The Object of Your Affections

by Falguni Kothari

  She wanted to meet Dr. Kapoor, and with her permission, began feeding me a special diet for pregnant women, consisting mostly of fatty, delicious foods. Organic, of course.

  “It’ll prepare your body for the trauma of birth. Your bones, your muscles need to be strengthened,” she said as she cooked for me in Liam’s kitchen.

  This was what I missed the most about Mumbai—my mother pampering me.

  She made enough fenugreek laddoos, and edible gum-based peth and raab to last me for a month. “I’ll keep sending you more every month. Make sure you eat one laddoo every day. The peth and raab you can alternate as you like. The goond in it will strengthen your bones.”

  I kissed my mother’s soft, fleshy cheek. People said I looked like her, small and dainty, deceptively frail. She spoke to Minnie Singh too, about observing certain Indian rituals and customs meant for the protection of the pregnant mother and the unborn child. Those happened in the third trimester. There was still time, but the moms hashed it out in a couple of phone calls.

  To my shock, Minnie Auntie also came to New York while my mother was there, to meet and talk to her face-to-face. She promised my mother that I would be well looked after, and she kept her word. Ridiculously, I began receiving two boxes of pregnancy food every month, which I gladly shared with the women in my surrogate support group.

  With so many people taking care of me, I was free to worry about Paris. I wondered what she was thinking and feeling. She wasn’t talking about it, no matter how nicely I asked. Neither of the moms had paid her any attention, not that she demanded it of them or even wanted it.

  “I don’t want you to feel left out of the process. You’re truly missing out on one of the best experiences of being a woman.”

  Paris had sighed long and deep when I said that. “For you, it is. How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not you.”

  Still, she came with me for doctor’s visits, and continued to ask scary questions—things I’d never have even thought of, much less researched—demanding answers regarding my reports, about the blobs on the sonogram, about the fetuses’ development, the risk of having twins. Natural birth versus a cesarean section. Amniocentesis.

  There, we had our first battle. As soon as the doctor mentioned the risk of a miscarriage, albeit a low one, that went with the procedure, I balked.

  “I am not doing that test,” I said flatly, wrapping my hands about my stomach as if Dr. Kapoor meant to do it right this minute. “The Down syndrome blood test was negative, wasn’t it, Dr. Kapoor? So there’s no need do it, right?”

  “It was. And no, there’s no reason to think that the babies aren’t perfectly healthy at this point,” she confirmed.

  But Paris was vehement. “You agreed to do all the required tests, Naira. The blood screening isn’t as foolproof as the amnio. We need to know of any fetal abnormalities and prepare.”

  “I agreed to do all the necessary tests. This one clearly isn’t. Think positively, Paris. Why do we need to know? And prepare for what?” Then it dawned on me what she was about. I was horror-struck. “No. Absolutely not. No.” I couldn’t even put into words what she meant for us to do if...if. “How can you even think such a thing?” God. She was heartless.

  “It’s better to be prepared for any eventuality,” she said grimly as I got dressed in jerky movements. The babies were biggish like their father. And their mother. I was small, and my stomach was already swelling.

  “There’s no preparation for something like that. Or for motherhood. You chose me, asked me to do this. To help you be a mother. Now let me help you. Let go of your worries, Paris. Please,” I begged her.

  “I’m not trying to upset you, Naira. But this is not your decision. Neal and I will make this decision. We need to know, and we’ll decide what action to take accordingly.”

  Paris marched straight into Neal’s office when we went home and asked him to be the tiebreaker.

  “She’s the one pregnant, aye? It’s her body. It should be her choice,” he said, siding with me.

  He broke her heart that day. After that, Paris refocused on the tangible. So, I focused on the intangible. I drank in the color videos of the two hearts beating during a 3-D ultrasound. I hadn’t reached that stage in my pregnancy before. I wanted Paris to feel the same wonder and amazement, and was dismayed because she stared at the screen with something akin to abhorrence. I preferred her blank looks.

  I didn’t know how to help her overcome her fear—and it was fear she felt. Not revulsion or apathy or disinterest, no matter how she spun it. She was so scared of these two bairns, of what they would mean to her, to Neal, that she refused to give an inch.

  And while I tried to get her to feel for her children, I had to counsel myself not to feel too much. Paris was right. These babies were not mine, I could not get attached. I could not fight with her for them. But their health and their birth was my responsibility and I took that seriously.

  I’d told my parents. I needed to tell Kaivan’s parents, even though they already knew I planned to be a surrogate. They were angry with me, had been since my London trip. Sonam had understood though.

  “I didn’t think you’d go through with it. You decided to rebel at the worst possible time,” she said when I broke the news. “Have you considered how this will impact your life?”

  I’d thought of little else. And I couldn’t drum up even one ounce of regret. I felt only joy for these babies. A lifetime’s worth of it.

  * * *

  I’d become so carefree living in New York that I stopped looking over my shoulder. My mistake.

  I’d expected Vinay Singhal to make an appearance in the Big Apple and harass me since I’d landed, and I’d wondered at odd moments why he hadn’t.

  About a month after my parents’ visit, I walked home from Whole Foods, carrying two bags of groceries that would last me three days, unless I ended up cooking for Neal. Usually Neal or Ian helped me carry the bags up to the apartment—they sometimes even helped me carry them home from the store—but, the bar was shut on Mondays, so Ian wasn’t around. And Neal was at the Diamond District today looking for twelve carats of yellow single-cut melee diamonds for a new design.

  Later, I’d wonder if Vinay had known I’d be alone.

  I let myself into the building and dragged myself up the two flights of stairs slowly, carefully. On the landing outside Liam’s flat, I transferred the grocery bags to one hand—they weren’t heavy—and pulled the keys out of my crossbody bag. I was in a hurry to get inside and use the loo. I always seemed to want to pee these days. Maybe that was why I didn’t notice that someone had stepped up behind me. I pushed the heavy wooden door open with my shoulder as I fumbled to remove the key—not an easy task one-handed—and before I knew it, someone had reached out and unburdened me of both the grocery bags.

  “Oh, thanks!” I said absently, busy grappling with the key, which always seemed to stick while I tried to pull it out of the keyhole. I didn’t bother to look over my shoulder. It didn’t occur to me to worry or wonder about the person standing behind me. I was so used to Neal and any number of men doing gentlemanly things for me since I got pregnant that I’d started to take it as my due. By the time I looked back and saw Vinay, it was too late. My gut had warned me too late.

  “What...what are you doing here?” I stammered out, my smile dying. Before I could even think to slam the door in his face and bolt it, he stuck his foot in the jamb.

  “Some fellow with purple hair let me in downstairs when I told him I knew you,” Vinay replied, his smile oily and fake.

  That would be Kirk, one of the tenants on the first floor. Kirk was a successful musician but a space cadet most of the time. He lived inside his tunes.

  “So why weren’t you waiting in front of my door? Why sneak up behind me like this?” I refused to step back and let him into the house.

  He shrugged, smirking.r />
  I knew very well why he’d lurked in the shadows on one of the floors below me. Vinay loved to play mind games. I thought about kneeing him in the balls and running down the stairs and out of the building, but that was just stupid. What if I fell down the stairs and hurt the bairns? Besides, he wasn’t going to murder me right here and now.

  Oh, for God’s sake. He wasn’t going to murder me anywhere. If he killed me, the trust money would automatically go to Kaivan’s family and that wasn’t his goal.

  I needed to pee. Shit.

  He ran his disgusting eyes up and down my body. I was wearing a knee-length waistless summer dress in lime green, and I felt completely creeped out.

  He was loathsome. How had my sister tolerated him for fifteen years?

  I wondered if it would be better if I went into the bathroom and peed, and came out wearing body armor.

  As I mentally debated my next words or move, Vinay began to squeeze his arm through the door gap, as if to hand the grocery bags to me. I had half a mind of telling him to leave the bags on the landing, but I’d have to deal with him sometime, so why not now?

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the bags from him and setting them on the foyer bench. Of course, as soon as I turned my back to him, he slipped inside the door. He left it ajar though. Thank God for small mercies.

  Vinay was not a bad-looking man, really, his ugliness came from his character. Though, he was short and had developed the paunch most Marwari men sprouted sooner or later. My father had one, and so had Kaivan once he’d crossed thirty. Though, his paunch had disappeared after his arrest and incarceration. Thanks to the man standing in front of me now.

  Vinay’s nasty black eyes flickered disdainfully over Liam’s living room. “This is where Fraser puts you up? In this hole?” He gave another one of his oily smiles. “I would’ve treated you like a queen. You should have told me you desired a child. I would have given you one. With relish.”

  “Get out.” I wanted to shove him out but I’d have to touch him for that. I felt an unholy rage bubble up at what he insinuated. Ugly, asshole, paunchy bastard.

  “Believe me, I don’t want to stay any more than you want me to. As soon as you give me the money, I’ll go.”

  “I can’t break the trust. I’ve told you this over and over. You spoke to Mr. Weinberg. You know it’s irrevocable,” I lied. I’d already broken it, taken half the funds and invested them in Fraser Bespoke.

  He sighed long and noisily as if irritated by my answer. As if he knew it was a lie.

  I stiffened. He knew. How? This wasn’t India. People weren’t so easily bribed here. How had he gotten the information out of whoever it was at the Weinberg Law Firm, or had it been the insurance agent?

  Still, I said, “I’m not going to dance to your tune anymore.”

  His bushy eyebrows shot up to his forehead. I’d never stood up to him like this. I’d always been respectful or cowering before. “If you don’t, I’m afraid I’ll have to tell people the truth.”

  I was so sick of his threats. If he wanted to tell, he’d have done so already. “So tell.”

  “Are you sure you want to go to jail?” He dropped his nasty eyes to my stomach.

  I stared at his round, thick face, trying to glean if he was bluffing.

  Suddenly, he rubbed a hand over his face. “Look. I’m tired of this game and so are you. I tried to do this gently, but you won’t listen. Let me be blunt then. I need the money. There, I’m telling you the truth. I need it or I’ll lose everything too, and your sister and your nephews will be out on the street. I know you don’t want that. Just give me the money and I’ll leave you alone. If you don’t, I’ll make sure everyone knows what you and Kaivan did—the police, the insurance companies, even the Frasers. You won’t seem so innocent then, will you? And your friend? The prosecutor? What do you think she’ll say, huh?”

  I was shaking hard by then. He knew everything. Dear God.

  And...and was he lying about his business? He had to be lying. I hadn’t heard anything about the Singhals being in trouble.

  “You will hand over the money to me. Right, choti?” He used my pet name as if he had a right to call me what my family did. “Once you do, you’ll be free of me.” He waved a hand in front of my face when I didn’t answer. “Understood? I’m here for a couple of days. Let’s sort this out.”

  Vinay walked out of Liam’s apartment, shooting a triumphant smirk over his shoulder as if he’d won. As if I’d cave.

  That did it. I rushed out to the landing, unleashing my fury.

  “Go to hell, Vinay! I am done being afraid of you,” I yelled down the stairs without thought to the consequence.

  My sister called in less than half an hour. Vinay hadn’t wasted any time calling his wife to bitch about me. And rudely woken from her sleep or no, Sarika had immediately hopped to do her husband’s bidding.

  “We are your family, choti. You seem to have forgotten that.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at her. “Did I forget or did you? Does family bully and scare and slander and steal?”

  No, family had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with love and support.

  I told her about her husband’s deeds without mincing words, without sparing any detail. We fought again, as always two opposing poles on earth.

  “Vinay would never say that. You’re lying,” Sarika shrieked when I told her about his crack about “keeping me in luxury.”

  “Believe what you want. Be a fool. Just tell him to back the hell off or...” I cast about for a threat big enough to make Vinay Singhal quake in his boots. Ah. “Or I’ll sic Deven Singh Fraser on him.”

  I wouldn’t. I had to fight my own battles. But Sarika and Vinay didn’t know that.

  The threat backfired spectacularly.

  Whether it was Vinay’s unhinged vindictiveness or the thirst gossipmongers had for fake stories, within a week, most of the gutter rags in India were running these headlines: “Gemstone baron has love child with criminal Dalmia’s widow.”

  That was one of the nicest ones.

  I’d never been so ashamed of my family. Or so afraid.

  chapter nineteen

  Paris

  “It’s the price of celebrity,” said Neal, as if that explained the vile things that were being written and televised about us in India.

  At first when the rumors started, I’d been both stunned and amused, equally, as I often was when Neal and, by default, I were mentioned in Indian media, or in Scotland, and sometimes in other parts of the world. Those stories didn’t concern me because they had no bearing on our life in New York. Neal kept me updated about all the key events, past and present. I had the testimony from the horse’s mouth—why did I need to look beyond it? It was a fact that the same piece of evidence could tell two different stories depending on who told it—the prosecution or the defense. And what the jury made of it was another matter altogether.

  This was different. Weeks of disgusting rumors, morbid speculations and photoshopped tableaus ran the gamut from whether I was a “barren baroness” or if Naira was hiring out her womb to pay off her husband’s substantial debts with Singh Fraser money, or whether Paris Fraser was in fact a transgender woman and therefore incapable of bearing children and...more shit like that. Most of it was too ridiculous to be taken seriously, but I was hooked. I couldn’t stop watching the coverage, couldn’t stop reading the headlines.

  Then yesterday, a photograph of Neal and Naira entering Liam’s building went viral. She was smiling up at him as he opened the door for her. She looked well and truly pregnant now, her belly protruding under her maternity jeans and sweatshirt. She’d put on weight. It looked good on her. And the bairns were growing in as healthy a fashion as possible for twins inside her. She’d been trying to get me to feel their movements, but I was resisting. I didn’t want to touch her belly because
then I’d be expected to gush and coo and pretend fascination. So, I didn’t touch it. I had to listen to her describe the feeling—apparently it felt like passing gas—and that was gross enough.

  Back to the photograph. Neal had his hand on Naira’s back. He may or may not have been touching her, but it looked as if he was. And he looked so happy as he looked down at her. They both looked happy and contented. Like a couple who were expecting a child together.

  And weren’t they? No wonder the tabloids were having a field day.

  “This one is not Photoshopped. And it’s pretty damn clear it’s from New York,” I said, turning my computer to show Neal. We were in bed. I was itching for a fight and some angry sex.

  “So they sent a paparazzo here. I dinna care.” Neal flicked the screen a glance and had the gall to look amused. “Ah, this was two days ago. I was telling the lass a joke Fiona sent about Scots and Sikhs. Do ye want to hear it?”

  “I dinna care.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “How are you okay with this?”

  He laughed, giving a very Gallic shrug. “Ye cannot stop them from printing rubbish unless ye pay them off.”

  And of course paying off gossip rags to keep you out of their columns wasn’t cheap. Did I want to waste money slamming down rumors that would die a natural death soon enough just so I could stop the burning in my kishkes?

  “Try to keep your distance in public then,” I said, then winced because—ugh—it made me sound fishwifey and jealous.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, hen. We work together.”

  “No, you don’t. You—” I started to say, but he cut me off.

  “Aye, we do. There are things she needs to run by me. We need to find office space. Store space. There’s a million things to do until the launch. Until we have at least the core team in place, Naira and I are the core team. We’re not traipsing all over town without reason, Paris.” He sounded annoyed now.