The Object of Your Affections

by Falguni Kothari

  Inanely, I stuck out my hand, which he took, smiling now, and I shook it, vigorously. I shook Neal’s hand just as vigorously, making him laugh and my eyes prickle. Horrified that I’d get emotional in front of my brand-new business partners, I left them to the game and rushed outside. The icy night was a shock, enough to keep me from crying. I took several deep breaths of cold, cold air, hugging myself hard. They wanted me. They’d meant every word during our meetings. They weren’t going to use me for my contacts and throw me aside.

  Paris came out with my woolen cape draped over her arm, carrying two glasses of the GFC. Ian had become an expert in our bespoke brew. I swirled the cape about my shoulders, then took my glass.

  “Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Paris asked, clinking our glasses.

  “It was awesome. They—You are awesome!” I broke into a giddy smile even as a tear or two rolled down my cheeks. My throat felt swollen with all these crazy emotions. My heart was full—no, it overflowed with happiness tonight.

  We sat on the stoop and finished our drinks under a bright, round moon. Was this Kaivan’s doing? Was he looking out for me from up there? Was it why he’d set up the trust in New York? So I’d have to come here and reunite with my bestie?

  I drew my attention from the stars to Paris’s squiggly profile. This was all her doing. She and Neal had saved me. Their trust in me meant everything. It was a gift beyond measuring. I wanted to reciprocate. I had to.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Huh?” Paris turned her head lazily to look at me and froze when my words sank in.

  I froze too. Everything around us stopped. The air. My breath. The gushing in my veins. Maybe even the moon ceased to spin around the earth for a heartbeat. My brain erupted into images and ideas. My skin felt electrified as if a thousand billion atoms oozed happiness from my pores.

  “The whole thing? The surrogacy, coparenting, everything?”

  I nodded jerkily.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse and soaked in gratitude.

  I smiled then. Satisfied that she was every bit as emotional about it as I was. We finished our drinks in a silence flush with the promise of the future.

  * * *

  For the next few days, I was holed up with the Fraser brothers at the lawyer’s. We went over everything we needed to address and include in the contract—the broad frame of my job description, filing for a change in my immigration status with USCIS. My salary would be less than what they’d initially offered because now my package included a 1.5 percent stake in Fraser Bespoke, not just US but worldwide. They wanted me to eventually oversee global communications once the US stores were launched. Broadly, my title would be Director of Communications. I realized, only when the lawyer mentioned it, that my stake had come from Deven and Neal personally. They’d each let me buy out a fraction of their personal stakes in the company.

  “I won’t let you down,” I swore, still completely stunned and moved beyond belief by their faith in me. “I’ll get your vision off the ground as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, you will,” said Deven gruffly even as Neal winked and said, “I’ve no doubt, lass.”

  We celebrated with champagne and laughter and dived right into the thick of things. But, even with all the business goings-on, the surrogacy stayed in my mind.

  Paris and I decided not to tell anyone until all my medical reports came back clear. I’d miscarried before, and while my gynecologist had ruled it as, “Just one of those unfortunate things that happen without cause,” I still wanted to make sure it hadn’t been me—my womb.

  After the tests, I would tell my family and in-laws before we took it further. I worried about my in-laws especially. It wasn’t that I needed their blessing, but I was still their daughter-in-law and I didn’t want them hearing about my decision from strangers. I didn’t want them hurt by gossip. And there would be gossip, I had no illusions about that.

  But even with all of these worries and uncertainties, and Vinay’s obnoxiousness that knew no bounds, I had much to be thankful for during the holidays.

  We’d been invited to Lavinia and Juan’s for Thanksgiving dinner weeks ago, and I’d agreed to help Lavinia with the vegetarian part of the menu. So, by the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, I was physically and mentally drained, and was honestly fed up with socializing. I couldn’t believe Paris was putting up with it all without even a little bit of snark. What had happened to my best friend since her marriage? She was unrecognizable, really.

  “Honey, you look exhausted. Why don’t you sit down? Put your feet up. I’ll help Lavinia with...umm.” She looked around the boisterously packed living room, and the overflowing buffet table. “Whatever she needs help with.”

  I didn’t wait for her to rethink the offer, and gleefully plonked down on a window seat that had magically remained vacant in the madhouse. From my vantage point, I saw Paris sashaying over to Lavinia in her pointy heels. She looked chic in a festive yellow A-line dress with an asymmetrical hemline. Who was this person? Seriously?

  I took off my ballet flats and massaged my poor exhausted feet. Served me right for trying to please everyone. The past week with Deven had been insane and I’d spent yesterday going over my agenda and objectives for the next few months. Then I’d gone grocery shopping on the eve of Thanksgiving in New York City. I was nothing if not a masochist. I’d prepped and marinated foodstuff until midnight, and at five o’clock this morning, I’d staggered into the kitchen again to start the actual cooking to bring to Lavinia’s. I’d hoped to leave right after dinner.

  Yeah. That didn’t work out. No one took pity on me even though I was practically falling asleep on my feet.

  “Just one more game, and we’ll all leave.” My college friends chorused every time I looked in the direction of the front door. Or, just one more song and one more drink and one more story.

  Only Deven seemed sympathetic to my plight, and only after I’d amused him by yawning all through his...lecture? Anecdote? I had no idea what he’d been saying.

  “Come on, let’s get you home,” he said, placing his hand to my back and propelling me toward the door. Which was a good thing, because I was seeing double of everything now.

  “Thank you,” I moaned, ready to genuflect and kiss his feet for helping me escape. Dimly, I noticed that no one dared to stop him from leaving. Scared little cats. No one said, “Just one more hour, Dev. Don’t be such a wet blanket.”

  He dropped me home—uh, to Liam’s flat—and I fell face-first into a dreamless, worry-free sleep.

  * * *

  I woke up after noon on Black Friday, my entire body achy and slow. I’d missed the doorbuster sales, which was...just as well as I was working at decluttering my life. I didn’t need to purchase more things.

  Still, I felt a twinge of FOMO. I adored a good buy. I felt the same about shopping malls what a child felt about Disney World. The energy inside An Atelier on sale days had been its own reward. Oh, how I loved haggling with vendors over prices and the quality of goods. I couldn’t wait to start doing it again.

  I made my daily calls to my mother and in-laws. Brief and cordial was the way to go. I used to chat with my mother for hours, but now our conversations were stilted because while she understood my need for independence, she didn’t approve of my stand against my father and Vinay, or my desertion. My decision to be a surrogate might just be the final nail in the coffin of my relationship with my family.

  Paris called while I was brewing a pot of masala chai to go with my chili cheese toasts in lieu of lunch.

  “Be ready by seven. We are going to bring in your birthday with a bang. I’ve made dinner reservations at Eleven Madison Park. The chef is thrilled to experiment with the vegetarian tasting menu for us. And, we’re going dancing after—the lads insist—so you better rest up as it’ll be another late night.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I said, and st
uck my tongue out at her even though she couldn’t see it.

  I fell asleep on the sofa while air-drying the fresh coats of pumpkin-orange nail polish I’d applied on my hands and feet, and woke up with a start with drool on my face when I should’ve been heading out to commence my birthday celebrations.

  Shit. Tardy again.

  I messaged Paris that I’d meet them directly at the restaurant. I dashed into the shower and got ready in a record ten minutes. Then I went temporarily nuts when my strapless bra decided to star as Houdini’s prop by disappearing from my lingerie drawer. I searched my whole closet and couldn’t find it. What to do? What to do? I didn’t have time to steam iron another dress that wouldn’t need a strapless bra, even beneath a jacket.

  Suddenly, I remembered I had an extra one and some stick-on cups in one of the suitcases I’d stashed in the studio. All my brand-new, never-worn-before clothes were there. I grabbed the keys to the studio and scampered across the landing, freezing from soles to scalp in a fluffy white towel. I cursed myself for overnapping. I was clearly living up to the Indian Stretched Time standard.

  “Aha!” I exclaimed in triumph, fishing out the bra. Saved by my super organizational skills and faultless memory. I’d known exactly where it would be.

  I dashed back and—

  “Ack!” I stopped dead in the doorway of Liam’s flat, staring at Deven staring at me in shock.

  Oh, God. Oh, my effing God. Why in eff was he here?

  His shock quickly dissolved into amusement when he saw just what I clutched between my breasts. His whole face, not just his eyes, lit up like the Christmas lights on the Rockefeller tree—I’m not exaggerating—while I felt as if I’d stepped into the path of one of Daenerys Targaryen’s fire-breathing children.

  I was absolutely, hideously mortified. I wanted to jump down from the landing and die. Thank God for the towel, teensy-weensy though it may be.

  His eyes trailed down my body as if pulled against his will because he kept dragging them back to my face. The deep appreciation in their midnight blue depths went some ways to overshadowing my embarrassment. When had a man last looked at me like that?

  Two years and three months ago.

  “Sorry for barging in, but the door was open.” His grin wasn’t apologetic at all. It was wicked. Flirtatious.

  I was surprised. Deven had been nothing but amazing and friendly this past week—just like his brother. But he’d never flirted with me, never crossed that line. He was going to be my boss—it wouldn’t have been right. As if that wasn’t enough of a deterrent, I was going to have his brother’s child. The thought was like a bucket of cold water thrown at me.

  I pointed in the general direction of the bedroom and simply ran there, very aware of the hot gaze burning my behind.

  Just as I was about to slam the door, I heard him clear his throat. “Take yer time, lass. Dinner isn’t until nine now. The lovebirds are busy too.”

  “Oh, God!” I kept repeating as I got dressed.

  What was he doing here if dinner had been postponed? Had the lovebirds kicked him out to do lovebirdy things? For once, I hadn’t been the kabab mein haddi—the third wheel—in Paris and Neal’s love nest.

  A picture of a love nest writhing with naked bodies popped into my head. Gah. Not helpful! Then, without permission, my imagination imagined what Deven would look like writhing and naked—thick muscles twisting, tan flesh turning, blue eyes smoldering, as his full, sensual lips curved into a wicked smile.

  Oh, God.

  And thus began my thirtieth, flirtiest and craziest year.

  chapter thirteen

  Paris

  When I told Neal that all systems were a go with the surrogacy, he cried. He denied it, but he went all red in the face, his eyes turned glassy and his voice got thick with emotion. That’s crying, in my opinion.

  Naira had passed most of the medical and psychological screenings with flying colors. Neal and I had already done our evaluations months ago, so we were set. I’d forwarded all the records, labs and application papers to the nurse practitioner at the fertility clinic, who would review everything, then schedule us in for the first IVF consultation.

  Neal took us to dinner that night at gastronomically brilliant but astronomically expensive Per Se with its stunning bird’s-eye view of Columbus Circle and Central Park to celebrate our happy alliance.

  “And just in time for Christmas. Let’s surprise the clan with our news over the holidays, aye?” He grinned as we clinked our flutes together.

  “I don’t see why we have to tell anyone until Naira’s actually pregnant,” I pointed out practically. Why create a hullabaloo for no reason?

  I was subjected to twin disapproving frowns between courses four and five. My vote was discounted and the Big Reveal was scheduled for the December holidays.

  * * *

  Christmas was a massive deal for the Frasers, even more so than Diwali. Neal and I usually spent the year-end holidays with his family in Scotland. Although, Christmas was still a working holiday in many parts of Scotland—quite an oxymoron, that—I wasn’t allowed to bring my work along. Which was in parts frustrating and in parts completely relaxing.

  Originally staunch Catholic farmers, the Frasers were traditionalists in the sense that Christmas was celebrated more in terms of a bountiful harvest (replace by profitable year) than anything remotely religious. It was a less important festival than Hogmanay or New Year’s Eve, though they celebrated both with similar aplomb.

  A good chunk of the extended family, most of whom worked for Fraser Global in various capacities, gathered in and around Inverness from Christmas Eve until after the turn of the year. Sometimes way after, like the third or fourth of January. In Scotland, not only the first day of the year but also January second was a national holiday, to allow people to recover from the never ending Hogmanay celebrations, usually involving the limitless consumption of whisky.

  Neal’s parents, Niall Fraser and Minnie Singh, presided over Riverhead Hall, a restored manor house roughly the size of a mini castle, on their twelve-thousand-acre Riverhead Estate located somewhere west of Inverness. The estate ran along the edge of the River Beauly and overlooked the Beauly Firth on its easternmost side. It was where my husband had been born, where he’d played as a little boy and where I’d been married, and so I was rather fond of the imposing old place with its oak-paneled walls and staggering chandeliers and zigzagging corridors. The main house, painted a warm butter yellow on the outside, was the oldest structure, but annexes had been added to it during different eras and in varied styles. The hodgepodge architecture didn’t take anything away from Riverhead’s overall grandeur.

  The buildings weren’t overly decorated for Christmas, inside or outside, as the main party took place in a full-service hotel in Inverness to accommodate the entire clan—by clan, I mean the Frasers, their friends and extended families, and their employees from all across the world. Every single person connected to the family, personally and professionally, was invited to the annual Christmas ball and the extended brunch the next day on Bonus Day, which was a Fraser take on Boxing Day.

  Traditionally, Boxing Day was when the clan chiefs or fief lords would hand out “boxes” full of rations, clothes, coin and/or whisky (or wine depending on country) to their tenants as Christmas gifts. Though, Neal’s family didn’t have any royal blood or a chiefdom in their ancestry—the baronage had been a recently bestowed honor, as recent as around a century ago. It had been awarded to Neal’s great-great-great-grandfather for his exceptional service to his country during the British Raj in Chandigarh. It had been passed down through the male heirs and currently Neal’s uncle James, his father’s oldest brother, held the title. He had one heir who seemed to show no interest in marriage or the production of heirs, hence the title could possibly be passed on to Neal’s father, and consequently to Neal. It was an unlikely scenario acco
rding to Neal, yet I’d been appalled when I’d first heard of it. The clever lad hadn’t brought it up until I’d been well and truly hooked. Not that it would’ve changed anything. His wealth certainly hadn’t changed my mind—in fact, it had been in the pros column of my Why-Should-I-Marry-Him list—a title wouldn’t have made much difference.

  Coming back to Bonus Day. Neal’s family had adapted Boxing Day in their own way by giving their employees bonuses on that day. Years ago, someone had joked about it no longer being Boxing Day but Bonus Day, and since then the name had stuck.

  It was fantastic what the Frasers did on Bonus Day. As the main board members of Fraser Global were already swimming in more money than they knew what to do with, none of them took a salary, but took, for form’s sake, the smallest cut of the yearly profits. The rest of the money was distributed among the Fraser Global workforce as a big-ass bonus, and each employee’s bonus depended on the number of years they’d been in service and their positions. This year had been my third Bonus Day and I was still awestruck by the sentiment and magnanimity behind the event.

  And yet, that evening, for all their goodwill and generosity, when Neal and I finally broke our “good news,” we faced undiluted disapproval.

  We were back home at the mini castle after the festivities—Neal’s immediate family, that is. All of us had gathered in the great room, around the fire roaring inside an ancient stone hearth, the walls and paneling festooned with tartan bows, and a ceiling-height Scotland pine spreading its woodsy scent all around. Neal had planned to tell his folks over whisky and leftover pudding.

  I hadn’t expected anyone to jump up and dance the hora when we told them of Neal’s imminent fatherhood, but I had expected something. Perhaps, a cautious, “Congratulations?” Maybe a good luck wish? Questions, certainly. Anything other than the utter, log-crackling silence that followed our pronouncement. Neal began to speak, not explain but just map out what our next few months would be like.