My head is turning. My fingers threaten to cover my mouth, but I clasp them tight and leave them on my lap.
‘You were bright and bubbly, a whole different person,’ he finishes.
I try to smile. ‘We met socially,’ I say. I know I’m sounding unhinged, but what happened last evening? ‘We ran into each other,’ I correct myself. ‘Lavanya, my friend, was there too.’
Vedveer nods. His eyes move away from me. He is considering what to say, maybe searching for my surname. I hope it has been wiped out of his memory. Phonetic atrocities should be remanded.
He is on his feet. He peers into my two-shelf library cupboard. ‘Are these for sale?’ he asks, picking up Robert Iger’sThe Ride of a Lifetime. His eyes are on me. I shake my head.
This tiny 150-square-foot space is my escape, my Himalayas, where I can disappear. Door bolted and phone switched off.
My strip of an office space has a library cupboard, and the top bracket holds an assortment of books I like, from Nooyi to Robert Iger andShoe Dogby Phil Knight,To Kill a Mockingbirdand Matthew Perry’s memoir,Friends, Lovers and the Big Terrible Thing.
‘No. These are my books. We have contemporary fiction on our shelves outside.’
The café itself is a large, wide-open area with pots of greenery and loads of natural lighting. The seating is spread out across the floor, which is standard in all our outlets. We have three 10x10 shelves of books, and just behind the books, we stock Alia’s lingerie selection. That is always a crowded space.
‘Would you rather sit in the café?’ I ask out of politeness, knowing he’ll turn it down. Who needs one more picture of themselves on social media?
‘Yes,’ he says enthusiastically.
My eyes widen in horror.Do you want to be photographed again with me, you dolt?TittleTattlealready has a photograph of you preening in Bengaluru, as if that wasn’t bad enough. I’m clinging to you like some shrinking violet in a photograph a freaking fan has clicked. Now what, you want us to walk the ramp for them?
‘I like open spaces,’ he says, ‘the outdoors.’
The man couldn’t think beyond his royal nose even if he was commissioned to.
I get on my feet reluctantly.
‘You don’t want to go out.’ It isn’t a question. Vedveer settles back on the sofa and picks up the coffee cup.
I exhale.
‘You’ve never been photographed in your café,’ he says, nodding to himself.
His tone is gentle, but I miss it because questions are coming at me in my head like traffic in this city, from every possible direction.
‘Never?’ I counter too quickly.
‘Yeah. I looked quite a bit on social media and didn’t see a single picture of you in the café,’ he says. He’s facing me.
‘Why social media?’
‘Because I wanted to know something, anything about you before I came to Bengaluru.’
‘What did you want to know?’ I ask. I feel the sharpness of my tone.
‘Get a sense of who you are,’ he says. ‘We are practically engaged, Aahdeethaaah!’
‘It was therokathen yesterday at my place?’ I ask.
He nods.
Rokais not my custom. When we get engaged, rings are exchanged, we send out invitations and put out a feast.
‘Why are we here?’ he asks. His shoulders straighten, and for the first time in the morning, there’s an edge to his tone. ‘We are very different people.’
Chalk and cheese. I couldn’t agree more, but why is he playing innocent? How didTittleTattleknow he’s in Bengaluru? He’s probably tipping them off and providing them photographs.
