The Delhi Deception (8 page)

Some curious onlookers tried to cajole her into the game. Feeling a little silly, she decided to be a sport and took up a fielding position, much to the relief of the young wicketkeeper. The batsman looked at her with an expression of mild amusement. He shuffled his feet into a ready position and waited for the bowler. He did not take his eyes off the tattered, faded-red cricket ball. The bowler, who was determined to impress Carla, bowled short, and the smiling batsman hit the ball high and long in her direction. Unprepared, she ran backward with arms outstretched and eyes intent on the ball. As it started its descent toward her, she tripped over a broken branch and fell flat on her back, winded. She lay still for a moment to regain her breath. The boys and the interested spectators rushed toward her, talking and gesticulating all at once. They helped her up with much concern.

As she sat up, she noticed two Afghani men in Pathani clothes, sitting in the common haunch position of the subcontinent. They were watching her with interest. She got up and, feeling embarrassed, looked away. She thanked her teammates, dusted herself off, and made her way back to the exit, passing the two Afghanis. She kept her eyes on the path in front of her, but as she was about to pass them, she looked up and, with a little shock, realized that the darker of the two was familiar. His eyes were downturned, but the other, fairer Afghani was watching her with pale gray eyes, his expression indistinguishable. She walked home hurriedly, strangely unsettled. Then, reliving her comic fall, she laughed, much to the amusement of the chowkidars she passed as she walked through the bungalow’s gate.

Elouise was sitting on the veranda, drinking tea and reading the paper. “Good morning! Come join me for tea.”

“Sounds great,” Carla said and flopped into the plantation chair, wincing.

“What happened to you?”

Carla smiled. “Playing cricket.”

“You’re kidding me!” Elouise laughed and shook her head.

“I kid you not. Where’s the wonderful Kishan? I need a cup of tea.”

“What are your plans for today, Carla?”

Besides moping over my failed marriage and searching the Internet for the most ruthless divorce attorney in London?
Carla said wryly, “Nothing in particular, yours?”

“I have some errands, but you could join me. I’m going to South Extension Market to pick up some silk lining for a jacket the tailor is making up for me. There are some great shops. You could browse around.”

“What time are we leaving?” Carla asked.

“No rush. Let’s say in an hour.”

South Extension had a market on both sides of the main road, with more shops at each end. Om Prakash dropped them in front of an impressive white building, which housed a shop called Heritage. The ground floor carried menswear, mostly formal or traditional wedding outfits, and imported suiting from Italy and Germany. On the first floor Carla was mesmerized by a dazzling display of traditional ladies’ formal wear, saris, exquisite silks, and handwoven cashmere shawls.

She indicated to the handsome young shop assistant that she was interested in pashmina shawls. He asked her to sit on a wooden bench in front of a large, raised platform covered in white cotton sheeting and offered her something to drink, which she declined.

A soft drink in a glass bottle, called Limca, was brought to her anyway, on a stainless-steel tray. The suave salesman started unfolding shawl after shawl, each more beautiful than the last.

After he had unfolded scores of shawls, Carla asked him to stop so that she could make a selection. But he continued opening more, discarding the ones he assumed she didn’t like. The pile behind him resembled a large cashmere rainbow collapsed in disarray. At last he stopped, and Carla managed to select three. But, unable to make up her mind, she settled on all three, much to the sales assistant’s delight.

Carla and Elouise then wandered through the rest of the market and lunched on delicious, exotic, street food. Carla particularly enjoyed a savory snack of puffed rice.

Drinking sweet, spicy chai out of a small glass, Carla finally plucked up the courage to ask Elouise why she had advised her to “watch out for George.”

“He is a charming man; don’t get me wrong. But he plays the field and never seems to stay in a relationship for longer than a few months. Then there are all the rumors of the wives—all married to important men, politicians, industrialists…But, then again, I’m not sure; Delhi likes to gossip.”

Carla caught a glimpse of a wistful smile that Elouise tried to hide as she quickly dialed Om Prakash, who was then asked to pick them up at the predetermined meeting point. Carla realized the subject was now closed and decided not to ask about or discuss George again. It seemed to Carla that Elouise had a far more complicated life than she was willing to admit to. How could one think that life was perfect, or even covet another’s seemingly perfect life? Nothing was as it seemed. Harry had appeared to be the perfect mate for Elouise and had given her this luxurious life in India. But beneath all this façade—servants, fine clothes, and fancy parties—there was an undeniable sadness in her friend that Carla hadn’t seen before. She hoped that her time in India would provide solace not only for herself, but also Elouise.

At home an excited Kishan greeted them, informing Carla that a delivery had been made for her, which he had placed in her bedroom.

The fragrance of fresh flowers welcomed her on entry, and then she gaped in wonder, as the entire bedroom was filled with bloodred roses and delicate white sprigs of jasmine. “Oh my goodness!” she said out loud, taking the note from the large bouquet next to her bed. That it could be Andrew apologizing crossed her mind, but she dismissed the notion immediately. Flowers had never been his style.

The note was from George. It read,

Desperate to see you again. How about having dinner with me tonight?

P.S. Could you possibly refuse someone who bought you every red rose in Delhi today?

Carla flushed with annoyance to find Elouise reading the note over her shoulder. With a peculiar expression, Elouise turned on her heel and left Carla’s room. Exhilarated and against her better judgment, not even considering the consequences, Carla picked up the phone and dialed George’s mobile number.

He answered on the second ring. “George Alexander, hello?”

In a rather constricted, squeaky voice, Carla said, “Hello.” Totally flustered, she added, “The flowers are beautiful, thank you.”

“So you’ll have dinner with me tonight?” he asked. His voice was calm, his tone measured.

Regaining her composure she thought desperately of something witty or clever to say, but could only manage a “Yes—what time?”

“Excellent, I will pick you up at eight.”

As Carla put down the phone, she realized what she had committed herself to. She was going to dinner with a man other than Andrew for the first time in many years. It was strange, though—she didn’t feel as guilty or as sad as she thought she might. Had she been expecting an end to her relationship with Andrew even before she saw him with Leila?

Carla thought about why she had decided to surprise Andrew in Peshawar. She had made that decision because she felt so distant from him. Perhaps that distance had less to do with physical space and more to do with how they had grown as people. She hadn’t felt excited by a man’s voice on the phone for so long—not until she had called George, that is. And anyway, Andrew was the cheat, not her. She smiled to herself and said, “What the hell? Life is short.”

Kishan knocked on Carla’s door at quarter to eight to inform her that George had arrived early and that he would be waiting with Elouise on the veranda.

Carla began to panic. Not only was she nervous to go to dinner with George, she was now making him wait. She stood naked, staring at her closet in disdain. The choices were so limited! She finally settled on a pair of black linen trousers and a sleeveless black silk-jersey top with satin trimming. Her hair was knotted in a casual chignon at the nape of her neck. With a last look in the mirror, she smiled to herself in approval and hurried to the veranda while scanning her phone one last time for messages from Andrew. Frowning, she studied her phone for a second, smiled, a little disheartened, and switched it off.

George stood up when Carla joined him and Elouise. He kissed her on both cheeks and said, “I’m afraid we have to leave immediately. I have a reservation at San Gimignano, and they are not in the habit of reserving tables for more than twenty minutes.”

“Sure.” Carla looked at Elouise and smiled, feeling a little embarrassed.

George said good night to Elouise, thanked her for the drink, and suggested a get-together on Harry’s return.

The air was heavy with the fragrance of the jasmine creeper at the front door. Carla breathed in the scent and felt a slight stirring of excitement. A well-built, fairskinned Indian opened the car door for Carla, greeting her politely in English. George joined her in the back seat of the jeep and introduced her to his driver, Kamal, who was from Kashmir.

“Imperial Hotel,” George ordered. He looked at Carla, smiled and said, “I hope you like Italian. San Gimignano is possibly the best Italian restaurant in Delhi. It’s pretty authentic, as they fly in most of their ingredients. And, of course, the chef is Tuscan.”

“I love Tuscan cuisine. I’ve spent quite a few summers in Tuscany,” Carla replied, “and I have wonderful friends in Florence and Forti dei Marmi on the Mediterranean coast. Have you spent much time in Italy?”

“A reasonable amount. I would like to retire there one day.” George narrowed his eyes in mock concentration and said, “A small seaside village. I’d fish in the morning, nap in the afternoon, and in the evening play backgammon on the village square.”

Laughing, Carla said, “Yeah right. I can’t picture that—more like Positano on the Amalfi Coast, eating fish at lunchtime and chatting up some well-heeled ladies on holiday.”

George threw back his head and laughed a deep, satisfying laugh. Drawn in by its spontaneity, Carla abandoned herself to the hilarity of the moment. When she regained her composure, George handed her a Kleenex from a box in the middle glove compartment. She looked at him in slight confusion, but he leaned in closely, took the Kleenex from her, and carefully started wiping some laughter tears from under her eyes. Tiny little shocks exploded in her body, like miniature fireworks. Her legs felt lame, and suddenly she had the need for air. She pushed him away rather abruptly. Taking the Kleenex from him, she avoided his direct gaze and said, “Thanks.”

Opening her evening purse, she rummaged through it, looking for her purse mirror. Apart from a fleeting quizzical expression, George was unfazed as he leaned back into his seat and announced their imminent arrival.

Carla looked up and recognized the Imperial Hotel. George led the way through the lobby and to the restaurant. Warm amber wooded paneling with framed black-and-white photographs of San Gimignano, crisp white tablecloths, and the unmistakable aroma of Tuscany greeted them. The elegant maître’ d offered them a table inside or one outside in the courtyard.

“What do you prefer, Carla?” George asked politely. With Carla’s preference for the cool, air-conditioned interior, they sat inside.