Objects of Desire (18 page)

‘That’s a great deal of money. I’ve never had fifty thousand dollars of my own to spend on myself, and actually I don’t know whether or not I can afford it,’ said Anoushka.

‘Only you know whether or not you can afford to spend it. Remember, you do have a job, well paid you said, as well as your coin money. But I’m not one to tell another person how to spend their money. I can manage that. Are you all right for that sum, Sally?’

‘No, but Piers is. I’m in.’

‘Then so am I,’ said Anoushka.

‘Fifty each isn’t going to keep you in five-star hotels for long,’ said Cally.

‘It will for the odd night,’ said Anoushka.

‘I don’t want a five-star hotel life for us. We don’t want to be spoilt, pampered tourists this time round. We’re going out there to live in the real world. We’ll rent wonderful houses with staff when we can and live life as it unrolls, make our expeditions from there into the hinterlands that interest us. We have to start somewhere, where would we like to go? The table is open for suggestions,’ said Page.

What was left of the Chinese food had gone cold. The six women watched as waiters whisked away plates and serving dishes. They brought fresh pots of tea, and deep-fried banana dumplings.

‘I’ve always wanted to sail the Atlantic, test myself against the elements,’ said Anoushka. That surprised
everyone at the table who had somehow not seen her in that light.

‘I can contribute something there. Piers’s schooner,
Black Orchid
, has a crew of six and sleeps twelve comfortably. He’s sending it to the Caribbean and won’t be on it. He’ll be on an expedition of some sort up the Amazon.’

‘I always say I want to sail the Atlantic alone. But when it comes to the crunch, I doubt that I would have the courage. With a crew of six it would be scary, but, hell, yes! I’d go. The idea is thrilling. Very out of character for me, but then
I’m
out of character. What about you, Sally? Could you bear it?’

‘
Black Orchid
is a fantastic vessel. I’ve never crossed the Atlantic in it though we did sail many times to the Greek islands, and the coast of Turkey. Sure, why not? I’m game. What about you, Page?’

‘I want to go as crew – that is if we can get them to teach me to sail before the crossing. Now that I would find thrilling.’

‘We’ll all go as crew. What do you think, Anoushka?’ asked Sally.

‘If Piers gives us the
Black Orchid
, how can I say no?’

Rousing applause from the women at the table, and, ‘Bravo, bravo!’ from Cally.

‘I have something to contribute. I own a marvellous house in the West Indies, on Barbados. We can live there and spend the winter island hopping,’ offered Anoushka.

More talk about where to go and when to leave, and then finally the three intrepid travellers took leave of Sally’s girlfriends who insisted they would pick up the tab as a treat, a bon voyage. The three English girls were then invited to visit with Anoushka, Sally and Page sometime, somewhere, during their odyssey.

The life went out of the party once Anoushka, Sally and Page were gone. ‘Piers is a pig for destroying Sally’s life. And he has done, that’s for certain. Let’s hope she can find another Piers. Sally will never make it without a man to love, a man to keep her,’ said Fiona, and the other two girls agreed.

‘Pray that none of us is ever thrown out by the men we love. We’d be no less sad and desperate than those women are. And make no mistake, they
are
sad and desperate, no matter the front they’re putting on. Very brave too, for trying to create new and better lives for themselves when their broken hearts aren’t even in it. Three strangers to one another, binding themselves together with nothing in common but bereavement, loss of faith, profound loneliness. Maybe together they can get over those things,’ said Cally, tears brimming in her eyes caused by the deep dread that one day she might be in their unenviable position.

Chapter 11

It was a strange choice, India and the Taj Mahal, for three women whose men had not loved them as Shah Jahan, the Mogul Emperor, had loved his wife, Mumtaz Mahal. On the contrary they were women who had lost the great loves of their lives, and had been replaced by other greater passions above and beyond them. Not Page nor Anoushka nor Sally’s chosen man had pined for the loss of them enough to build a monument in their memory.

But the Taj was their choice, a mausoleum constructed from pure white Makrana marble on which over twenty thousand workmen were employed over a period of twenty-two years. The building of white marble, delicately carved and inlaid with precious stones, so perfect in its symmetrical design, so reflective of Persian influence set in its formal gardens, Mogul architecture at its best.

Of all the architectural wonders of the world they could have chosen from, surely to pick the Taj Mahal
was not only for its beauty but for the love story that went with it.

In London, Page had said, ‘I have always wanted to see the Taj Mahal, but I want to see it without the mass of love-lorn tourists. I’ll make a phone call to an admirer who always promised me I would see the Taj as no woman had ever seen it. Well, if he can do that for one, he can do it for three.’

Now they would know if Page’s friend was as good as his word. The long flight from London to India was over, their first adventure together was about to begin.

‘I believe that car is for us,’ said Page and the three women approached it, leaving the other passengers to cross the tarmac and head for customs.

It was dusk and the sky above Agra was streaked with the hot pink of a setting sun against a bruised blue, waiting to turn into a night of black velvet shot with stars. From the shadow of the car’s interior Jahangir leaned forward and at the same time the window slid silently down and the women had their first glimpse of their host. ‘What a pretty sight you are, ladies,’ were his first words to them. A wave of his hand and the chauffeur opened the door and Jahangir slid to the centre of the cream leather seat. With the palms of his hands he patted it to either side of him, a welcoming gesture for the women to sit next to him. The third was offered one of the jump seats facing him.

Jahangir was younger than Anoushka had thought he would be. She guessed him to be in his mid-thirties or early-forties. He spoke with a perfect upper-class,
well-educated, English accent, honed by Eton and Cambridge in his youth, and frequent trips to London and a huge residence in Holland Park where he lived now. His was a sensuous, husky voice with just a trace of a Hindi accent. He was darkly handsome and wore his hair long; his eyes were sexy and seductive, mesmerising, and his mouth the same. One of the top Indian polo players, he was loved for that as much as for his palaces and his wealth. ‘A decadent dilettante, but kind and generous and living on a grand scale, with chic and in luxury,’ was Page’s introduction of him to Sally and Anoushka as the Rolls slid silently away from the plane. He laughed uproariously.

‘A rather indiscreet introduction, but quite accurate, my Eurydice,’ he told her. And then he took Page in his arms and kissed her with obvious pleasure. No one in the back seat of that car could help but understand that he had taken sensual delight in Page before, that he was counting on having it again. There was about the kiss, the manner in which it was given and received, a subtle hunger kept in check. It excited the women, made him seem incredibly attractive sexually. Both Sally and Anoushka were aware of how much they wanted that male attention for themselves, wanted to feel sensual desire rise in them as they saw it happening to Page and Jahangir.

He had a mischievous twinkle in his eye and enormous charisma and charm.

‘Why do you call Page your Eurydice?’ asked Sally who was sitting opposite him.

‘Ah, well, that’s because once, for a time, she allowed me to play Orpheus to her Eurydice as in the Greek legend – a very happy time for me but too short-lived. Eurydice, as you know, was a wood nymph, and that was where I first met and made love to Page: in a wood on a Tuscan hill.’

She leaned into Jahangir and kissed him sweetly on the lips. She removed her white linen jacket, and her cream silk satin blouse with its wide bow-shaped neckline slipped to one side to show a tantalising naked shoulder. He caressed it. They were both smiling, obviously delighted to remember what they had once been to each other.

‘In legend Eurydice, a dryad, was the wife of Orpheus. Alas, not like Page and me.’

‘I don’t know the legend,’ said Sally, completely enchanted by the idea of Jahangir and Page in love.

He gave Page a knowing look, caressed her hair and told Anoushka, while never taking his eyes from Page, ‘Orpheus was in love with Eurydice when she died of a snake bite. He didn’t want to live without her so he descended to the underworld to recover her, but then lost her forever. You see, he had been stupid, violated the conditions of her release. He turned to look at her before emerging from the underworld.’

Anoushka was fascinated; by telling the Greek legend, and linking it with Page and himself, Jahangir had revealed himself as yet another lover Page had walked away from, yet another man who could not win her heart. Hervé had told Anoushka that that was
part of Page’s seductive charm, the way she enslaved men. When Anoushka had met François Audren, who bought a coin from her, he had spoken of Page in a way that made her understand that he too had loved and lost her. Anoushka had not missed the magnificent black and white photograph in a Fabergé frame he kept on his desk. Three men and how many more? And why couldn’t she give her heart to them? Who was the man who stopped her, isolated her from true love? It had to be a man, Anoushka was certain of that.

As they rode through the crowded, noisy streets, drenched with oppressive humidity, full of a strange new world of poverty and colour, it was that thought which occupied Anoushka’s mind. Would her friend ever feel close enough to Anoushka to reveal her story, bring it to light, brand it as the past and let it go? She very nearly laughed out loud. The pot calling the kettle black.

Jahangir did not live in Agra. He kept what he called his Taj Mahal pied à terre there for the times when he wanted to visit the mausoleum or put up guests: fifteen huge, sumptuous rooms in the sixteenth-century fort, the other monumental building in Agra. This city in Uttar Pradesh on the River Jumna had once been the capital of the Mogul Empire and had been ruled by more than one of Jahangir’s ancestors. For that reason he was privileged to live in those rooms. It was there that they were driving to from the airport, and where they would begin their amazing stay in India.

Jahangir’s friends were not nearly as handsome as their host but made up for their lack of looks by charm and warmth, passionate natures, and their knowledge of how to attract women. To be with Jahangir was to fall under the spell of the sensual excitement he cast. A master at the game of seduction, few could resist him. The three adventuresses did not.

Anoushka, Page and Sally were dressed in sumptuous but understated white evening gowns at Page’s suggestion. She had been so clever. In London she had told them: ‘I know Jahangir. He will want us to be glamorous, chic, sensuous and exciting, to live up to the Taj Mahal and the evening he will prepare meticulously for us. Not only for him and the Taj but for ourselves we should be visions of shimmering femininity floating through the gardens in the moonlight.’

To that end they had chosen well. Anoushka was wearing a long white dress, a sheath of crêpe-de-chine with slip straps, and over her shoulders a short cape of the most sheer silk chiffon that finished just above her waist. It was bordered in clear crystal bugle beads. She wore no undergarments and the dress, cut on the bias, followed her form and moved as she moved. With her silvery-coloured blonde hair and soft make up she was perfection, and worthy of the night being prepared for her.

Sally was adorned in the dress that they had all loved and wanted to buy when the three had gone shopping together. She was the only one small enough to fit into it. A cream-coloured paper taffeta evening
dress, its skirt was full and trailed longer at the back showing several inches of ankle in the front. The silk was very nearly as light as air and the entire dress could be crunched up and fitted in the hand. It was a masterpiece of design, cut and dress making. The strapless bodice clung to Sally’s breasts, fitted to the waist as nearly as if it had been a second skin, and round her neck she wore a garland of fresh jasmine blossoms.

Page’s dress was white, one-shouldered, of crêpe-de-chine, long and slit up the front. It was the most sophisticated of the dresses. Only a woman with confidence and stature could carry it off. It displayed one naked arm and shoulder, leaving the other shoulder partially covered. The dress skimmed her breasts in the front and was cut to expose most of her back to the waist. The single sleeve was wide and fluttered teasingly when she moved her arm.

The men were dressed in white linen suits: Armani, Ralph Lauren, a Savile Row tailor for Jahangir. They had travelled in an entourage of three cars. When they arrived at the Taj Mahal it was after ten in the evening and all was shrouded in darkness. They were ushered through the gardens to their feast by servants carrying lanterns and dressed in the livery Jahangir’s family had always used: white turban and jacket with plum and red intertwined sashes, trousers of midnight blue.

It was mysterious, an adventure. They had no idea what to expect, what they might see, what experience
was about to take them over. But the sense of expectation was dizzyingly exciting. They were there in the centre of the gardens, in the exact spot where Jahangir wanted them to be when the white, nearly full moon inched its way across the sky towards the Taj Mahal. The building loomed majestically in the dark, its towers and domes silhouetted against the blackness of the night.

They drank champagne and settled themselves round one of the garden pools in comfortable chairs that had been brought in for the occasion, and nibbled by candlelight on Indian delicacies: bite-sized filo parcels filled with spiced shrimp and curried crab, duck, the flesh from tiny succulent birds.

Moonlight brushed an edge of the Taj Mahal from ground to sky, and the building suddenly sprang to life. As the moonlight inched itself slowly across the façade of the building, Jahangir had their lights extinguished. The party stood in the darkened garden and watched in awe as the Taj Mahal rose from the shadows of the night. Sounds of the sitar, running water, crickets, the muffled noise of a sleeping city somewhere off in the distance. The sweet scent of flowers. No one spoke, all too mesmerised by the regal beauty of the Taj.

The façade remained bathed in moonlight for quite some time. It was as if the moon had found something remarkable to embrace and, having done so, could not move on. There was an order for the lanterns to be lit once again and the party walked through the gardens
to another place that had been prepared for them by their host. Their white figures looked in the darkness like so many ghosts floating through time and space to pay homage to love.

At the very foot of the building, now lit from above by the moon and lanterns from below, they sat and listened to the haunting sound of the sitar and watched the dancing girl perform for them in the moonlight with the pristine white marble entrance to the Taj Mahal as a back drop.

The sensuality of the night, the place, enveloped them all. The heavy scent of flowers and the aroma of Indian spices from the food being prepared in braziers, the oppressive heat and humidity, and the taste of dust, the exotic power and beauty tantalised the senses and wrapped itself around the party, drawing them into a world of erotic pleasure. Jahangir took Page by the hand and led her to his friend, the Maharaja, who placed an arm round Page and, tilting her chin up to the light of the moon, kissed her lightly on the lips. When Jahangir approached Anoushka her heart raced. He kissed her on the cheek and led her to Alexander Maar, the English poet. Finally he plucked Sally for himself as easily as he might have picked a rose from the bush she was standing beside.

The moon moved on and the Taj Mahal began once again to fade away into the night. The drama of the occasion was almost unbearable. But there was more to come. As the building slipped back into the night, a soft warm light glowed from within the Taj Mahal.

The party mounted the stairs and entered the Taj where a small army of Jahangir’s household were just lighting the last of thousands of candles before silently slipping out of the building.

A table had been set in one of the halls, and there they dined while listening to the haunting sound of the sitar echoing through the marble rooms. The dancer performed and a poet recited sixteenth-century Mogul love poems. The guests came to life, conversation flourished, laughter rang through the halls, and all were lost to the idea of romantic love.

At last Jahangir rose from the table and announced that it was time to go. They left the mausoleum following him through the gardens. Dawn was breaking and at just the right moment he stopped and insisted that they turn round for a last look at Shah Jahan’s gift to the world. The smile on his face gave away his intended surprise. They were seeing yet one last image of the Taj in all its splendour.

The sun was just rising in the sky turning the dawn light a bright pink. The Taj was bathed an exquisite shade of rose, from that to a golden yellow, and then finally a crystalline white.

All evening Anoushka’s partner Alexander had been charming but reserved with her. He was tall and slim, lanky-looking and boyish in appearance. He was many years younger than Anoushka. There was a sensitivity about him, a vulnerable quality that she liked but which seemed not at all sexy to her. For sex she would
have chosen Jahangir not Alexander Maar – until he stepped up behind her and, placing his hands on her shoulders, pulled her gently back against him.

They were standing together in her room, the light dim, since the windows were shuttered against the oppressive heat. It was a large and beautiful room, deep within the massive fort, cool and heavy with the scent of jasmine. A room that was sumptuous and sensual. The soft white walls were hung with dozens of mirrors all in wide decorative frames inlaid in mother of pearl and ivory. The chairs were sixteenth-century ivory pieces carved by great artisans and covered in white and silver silk brocade. The chest of drawers was inlaid with ivory flowers and rose cut diamonds, banded in silver and inlaid with mother of pearl. Cut crystal chandeliers, large and dramatic, hung from the carved and painted ceiling. Everywhere were vases of white flowers: orchids, and lilies, and long-stemmed roses. And in the centre of the room stood a fourposter bed of carved ivory draped with the sheerest of white silk.