A Scandalous Secret (3 page)

What would Neha Chaturvedi's response be when it did finally get to her, Sonya wondered. Not that she
cared
, or anything, but if she
did
, she'd have given an arm and a leg to be a fly on the wall when that letter got opened. She had written three different versions and had eventually gone for the hard-hitting one because no other tone had seemed quite appropriate; certainly not namby-pamby politeness! Besides, pussy-footing about and avoiding tackling important issues just wasn't her style.

Sonya rolled to one side and slipped a sheet of paper out from under the mattress in her bay window. She'd kept a photocopy of the letter she had sent as writing it had been such a momentous task, she felt it important to
keep a record of it. However, over subsequent examinings, Sonya had doodled absent-mindedly on the margins which were now covered in pictures of stubby little aeroplanes and, for some odd reason, the repetitive image of a spiralling tornado.

Had she been overly melodramatic, Sonya wondered as she cast her eye over her scrawly writing. Perhaps the tone she'd adopted had turned just a tad too aggressive? It wasn't entirely made up of course, because Sonya did feel genuinely hurt and angry with all that she now knew of her adoption. In her more logical moments, she knew it was crazy to feel so angry, especially given what an ace set of cards life had dealt her since she was adopted by Mum and Dad. But that didn't take away from the fact that life could have been dire, thanks to the actions of the woman who had given birth to her.

To prevent her runaway thoughts from messing up her head again, Sonya got up and turned on the radio. She did a few energetic toe-touches and stretches to Michael Bublé and sang along, trying to lighten her mood. She smiled at her reflection in the mirrored wardrobe. By working herself up into such a tizz over India, perhaps she was merely living up to the name her father had given her when she was six: Drama Diva. He often had a little dig at Mum as well while he was at it, dubbing her Drama Queen and calling them both his Deeply Dramatic Duo. He was a fine one to talk, given how teary he had been of late; almost as bad as Mum. Of course it was all due to the India plan, and poor Dad wasn't as expert at masking his feelings as he seemed to think. With a mere five days to go before Sonya's departure, both her parents had taken to behaving as though they were acting in a Ken Loach weepie, welling up at the silliest of things and
quickly blinking away tears that they thought Sonya hadn't seen. Of course, Sonya understood all the reasons for which her darling mum felt threatened by her going off in search of her real mother but it was really so unnecessary, given how poorly Sonya thought of the woman who had given her away.

Sonya danced her way to the photograph that hung above the writing bureau, taken on her sixth birthday. She looked at her six-year-old self, standing before a Smarties-encrusted chocolate cake, flanked by her parents, both of whom were wearing silly paper hats. They looked so happy. As though that smiling threesome, caught in the camera lens, was the only thing of any importance in the whole wide world. Sonya's heart did another guilty flip. She hated the thought of causing her parents distress. She had been quite shocked when she had overheard Mum remark to Dad that what they were going through was about the most painful thing that had happened to her since the string of miscarriages she had endured in her twenties.

It was an instantly sobering thought and Sonya stopped dancing to return to the window seat. After another last glance at the photocopied letter, she slipped it back under the mattress. She had also kept a copy, imagining – perhaps dramatically – the kind of events it could set off; legal proceedings even! If that was the case, she certainly didn't want to be caught out, unable to remember what she had written. Not that she was frightened or anything – after all UK laws did actively encourage people to rediscover the details of their birth. But in the end, the final draft had been secretly photocopied on Dad's scanner in his den before she had stuffed it into an envelope. She had sealed it before she could stop herself and then cycled like the clappers down to the post office on the High Street
to make sure she did not change her mind. But, although it had been sent in haste, Sonya knew – hand on heart – that she had thought long and hard about the possible consequences of taking this step of contacting her birth mother. It was quite honestly the most difficult decision she had ever made in her life but Sonya had eventually made it, comforted by the sheer numbers of other adoptees who had done the same thing. All the information on the internet (and there was lots of it) had strengthened her, and left her with a strange sense of entitlement. There were so many blogs and websites that told her it was her right to know what had happened in her past. That past was hers and no one else's but, at the moment, all she had was a great gaping hole in her head and in her heart. When she was small, Mum and Dad had tried to tell her everything they knew about her adoption, but everything they knew was in fact pitifully little. They had, for instance, told her that she had an Indian mother but had no idea why she had given her up, or what had happened to her since. They knew that her father was white, English or Scottish, but there was absolutely no more information on him, not even a name. There were times when Sonya had wanted to scream in frustration and other times when, rather dramatically, she wondered if perhaps Mum and Dad were deliberately covering up her story because it was either really sordid or really exciting. And then, sometime around the age of thirteen, Sonya had simply stopped asking. All her questions had ended at the same old cipher and so there was little point. Especially when there were so many other things to focus her mind on at the time: bodily changes and intense crushes, a whole host of new areas to feel messed up about!

Now that Sonya was eighteen, however, and given more
right by law to investigate her past, everyone else simply had to understand that this trip to India was something she had no choice about. She had to discover the circumstances of her birth and it was now almost as though forces stronger than her had taken over, compelling her to embark on this treacherous path.

By midnight, Neha was so exhausted by her hostess duties that she could feel her legs begin to buckle under her. Yet, she managed to keep smiling as she bid goodbye to Kitty Singhania, an erstwhile beauty queen who had gone on to found a hugely successful cosmetics empire.

‘Sorry I have to leave early, darling. But don't you go forgetting my lunch at the Taj next week!' Kitty instructed, in that admonishing tone that was her trademark.

‘Have I
ever
forgotten your birthday, Kitty darling?' Neha purred as she hugged her guest lightly and kissed the air on either side of her face.

Kitty acknowledged her rejoinder with a laugh. ‘I must admit, you never do, darling Neha. Always the first to call on the day. Well, thank you again for a fabulous party. You and Sharat really do know how to throw a bash. Oh, and thank you for introducing me to André – it really would be wonderful to break into the French market. I hope it works!'

After Kitty's white Audi had swept out of the gates, Neha nodded at the security guards who were swiftly and diligently closing the large black exit gates that led on to Prithviraj Road. The Chaturvedi household's security normally subsisted on the presence of just one elderly
Gurkha at the entrance but extra guards and police personnel were always drafted in on party nights to ensure the safety of the many VIPs who would attend. It was one of Neha's worst nightmares that something unfortun ate would happen when her house was full of celebrities and millionaires and it was not for nothing that the Inspector General of Delhi's police force was always a valued guest at her parties too.

Tonight, however, all that was the last thing on Neha's mind. It was as if the letter hidden in her cupboard upstairs had taken on some kind of ghostly form that had been floating about all night, creeping up on her at unexpected moments to mock and taunt her as she tried to engage with her guests. Neha stopped with one foot on the broad marble step that led up to the veranda, taking in great gulps of the heady scent of the creeper that hung abundantly over the roof. The fragrance of jasmine was meant to have a calming effect, according to her yoga instructor who sometimes held her sessions out here on the veranda, but nothing short of a strong tranquillizer would work today.

Sounds of merrymaking still filtered through the doorways as Neha's raw silk curtains drifted in the breeze: chatter and laughter and the clink of china and cutlery as guests helped themselves at the lavish buffet tables in the dining room. From the pergola at the far end of the eastern garden, the Divakar Brothers' live performance was just audible: thin strains of the sitar playing a melancholy raga over the more robust notes of a harmonium.

‘Please, please help me stay strong and calm,' Neha thought in desperation, imagining what all the people who were currently enjoying her hospitality would think if they read that letter right now. Not having any children of their
own, the scandal of a secret child would rock Neha and Sharat's world and destroy Sharat's political ambitions and, surely, their marriage too. It was too terrifying to bear thinking about.

Neha looked up at the moon, large and heavy, rising through the gulmohar trees. Such a perfect night. Delhi had seen off the last of the monsoon rains and was now starting to cool in readiness for the winter. But Neha could not derive any of her customary pleasure from the soothing breezes that were carrying in lush smells from her garden. Instead, for the hundredth time since the letter came, she imagined the emergence in her near-flawless world of the secret that she had managed to hold on to for eighteen years. Public knowledge that she'd not only had a child before marrying Sharat, but had gone on to abandon it, would tear their lives apart on so many different levels. Not merely because everyone would discover what a hypocrite she really was, but also because Sharat would no longer be able to present their marriage in the manner he loved: a gracious young couple who were pillars of the establishment and could always be relied on to help all their friends and acquaintances progress with their own hopes and ambitions.

Neha clutched her stomach as it twisted in a painful spasm again. It had been doing that all evening – it could be due either to hunger or anxiety, she couldn't tell. She usually ate a bowl of daal with a chapatti before any of her parties; a bit of useful ‘hostessing' advice that Jasmeet had imparted years ago. Today the letter had caused her to forget this useful ritual. She tried to massage the pain away and, with one hand still resting on her flat stomach, Neha considered the painful question of her childless marriage suddenly: a thought she had not dwelt on for
some time now. Of course, she remembered it off and on but not with the kind of anguish that was assailing her right now …

Standing in the shadows of the flower-bedecked pillars, Neha bent over and let out a long, low moan. She had not felt sadder in a long, long time than she did tonight. Although Sharat seemed to have come to terms with their childlessness in his own way over the past few years, for Neha it had remained the biggest irony of her life. For one, he knew nothing of the child she had already had. But Neha had lived with that anomaly mocking her all these years: how, indeed, could it be anything but fair that Neha should be punished with a childless marriage for having given away the baby that had been born to her all those years ago?

She saw again the untidy handwriting in the letter, the girlish signature that ended in a flamboyantly curling loop. ‘Sonya'…

Stumbling on the steps leading up to the veranda, Neha gripped the back of one of her wicker chairs, trying to steady herself. Another burst of laughter emerged through the French windows and, for one horrible moment, Neha felt as though everyone at the party was laughing at her. She had to sit down for a moment; clear her head before going back in there with a smile on her face …

Sinking onto the chair, Neha tried to contain her runaway thoughts. The baby … the baby she had given away had not even had a name.

 

‘It's best you don't go choosing a name, my dear. Because, you see, harsh as it sounds, it's crucial you don't bond with the child. Now that the decision's been made to give her up, you see. Naming her will only create a bond. So will breast-feeding.
I'll fetch you a pump and you can expel your milk into that. We'll give it to her in a bottle. Your decision has been made; it's best to let her go …' The room had swum around, causing the hospital counsellor's face to disappear for a few seconds into the grey murk …

 

Was that why Neha had never been able to see her baby as having any human potential at all? She had followed all those instructions to the tee, refusing to bond with the child who would never be hers. And, later, she had quite deliberately never thought of its welfare, or kept track of its age and possible circumstances. That was the only way to survive the experience. Only she knew the reasons for which she had taken that decision. It was not one she would make today but, at that tender age, she had been a different person. Except, who would believe her if she said that now? Certainly not the child she had given away …

Another burst of laughter made Neha sit up straight and square her shoulders. She needed to get back to her guests before her absence was noticed. If someone came in search of her, what would they think to see her sitting by herself on the veranda while her party was in full swing? She needed to ensure everyone had eaten, that the dessert tables were elegantly laid out. Rose petals! Had they remembered the rose petals? Neha had this afternoon asked her chef to ensure that pink rose petals were scattered over the pile of
kesar kulfi
that should by now be melting to a delicious creaminess. The timing had to be just right, the
kulfis
removed from their metal moulds exactly fifteen minutes before they were served in order to maximize their texture and flavour. But, suddenly, it all seemed so inconsequential, this ridiculous bid for
perfection. What had been the point of all this? These famed parties, this stunning mansion, the dream life that she and Sharat seemingly had … perhaps she had been trying to make things look so perfect because she knew that they were not perfect at all …

Neha looked around herself in a panic, feeling a terrible surging in her stomach, recalling old terrors she had thought were over. For so many years the fear that she would get found out had followed Neha around, infecting everything she had done. It had even caused her to do deliberately badly in the Foreign Service entrance exams, despite her father's continuing ambitions on her behalf. She had never been able to tell him, but the truth was that she was terrified of finding herself in the kind of job that would have propelled her into the public eye, thus exposing her to someone who may know her secret. All she had wanted then was to to burrow herself into a hole and disappear from public view. What if she was recognized? What if everyone found out what she had done? It was too horrible to even contemplate. But, slowly, as the years had moved on and those events had receded into the distant past, Neha had almost begun to feel as though that life had belonged to a different girl. After all, she had never put a foot wrong subsequently. And then she had met Sharat and, in his shining goodness, Neha had finally found a kind of forgetfulness.

 

‘You and I are of the same type, Neha darling. Thank God we both enjoy people and have the same genuine urge to help humanity … together we should make a beautiful home where our friends and family and, in fact, all kinds of needy people will always find an open door … I feel so grateful that you have agreed to marry
me. Not only do I love you but you are my perfect life companion …'

 

Neha now closed her eyes as Sharat's voice chose that moment to float into the veranda. From inside the room, she heard him say something indistinct and she savoured his loud familiar belly laugh as someone responded with a joke.

Neha got up resolutely and made for the French windows. She would return to her party; pretend that all was well. And all
was
well for now. She ought to hang on to that, cherish every moment of what she might soon lose. It was strange to be so out of control but, in all the planning and secrecy, the one thing Neha had never considered was that the baby she had given up would grow up and become an independent young woman in her own right. One who would have a mind of her own. And, regardless of all the careful control exerted by Neha, all the covering up of her tracks, one who would set out one day in search of her.