The Object of Your Affections

by Falguni Kothari

  “Wait. You’re moving here?” Paris blinked in surprise, then grinned, then screamed in excitement.

  “I’m trying to.” I probably had the same goofy grin on my face.

  Immigrating to New York was a complicated and expensive undertaking, but it was the best option I had. I’d always loved New York. I’d spent some of my happiest years here, mainly because of Paris. I needed to find a cheaper place to move into—much cheaper than the Central Park West apartment. I’d already promised to transfer the bulk of the money from its sale to India to pay off the debts. But the money I’d make from selling the artwork was mine. And then there was the trust—which I didn’t need to dip into if I didn’t want to. Not yet. If I lived sensibly, I could build up another atelier, albeit slowly. The best part about moving here was that I wouldn’t have to deal with my family.

  “It would solve some of my problems, not the least of which is my mother. She wants me to get married again and keeps sending me these weird photos of potential suitors and their stats.” I shuddered.

  Paris smirked. “Unsuitable suitors?”

  “I feel like we’ve had this conversation before. Wait. We have had this conversation before. Remember how my mother would send me dossiers full of ‘suitable boys’ during junior year?” Seven years had gone by—how was I still standing in the same spot? “Oh, they’re all suitable. My mother is an excellent matchmaker. She found Kaivan for me, didn’t she?” I sighed, smiling bitterly at the thought of my husband. “But I’m not in the market for remarriage.” Once was enough.

  Paris nodded as though she totally understood. “For now, you mean.”

  “Forever. I’m not ever getting married again.” When Paris gaped at me, I elaborated. “You saw what was going on in the apartment...with my sister. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’m responsible for Kaivan’s old parents now. His sister too, to a lesser extent. I’m never going to be free of the legal hassles in India. There are three hundred and eighty-five cases against Kaivan, and now me as his wife and partner. Do you know how disorganized, not to mention corrupt, India’s legal system is? I’m paying legal fees through my nose just so that I don’t have to go to court every day. Which suitor is going to put up with all that baggage?” And that was only the visible baggage.

  Paris looked shocked. “Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was?”

  “And what good would it have done? What could you have done?” I shrugged. There was nothing anyone could do. This was my life now.

  “What about your life goals? Your dreams of love, marriage and baby carriage?”

  My dreams had died along with my husband.

  “Not all dreams come true. Most don’t. Didn’t you tell me that? Besides, I’ve already ticked off love and marriage so that’s two-thirds of my life goals accomplished. Not bad, right? And the new atelier can be my baby. Without the poop and diapers,” I joked bravely.

  Paris stared at me, eyes narrowed, as if she didn’t believe the veracity of my words. But I meant them. Every single one.

  “Honey, you do know that you don’t need a man to have a child these days. Or raise one, if that’s what you want.”

  Even through the ache in my chest, I felt laughter bubble up. Of course, Paris would suggest something so outrageous with such earnestness.

  “Do I need to remind you that I’m old-fashioned? And even if I wasn’t, I can’t, Paris. I have too many financial burdens as it is. I can’t afford another one no matter how much I want it. Please, can we stop talking about babies? It was...hard seeing Karen—I mean I’m super happy for her, but—” I shook my head and put a stone over my heart. “Can we focus on what I need to get done to stay in New York?”

  I went over everything again. Then I paid attention to my dinner for a bit, giving Paris time to digest my plan.

  “I know I’m asking a lot. I know we haven’t exactly been in touch these two years. I realize that we don’t know each other as well anymore. But I have no one else, Paris. And you won’t have to risk any money.” Just your name, I added silently.

  I let her see my desperation. I didn’t know what I’d do if she refused to help. Unlike Kaivan, I didn’t have a contingency plan. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to India. Which left London and living with my in-laws as my only other option.

  “Let me think about it,” she said after several beats. “When do you need an answer? And I will have questions.”

  “Ask me anything,” I said immediately, my heart lifting. She hadn’t said no. “Regarding timing...um...the sooner the better? I have a month before I’ll have to...explain things back home.” I was so not looking forward to that confrontation.

  Paris returned my tentative smile with one of her own. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll discuss this with Neal because—Ha!” she exclaimed suddenly, and sat up straight in her seat. “You know what? You should talk to Neal directly. Yes, that’s what you should do. He’s the perfect person to go to for business advice. Him or his brother, Deven. They know all the ins and outs, the laws and the red tape, on a global scale. And Dev’s a wily bastard and intimidating as fuck. He’ll probably know how to sort out your legal hassles. Maybe you won’t even need a partner.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t been expecting that. “I don’t want to bother your husband.”

  Not only that, if Vinay found out that Neal Singh Fraser was helping me, it would trigger a nuclear war. I’d never told Paris that Neal’s ex-fiancée was Vinay’s brother’s wife’s sister. Oh, yes, we lived in a very tiny world. The Singhals still held an insane grudge against Neal because of the way he’d treated and ditched Simran, practically at the altar, even though she’d moved on and married someone else too.

  Also, I didn’t want to take advice from another man ever again. Men tended to complicate the simplest of decisions with their arrogance and chauvinism—my husband included.

  “Don’t look so terrified. Neal doesn’t bite. Not unless I ask him to.” Paris winked at me, then looked impressed when I didn’t go all hysterical at her sexual innuendo. Though, I was sure my cheeks were on fire. “Jokes apart. Neal is your best bet, honey. Trust me.”

  I didn’t really have a choice, did I?

  chapter five

  Paris

  A dense fog settled over Manhattan on Monday morning, cloaking my bird’s-eye view of the city from our sixty-second-floor aerie. Only the very tops of the Brooklyn Bridge and select high-rises poked through the blanket of gray velvet like ghostly turrets on some ancient Scottish moor. The view was more sinister than romantic, though my own Scotsman would disagree.

  Neal was due home any minute—an entire weekend later than scheduled. His work—if hobnobbing with the who’s who in Beverly Hills could be called work—had kept him in LA until late Sunday, and weather conditions had further delayed him at the airport. He’d ended up taking the red-eye to Newark via Detroit at the last minute.

  My head spun just thinking about the various disruptions traveling for work caused—traveling in general caused. I was glad that my job was restricted to one city, one general half-square-mile area, and on most days to one single chair. This travel upheaval was one of the reasons I wanted our surrogate to be within driving range. If all the back and forth from California was going to upset my work schedule, I was going to get cranky.

  Where was he? I had to leave for work soon, but I had plans for us before that. I Snapchatted a sexy selfie to him, in case he needed an incentive to hurry the hell up. He replied with a picture with his eyes agape and his tongue hanging out like a dog’s. Then we kind of sexted for a bit.

  Neal: You have too many clothes on.

  Me: If you don’t get here fast, I’ll start and finish without you.

  Neal: Don’t you dare! Damn Holland Tunnel traffic.

  As we bantered, a weather channel helicopter flew past the Brooklyn Bridge, heading straight for the nebulous
jaws of the dark gray smog. I clicked the atmospheric photo and posted it on Instagram, hashtagging a whole slew of related terms to it.

  I’d barely finished uploading when Naira’s text popped up on my screen.

  You’re awake?

  Clearly, she was too. I called her and she picked up on the first ring.

  “Still jet-lagged? How was the showing?” I asked, putting her on speaker. Then I sank down on the sofa to finish the rest of my coffee.

  The showing had gone very well according to Naira. Seven potential buyers had shown up and the Realtor believed the place might go into a bidding war. Which was all good news.

  Our Friday night chat had derailed my own plans of asking Naira to help me with the surrogacy business and what came after. But I’d had the weekend to regroup, and now I was on a mission to get my bestie’s life in order first so she could help me deal with mine. Neal’s travel upheaval had upended my plan of hashing out Naira’s start-up issues and I was determined to get it done tonight even though late nights on a weekday sucked. But with Diwali coming up in just a week and its accompanying celebrations and parties, closely followed by Thanksgiving, and the unpredictability of Neal’s travel schedule—he was always jet-setting off to different parts of the world to meet with clients or check on some product or attend some jewelry fair or host an event—it was better to get this meeting off the agenda. I also couldn’t keep both the potential surrogates in limbo for much longer. I needed to give them an answer, one way or another.

  I’d given Neal a heads-up about Naira’s partnership proposal. He’d agreed to talk to her, understand her requirements and then advise us both regarding next steps.

  “What time will you come?” I squinted at an incoming message, then huffed out a breath. My daily horoscope, a forward from Lily.

  “What time do you want me to come? I have meetings with an art dealer and an art appraiser at Rothman’s Auction House.”

  “How about six? I should be home by then,” I answered absently, reading the state of my fate today.

  You might pick up some rather disturbing thoughts from a friend, neighbor or relative, Taurus. This person could be upset over something and not communicating his or her feelings. It isn’t appropriate to try to coax this person into sharing with you now. They aren’t upset with you, but they might be if you push! Back off and let this person come to terms with the problem. Your friend will talk once the time is right.

  I frowned. What in hell did that mean? And why was I wasting time on nonsense?

  As if prophetic texts weren’t enough, suddenly Lily was calling me. I ignored her. If we spoke now, we’d fight. She sent another message. A normal one.

  You read your horoscope. I can tell. Please call. I have something urgent to discuss.

  Oh. My. God. Lily had figured out what Delivered meant on iMessage.

  “Er, Naira? Let me call you back.” I hung up and called Lily and she began to discuss her birthday trip. And I used the term “discuss” loosely. It wasn’t a discussion. It was barely a conversation. All I had to do was make some noise every other sentence to indicate I was listening.

  Sighing, I stood up and walked away from the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the living room, three sides displaying outrageous views of the city. I set my coffee mug on a coaster on top of the stainless steel breakfast bar in the open kitchen while Lily jabbered on. If I got a headache, it would be Neal’s fault. He’d created this birthday monster.

  This whole marriage business confounded me sometimes. The constant back-and-forth. The consultations about everything—from a bathroom mirror to what gift to give Lily for her seventieth birthday, which was the cause of my current dilemma. Shouldn’t Lily’s birthday gift be my choice since she was my mother? But no, Neal didn’t think tickets to the runaway Broadway hit Hamilton were enough. He wanted to throw Lily and her twin sister, Rachel, a grand birthday party and sponsor a weekend trip to the Bahamas for them and a few of their friends. Lily had other ideas.

  “Do you really think it’s okay if I tell him we’d rather not have a party and would like the birthday trip to be an Antarctica cruise? It’s much more expensive. Are you sure he won’t feel offended?”

  I assured her he wouldn’t. “Neal lives to make people’s dreams come true.” I said it sarcastically, although it was nothing but the truth.

  “He’s such a sweet boy. Is he home yet?”

  “Not yet. He was delayed in LA, I told you this.”

  “Yes, yes. Bubbala, I hope you have breakfast ready for him. He works so hard.”

  “Uh-huh.” I bit my tongue instead of pointing out that I worked equally hard.

  “Men need pampering. Especially the good ones.”

  “Neal just walked in, Lily. Let me get to the pampering. I’ll talk you later,” I lied and clicked off my phone.

  According to Lily, my energies would be better spent lavishing attention on my sweet husband instead of fulfilling my own ambitions, and making sure he had nothing to complain about. Workaholic wives needed to be extra vigilant on the home front or else the marriage suffered. She believed that when men were left to their own devices, the devil took over their groins. Also, their brains and souls, but mostly their groins. Whereas housewives—the true balabustas—whose sole purpose in life was to wait on and wait for their workaholic husbands didn’t get up to as much mischief. Idle women, apparently, had more fortitude.

  As much as my intellect, feminism and several web-based statistics to the contrary wanted to collectively roll their eyes at Lily’s sexist, nonsensical theory, my gut seemed to agree with her. I’d switched into wife mode last night and tidied up the apartment just as the man-of-this-house liked it. Breakfast warmed in the oven. The coffee machine was stocked. The master bath was ready too. The Jacuzzi bubbled with scented water and I’d lit a cluster of candles around it. Everything was ready and simmering for the master’s return.

  Neal had three choices: a long, sensual bath with me playing rajah’s handmaiden; a leisurely breakfast with fresh scones from his favorite bakery; or, simply me—naked and horny beneath my short cream silk robe. I grinned. I was always horny for Neal and workaholic wife or not, my husband didn’t seem to be bored of me, yet.

  Seriously, how bad was the traffic this morning? Restless, I went to the door to wait.

  There were four apartments on our floor, all evenly spaced from one another; two each on either side of the suite of elevators in the middle. Ours was at the end of the north side of the building, and the decorator—we’d rented a partially furnished apartment and had filled in the missing pieces ourselves—had placed a lover’s bench in the nook outside the door, complemented by a real-looking silk-leaved ficus tree in a large brown pot and a matching umbrella stand.

  The bench was an unnecessary accessory in my opinion, mostly used for holding packages or the boxed laundry that the building concierge delivered to our doorstep. I made use of it today to wait for Neal.

  It was another ten minutes before the elevator pinged open. I jumped to my feet as his gorgeous-ship rumbled out, slick in dark jeans and a stone-gray sweater, carrying an extra large suiter on one shoulder. I added a shoulder massage to my mental couples-therapy session.

  My heart pinged too as he ambled closer and closer, a sexy smile lighting up his face. Sometimes my feelings for my husband devastated me, terrified me.

  “Cabbie was a numpty. Took us all over the fookin’ highway before we took the tunnel. And what’s with the Scottish weather, eh?”

  Neal stopped right in front of me, under the lintel of our home. I stretched up and twined my arms around his neck, pulling his head down for a hungry kiss.

  He smelled like a stranger. I hated the sweet smell of airplanes on his clothes, so I nuzzled along his jaw where the scent of his aftershave lingered until he became familiar again. Sandalwood, and a hint of verbena.

 
; “I missed ye, bonny lass.” He nipped my lips.

  “I missed you more.” I clutched at him, needing to annihilate the space between us, the strangeness. He opened his mouth wide over mine in perfect understanding and took over.

  We twirled inside. He kicked the door shut as our tongues relearned the textures and the taste of us. He dropped the suiter, and free of its weight, free of the tribulations of travel and job, he pushed me flat against the wall next to the door and went to work on me.

  Our reunion options dwindled down to me. Just me. And only him.

  Blood rushed from my head to my feet, and I would have slid to the floor if I wasn’t pinned to the wall by hard, tensile muscles. My breathing fractured. When we came up for air, his electric-blue eyes smiled into mine, then narrowed. He sniffed the air between us like a dog who’d caught the scent of his prey. Ah. He liked the new scent on me. Smiling, I prepared to be devoured. But instead of yanking me closer, Neal stuck his nose in the air, his nostrils aflutter, and sniffed strongly. I burst out laughing when his stomach rumbled in tandem with the inhalations. Alas, it wasn’t my perfume that he found irresistible but breakfast.

  “Do I smell tattie scones?” he asked, happily.

  “You do. The bath’s ready too. The new essential oils you brought from Hong Kong smell divine.” It was our ritual. A welcome-home ritual. A day of leisure ritual if this were Sunday. The Kahn-Singh-Fraser ritual. I was confident we’d cross out all three choices on my to-do list within the hour. The only question was in which order?

  * * *

  Hunger took precedence over horniness.

  No, that didn’t sound right. Hunger dragged horniness into the open kitchen, ordered her to strip off her lovely robe and sit on the bar stool—naked—while he served up a full Scottish breakfast after he too had stripped down to his eager natural state. Hunger also filled the coffee mugs to the brim, and the scent of fresh-ground coffee intoxicated the air. Hunger was a very thoughtful human being.