We were laughing, much to the confusion of the liveried steward, before Andrew nodded. ‘I’m not so sure,’ he said.
‘I’m pretty sure I will. I haven’t eaten all day.’
‘Make that two plates of tandoori prawns,’ Andrew said of the most expensive plate on the menu. ‘And please go easy on the spice.’
‘Room number please, sir?’
‘112.’
‘You are a guest with us, sir?’ He was making sure, just in case these two in streetwear made a dash for the door after cleaning out the kitchen.
Andrew nodded.
This is how we had wanted to order in our student days – all the starters in the house. We didn’t have the money back then, but we had decided that when we were rich – it was never if, always when – this was exactly how we’d do it. More trays than a table can hold.
This was not the first time we were at a place that was beyond our student days’ budget. From railway station stalls to Perky Grace and the five-star we had stayed at in Coonoor, we’d been places in the last 18 months andwe’d been there with time to spare, like this evening. But this was the first time we had turned the clock back, done something we had planned to do. It was as if an old connection had been restored.
I turned away into the settling darkness of the evening. I was too scared to even consider if we wereusagain.
A shiver ran down my core, and a warm wave lifted my spirits.
At that moment, I knew I didn’t need an apology.
It was never an apology; it was an understanding I was seeking.
We might’ve had the bucks now, but I certainly wasn’t dressed for the place. I don’t think Andrew noticed or cared. I was wearing jeans, with a fitted salmon pink tee and a matching denim jacket. I was, fortunately, carrying a jacket because the aircon was on full blast here, more radical than even the office.
I was on the edge of my seat, and my eyes were all over the room.
‘Are you okay?’ Andrew asked.
That’s when I realized that he was the only man around without a blazer. In fact, we were the only people here in casual clothing.
‘Are you sure they won’t throw us out of here?’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘There’s a dress code, I think.’
‘I was told I couldn’t wear chappals, shorts and tees without collars, but everything else is okay in the dining area.’
I had ditched my slippers for ballet pumps that morning. The one thing I had got right in the day.
Andrew had stayed at the Officers’ Club the last time he was in the city, too.Morning Heraldhad finally put to use thecorporate membership they had availed with an affiliate set-up in Bengaluru.
I noticed a few people, some elegantly dressed older women among them, looking at Andrew. He was aware of it but didn’t let his gaze stray. People were beginning to recognize him, which wasn’t the case when he first returned to India. He was a gorgeous hunk of a man who grabbed eyeballs effortlessly everywhere he went, but this was different. He was being identified. He had done a couple of television interviews before the Karnataka elections, which gave the name a face. And what a face.
‘Nice perfume,’ Andrew had said as soon as we were in the taxi.
I had doused myself with my new fragrance before I left for work. It was a Davidoff. I had lunged for the bottle as I was strolling around Kemps Corner one afternoon, a little after I had returned from Bengaluru. I was missing him.
Andrew and I talked work for the rest of the ride; it was mostly me doing the talking. The more I verbalized to him, the more I realized how much I was enjoying the digital space. It was what was keeping me in Mumbai when all I wanted to do was pack up and return home, especially after my father’s accident.
After a couple of drinks and that many plates of peanut masala and tandoori prawns cleaned out, I turned a question I had nursed for years at him.
‘Why did you leave the law?’
‘Journalism intrigued me, not necessarily news media, which is where I struck oil,’ he said. ‘I felt I could take everything I had learnt and put it in a place where I want to, say, make a difference, but maybe it is where I wanted to be at that point.’
