The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  He crept stealthily around some flower pots and down a gravel pathway that led to a trellised gate. He opened the gate and found himself back on the street. He made his way to the front of the hotel, and once again looked through the glass door. The beautiful vision of last night had been replaced by an overweight middle-aged woman, who could only have been the manager.

  Richard checked his watch. He needed to collect his rucksack and be on his way if he hoped to see the fresco of the Madonna del Parto and still leave himself enough time to catch the train for Florence.

  He walked into the hotel more confidently this time, and strolled up to the counter. The manager raised her head, but didn’t smile. ‘Buongiorno,’ said Richard.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ she replied, taking a closer look at him. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I left my rucksack here last night and I’ve come back to collect it.’

  ‘Do you know anything about this, Demetrio?’ she asked, not taking her eyes off Richard.

  ‘Si, signora,’ the porter replied, removing the rucksack from behind his desk and placing it on the counter. ‘This one, if I remember, sir,’ he said, giving Richard a wink.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Richard, who would have liked to give him a tip, but . . . he pulled the rucksack over his shoulder and turned to leave.

  ‘Did you stay with us last night?’ asked the manager just as he reached the door.

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said Richard, turning round. ‘Unfortunately, I arrived a little too late, and you didn’t have a room.’

  The manager glanced down at the register and frowned. ‘You say you tried to get a room last night?’

  ‘Yes, but you were fully booked.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ she said, ‘because there were several rooms available last night.’

  Richard couldn’t think of a suitable reply.

  ‘Demetrio,’ she said, turning to the porter, ‘who was on duty last night?’

  ‘Carlotta, signora.’

  Richard smiled. Such a pretty name.

  ‘Carlotta,’ the manager repeated, shaking her head. ‘I’ll need to have a word with the girl. When is she back on?’

  Nine o’clock, Richard almost blurted out.

  ‘Nine o’clock, signora,’ said the porter.

  The manager turned back towards Richard. ‘I must apologize, signor. I hope you were not inconvenienced.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Richard as he opened the door, but he didn’t look back for fear that she might see the smile on his face.

  The manager waited until the door was closed before she turned to the porter and said, ‘You know, Demetrio, it’s not the first time she’s done that.’

  CASTE–OFF*

  15

  THE DRIVER OF the open-top red Porsche touched his brakes, slipped the gear lever into neutral and brought the car to a halt at the lights before checking his watch. He was running a few minutes late for his lunch appointment. As he waited for the light to turn green, he noticed several men admiring his car, while the women smiled at him.

  Jamwal gently touched the accelerator. The engine purred like a tiger and the smiles became even broader. Far more men than usual seemed to be looking in his direction. As the light turned green, he heard an engine revving up to his left. He glanced across to see a Ferrari accelerate away before dodging in and out of the morning traffic. He put his foot down and chased after the man who had dared to steal his thunder.

  The Ferrari screeched to a halt at the next set of lights, only just avoiding a cow that was sitting in the middle of the road like a traffic bollard. Jamwal drew up by the side of his challenger, and couldn’t believe his eyes. The young woman seated behind the wheel didn’t give him so much as a glance, although he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  When the light turned green, she accelerated away and left him standing again. Jamwal threw the gear lever into first and chased after her, searching for even the hint of a gap in the traffic that might allow him to overtake her. For the next minute, he kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the horn as he swerved from lane to lane, narrowly missing bicycles, rickshaws, taxis, buses and trucks that had no intention of moving aside for him. She matched him yard for yard, and he only just managed to catch her up by the time she came to a reluctant halt at the next traffic lights.

  Jamwal drew up by her side and took a closer look. She was wearing an elegant cream silk dress that, like her car, could only have been designed by an Italian, although his mother certainly wouldn’t have approved of the way the hemline rose high enough for him to admire her shapely legs. His eyes returned to her face as she once again accelerated away, leaving him in her slipstream. When he caught up with her at the next intersection, she turned and graced him with a smile that lit up her whole face.

  When the lights changed this time, Jamwal was ready to pounce, and they took off together, matching each other cyclist for cyclist, cow for cow, rickshaw for rickshaw, until they both had to throw on their brakes and screech to a halt when a traffic cop held up an insistent arm.

  When the policeman waved them on, Jamwal took off like a greyhound out of the slips and shot into the lead for the first time. But his smile of triumph turned to a frown when he glanced in his rear-view mirror to see her slowing down and driving into the entrance of the Taj Mahal Hotel. He cursed, threw on his brakes and executed a U-turn that resulted in a cacophony of horns, shaking fists and crude expletives as he tried not to lose sight of her.

  He glided up to the front of the hotel, where he watched as she stepped out of her car and handed the keys to a valet. Jamwal leapt out of his Porsche without bothering to open the door, threw his keys to the valet, ran up the steps and followed her into the hotel. As he entered the lobby, she was disappearing into a lift. He waited to see which floor she would get out on. First stop was the mezzanine: fashionable shops, a hair salon and a French bistro. Would it be minutes or hours before she reappeared? Jamwal walked over to the reception desk. ‘Did you see that girl?’ he asked the clerk.

  ‘I think every man in the lobby saw her, sahib.’

  Jamwal grinned. ‘Do you know who she is?’

  ‘Yes, sahib, she is Miss Chowdhury.’

  ‘The daughter of Shyam Chowdhury?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Jamwal smiled again. A few phone calls and he would know everything he needed to about Shyam Chowdhury’s daughter. By the time they next met, he would already be in first gear. The only thing that surprised him was that he hadn’t come across her before. He picked up the guest phone and dialled a local number.

  ‘Hi, Sunita. I’ve been held up at the office, someone needed to see me urgently. Let’s try and catch up this evening. Yes, of course I remembered,’ he said, keeping a watchful eye on the bank of lifts. ‘Yes, yes. We’re having dinner tonight. I’ll be with you around eight,’ he promised.

  The lift door opened and she stepped out carrying a Ferragamo bag. ‘Got to rush,’ he said. ‘Can’t keep my next appointment waiting.’ He put the phone down, just as she walked past him, and quickly caught up with her.

  ‘I didn’t want to bother you . . .’ he began.

  She turned and smiled sweetly, but did not stop walking. ‘It’s no bother, but I’m not looking for a chauffeur at the moment.’

  ‘How about a boyfriend?’ he said, not missing a beat.

  ‘Thank you but no. I don’t think you could handle the pace.’

  ‘Well, why don’t we try and find out over dinner tonight?’

  ‘How kind of you to ask,’ she said, still not slackening her pace, ‘but I already have a dinner date tonight.’

  ‘Then how about tomorrow?’

  ‘Not tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.’

  ‘Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,’ he quoted back at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, as an attendant opened the door for her, ‘but I don’t have a day free before the last syllable of recorded time.’

  ‘How about a coffee?
’ said Jamwal. ‘I’m free right now.’

  ‘I feel sure you are,’ she said, finally coming to a halt and looking at him more closely. ‘You’ve clearly forgotten, Jamwal, what happened the last time we met.’

  ‘The last time we met?’ said Jamwal, unusually lost for words.

  ‘Yes. You tied my pigtails together.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Worse. You tied them round a lamp post.’

  ‘Is there no end to my infamy?’

  ‘No, there isn’t, because not satisfied with tying me up, you then left me.’

  ‘I don’t remember that. Are you sure it was me?’ he added, refusing to give up.

  ‘I can assure you, Jamwal, it’s not something I’d be likely to forget.’

  ‘I’m flattered that you still remember my name.’

  ‘And I’m equally touched,’ she said, giving him the same sweet smile, ‘that you clearly don’t remember mine.’

  ‘But how long ago was that?’ he protested as she stepped into her car.

  ‘Certainly long enough for you to have forgotten me.’

  ‘But perhaps I’ve changed since—’

  ‘You know, Jamwal,’ she said as she switched on the ignition, ‘I was beginning to wonder if you could possibly have grown up after all these years.’ Jamwal looked hopeful. ‘And had you bothered to open the car door for me, I might have been persuaded. But you are so clearly the same arrogant, self-satisfied child who imagines every girl is available, simply because you’re the son of a maharaja.’ She put the car into first gear and accelerated away.

  Jamwal stood and watched as she eased her Ferrari into the afternoon traffic. What he couldn’t see was how often she checked in her rear-view mirror to make sure he didn’t move until she was out of sight.

  Jamwal drove slowly back to his office on Bay Street. Within an hour he’d found out all he needed to know about Nisha Chowdhury. His secretary had carried out similar tasks for him on several occasions in the past. Nisha was the daughter of Shyam Chowdhury, one of the nation’s leading industrialists. She had been educated in Paris, before going on to Stanford University to study fashion design. She would graduate in the summer and was hoping to join one of the leading couture houses when she returned to Delhi.

  Such gaps as Jamwal’s secretary hadn’t been able to fill in, the gossip columns supplied. Nisha was currently to be seen on the arm of a well-known racing driver, which answered two more of his questions. She had also been offered several modelling assignments in the past, and even a part in a Bollywood film, but had turned them all down as she was determined to complete her course at Stanford.

  Jamwal had already accepted that Nisha Chowdhury was going to be more of a challenge than some of the girls he’d been dating recently. Sunita Desai, who he was meant to be having lunch with, was the latest in a long line of escorts who had already survived far longer than he’d expected, but that would rapidly change now that he’d identified her successor.

  Jamwal wasn’t all that concerned who he slept with. He didn’t care what race, colour or creed his girlfriends were. Such matters were of little importance once the light was switched off. The only thing he would not consider was sleeping with a girl from his own Rajput caste, for fear that she might think there was a chance, however slim, of ending up as his wife. That decision would ultimately be made by his parents, and the one thing they would insist on was that Jamwal married a virgin.

  As for those who had ideas above their station, Jamwal had a well-prepared exit line when he felt the time had come to move on: ‘You do realize that there’s absolutely no possibility of us having a long-term relationship, because you simply wouldn’t be acceptable to my parents.’

  This line was delivered with devastating effect, often when he was dressing to leave in the morning. Nine out of ten girls never spoke to him again. One in ten remained in his phone book, with an asterisk by their names which indicated ‘available at any time’.

  Jamwal intended to continue this very satisfactory way of life until his parents decided the time had come for him to settle down with the bride they had chosen for him. He would then start a family, which must include at least two boys, so he could fulfil the traditional requirement of siring an heir and a spare.

  As Jamwal was only months away from his thirtieth birthday, he suspected his mother had already drawn up a list of families whose daughters would be interviewed to see if they would make suitable brides for the second son of a maharaja.

  Once a shortlist had been agreed upon, Jamwal would be introduced to the candidates, and if his parents were not of one mind, he might even be allowed to offer an opinion. If by chance one of the contenders was endowed with intelligence or beauty, that would be considered a bonus, but not one of real significance. As for love, that could always follow some time later, and if it didn’t, Jamwal could return to his old way of life, albeit a little more discreetly. He had never fallen in love, and he assumed he never would.

  Jamwal picked up the phone on his desk, dialled a number he didn’t need to look up, and ordered a bunch of red roses to be sent to Nisha the following morning – hello flowers; and a bunch of lilies to be sent to Sunita at the same time – farewell flowers.

  Jamwal arrived a few minutes late for his date with Sunita that evening, something no one complains about in Delhi, where the traffic has a mind of its own.

  The door was opened by a servant even before Jamwal had reached the top step, and as he walked into the house, Sunita came out of the drawing room to greet him.

  ‘What a beautiful dress,’ said Jamwal, who had taken it off several times.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sunita as he kissed her on both cheeks. ‘A couple of friends are joining us for dinner,’ she continued as they linked arms and began walking towards the drawing room. ‘I think you’ll find them amusing.’

  ‘I was sorry to have to cancel our lunch date at the last moment,’ he said, ‘but I became embroiled in a takeover bid.’

  ‘And were you successful?’

  ‘I’m still working on it,’ Jamwal replied as they entered the drawing room together.

  She turned to face him, and the second impression was just as devastating as the first.

  ‘Do you know my old school friend, Nisha Chowdhury?’ asked Sunita.

  ‘We bumped into each other quite recently,’ said Jamwal, ‘but were not properly introduced.’ He tried not to stare into her eyes as they shook hands.

  ‘And Sanjay Promit.’

  ‘Only by reputation,’ said Jamwal, turning to the other guest. ‘But of course I’m a great admirer.’

  Sunita handed Jamwal a glass of champagne, but didn’t let go of his arm.

  ‘Where are we dining?’ Nisha asked.

  ‘I’ve booked a table at the Silk Orchid,’ said Sunita. ‘So I hope you all like Thai food.’

  Jamwal could never remember the details of their first date, as Nisha so often described it, except that during dinner he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The moment the band struck up, he asked her if she would like to dance. To the undisguised annoyance of both their partners, they didn’t return to the table again until the band took a break. When the evening came to an end, Jamwal and Nisha reluctantly parted.

  As Jamwal drove Sunita home, neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say. When she stepped out of the car, she didn’t bother to kiss him goodbye. All she said was, ‘You’re a shit, Jamwal,’ which meant that at least he could cancel the farewell flowers.

  The following morning Jamwal sent a handwritten note with Nisha’s red roses, inviting her to lunch. Every time the phone on his desk rang, he picked it up hoping to hear her voice saying, ‘Thank you for the beautiful flowers, where shall we meet for lunch?’ But it was never Nisha on the end of the line.

  At twelve o’clock he decided to call her at home, just to make sure the flowers had been delivered.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the houseman who answered the phone, ‘but Miss Chowdhury was already on h
er way to the airport by the time they arrived, so I’m afraid she never saw them.’

  ‘The airport?’ said Jamwal.

  ‘She took the early morning flight to Los Angeles. Miss Chowdhury begins her final term at Stanford on Monday,’ the houseman explained.

  Jamwal thanked him, put the phone down and pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Get me on the next plane to Los Angeles,’ he said to his secretary. He then called home and asked his manservant to pack a suitcase, as he would be going away.

  ‘For how long, sahib?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Jamwal replied.

  Jamwal had visited San Francisco many times over the years, but had never been to Stanford. After Oxford he had completed his education on the Eastern seaboard, finishing up at Harvard Business School.

  Although the gossip columns regularly described Jamwal Rameshwar Singh as a millionaire playboy, the implied suggestion was far from the mark. Jamwal was indeed a prince, the second son of a maharaja, but the family wealth had been steadily eroding over the years, which was the reason the palace had become the Palace Hotel. And when he had left Harvard to return to Delhi, the only extra baggage he carried with him was the Parker Medal for Mathematics, along with a citation recording the fact that he had been in the top ten students of his year, which now hung proudly on the wall of the guest toilet. However, Jamwal did nothing to dispel the gossip columnists’ raffish image of him, as it helped to attract exactly the type of girl he liked to spend his evenings with, and often the rest of the night.

  On returning to his homeland, Jamwal had applied for a position as a management trainee with the Raj Group, where he was quickly identified as a rising star. Despite rumours to the contrary, he was often the first to arrive in the office in the morning, and he could still be found at his desk long after most of his colleagues had returned home.

  But once he had left the office, Jamwal entered another world, to which he devoted the same energy and enthusiasm that he applied to his work.