Thirty-Two
“I know why I thought you’d changed,” says Nasreen when I have climbed in her car. No more silk caftans for me. Today I’m
in jeans, sneakers, a linen shirt and a heavy scarf just in case I get cold or, more likely, need to cover my head out of
respect if we pass temples or mosques.
“Why?”
“Your hotel,” says Nasreen. “It’s not where you should be staying.”
“Why not? Isn’t it the best?”
“Depends on what you want. It’s beautiful, but you’re more bohemian. It used to be that this was a gracious old colonial hotel,
but they did a huge refurbishment and now it’s . . .” She shudders. “I don’t know. It’s just shiny. All that marble and glitz. Fine for some, but I don’t see you there.”
“Where do you see me?”
“Honestly? Staying with me. Although it’s a bit basic. If you must stay in a hotel, you’d love Soho House. That’s the hot
spot. I’ll take you there. It’s super beautiful and I think you’d be happier there. It’s where you belong.”
“If you say so,” I laugh, “although I’m perfectly happy.”
“That’s only because you haven’t yet seen Soho House Mumbai. Trust me. Who knows you better than me?”
We wind our way out of South Mumbai, Nasreen driving like a lunatic, tearing along crowded roads lined with stalls selling
bangles, saris, brass lamps, and pyramids of fruit, slowing down only once we turn off toward the outskirts, through villages
that feel half built, cement blocks piled at the base of half-constructed buildings, the washing strung across doorways. The
sun is beating down, giving the dust a soft glow, and we have the windows open, the hot wind whipping our hair.
“Tell me about your boyfriend,” Nasreen says.
“Jerome? What do you want to know?”
“Is he kind? Is he attentive? Does he make you laugh? Do you miss him when you’re not with him? What do your friends think
of him? Do you love him? Does he love you? Will you marry him . . .”
“Stop!” I am laughing. “My God, Nasreen. Can’t you just ask what he’s like?”
“What is he like then? Let’s start with that.”
I think of the times he has shown up when I have had too much to drink, the care he has shown, the way he has tucked me up
under a blanket and made me feel safe and loved. “He’s kind, yes. And handsome. He’s very solid. Reliable, and he takes care
of me. What else can I tell you?”
“Everything! Does he make you laugh?”
I know that having someone make you laugh is what we should all be looking for, but Jerome doesn’t make me laugh; he never
has. I am silent, thinking about it, hoping to dredge up memories of times he has made me laugh, but Nasreen is racing ahead.
“I’m guessing the answer’s no. What do your friends think of him?”
I grimace without meaning to, as Nasreen lets out a bark of laughter.
“Good lord, Missy! What are you doing with him?”
“He’s lovely,” I say defensively.
“But is he lovely for you? Okay, okay. Forgive me. I have one last question and then I shall let you off the hook. Are you
mad with lust for him?”
“I’m done,” I say, as an image of Noah flits into my mind. “I’m not talking about this with you anymore.”
“Quite right. What does this old spinster know about love anyway? But if he’s not getting your heart beating faster when you
think about him, maybe he’s not the right one for you.”
“As you so aptly just said yourself, what do you know about love anyway?” I attempt a joke, but her words reverberate in my
head. Was my heart beating faster in the beginning when Jerome and I first met? Don’t all relationships settle into something
stable, and steady, and safe? Isn’t that what we should all be looking for? Wouldn’t it be wrong if I still found my heart
beating faster after all this time? Wouldn’t that be lust rather than love, and doesn’t lust always settle into love?
I was attracted to Jerome, I think, correcting my thoughts as soon as I have them: I am attracted to Jerome. I used to look forward to seeing him in meetings, fascinated by how mature he seemed, how together he
was, wondering how it was that someone who was essentially my age could seem so mature when I felt like such a child.
He was a college lacrosse player, with broad shoulders and large hands.
I was mesmerized by his hands, by their strength, their sturdiness, the light smattering of sandy freckles that covered them.
I liked his sandy gingery blond hair, the dimples that appeared when he smiled.
He struck me as this huge, golden corn-fed all-American boy, the sort of boy I had always been a little frightened of, a little intimidated by; the sort of boy who would never be interested in a girl like me.
Boys like that dated the cheerleaders; they dated lithe blonde girls with long highlighted hair that fell in perfect loose waves down their back.
When Jerome asked me out on a date, I thought he meant as friends; I thought it was a business colleague asking another colleague
out to chat about work, and life, and what it was like being Marty Cooke’s daughter. I was insistent on paying half, even
though Jerome kept refusing. I think I even made a joke about it not being a date, which stopped him in his tracks, but only
briefly.
We left that dinner and went out for ice cream. We sat on the bench outside the ice cream store, just as I had done thousands
of times with my father. Is it any wonder I felt safe? He drove me home, and I remember thinking I’d had a really nice evening.
I turned to him in the car to thank him, to suggest we do it again sometime soon, when all of a sudden, he was kissing me.
I wasn’t prepared for it, and jumped slightly, but it was so nice to be kissed, to be kissing someone. And there was something
so easy and familiar. I didn’t have any of the nerves I usually had on first dates; I was relaxed, and a little bit drunk,
and as he kissed me I felt the stirring between my legs, and when we finally pulled apart I asked him to walk me inside, wondering
if we might end up making out on the sofa.
He got out the car, walked me to the front door, and stepped back and smiled. Leaning forward he gave me a brief, chaste kiss
on the lips.
“I’ll see you at work tomorrow,” he said, and he was gone.
The next morning he sent me an email thanking me for a lovely evening, asking me if I was available on Saturday night to accompany him to a gala.
I saw him in the office several times before the gala, and each time we exchanged small, secret smiles, as my excitement and anticipation built.
Lucy insisted I buy something new, a long, floral printed flouncy dress, with tassels and a plunging V-neck.
It was the most beautiful dress I had ever worn, and the most expensive.
I pulled my hair back into a low chignon, adding huge dangly Oscar de la Renta beaded earrings, Lucy insisting I wear red lipstick.
I looked like I had just stepped out of Vogue. I didn’t look like me at all.
Jerome couldn’t stop grinning when he saw me, couldn’t stop telling me how beautiful I was. I have never felt beautiful, but
I felt it that night. Even in the morning, when I woke up in Jerome’s bed, mascara smudged under my eyes, my hair flat on
one side of my head and pink pillow creases in my cheek, I still felt beautiful.
Jerome made me feel beautiful.
I loved that my father loved him. I loved the approval in my father’s eyes when he saw us together, how Jerome was the son
he would have wanted. Being with Jerome made me feel like a grown-up, and more than that, like the kind of grown-up my father
wanted me to be.
Did it matter that he no longer made my heart beat faster? That at times I found him unbearably controlling? Did it matter
that he felt more of a grown-up than I wanted to be, or could ever be? Was Lucy right when she described him as a stick in
the mud?
Is it wrong that when I think of Noah, I feel something I’m not sure I’ve felt before, and is that something I should listen
to? I’m in a relationship, not dead. Surely being in a committed relationship doesn’t mean you’ll never find another person
attractive again. Or does it?
We pull up to a low stucco building with white plastic chairs scattered haphazardly underneath an umbrella. A colorful dhurrie
rug sits on the floor, the open doorway flanked by two brass lanterns. On the side, tall spiky agave plants and thorny bougainvillea
clustered with hot pink flowers line the dusty driveway.
Inside the building, fluorescent lights illuminate the women at work.
Some are sitting at a long white table, heads bent as they focus on intricate embroidery.
Others are at large looms weaving strips of yarn into tight mats.
Still more are sitting at old-fashioned metal sewing machines in the corner.
Most of the women wear dark dupattas despite their Western dress of plaid shirts, anoraks, and fleeces, but the women at the looms are in traditional dress, saris and salwar-kameez, jewel-toned in turquoise, purple, orange, and red.
Nasreen greets a man she introduces as Reyansh with a hug. He is a tall, taciturn man who seems cold and aloof, until a young
girl darts up to him and clutches his leg. He looks down at her, his face softening with love.
“That’s his daughter, Mira,” says Nasreen, scooping Mira in her arms and covering her with kisses as Mira squirms and giggles.
Nasreen puts an arm around me and says something to the others in Hindi, and they all clap their hands in delight.
“I told them you were like my daughter,” she says. “That I’ve known you since before they were born.”
“I’m not that old,” I laugh, but Nasreen shrugs. “I said you’re family. They know what that means. Come. Let me show you what
they’re working on.”
One of the women comes over to me and starts saying something. I don’t understand anything she says. I attempt bad Hindi,
learned from the phrase brook I haven’t had time to do anything other than glance at. “Mujhe samajh Nahin aata.” But she keeps
talking, an urgency to her voice, as if she is upset.