There are three cookies, but only one is banana bread. He hasn’t bothered offering me before helping himself. So what if he’s the guest or if he is hungry?
I pick up the phone and ask for another banana bread cookie. Our eyes meet across the table for a brief moment.
I’m looking at Vedveer from the corner of my eye. I’m breathing hard, and the colour on my cheeks heightens. I feel the burn.
The single 60-gram banana bread cookie arrives on our signature cookie plate. I pick up the biscuit and bite into it.
I push back in my seat, draw one foot up on the chair and cradle the mug in my hand.
‘Aadheethha.’ He says my name for the first time in the morning. ‘I called you yesterday.’
I blink. ‘I didn’t get a call from you,’ I say.
Actually, I didn’t get a call from anyone. I called Appa andthen Alia later in the night.
Vedveer is locking and unlocking his fingers. ‘It didn’t ring,’ he says, ‘but you would have got notifications.’
For most of the day, wherever we were yesterday, the reception was poor, but I didn’t get any notifications. I pull out my phone to show him why I had no idea that he had called, when I find six missed call notifications from Vedveer.Six.
‘I’m sorry, I was out on a day trip to Kodagu, and I didn’t check the notifications after we returned,’ I say, holding up my phone, acknowledging my mistake.
He nods. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
For a moment, I think he is asking why I hadn’t told him I was going to Madikeri, when I realize that he’s talking about the newspaper article. ‘Because I didn’t know.’
‘How?’ he asks, gesturing with his hands and shoulders, which rise in a befuddled expression.
‘How would I know what Appa’s political ambitions are?’
Vedveer is shaking his head disbelievingly.
‘Too late,’ he says, breathing hard. I watch his chest heave. ‘I know what exactly you and your father are up to.’
My eyes widen with shock. I lift the mug to my mouth; my hand shakes, and a drop of coffee dribbles down the cup.
‘It is in the newspapers!’ I say slowly. ‘If you’ve come all the way to tell me something, I hope it’s worth my time at least.’
Vedveer leans back and takes another sip of his oolong tea. ‘You could have just told me,’ he says. The colour of his eyes doesn’t appear different at this moment. They are both dark and distant.
‘Co-conspirator and all…?’
How on earth could I have scripted Appa’s political dreams? Seriously, is this who he thinks I am?
‘First, you want me to come up with a break-up plan; you are so desperate to end things,’ he says, his voice calm. ‘Then youannounce the location of your café in Jaipur during the interview without so much as mentioning it to me, even though you signed on that well before I came into your life.’
What is he saying? I shake my head.
‘An elaborate, layered plan.’
A plainly worded accusation, that I positioned COFFEE Before Books & Bras just outside the gates of his precious palace to anchor myself in his life.
‘No, Vedveer,’ I finally say, my voice rising. ‘I’ll say this just once – you have got it all wrong.’
Vedveer’s shoulders straighten, and he raps his right index finger on the table. ‘As you already know, we have signed the papers for the lease. And I will say this just once. Ranibagh is mine; it’s the home of the Rathores, and that’s how it will stay.’
What lease papers? What is the man blabbering about? But I’d rather wilt in this seat than tell him I lost him at ‘signed the papers’. He didn’t even deserve my what-the-f#@k-are-you-talking-about comeback, because whatever it is he is raging on about, he has already pronounced me guilty.
‘Yes, Your Royal Highness.’ My voice is colder than the draught from the air conditioner.
