I turned involuntarily.
I was number two among the editorial staff of the website and I was obeying the commands of a curious 23-year-old.
‘Is he Andrew Brown?’
From the corner of my eye, I noted that a red tee on beige cargoes had filled the open spaces of the next room. He had his back to the door, and my heart was cartwheeling across the floor.
‘You know Andrew Brown?’ she persisted.
My eyes were smiling.
‘That man asked the receptionist for you. I asked him who he was. Just to make sure he wasn’t one of those annoying PR people.’
‘And?’
‘“Visitor” was all he said; that’s when I knew for sure.’
‘Oh!’
‘It’s the Bengaluru connection, is it?’ Hima’s question was addressed to my back.
I was out of the editorial and at the reception before I knew it. I took a gulp of that cocktail – cigarettes, lust and Davidoff – before saying, ‘Andrew.’
‘He smells divine.’ Hima was behind me.
‘Myraah,’ he said, turning around, fixing his gaze on me. The collared tee was new, but the face was old.
Andrew pulled out a chair and waited for me to settle into it before he walked around the circular table to his seat at the opposite end. We were dining at the Officers’ Club.
He had arrived in Mumbai earlier in the afternoon for a story that would take him to Nagpur tomorrow and then on to Aurangabad, from where he would fly back home. This colonial-style construction with its massive arched windows, wooden floors, glittering chandeliers and a dozen executive suites was where Andrew was staying for the night.
This was not far from where I lived. In fact, I had walked past it several times but hadn’t noticed the white building. It was hidden behind tall walls and towering palms.
The waiter was prompt with the menu, mercifully. I had subsisted on a couple of coffees to meet the 6 p.m. deadline. I’d been chewing on the mood since.
Andrew ordered our drinks and pointed at me for the entrées.
‘Chicken satay skewers and fish fingers?’
‘And.’
‘Tandoori prawns?’
‘And.’
‘I’m starving, yes, but I think that should do for now.’
‘And?’ The question came with that lopsided grin. It was accompanied by a tender glint I recognized from ages ago.
‘Onion rings?’ I asked and burst out laughing as realization struck.
‘And.’
‘Masala peanuts?’
‘And?’
‘Will ma’am have dinner?’ the waiter enquired. He was not amused.
