Sylvia Garland's Broken Heart (26 page)

A vicious wind attacked her at the first intersection, whistling down the deep canyon between the buildings. Her hair was going to be a complete mess by the time she got there and she was already completely chilled. She dashed across the street to get out of the wind the second the sign said “Walk” and she speeded up her pace. But the few blocks she remembered turned out to be nine or ten and by the time she arrived at the bar, she was windswept and absolutely frozen. Still the walk had buoyed her up even more. New York was so wonderful: the brilliantly lit, artistically decorated store windows, the smart busy people hurrying along and all the way there the familiar New York street furniture, the fire hydrants and the steaming subway vents. Smita loved everything.

She darted into the cloakroom to deal with her hair without spotting her colleagues but when she emerged, they were all just arriving and they greeted her warmly. Abi Desai wasn’t with them. For a moment, Smita felt terribly disappointed but someone explained that he’d been held back dealing with something and he’d be along right away.

They settled around a big table and someone got drinks. Everyone began filling Smita in on the big make-or-break meeting with the new clients the next day. She was so caught up in listening to what they were saying and laughing at Greg Meyer’s anecdotes about all the near
disasters which had plagued this project that she didn’t see Abi Desai come in. She only noticed him when he was right by their table and making his way round to shake hands with her. She felt caught out because the one thing which no one had thought to mention to her was that he was incredibly good-looking.

They shook hands. Abi had a good strong grip. He drew up another chair and sat down perfectly naturally next to Smita.

As soon as he joined the group, the atmosphere changed noticeably. Even though he appeared so relaxed and friendly and on the level, it was obvious he was in charge. There was no more office gossip or jokes about near disasters. Like the others, Smita felt herself straining to make a good impression. Her second drink was mineral water. Abi asked her politely about her flight, about the weather in London and, showing that he wasn’t just making small talk, about the health of a colleague at Gravington Babcock who was recovering from open heart surgery. Nothing personal but nothing about the next day’s meeting either; it was clear this was some kind of bonding, team-building time and it was clear too that it was Abi who set the rules here. But he wasn’t in the least bullying; he did whatever it was he was doing lightly and apparently effortlessly, teasing one of the guys who had decided to have braces on his teeth at the age of twenty-eight and telling a hilariously funny story against himself about an eccentric old lady in his neighbourhood who had set upon him recently while he was out jogging. Everyone seemed to love him; they
roared with laughter at his jokes and vied for his attention.

He didn’t stay long. After less than forty-five minutes, he excused himself and as soon as he had gone, the atmosphere relaxed once again and a couple of the guys invited Smita to have dinner with them. She imagined Abi must have a long way to travel home on a suburban commuter train. He doubtless lived in some picture-perfect New York suburb in an ultra-modern architect-designed house which would make the penthouse in Belsize Park seem tiny. There would be a huge state-of-the-art kitchen for his beautiful Gujarati-American wife who spent her days making modern ghee-free versions of Indian meals and raising their two model kids.

The week went really well, the new clients praised Smita’s input, the deal was done, everyone in the New York office was on a high – and it was catching. Smita sat in on a series of meetings chaired by Abi and had a chance to observe how he operated. It was so impressive; he always seemed so informal and friendly yet he could apparently make everyone in the room do exactly what he wanted. It was impressive but it was also a bit uncanny. He seemed such a nice guy, he was always smiling and joking but he was obviously incredibly tough underneath.

He didn’t pay Smita any particular attention which slightly surprised her. She would have thought that at some point they would have quietly had the Gujarati conversation; so where exactly is
your
family from and when did they leave and do you still have family over there
and all that stuff. But maybe in the US people didn’t do that, maybe that was just a Leicester thing to do and probably Abi had moved so far away from that whole world that he wouldn’t dream of asking those questions. Maybe he didn’t want to seem to be favouring Smita either.

In London, Jeremy was having a difficult week and made no effort to spare Smita any of it. He had an awful cold, the washing machine was leaking and he sent her a stream of complaining text messages which irritated her no end. Did he not realise she had to focus on work while she was over here? Did he have to keep distracting her with his irritating petty little whinges? Who cared if the plumber had kept him waiting or if his cold was worse today than yesterday? Smita sent back a series of snappy unsympathetic replies.

On her last afternoon, Abi stopped at her desk and asked if she had plans for the evening.

She said, “Not really” which made him laugh.

“Do you or don’t you?” he insisted. “Because I was going to ask you to have dinner with me but if you’ve got other plans –”

“No,” Smita said, flustered. “No, nothing that can’t wait.”

“Seriously,” Abi said, “I don’t want to get in the way of any arrangements you have. I know I’ve left it really late to ask you.”

He waited and even though he was being so polite and so considerate, Smita started to feel unaccountably pressured.

“No,” she answered quickly. “It’s fine, really. I wasn’t planning to do anything which can’t wait till next time.”

“Sure?” Abi asked again, smiling and when Smita nodded and smiled back, he suggested a restaurant and a time and she agreed to that too.

She felt ridiculously apprehensive as she got dressed in her hotel room. She wasn’t even sure if she was dressing for a work dinner or a date. Of course, it would have been utterly uncool to blurt out, “You do know I’m married, don’t you?” when Abi invited her. The dinner was almost certainly a work thing and she would just have totally embarrassed both of them. Besides wasn’t there the beautiful Gujarati-American wife waiting for him in the suburbs? She was just fantasising because she was in New York and he was so good-looking.

The restaurant Abi had selected was miles away. It was in the Meatpacking district, a long taxi ride and, having no idea how long the ride would take or how heavy the traffic would be, Smita ended up arriving twenty-five minutes late.

Abi was waiting for her, on his Blackberry but enjoying a glass of wine.

“I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed as she rushed in but Abi couldn’t have been nicer.

“It’s my fault,” he said, “for not having told you how long to allow to get here. You seem so at home here; half the time I forget you’re from London.”

Smita felt flattered. She handed her coat to a waiter, sat down and ordered a drink. As she sipped it, she regained her composure. It was too late now for any calls
or text messages from London to detract from her evening. It was obvious from the way Abi was acting – smooth, polite, slightly formal – that her fears had been misplaced, ridiculous. This was going to be a work dinner and she was going to perform absolutely the best she could.

Things stayed that way for most of the meal; they talked about work, about their strategy for the new clients and some training needs which Abi had identified in the London office. But afterwards, when Abi ordered coffee and Smita mint tea, unexpectedly everything changed.

“So,” Abi said – and naturally it would be he who took the lead – “enough about work. Tell me about yourself, Smita” and suddenly she didn’t know what to say.

“Well,” she began, hating sounding so conventional, “I’m married, I’ve been married for five years now and I’ve got a little boy who’s just two.”

“Two?” Abi said. “Phew, hard work.”

So he had children himself, Smita thought. “How about you?” she asked, she hoped casually.

Abi pulled a long face. “I’m divorced, I’m afraid,” he answered. “Got married too young, to the wrong girl, the usual story.”

Smita said, “I’m sorry” although actually she found the news rather exciting. “Do
you
have any children?”

Abi’s face brightened. “I’ve got a beautiful little girl called Alisha who just turned six. She lives with her mother of course but luckily I get to see her pretty often.”

Smita asked, “Does she live in New York?”

Abi nodded. “Just outside. A train ride. It’s not a problem.” He drank his coffee. “So, what does your husband do?”

“He works for the BBC,” Smita said. That bit was easy.

Abi made an impressed sound. “Is he a journalist?”

“No,” Smita said, “no, he’s a producer.”

Abi said, “Uh-huh.” He seemed to lose concentration briefly and then he asked, “So tell me about your lives over there. I don’t know London that well. Where do you live? What do you like to do for relaxation? What does a cool young British Asian couple get up to on weekends?”

Smita said, “My husband’s not Asian by the way.” She had always called herself Smita Mehta at work, she had never really got used to being Mrs Garland so, it’s true; how would Abi know?

“Oh really?” Abi said. “Neither was my ex-wife.”

Smita wanted to ask, “Was that part of why you ended up getting divorced?” but she didn’t dare. Instead she asked neutrally, “What was she?”

“She’s American,” Abi answered. “I was exotic, she was the all-American girl, you know the script.”

He looked unhappy for a few moments and Smita wondered desperately what she could safely say.

“Your daughter’s got an Indian name,” she ventured.

Abi grinned ruefully. “Well, a name which works both ways; if you just heard it, it could be A-l-i-c-i-a. You know what, next time round,
if
there‘s a next time round, maybe I’ll take my mother’s advice for a change.”

“An arranged marriage?” Smita suggested jokingly.

Abi grinned. “Who
knows
? Anyways, listen, it’s getting
late. You’re flying tomorrow. We should be on our way, I guess.”

He settled the bill, helped Smita on with her coat and saw her into a taxi. There was no physical contact between them, no kiss. Yet, as Smita rode back to the hotel, she felt the evening had ended ambiguously; she still wasn’t sure if it had been a work dinner or a date.

But sitting in the airport the next morning, waiting for her flight to be called, she felt unbelievably guilty, guilty out of all proportion to what she had actually done. In the context of a work trip, having dinner with your boss was, after all, a completely normal thing to do. But she knew perfectly well what she had done wrong. It was what Jeremy would no doubt call, in his prissy pompous way, “a sin of omission rather than commission”, repeating one of his mother’s silly sayings. When Abi had asked Smita, towards the end of the evening, if she and her English husband were happy together, instead of just snapping, “Yes,” she had only shrugged.

The nearer they got to the bus stop, the more of a fuss Anand made. It was true, the long double bus ride back to Jeremy’s new flat in Kilburn was a bore, especially for a four year old. But Anand didn’t usually make a fuss. He rather liked buses and, even though Sylvia found it quite a challenge nowadays to make it up to the top deck, provided they could sit upstairs, Anand was usually perfectly well-behaved. Something seemed to have got into him today. First he walked slower and slower, dragging his
feet infuriatingly, scuffing his shoes. Then he made himself heavier and heavier, hanging from Sylvia’s aching arm rather than holding her hand until she was virtually dragging him along. “Oh for goodness sake Anand,” she scolded him eventually, “I’m going to end up with one arm much longer than the other if you carry on like this.” Finally, he set up the most aggravating repetitive whine, “I don’t want to go to Daddy’s, I don’t want to go to Daddy’s, I-don’t-want-to-go-to-Daddy’s.” They were within sight of the bus stop by now. As Sylvia automatically checked the numbers of the buses which stopped there, she happened to notice the number of a bus which went directly to Maida Vale and the perfect solution popped neatly into her head.

“I know what we’ll do,” she said brightly to Anand. “You don’t have nursery tomorrow morning, do you? You can come home with me.”

Anand’s scowl vanished to be replaced by a look of calculating suspicion which Sylvia didn’t like to see on the face of such a small child.

“To sleep over?” he asked warily. “I don’t have any pyjamas at your house.”

“Actually,” Sylvia said smugly, “you do. You just haven’t worn them yet.”

“What are they like?” Anand asked suspiciously. “They’re not flowery like yours, are they?”

“Of course not,” Sylvia said indignantly. “What d’you take me for? They’ve got frogs on them.”

“Really?” Anand asked. “Frog pyjamas?”

“Yes,” Sylvia said. “Really. And there are frog slippers
to go with them too.” Anand considered. “What would I have for my supper?”