could respond, Susan added angrily,’But when I do find out who she is, I swear I’ll kill her.’

Kaaya eased herself into the leather seat of her Lotus Elise and, after turning on the ignition, pressed the electronic buzzer for the garage doors to open. Usually the deep throb of the engine filled her with a sense of well-being but this morning Kaaya was in a bad, bad mood. Bloody Joe! First he had abandoned her last night, leaving her to spend a boring evening watching reruns on TV, and then he’d woken her in the morning babbling on about how worried he was that Susan may have overheard their conversation last night. Before even asking her what sort of an evening she’d had all by herself.

Apparently, Susan had walked up behind him when he had been kootchie-kooing her from outside the River Café. Susan hadn’t made any accusations yet but Joe was quite sure she’d smelt a rat. It was written all over her face, she was real quiet this morning, she left for work barely saying goodbye…blah di blah di blah…

‘Pathetic,’ Kaaya muttered under her breath as the garage doors swung open and she reversed her car out onto the quiet cobbled mews. What the fuck had Joe expected would happen when he embarked on an extramarital affair – that he could blithely carry on and never be found out? The way he had bleated this morning, it was as if he’d never even considered the possibility. Married men were such morons sometimes, imagining they could live different parts of their lives in convenient little bubbles that, if they ever collided, would simply cheerfully bounce off each other and float away!

When the traffic lights on Holland Park Avenue turned green, Kaaya pressed her foot on the accelerator, hearing the wheels of her car squeal against the road. She had half a mind to call off this whole stupid thing with Joe. Affairs were meant to be fun and uplifting, not a bloody millstone around the neck, pulling you down. It was piteous, the way Joe had gone on this morning, blithering on about how he really, really didn’t want Susan to know. How he couldn’t bear to hurt her. It wasn’t that Kaaya wanted him to leave Susan for her – that was the last thing on her mind, for heaven’s sake! Nor, for that matter, did she particularly want to hurt the bloody woman. She had nothing against her and Susan was, after all, her sister’s best friend. But Kaaya certainly wanted Susan kept well away from the fun she was having and Joe’s insistence this morning on shoving his wife’s pain down her throat was such a drag.

Stopping at the next set of traffic lights, Kaaya sensed someone’s gaze on her. She glanced out of her car window and felt the familiar old frisson as she saw a man – oh, and a pleasant-looking man in a silver Ferrari – eye her appreciatively. As their eyes met, he smiled and nodded his short-cropped grey head. It could have been at her sports car or it could have been at her lustrous brown hair, tousled by the breeze. It certainly fitted her mood to decide it must be the latter and Kaaya slowly smiled back at him, her enigmatic I-could-be-interested-in-you-depending smile. Then the lights turned green and she shot ahead of him, leaving the faint smell of burning rubber in her wake.

Kaaya was feeling calmer by the time she wafted into her office half an hour later, the man in the silver Ferrari having provided further entertainment by racing her down Great Western Road before finally disappearing in the direction of Regent’s Park.

Henry from accounts was doing his customary hangaround reception, waiting for her. His crush on her had got so bad since the last Christmas party, he no longer even bothered hiding it from everyone. Sarah, the girl behind the reception desk, gave Kaaya a quick smile of relief as she walked in. The poor girl was probably quite exhausted from Henry’s stubbornly clinging presence – half an hour extra today owing to Kaaya’s lateness.

‘Hello, Sarah, sorry I’m late. Any messages for me? Oh, hello, Henry,’ Kaaya said, stopping by the reception desk and casting glowing smiles all round. Greeting Henry with more warmth than usual would only refuel his cloying adoration but, after Joe’s behaviour this morning, Kaaya would be willing to charm Idi Amin himself.

‘Oh, Kaaya, Pamela was looking for you a few minutes ago. And these people called,’ Sarah replied, shoving a small pile of notes towards Kaaya.

‘All well, Henry?’ Kaaya asked, collecting her messages and turning the full blast of her 100-kilowatt smile on the hapless Henry. Henry gulped and nodded, a virulent pink creeping up from under his collar at the vibrant presence of Kaaya in a swishing purple miniskirt and fishnet tights within touching distance of him.

‘H-hello, Kaaya,’ he whispered, unable to look her in the eye. Kaaya decided to spare him further agony and spoke over his shoulder to Sarah. ‘Tell Pam I’ve just got in, Sarah, sweetie, and I’ll pop upstairs soon as I can.’

She riffled through her notes as she walked into her office. Aha, two from Joe. Evidently he’d gathered she wasn’t too pleased with his panic attack this morning and was trying to make amends. She’d keep him waiting a bit before calling him back. Kaaya really didn’t like clingy love-sick dimwits, so perhaps she would keep Joe at bay for a while. She did, after all, have a job to attend to.

Chapter Ten

It wasn’t working. Riva closed her laptop and leant back in her chair, suddenly exhausted. It had been a messy writing day, starting off with a couple of extremely productive hours first thing in the morning. But, after that phone call from Susan, her work had been patchy, thoughts swinging wildly from what suddenly seemed like trivial fictional diversions to the terrible earth-shattering stuff of reality. In her time as a fiction writer, Riva had discovered that, usually, it was real life that was the crucible for the most powerful dramas. Poor Susan. Riva hadn’t heard her friend sound so distraught in years. In fact, she probably hadn’t heard Susan sound so distraught ever – Susan being the kind of placid soul who had steadfastly done nothing wrong all her life. Suddenly the carefully made-up problems of Riva’s protagonist seemed so very inconsequential in comparison to what Susan was facing at the moment. Riva clicked shut the Word document that was the growing manuscript of her third book. There was no point. Whatever she wrote on a day like this was bound to be complete rubbish and guaranteed to be trashed when she returned to it later.

Riva looked at the kitchen clock as she slipped her laptop back into its case. Three pm. Enough time to grab a shower before heading out to Susan’s school. They had agreed to meet at the Portuguese café down the road from the school so that Susan would not be interrupted by her colleagues or students. She seemed to want Riva’s help in preparing a strategy before Joe got home that night but, although Riva had given it extended thought, she had not come up with any ideas beyond boxing Joe’s ears if indeed he had been cheating on Susan. She still couldn’t believe it though. Not Joe, ideal-boyfriend-then-ideal-husband Joe Holmes, the kind of guy all their single female friends were looking for.

Riva shoved her computer case onto the bottom shelf of the bookcase with some force. Then she sprinted up the stairs, gathered her towel from the airing cupboard and disappeared into the shower.

Towelling herself dry a few minutes later, Riva wondered where her own husband had gone. Ben had left the house first thing in the morning to go to the British Library and certainly had not said he wouldn’t be home for lunch. The ham sandwich Riva had made for him when she stopped for a bite at midday now lay in the microwave with its edges curling. She sighed. No doubt Ben would be expecting a hot meal when he got back, seeing as she’d been in the house all day, and would not be amused at the sight of a dried-up sandwich awaiting him instead. Riva sighed again, more deeply. The business of both of them being full-time writers did rather complicate the domestic arrangements sometimes. Never mind that Ben found more excuses to leave the house than she did, the nonfiction he wrote apparently requiring more trips to the library than fiction writing, which Ben always seemed to imply required less hard graft. Never mind the fact that she was the only one of the two of them with an actual publishing contract!

Riva sighed and gave herself a reproachful look in the bathroom mirror. She knew she shouldn’t be uncharitable to poor Ben, even if it was only in her thoughts. It was downright mean to regard his writing plans as dubious merely because he hadn’t been published yet. She, more than anyone else, ought to understand how much determination it took to spend hours working on a manuscript, completely uncertain of whether it would ever get published or even read.

Shivering in her underwear, Riva sprinted to the pair of tall mahogany wardrobes in the bedroom. She cast a glance out at the steely sky. It had remained a stubborn grey all day, reluctantly leaking meagre sunshine through leaden clouds like an afterthought. And now it was barely three o’clock and the day was already resolutely darkening into night! She hurriedly pulled on a thick jumper over a T-shirt and dragged on her Levi’s, feeling altogether miserable. She had always hated these short February days, when night and day were barely discernible from each other. Something to do with her Indian birth, she reckoned, or the two sunny years she had spent in the Punjab before her parents had emigrated to England. Despite all these years, she had never grown used to the unrelenting greyness of the English winter and never would.

Of course, today everything was made infinitely worse by the misery of her best friend, but something had been palpably infecting her feelings for Ben of late, even though today, of all days, she should have been appreciative of her faithful husband. Perhaps it was something to do with her beloved father’s recent death, which had rather curiously brought into focus Ben’s own shortcomings as a husband.

‘Well, Ben,’ Riva muttered, sitting on the edge of her bed to yank on a pair of fleecy boots, ‘I could have roused myself to rustle up a pulao or a soup, just to keep you feeling like a man who’s just come in from a hard day’s work. But, you know what? My best friend, Susan, has just found that the man she’s lavished every ounce of love she’s had to give since she was eighteen may be having an affair. As though he were just another dick and not the fine, intelligent, upstanding man we always thought he was. Maybe, just maybe, she needs me a tiny bit more than you do tonight, Ben.’

That was the other thing about a writer’s life: these ridiculous monologues that had recently become a habit, everyone assuming that a writer’s life was easy simply because you could hang around in your pyjamas while doing your day’s work. Would anyone stop to consider, Riva wondered, that she hadn’t spoken to another soul all day? Except for Susan this morning, which was a most unusual event. Even the routine trip to the newsagents had been dumped in favour of finishing Chapter Ten because there was every danger of being sucked into reading something in the papers that would gobble up a precious couple of hours. Deadlines, deadlines, did publishers know how sapping of creativity these bloody deadlines could be? Ben certainly didn’t.

Riva looked at herself in the mirror to dab a bit of powder over her face and run a kohl pencil over her eyes. That would do. She really ought to wipe this unseemly frown off her face before she got to Wimbledon. For Susan’s sake. God knows she needed some cheering up, although Riva didn’t feel terribly well qualified to be that person tonight.

She picked out a small leather satchel and slipped her travel card into it, making her way downstairs. It was only as Riva was pulling on her coat in the hallway that she saw the letter sticking out of the postbox. The envelope was creamy and expensive looking, and had a French postage stamp bearing a Cannes postmark. Riva ripped it open and nearly dropped it in her excitement. She reread it to be sure it wasn’t a mistake. This was incredible! She, Riva Walia, was invited to be a jury member at the sixty-third Cannes Film Festival this summer!

In disbelief, she ran her eye once again over the details, savouring every word…At the Palais des Festivals et des Congrès…Nine jury members…Chaired by Isabelle Huppert…

Then she sucked in her breath sharply as she read the names of the other eight judges and came to the fourth on the list…Mr Aman Khan from India.

Riva leant heavily on the sideboard, suddenly dizzy. Perhaps she had wished for this somewhere in her deepest subconscious, in some kind of stupid yearning fan-like dream. Without an author carefully plotting events on a timeline and playing God with a bunch of helpless characters, choreographing their every move, how else could such an astonishing thing possibly happen?

Riva slid the letter under a pile of newspapers and left the house, resolving to contain her excitement until after she had met poor Susan.

Chapter Eleven

Aman was met at Dubai airport by a small posse of dangerous-looking men who whisked him into a fleet of cars. Although he enjoyed relative anonymity in this city, like London, it was too full of Indians for him to hope to pass completely unnoticed.

He looked out of his darkened windows at the other opulent cars passing by, imagining how excited he would have been as a boy to see a Bugatti, a McLaren and a Maybach all in the space of ten minutes. Now everything seemed so lacklustre.

It was not long before Aman saw the tall mast-shape of the Burj Al Arab rise from the waters of the Arabian Gulf as the chauffeur steered his Rolls-Royce expertly through Dubai’s lunchtime traffic. The car swept along a freeway that was flanked by palm-fringed emerald lawns on one side, the ocean glittering blue-gold on the other. Soon his car was rolling up the hotel’s vast drive, the ocean on either side giving Aman the illusion that they were wafting all the way up the gangplank to a massive ship.

The Indian doorman gave Aman a delighted smile as he disembarked. After a polite exchange of words with the man, who seemed quite overcome by a film star paying him so much attention, Aman sprinted up a set of sweeping marble stairs to the entrance. No matter how many times he walked through the doors of the Burj, Aman couldn’t help being dazzled all over again by the quantities of gold leaf that seemed to cover everything; the walls, the floor, the ceiling were brighter than ever as the afternoon sun poured in. This was his fourth or fifth visit but Aman reckoned he would never entirely cope with the garish opulence of the Burj. It was Salma who insisted on staying at this hotel when she was in Dubai, mostly for the privacy they guaranteed all their guests, but also, Aman knew, because she simply would not settle for anything less. If there was a seven-star hotel in a city, it would be unthinkable that Salma Khan should stay anywhere else!

‘Has my wife arrived yet?’ Aman asked the butler, who was walking a few respectful paces behind him down a gilded maroon corridor towards the lift.

‘Mrs Khan arrives in an hour’s time,’ the man replied in soothing tones. As if he understood already that soothing was what Aman really needed with the imminent arrival of Mrs Khan. Aman smiled wryly. Salma would appear, as she always did, in a whirl of secretaries and beauticians and hair stylists, barking orders into a phone that was permanently glued to her left ear. The habit had grown worse with her recent acquisition of a cricket team that was playing in the Indian Premier League, the long-distance negotiating and strategising seeming to give her a special buzz. It was as if she thrived on the power of being in charge of things, no matter how far away she was. She certainly had a strange way of robbing not just Aman, but the very air around her, of peace and tranquillity.

Aman sighed as he was escorted up to the Royal Suite on the twenty-fifth floor. He’d suggested going for one of the smaller suites this time, given that this was not a personal visit but one organised and paid for by the Khalili brothers. But Salma would never agree to anything but the very best, of course, and the ever-courteous Khalili family had been quick to respond.

‘Least they can do, Aman,’ Salma had urged. ‘After all, you are charging only half what you normally get to attend their function.’ She was right but, typically, she was overlooking the fact that the discounted rate was because the Khalilis were known for their philanthropic work and the function was a fundraiser for Autism Awareness, a cause the oil tycoons were committed to because of the autistic twin sons born to the elder of the two brothers.

Aman entered the mustard and gold expanse of the Royal Suite, wondering how the hell he would cope with leopard-print carpets for three whole days. The two bedrooms upstairs were a necessary requirement, as he’d asked Salma to bring Ashfaq along on this trip and she would no doubt turn up with his regular entourage of nanny, governess and playmate. But a living room this size, a dining room and a private cinema was definitely overkill for such a short stay, much of which would be spent in the Khalilis’ ocean-view mansion anyway.

Aman flung his shades down on a console table and kicked off his shoes, enjoying the cool of the Carrara marble underfoot. Running up the stairs, he entered one of the two bathrooms and washed his face vigorously under water as cold as he could stand. After towelling his face dry, he picked up a bottle and splashed something that smelt faintly like citrus fruit on his face – Eau de Hermès, the lettering on the bottle discreetly pronounced. Salma would be pleased.

Aman wandered out into a bedroom whose centrepiece was a huge circular and canopied four-poster bed. He remembered this bed from an earlier visit four or five years ago – a time when he and Salma had been getting on better, for he could recall how they’d laughed while experimenting with its various spinning and vibrating functions. It was hard to imagine such a time now, given the frostiness that had crept into their marriage in the past few years. Looking back, the surprising bit hadn’t been that he’d married Salma in the first place. She had been a beauty, after all, daughter of the legendary Noor, India’s top actress in the sixties. Aman had spotted Salma at one of his first film parties – a lavish affair celebrating twenty-five years of Rajshri Studios – and had found himself unable to take his eyes off the fair-skinned, svelte beauty that Salma had been then. She was, in fact, the spitting image of her mother, as Noor had been in her prime, and Aman was overwhelmed by a feeling of déjà vu, imagining he was watching an old Noor film (and he had seen them all in his misspent schooldays) as he watched Salma, clad in a sparkling white gharara, sitting demurely by her father, the powerful and influential Abdullah Miandad, then Bollywood’s top director.

Aman had managed to inveigle an introduction to Salma at the party and they had spent some time chatting about inconsequential things. But Aman had picked up a sense of an ambitious girl trapped in a traditional setup and had felt a rush of sympathy that only added to the sensation of being quite smitten. Old Miandad had been pleased as punch when, a month later, Aman made a tentative enquiry regarding the possibility of seeking his daughter’s hand in marriage. The positive response had surprised Aman at first, but he realised later that Salma’s canny father had probably already had some inkling of Aman’s star potential with Krodh having by then catapulted him to hero status. Aman’s parents had been nonplussed by the Bollywood princess they had suddenly been landed with as a daughter-in-law, but Aman’s new-found money and status was by then bringing them a life of substance too, so it hadn’t been a totally unequal union. In the early heady flush of that youthful marriage, Aman had for a short while genuinely believed he was happy and in love.

That was then, Aman mused, staring out at the waters of the Persian Gulf sparkling into the distance. He had certainly never bargained for Salma turning into a lazy, complaining wife who considered it his duty to keep her in comfort. Even his tentative suggestion that she try taking up the acting career she had seemed to so desire was met by a disbelieving look.

The blazing blue of sky and sea was broken only by the occasional boat or aircraft and, as Aman watched a helicopter approach the hotel, he guessed that it was making for the helipad on its roof. He grinned, remembering a tennis match he had witnessed on the helipad a few years ago – a Roger Federer–Andre Agassi tournament that the smooth British MC had described as ‘strawberries and cream meeting the mile-high club’. Aman watched the helicopter progress slowly in the direction of the Burj and it slowly dawned on him that Salma had taken the option of using a helicopter transfer from the airport, despite his firm instructions not to do so. He felt bile and fury rise in his stomach as he thought of how heedlessly she had taken to ignoring his every request. She would, doubtless, accuse him of being tight-fisted but it wasn’t that at all. It was not just Aman’s fear of small aircraft but also his ever-present terror that something bad would happen to Ashfaq when he wasn’t near enough to help; an anxiety born from being forced to spend so much time away from his son. Salma would have been fully aware that a helicopter journey with Ashfaq would make him deeply unhappy – and yet she had chosen to do exactly that. Aman watched the small distant dot of the helicopter and felt his jaw clench in helplessness and fear.

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