Chapter 20 A Husband?
Twenty. A husband?
Tamara
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve postponed my sessions with Dr. Sunita, but it’s safe to say she’s suspicious I’ve done something bad.
She’s not wrong. Problem is, I’m afraid to look her in the eyes and say everything’s okay.
Turning Patrick down was the right thing to do.
I’m just feeling really bad about it. I was protecting myself, and maybe him.
Neither of us know what’ll happen if we go on one date.
We’re having a baby together, but I’m not ready to be emotionally invested in this man again.
My fears haven’t changed either—he could leave me heartbroken again and while he’s certain he wants to be here for the baby, that could change too. Either way I’m the one getting left behind and it scares the shit out of me.
Dr. Sunita would call it a classic case of abandonment issues and she’s not wrong.
In an early session that’s exactly what she said it was and I’ve clung to it like a life preserver.
It’s ridiculous to hold these assumptions against Patrick, but it’s all I can do.
Dr. Sunita, Vera, Krys and Millie would disagree.
But they don’t know what it’s like in my head. Or in my life.
Even with Kabir, I was always afraid he would leave me for someone else or get tired of me.
I held on so tight for fear of being left alone and look what happened.
He constantly hurt me and I stayed to avoid being abandoned again.
The fear of being alone drove me into Patrick’s arms, got me knocked up and living with him.
It’s a lot and I don’t know how to navigate any of it.
Now that we’re avoiding each other, it really does feel like I’m doing this alone.
The only difference is, someone else makes my tea, breakfast and dinner, cleans up after me and keeps the flat smelling nice.
Oh and that’s not all he did. At some point since our last scan, he programmed alerts onto my phone so I remember to take my vitamins.
It was annoying at first, but now I’ve gotten into a routine with that too.
It still takes me a few minutes to build up the courage to swallow the pills, but I do it.
Damn him for being the best and fuck me for breaking him.
“Pallavi, the AC’s not working again!” I call out as I fan myself with a folder. This has been going on for days and I don’t particularly enjoy it.
“It’s set at eighteen degrees, Miss Chandy.”
My assistant stands in the doorway to my office wearing a thick hoodie. “Are you sure?”
She nods and shows me the remote, all while I’m still fanning myself like I’m in a fucking sauna.
I apologise to Pallavi and send her off, because this is not a weather issue.
It’s a pregnancy issue and I’m not a fan.
I thought with my morning sickness vanishing, I’d be spared other pregnancy-related problems, but I’m not.
In fact, sweating is just one of the many ways my body is torturing me.
My IBS? Replaced with constipation and acid reflux.
It’s quite uncomfortable and after years of wanting to poop all the time, I’m irritable since I can’t do anything.
It’s probably a really good thing Patrick and I’ve been avoiding each other; I would be insufferable right now.
I mean, I’m already a pain in his ass. I’d be so much worse at this moment.
On top of all this, I still end every day with my underwear stained with discharge.
When I called Dr. Gopalan and explained all my concerns, she assured me it was normal.
I was just getting used to the morning sickness when it ended, now I have to contend with all these other wonderful sensations.
I’ve taken to wearing lighter clothes so I’m not hot all the time, but that hasn’t helped either.
The unfortunate part is I can’t take meds to make my life easier.
I have to suffer through all of this like a big girl.
“Oh, hi,” I mumble when the baby kicks and put my hand against my belly.
They kick again and I smile, then it fades when I realise I can’t share this moment with Patrick.
Sighing heavily, I keep rubbing my belly and soothing the baby.
I even make apologies for the way I’ve treated their father, but I can’t seem to apologise to him.
“Miss Chandy, I have news!”
My hand falls away as Pallavi rushes into my cabin.
I know I should tell everyone at work, but I don’t think it’s time yet.
I’m not even showing, even if I can see my stomach has expanded, and outside of these annoying side effects, there’s nothing that says I’m pregnant.
Besides, I’m worried the minute I tell Aishani, she’ll ask me to work less.
I’ve got too many projects going on right now to give them all up.
I already handed the DeMello sex room to Pavan since he’s there all the time. I can’t lose another one.
“I got the details for Julia Christopher’s assistant!”
Pallavi often talks in exclamation marks and it’s quite endearing, but today I have to force myself to breathe before I respond.
“Okay. First, I need you to find out what she’s looking for. Then set up an appointment and cross our fingers and hope it all works out.”
Her smile is so wide as she walks out again, leaving me alone with my very fidgety baby.
I rub my belly and pull up Julia Christopher’s Instagram page.
She started her career in Mumbai when she opened a small hole-in-the-wall bakery in a part of the city nobody ever visited.
But it became a hotspot and the neighbourhood built itself around her business.
Eventually she became so successful, the name Julia Christopher turned into a brand.
Over the last few years she took to social media to increase visibility and spread the word.
She’s in her sixties, but with a lot of botox and probably some plastic surgery, she looks permanently forty.
While that’s always been a big point of contention for people, my fascination is with her style.
She uses Instagram to make recipe videos and do tours of her gorgeous Mumbai home.
I find a lot of celebrity homes are too garish and badly designed.
They let some famous architect with an abstract style build their homes only for it to look like Lego pieces stuck in the wrong places.
Not Julia Christopher. Like the woman, her home is well put together.
It’s warm and inviting and partly why her videos are so exciting to watch.
Two years ago she came to Chennai and opened an exclusive wedding cake boutique.
I didn’t think the city was the right place for it, but discovered pretty quickly that she was booked out months in advance.
Nobody knows where it is and the address is only shared once your appointment is added to Ms. Christopher’s calendar.
It’s the kind of exclusive that makes everyone want a piece.
And from what I’ve heard, it’s not too expensive either.
It’s just really difficult to get an appointment because people from all over South India want to work with her.
There have been rumours she’s looking to open her signature bakery in Chennai.
If this bespoke space is the same thing, then I have to get in on it.
I’ve seen pictures of her other spaces and what makes them so special is that none of them look the same.
They all have Ms. Christopher’s style, but the design and construction differs from city to city.
And if I can build the space for her, it’ll get me in with so many more people.
I have enough confidence to know I’ll knock her out of the park with my design sense, but it’s also quite nerve-wracking.
Especially when the possible client is the Julia Christopher.
“This is not a room, Miss Chandy,” Joshi, my contractor, mumbles awkwardly gesturing around, “this is a mansion.”
He’s not wrong and I’m not entirely sure we’re going to be able to design and fit this space with everything the client needs in the incredibly short window they’ve given us.
My secretive sex room client? He happens to be the son of a famous local politician who spent the majority of his life travelling across Europe, living in America, and is finally being dragged back to the homeland.
Not to take over for his father, but to work in the Tamil film industry.
And his most important request—nay, demand—is he have a ‘sex dungeon for all his depravity.’ I’m not paraphrasing. The man has zero filters.
I respect that, even if I wish he would not talk to me like I’m his buddy.
The house itself is palatial and the section he’s cordoned off for me is a mansion.
It’s an outhouse tucked on the other side of the Olympic-size swimming pool.
I’ve never seen so much property being used for nothing in Chennai and it baffles the mind why this single guy wants such an enormous living space.
It’s excessive and flashy. The house is gaudy and very badly designed.
The interiors are atrocious too. I’m surprised he considers Aishani a friend; she would never let someone live in a house that’s ugly.
But it’s not my place to loudly pass judgement on homes I haven’t touched, so during the house tour, I kept my mouth shut. Joshi struggled to do the same. He asked inane questions just to fill the awkward silences and hummed whenever he thought was appropriate. It was never appropriate.
Now we’re standing in the outhouse, staring at the number of windows, the high ceiling and the garish crown moulding that covers the entirety of the space.
“We’re gonna have to rip all of this out,” I tell Joshi, slowly walking the length of the room. “Windows need to be replaced and soundproofed, not to mention tinted for privacy. What do you think about these doors?”
There are way too many doors leading in and out of this house and I want to seal every single one.
“Two lead to storage spaces, so we can blend the door into the rest of the wall. I vote to close the others.”
“Mark these to keep. Scratch the others off the plan,” I say, pointing to the ones we can use.
Joshi walks to the back of the room where the house plan is laid out on a table.
We’ve already crossed so many parts off the original design.
If the architect was to ever visit, he won’t recognise the space.
When I tip my head back to look at the ceiling, I lose my balance.
Before I can fall, Joshi grabs my hands and steadies me.
Sucking in a deep breath, I close my eyes.
He’s speaking, but the words are muffled and all I can focus on is how I could have hurt myself and this baby in a heartbeat.
“Miss Chandy, are you okay?” he asks in Malayalam when sounds come back and I nod.
“Yes, that was unexpected.”
“Is this still the same infection from Mumbai?”
I huff, then laugh at my baby being called an infection. Shaking my head, I put a hand over my stomach and whisper, “I’m pregnant.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thanks, Joshi. I haven’t told anyone at work yet, but since you’ve now seen me throw up and almost fall on my ass, you get the privilege of knowing.”
He laughs. “I am honoured, thank you. Would you like me to find a chair?”
“No, it’s okay. You can look at the ceiling while we discuss how we’re going to make this work.”
Of all the people I’ve worked with for sex rooms, Joshi is the most open-minded.
Which is crazy since I thought all Malayali men were repressed.
But from the first one we designed together, he’s contributed ideas and assisted in layout adjustments.
I know he’s married and has a brood of kids, but he very rarely talks about them.
That doesn’t stop me from trying to know more, though.
“Maybe this high ceiling will work in our favour,” he muses, hands on his hips. “Gives us a lot of room to drag wires and rope, chains and whatever else they need. We can strengthen and reinforce all of the equipment as well. This might be the sturdiest and strongest room you’ll ever build.”
“So, we’re going to layer mineral fibre, wood and gypsum?”
“Well…” he trails off and does another walk about.
I calculate the cost of all the raw materials on my phone as it starts ringing with Pallavi’s name.
Despite wanting to bring her with me to the site today, I gave her the important job of getting me an appointment with Julia Christopher and I told her she had free rein to do whatever the fuck she wanted.
“Give me the good news, Pallavi.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Chandy! She’s fully booked and her assistant keeps hanging up on me.”
“How is that possible? We only found out about it recently.”
She sighs and I can almost see her pacing the office. “Apparently the minute word got around, everyone tossed their hat in the ring. It explains why my calls and emails in the beginning were ignored, probably buried under all of the other requests coming in.”
Fuck. While securing this job will not make or break my career, it would be a defining project.
I haven’t worked on a commercial space in years and to blend my style with Julia Christopher’s aesthetic would be a dream come true.
I wonder if using my name is what’s causing the hold up.
Even in interior architecture, I’m known as someone who does family homes.
And outside of that, I’m becoming more and more synonymous with sex rooms. At least in the South.
“Okay, shifting gears. See if they have any openings at Frosting for a cake tasting.”
“A cake tasting?”
“Maybe pretending to get married can be my way in.”
“Isn’t that…unorthodox?”
I shrug even if she can’t see me. It’s not the end of the world if I don’t get the job, but I’d be annoyed with myself if I didn’t try every avenue available to me.
“Possibly and she might blacklist me for life, but it’s worth a shot. And don’t use my surname. Book it under Tamara and Patrick J.”
“Did you just make up a husband?”
I shake my head and close my eyes. This is a bad idea and I know it, but I need a way in. “Something like that. If this doesn’t work, then we’ll give up. I’ll accept that it’s not meant to be.”
She hums and mutters something to herself before coming back on the line. “Okay, cake tasting at Frosting for Tamara and Patrick J. I’ll get in touch!”
“Thanks, Pallavi.”
I hang up and quietly curse myself. I could have taken Vera or asked Venkat or Jonathan to pretend to be my future husband.
But no, I had to say his name out loud. The idea of being married to him warms my heart, but that’s the problem isn’t it?
These feelings are running rampant and I don’t know how to curb them.
The worst part is, I miss him. I pushed Patrick away, drew a thick and obvious line in the sand and now, I miss him.