It was all cutting-edge science. Antibodies targeted against lymphoma cells were incubated with lymphoma cells and ordinary human cells to see which ones they attacked. Monisha toiled in the lab, sometimes until midnight. She grew, centrifuged and plated out cells. She incubated them with the antibodies and kept her fingers crossed. When they were ready to be counted, she wrestled with the complicated cell counting equipment and looked to the heavens, praying for meaningful results.
The endless cycle of growing cells, plating out, incubating and counting was all consuming. Memories of her two-year marriage and her night with Joe were pushed to the back of her mind. And the dreams of marrying and having children quietly vanished into thin air. There were only two goals right now, both boring and dreary: to write papers and get a real job. And it was just like they said: ‘publish or be damned’.
She visited the Dases once a week. Thankfully, they had taken her under their wing. Saurav Das listened to her trials and tribulations in the lab, while Mrs Das cooked her dinner and always packed her extra to take home. The Dases had caught up with her parents on a trip to Mumbai.
Her parents spoke frankly with the Dases, although they said little in their hurried phone calls to her. Apparently, they had been disappointed in their son-in-law, and they could see Monisha was unhappy. But their frustration lay in the fact that she’d refused to give the marriage a chance. When Shailesh found a job nearby in Salem, she’d upped and left for Vermont. And everyone had asked why. Leela Bastikar was always tearful.
“I just don’t understand girls these days,” she would say.
It was pointless trying to explain. Pointless!
To blow off steam, Monisha would visit the local ice rink and skate for hours. Gliding along the ice provided a temporary escape. The booming music, peals of laughter, and scratches and skids of skates drowned it all out. The loneliness. The tirade of anxious thoughts. The guilt.
Around mid-December, she caught John Davidson skating with his son, a tall fair-haired boy. She watched from the sidelines, sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows. Round and round they went. John Davidson: distinguished academic. Owner of a luxury mansion. Husband of a beautiful wife. Father of two angelic boys.
She began to imagine how life would have been with Shailesh. He’d never have come skating. She’d tried to teach him, once. But he was clumsy. Like a buffalo on ice. And he fell so often that he vowed never to return. She pictured his son. Pot-bellied and bespectacled. Then herself, slaving behind the stove for those vile dinner parties.
She was tucked into a corner, with her face buried in her drink, hoping John Davidson wouldn’t notice her. But he waved, and when she saw him take off his boy’s skates and then his own, she froze in panic.
They began walking towards her.
“I’d like you to meet Oliver!”
The boy stared down at his feet. She extended her hand. He turned away. Awkwardly.
She had to ask now: could she buy them a drink?
John Davidson chuckled and passed her a napkin.
“That chocolate looks too good to be wearing on your face.”
She laughed, self-consciously and wiped it away.
“Thanks for the offer, but we’ll pass. Oliver isn’t allowed chocolate.” He looked at his watch. “And we have to be home for dinner at five o’clock and a bath at half past six, so he can be in bed by seven o’clock.”
Monisha nodded, even though it sounded completely crazy.
What a perfect match! Two people with a shared love of schedules.
The little boy began pulling him away. John Davidson threw his head back. She waited for him to ask her about the project. And tell her that he expected to see results at their next meeting. But he didn’t. He just let out a deep, heavy sigh.
That evening, Tina rang; the divorce papers were ready. Did she want her to drop them over?
The panic started. The fluttering in her chest. Again, a blur of images. Shailesh with his head on the dining table. Mrs Kulkarni with her arms wrapped round him. Her mother sobbing hysterically beside the wedding photographs. In her ear, Aunt Romila’s accusatory voice: “You’re setting a bad example…”
Over. All of it. Sealed in a brown envelope. Done.
“Should I bring them over, Monisha?”
God not now please!
“No… No! I’ll pick them up later. But, thanks, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Tina laughed. Not at all, she said. Nowadays there was a do-it-yourself divorce kit available on the internet.
Monisha shuddered. Seven times round the holy fire. For seven lives.
All of it ending with a D-I-Y divorce kit.
37
Past the library and the laboratories was the ‘nice’ end of the corridor. And through the horseshoe-shaped archway were the offices of the professors and their secretaries. As Monisha made her way through it, she read the gleaming brass letters on the polished oak door: ‘Associate Professor J.T.C. Davidson’. Excitement burst through her body. After months of slogging, she had results.
The door creaked open. He took one hand out of the pocket of his white coat and shook hers. There was a glint in his eye.
“I’ve had a look. Monisha, we’re onto something.”
He pulled out a bunch of articles from a set of drawers, work they’d cross referenced. Those guys were small fry. Her paper was going to be huge. Worthy of The New England Journal. Lymphoma was topical. It might even make the six o’clock news. That is if she could submit her findings before the Italians did.
As she sat on the plush swivel chair, the brown envelope containing her divorce papers rolled off her lap. Monisha bent down to pick it up, her eyes filling with tears. Thump! It hit her like a brick. All those long lonely hours in the lab. For a pat on the back. And a few pages in print.
But no husband – no baby.
John Davidson placed his hand on her shoulder.
“I know how you feel… The long hours, the frustration. And a divorce.”
He handed her a tissue. “Um… are you divorced yet?”
She waved the brown envelope at his face and nodded, fighting back more tears.
“Okay.” He turned towards his computer and began typing.
“Was it an arranged marriage?”
Monisha hesitated. He typed away in bold capitals. The words glared across the screen.
INTRODUCTION… METHODS… RESULTS… CONCLUSION.
She didn’t answer his question, hoping he’d forget. But he turned his head towards her and asked again.
She fumbled through an explanation. It was kind of arranged, but they’d met each other beforehand. Blah! Blah!
“How long for, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Of course she minded him asking! It was going to sound crazy. And he’d judge her. Like she’d run off to Vegas. Her words came out in a whisper.
“About a week.”
She held her breath and waited for the lecture. But he only nodded. And his eyes shone with paternalistic concern. Only a week? Hers was a very different culture.
Monisha fiddled nervously with her crystal pendant.
“There are upsides.”
“Like?” he seemed intrigued.
She rattled off her explanations: the celebrations, the silks and the food were to die for. He recollected the thrill of fiery spices on his tongue. What were the downs then? She froze. He was staring straight at her.
“The pressure… To keep the family happy.”
John Davidson walked over to his bookshelf.
“To keep the family happy,” he repeated, thinking of Oliver, five, moderately autistic and Jack, three and perfect.
How things had changed since his first date with Lisa. The statuesque Nordic princess who became his wife and then a mother. Who now ran around scraggly haired, in jogging bottoms. Screeching
.
“Mmm… Well, here in America, rightly or wrongly, individual freedoms are valued more.”
He returned to the chair and sat in front of the screen. Motionless. His fingers locked on the keyboard. Monisha waited a while before she asked her question: When did he want the first draft?
He sprang up and turned sharply towards her.
“Wednesday.”
Tyrant. The absolute tyrant! The fluttering started in her chest. A groaning sickness spread through her. This would mean fifteen hours of writing. Each day! In her head, the shopping list expanded: Coffee. Chocolate. Toilet rolls. Cereal bars. Bananas.
John Davidson typed away, frantically listing key points. It was a landmark trial, he said. A game changer. A completely new approach to treating lymphoma. She’d have to get the message across. To the worldwide readership of The New England Journal.
Worldwide readership.
Her heart stopped. How was she going to get the message across to Tina, who’d now left Justin and who was still reeling after that traumatic internet date with a man who said he was forty-five when he was seventy.
How could she tell her best friend that, until this paper was submitted, she’d be chained to her desk? That she couldn’t accompany her on a manhunt like she’d promised.
That night, Monisha made a shaky-voiced phone call to Tina. Maybe they could both go to the comedy club another time.
“No chance, geek-face,” squawked Tina. “That ass-hole ass-ociate professor of yours can wait for his damn paper.”
38
Three times a week, Monisha met with John Davidson. The oak door would creak open, he’d greet her with a half-smile and they’d sit on the plush leather chairs in front of his computer. For the next half hour, he’d edit her paper and plan the next stage of her project. Most of the time he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the screen. Or his nose buried in a science journal.
But, with each passing day, something was changing. As he spoke, the graphs and scatter plots merged into one indecipherable blur. And her eyes frequently strayed away from the screen and onto his chiselled jaw line.
Sometimes while he sat, his chair would edge closer and closer. Until his trouser leg brushed her naked leg. And a delicious thrill soared through her body. Making her cheeks burn. Sizzling hot. Oh!
Lately, she’d noticed his eyes travelling down her neck. Onto her crystal ‘M’. Then along each of the buttons on her shirt.
And he’d always kept his door open, for he was forever being interrupted. Mostly by his secretary, a large irksome woman. Because ‘someone important’ was on the line. Nowadays, he told her that he was in a meeting with Dr Bastikar, then slammed the door shut.
Occasionally, the conversation drifted. They spoke of their likes and dislikes. Monisha mentioned her favourite restaurant was La Fontana. He preferred the rich, buttery food at Aubert. His favourite wine was Sauvignon Blanc, while she fancied any full-bodied red. He loved opera. But these days he never made it out. Anywhere.
His wife would ring his office directly. Monisha knew instantly it was her when his forehead crinkled up and his voice turned harsh. After a while, though, he’d sweeten up and end with an “Okay, honey.”
This always made her cringe with pain.
One day, the phone call turned into a shouting match and he hung up with a clunk.
“It must have taken guts to get divorced!” he suddenly announced. “I’m only staying because of the kids!”
Then his face turned beetroot red and he apologised profusely.
Despite their brief chats, his work ethic and time keeping remained strict. The meeting never exceeded thirty minutes. And he always made sure that the manuscript was corrected and that her research was reviewed.
That made her admire him even more.
After weeks of writing, correcting and rewriting, their paper was accepted by The New England Journal. The news spread like wildfire. Within minutes, biotech companies were calling with invitations to San Francisco and plane tickets. Where the esteemed Professor John Davidson and young Dr Bastikar could jointly present their findings at the Annual American Congress of Oncology and Haematology.
Her father was ecstatic when he heard the news. A paper in The New England Journal meant you could die and go to heaven, he said, echoing the others at St Anthony’s.
Her mother was less enthusiastic. “Are the plane tickets business class?” she asked.
Monisha said she thought they were and suddenly Mrs Bastikar whooped with excitement.
“Remember Rahul Acharya’s wife, that old Vietnamese lady? She’s just delivered twin girls. TEST-TUBE BABIES!”
But nothing could spoil it for Monisha. She planned a celebration with Tina, who’d also heard good news. After several painful weeks apart, Justin had proposed. And now her enormous ring was being thrust into the face of every passer-by.
Monisha suggested dinner at Aubert for a change. Afterwards they could dance off the butter with Justin and his friends, at the Blitz.
In front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom, the girls got dressed. Monisha in a figure-hugging number, generously slit at the sides, with her hair coiled into a bun, her lips fire-engine red and her feet squeezed into gold stilettos. Tina brought over a flowing dress and a quilted, cream handbag. Mrs Wife-to-Be was definitely toning things down.
Aubert had an unmistakably French air. Snooty waiters sauntered along to Debussy’s Arabesque. The service was slow. Everyone sat waiting, clutching a Kir Royale. Oblivious to it all, the girls talked. And talked. And talked. At first Tina spoke about her wedding plans. After some time, Monisha revealed her dead-end schoolgirl crush on her supervisor: Professor John Davidson, who had a wife and two kids.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed a waiter strolling towards them with champagne in an ice bucket, two glasses and a note.
“It must be from Justin,” exclaimed Tina, blushing. “He’s gone from a commitment-phobe to goofy romantic!”
The waiter handed Monisha the note. It was handwritten. With splatterings of ink from a fountain pen.
‘From one scientist to another, warm regards, John Davidson Jr.’
Her heart stopped. He couldn’t have known she was here! She hadn’t said. The waiter pointed. Across the way sat John Davidson opposite an elderly gentleman. Both were dressed in chinos and blazers. On their table was an ice bucket and champagne.
John Davidson smiled and waved. Monisha stood up, dumbstruck.
The two men ambled over. The elderly man had the identical jawline. John Davidson introduced him as his father, a retired professor of geology.
Monisha froze. Her throat tightened.
“T-ina, my-my best friend. Pro-fe-ssor Davidson, my su-pervisor.”
The slits on her skirt were way too high.
John Davidson smiled and nodded at Tina. She flashed him her engagement ring.
“Your prayers have been answered!”
Tina frowned and tapped her manicured nails on a champagne glass making a few shrill, unpleasant clinks.
“So, where’s your ring?” she asked him.
John Davidson muttered something about rings being an infection risk. Then his father butted in. He was in town for a few days visiting family, honoured to be in the company of ‘two gorgeous gals’.
All the while the older man spoke, Tina noticed John Davidson’s eyes travel down from the top of her friend’s hair bun, to her gold high heels, via the slits in her dress.
“You better watch out for your prof,” said Tina, after the men had returned to their table when their food arrived. “He spells trouble with a capital ‘T’”.
Monisha shook her head, he was a decent man, trapped in an unhappy marriage.
“They all say that.”
Monisha took a long drawn out sip of her champagne and let the cool, tangy bitterness trick
le over her tongue before she spoke. But John Davidson’s wife pestered him at work, she told Tina. She rang every few hours. They argued and argued.
Tina read the label on the bottle and hissed.
“Veuve Clicquot! So, let me get this straight. His wife is home with the kids and one of them has special needs. She probably rings him when there’s a problem. She gets mad because she has to deal with it alone. And because he’s out enjoying the finer things in life!”
Monisha gulped down her drink, frantically.
“But John Davidson never goes out!”
Tina shook her strawberry-blonde curls from side to side. There was no point trying to explain. She’d be wasting her breath.
“They all say that too… Let’s talk about something else.”
The two girls savoured the delicious French peasant food and drank the expensive champagne. As they rose to leave, John Davidson hovered near their table. Would they like to share a cab ride home?
When she saw him glance at Monisha’s hips, Tina cut in. Any minute now her fiancé would be arriving, she told him; they’d be heading to a nightclub
John Davidson nodded slowly. He hadn’t been to a nightclub in years. Perhaps the time for those sorts of things had passed him by. Had it really? For a brief moment, his face turned sullen.
Monisha noticed. Damn that Tina! She just had to spoil it!
“Just make sure you don’t fall in those shoes, Monisha,” he said, smiling ruefully and pointing down at her feet. “You’ll be presenting our paper tomorrow.”
The champagne had made her all woozy. She giggled. Good God! Falling in high heels was the least of her worries.
What could be more dangerous than falling in love?
39
The fiery orange tips of the Golden Gate Bridge jutted out through the fog. From the eighteenth floor of the Crown Hotel, the view was stunning, and her suite was majestic. Cream-and-gold jacquard curtains draped the windows. On the table beneath, stood a small carafe of rosé and a crystal bowl, laden with exotic fruit. The super-king-size bed was plumped up with feathery pillows. As she flitted across the room, her shadow bounced along behind her. All this and no one to share it with.
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