The Delhi Deception (7 page)

Elouise’s daughters, looking well scrubbed and smelling of jasmine, ran onto the veranda in their pajamas and hugged their mother lovingly. “Come on, girls, say hello to Aunty Carla.”

“Wow, you girls have grown, and you’re way more beautiful than the photos you sent me last summer,” Carla said as she gave them each a hug and good night kiss.

The eldest, Zara, in her early teens, had inherited her mother’s fresh-faced “all-American” looks, while her younger sister by three years, Chanda, resembled her father in every way.
In a few years she will be able to take Bollywood by storm
, Carla thought as she admired Chanda’s beauty.

The ayah came looking for them and took the girls to bed. Carla asked if they weren’t a little old for a nurse, but Elouise explained how some of the ayahs were mostly spinsters or widows, and they chose to stay with their wards, sometimes following them to their marital homes.

Then Elouise asked Kishan to have the driver bring the car to the front of the bungalow.

“So, whose party is it?” Carla asked as they got into the back of the car.

“The Kapoors are well-known industrialists, and Ronnie is the honorary consul for Honduras. His wife, Preeti, is quite a famous designer and popular socialite. She’s divine; you’ll love her.”

“So Ronnie is South American?” Carla asked, baffled.

“No, he bought his title,” Elouise laughed. A smiling Carla thought that with hosts like these, this was bound to be an interesting party.

The drive was remarkably short, and as Om Prakash dropped them at the entrance, Carla noticed diplomatic flags on many of the luxury sedans. The smartly dressed guard welcomed them and, holding open a heavy curtain of white roses and jasmine strung together, showed them the way inside.

Carla was amazed: the entire garden was a vision, lit with fairy lights and torches. Waiters with trays of drinks and aromatic kebabs were weaving expertly and quite unobtrusively between the guests. An Asian-looking female vocalist and Indian band occupied a corner platform, marginally higher than the parquet dance floor on the lawn. In a dreamy haze, Carla felt quite overcome, no doubt the combination of her surroundings and the gin fizz. Just then, the vocalist began to sing one of Carla’s favorite numbers from the sixties.

An Indian woman, wearing an exquisite navy chiffon sari embroidered in silver zardozi, smiled warmly as she greeted Elouise.

“Preeti, please meet my dearest friend, Carla Gill. She lives in London. We were college roommates.”

Preeti took Carla’s outstretched hand. “You are most welcome. Is this your first visit to India?” Before Carla could manage a reply, Preeti continued, “Please let me know if you need anything at all. Come. Let me introduce you to some of our guests. I think the British ambassador might have arrived already.”

Still holding Carla’s arm, she led her away to a group of beautifully dressed women and introduced her to her “kitty” circle. Carla raised an eyebrow in slight confusion at the name. This delighted the ladies, as they giggled and explained that they were merely a group of ladies who met once a month for lunch. They urged Carla to try the different snacks every time they saw a waiter, but with a glass of Chilean Chardonnay in hand, she protested and excused herself in search of Elouise.

An interesting mix of people filled the garden: socialites dripping in extraordinary jewelry on the arms of well-to-do businessmen and industrialists, ambassadors and embassy staff of different nationalities, and some bohemian-looking artists and poets.

Carla found Elouise chatting with a group of dignitaries from Nepal. Elouise introduced Carla to the Nepalese ambassador and then asked her, “Do you remember the Nepalese royal massacre of 2001 in Kathmandu?” Carla nodded, and Elouise continued excitedly, smiling at the ambassador, “Well, His Excellency was at the party on that horrific night.”

Carla clearly remembered the story; one of her colleagues worked on it and had filled her in on all the gory details of how the crown prince had shot dead ten people, including his parents, members of the royal family, and then himself.

Sensing the ambassador’s discomfort at the memory, Carla changed the subject by asking, “Would I need a visa for Nepal?”

Elouise gave Carla an amused glance, mouthing, “Always the diplomat.”

The ambassador was obviously relieved and replied kindly, “You’ll be granted a visa at the port of entrance to Nepal. I do hope you will visit us.” He handed Carla his business card. She smiled and thanked him.

Elouise then excused herself and Carla, and together they headed over to the bar.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood with his back to them but turned around as he heard Elouise asking Carla what she would like to drink.

“Ah, it is the enchanting Mrs. Singh. How are you?” The man saw Elouise trying to catch the bartender’s attention and said, “Please, allow me.”

Elouise smiled and said rather hastily, “Thank you, George, make it two glasses of Chardonnay.”

“Of course, but you will first have to introduce me to your lovely friend,” he said, smiling at Carla. His dark brown eyes narrowed in their smile. The visible appraisal made Carla feel slightly self-conscious.

“This is Carla Gill; she is visiting me from England,” Elouise said politely.

His grip was firm as he shook Carla’s hand. “Welcome to India. This is not your first trip, is it?”

Carla smiled. “Yes, it is, even though my father was born here.”

George looked at her intently. “And your mother?”

“She’s South African. My parents still live there.”

Still smiling and studying her for a moment, he lowered his voice and in a convincing tone said, “You are exquisite.”

Quite unsettled, Carla felt herself blushing, but luckily he had turned to order their drinks. Carla now took the opportunity to study him.
American, early forties, athletic build, steel-gray hair cut short, but not unfashionably. Strong jaw line, yet there is softness to his face. Yes, definitely a handsome man,
she concluded as he handed her a glass of wine.

About to ask him how he knew Elouise, Carla heard her friend saying, “Thank you, George, we’ll see you around.” With that, Elouise tried to steer Carla away from the bar.

Carla choked slightly on her first sip of wine, not having anticipated this sudden departure. She cringed as George handed her a napkin to wipe the wine off her chin. In hasty retreat, she murmured, “Thank you, nice meeting you.”

He raised his glass and said, “Until we meet again.”

Carla went in search of Elouise and found her on the other side of the garden, chatting with a distinguished Indian man who, once Carla had reached them, was introduced as Ronnie. Now was evidently not the time to ask Elouise why she hadn’t wanted to chat to the handsome American instead of this older man. Stuck for just what to say, Carla gushed, “What a lovely party,” feeling decidedly tipsy.

“You are most welcome,” he said.

The dance floor was packed as the band started playing energetic Bollywood music. Carla stared in awe at the skillful dancing of some of the guests.

“Do you enjoy dancing?” Ronnie asked Carla.

“Yes, I do, but I’m not sure I could manage these Bollywood moves.”

“Of course you can. I’ll show you,” Ronnie said as he dragged her onto the dance floor. Ronnie obviously loved dancing and seemed quite the expert, Carla thought as she awkwardly tried to copy his moves. Smiles of encouragement from Ronnie and some dancers around her helped her to relax, and surprising herself, she found her rhythm, loving the extravagant Bollywood moves. After a few energetic numbers, the band was back with a slow jazz classic. Ronnie thanked her, and as she followed him, strong arms encircled her waist and drew her back onto the dance floor.

George smiled at her wickedly, and to her annoyance the telltale rising warmth in her face betrayed her outwardly cool demeanor. He steered her gently to the middle of the dance floor, holding her firmly, but not too close. They danced slowly, and Carla relaxed in his arms.

“Is your husband joining you later?” George asked, watching her closely.

“No, he isn’t,” she replied, avoiding his gaze.
No point boring him with my sob story
, she thought. “What do you do in Delhi, George?” She looked up and held his gaze.

“I work at the American Embassy, issue visas and so on.”

“Oh, yes, I remember driving past the American compound, quite impressive. Do you live inside the compound?”

“No, luckily the American taxpayers pay for a very comfortable ground floor apartment opposite Lodhi Garden. I have a great cook who takes good care of me. You should come for dinner.” As he said this, he looked up and frowned. “I think Elouise is looking for you.”

Carla was surprised to see Elouise beckoning her, looking rather irritated. “I guess she wants to go home. Thanks for the dance.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” George drawled, reaching into his blazer pocket and taking out his business card. He gave it to her and said, “I would love to show you around. I know Delhi quite well—give me a call.”

Carla took his card and slipped it into her evening purse. Turning around, she felt a stab of guilt in her chest as one word echoed in her mind:
Andrew
. Then the image of Andrew in bed with Leila resurfaced, and Carla shook her head; she wouldn’t feel guilty for just dancing with this man and taking his card—it wasn’t like she was sleeping with him. She smiled at Elouise as she walked toward her.

“I’m sorry, Carla, but I need to get home. My yogi is coming at six tomorrow morning.”

“That’s OK; I’m pretty tired, too. It’s been a long day.”

They thanked their hosts and left with a promise to meet soon for dinner.

In the car, Carla said, “Thanks, Elouise, I really enjoyed myself this evening.”

“I’m glad, but watch out for George—you don’t want to go straight from the frying pan into the fire.”

Carla nodded knowingly. “You’re right; he’s quite the charmer. So you know him well?”

“He hangs out in the same circles as Harry and I,” Elouise said casually as they arrived home. Carla could sense that there was more to it than that, but she brushed the niggling feeling aside. She wouldn’t be calling George anyway, so there was no point in asking any more about him.

They went inside, and Carla was surprised to see Kishan still awake. He asked her if she would like some tea.

Carla chuckled. “No, thanks, Kishan.”

“What time Memsahib would like tea in the morning?”

Carla realized that she was extremely tired and decided a sleep-in would be a great idea.

“Ten o’clock, thank you, Kishan.”

Elouise had already disappeared into her bedroom, so Carla closed her door and got ready for bed.

Later, sinking into her comfortable bed, she replayed the evening’s events. She sighed dreamily and smiled. As she drifted into a deep sleep, an image of George—and not Andrew—filled her mind.

.

CHAPTER 4

C
arla woke up to the persistent calling of the green parrots in the mango tree. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, and she had to adjust her eyes to the light. Memories of the previous evening flooded her thoughts. She felt strangely happy. Could she be healing so soon after Andrew’s betrayal? Was India somehow spiritually regenerative?

She reached for her watch on the bedside table and was surprised to see that it was only ten past eight. Checking her phone and e-mail for any messages from Andrew, she felt unexpectedly relieved to find none. Well rested, she decided to get up and take a walk in Lodhi Garden adjacent to the bungalow. She dressed hastily in her Ralph Lauren track pants and T-shirt, socks, and tennis shoes, and tied up her hair in a messy ponytail.

Upon seeing Kishan, she requested him to ask one of the chowkidars to direct her to the entrance of the gardens. Some argument ensued between the guard, the mali, and Kishan. Finally, settling their disagreement, all three showed her the way to one of the side entrances. Carla thanked them and, laughing, declined their offer of further accompaniment. She waved to them as she started her walk, following the footpath around the garden.

Quite a number of walkers and joggers were on the path, including some ayahs with their young wards in strollers. They greeted Carla politely as they passed her. Tall palm trees lined parts of the pathway leading up to the beautiful Moghul tombs. The lawns were well maintained, with a variety of shrubs and flowers, but it was the trees that had her in awe: large, old, and wise. If only they could talk, Carla thought, all the wonderful stories they’d recount: lovers meeting in the shade of the banyan tree or children making oaths and promises of lifetime friendships.

Some children were playing cricket on the lawns surrounding a magnificent, domed, red sandstone tomb. They giggled as Carla caught a ball bowled too high for the young batsman. With a mischievous smile, she tossed it playfully back to the bowler. The young bowler, dressed in dirty white cricket trousers, beckoned her and indicated that she should take over from the wicket keeper. He was a scrawny young boy who wore sad khaki shorts and an expression to match. Laughing, she declined by shaking her head firmly, aware that any ambiguous shaking of her head might resemble that of the Indian quaint head wiggle—a gentle nodding and shaking at a slight angle, meaning “yes” or “I agree with you.”