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‘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 (#ulink_71b3bafe-311c-5acb-a60c-2cae488f0aa6)
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 (#ulink_02e4c1e4-2912-5b4f-acb5-d64c6a6ddaae)
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 (#ulink_f6cefea7-5979-5ca7-a638-9dcd25797a6a)
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.
