Maple and Spice

by Moushmi Biswas

  There were only twenty minutes to shower and change before the taxi would arrive. Frantically, Monisha scoured her closet looking for what to wear. Purple or cream? Open neck or high neck? Did it really matter? How many women on the cancer ward wished they hadn’t spent so much time fussing? She threw on a blouse, flicked her sweaty hair into an updo and catapulted out through the front door.

  The meeting was at the Oyster Tavern, five minutes away by cab. As Monisha made her way up the stone steps to the restaurant, a man ran up behind her. He paused momentarily, to look her up and down, twirling his eyes as he did. But then he pushed past her and walked straight in. Weird!

  She watched him scuttle to the back of the room. Six foot tall, with brown, wispy hair. Hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He wore tight, black jeans, while the others wore ties and jackets. He found an empty table at the back and sat down.

  The presentation had already begun. A cardiologist flicked through PowerPoint slides emblazoned with drug company logos. He stopped when he noticed Monisha in the doorway.

  “Do you wanna take a seat next to Dr Wilton?” he asked, pointing at the man in the leather jacket.

  “Cos nobody else does!”

  There were peals of laughter. She blushed and made her way to the back. The ogling man extended his clammy hand and handed her a business card.

  “Michael Wilton, interventional cardiologist,” he whispered.

  “Monisha Bastikar, oncology resident.”

  He turned up his nose. What was an oncologist doing at a lecture on heart disease? She looked him straight in the eye and noticed that he was thin. So thin that his clavicles stood out underneath his t-shirt.

  “Hoping to eat lobster.”

  The man chuckled. One by one, the slides flashed up. Cholesterol. Blood vessels. Monisha’s eyes swam with boredom. Until a plate of giant prawns roused her interest.

  The lecture finally ended. Michael Wilton called the waiter over and asked him to bring the prawns over.

  “Let’s see how you do,” he said. As if it were a competition.

  Monisha began deshelling prawns and slipping them casually into her mouth. Michael Wilton picked at a couple.

  He asked her where she’d qualified. She told him about medical school, residency at St Anthony’s and the PhD. He nodded and seemed impressed. Waiters flew past them, with plates of onion rings and prawns in batter. Michael Wilton ignored them.

  “Let’s cut to the chase. What are you doing on Saturday night?”

  Monisha stared at him, incredulously.

  A fast mover. Unlike John Davidson, with the slow burn.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  He dipped his middle finger into a plate of balsamic vinegar and licked it.

  “Oh! That’s what people say when they have nothing to do.”

  Obnoxious too! She bit her lip. He asked her to call him if she wanted to hook up. Monisha folded her arms. Saturday night? Her parents would be at a dinner party, Swanker at a club and Tina curled up with her husband. What would she be doing? Nothing. Absolutely nothing! But she wouldn’t tell him that.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “If I’m not busy, I’ll come out… but you have to call me.”

  He took her number and nodded.

  Saturday was grey and drizzly. At seven o’clock, a scarlet convertible pulled up outside her window. Michael Wilton clambered out, wearing the same leather jacket and a baseball cap, backwards. Monisha ran out through the front door to meet him.

  He opened his car door, but there was nowhere to sit. The passenger seat was stacked with CDs, movie magazines and empty Coke cans. He brushed them onto the floor with his hand. Now there was no room for her legs.

  A track from the Rolling Stones blasted out of his car window. Michael Wilton drove one handed, eyeing up other women as he went. The car bumped and ground along in the slow zone, before it screeched to a halt in front of a parking lot. Harsh misogynistic lyrics and tinkly xylophone reverberated in her ears.

  “Ouch,” screamed Monisha as a CD scraped her leg.

  Michael Wilton ignored her. He switched the engine off, threw the keys over to the valet, climbed out of his car and began walking. Monisha remained stuck inside, her exit blocked by the stash of CDs. The valet came to her rescue.

  “Can’t you get up?” sneered Michael Wilton as he headed towards a sports bar.

  On either side, the road beckoned. She could cut her losses. Run off this minute and hail a cab. But she was only here to wipe away the memory of John Davidson. Carry on.

  Just carry on.

  The bar reeked of trainers and testosterone. Michael Wilton sat himself amidst a wall of men, in front of the giant screen. She climbed onto a stool next to him. Her feet dangled awkwardly.

  He ordered a couple of beers and kept his eyes glued to the football. At half-time, he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Unblocked some tight coronaries this morning and saved some women from becoming widows. So… what have you done?”

  Monisha shrugged her shoulders. She told him she’d cleaned her apartment.

  Michael Wilton turned up his nose and looked up at the screen again.

  “Complete waste of time. I never bother. So… why aren’t you married?”

  For a brief second Mrs Kulkarni and Shailesh flashed before her. Then Ayesha and Seema. All sandwiched together in that cramped flat.

  “I was… once”.

  When the game finished Michael Wilton spoke about his last girlfriend. A cardiologist from Brisbane, with strict Indian parents. Apparently a virgin, before he used his ‘dilator’.

  Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Monisha called the waitress over, ordered another beer and studied her phone. Not a single message. Not one!

  Just Michael Wilton’s merciless monologue. Drumming through her ears like tinnitus. Each sentence punctuated with a sinister smile.

  “I’ve been out with some beautiful women, you know. Joanne was a dentist, Heidi had a fruit fetish and Anya was a cardiology resident with a degree in gymnastics. That came in handy!”

  Monisha screwed up her face.

  “Is there really a degree in gymnastics?”

  Michael Wilton ignored the question, and launched into a description of parties in Vegas and the lap dancers with clitoral studs.

  Monisha closed her eyes, threw a handful of nuts into her mouth and began crunching. Loudly. And, all of a sudden, John Davidson was in front of her, putting his arms round her naked waist and planting feathery kisses on her neck.

  Was she using John Davidson to blank out Michael Wilton or vice versa?

  There was only one cure for this.

  A lurid cocktail. Of hate sex and revenge sex.

  Harsh and bitter. Like a vesper Martini.

  She lifted her glass.

  “Cut the crap. Your place or mine?”

  His green eyes glowed with self-satisfaction.

  “Really? That quick?”

  Monisha looked at the floor and nodded.

  They made the twenty-minute journey to his house on foot, because Michael Wilton was too drunk to drive and too tight to pay for a cab. He fumbled with the key.

  His apartment was cold and bare. With a splintery wooden floor, a hair-filled double bed in the living room and a shag pile rug buried under a mountain of t-shirts and CDs. All of them labelled ‘The Rolling Stones’.

  She tossed her clothes into the heap and lay on the bed with her eyes closed, trying to imagine John Davidson’s chiselled jaw. His soft, buttery skin. Instead, Michael Wilton’s giraffe-like neck twisted round hers and his clavicles dug into her side.

  “Oh!” she screamed when he came. “Oh! Oh!”

  Oh, she was glad it was over!

  Michael Wilton sprang up, yanked his condom off and tied it into a knot before running off
to flush it down the toilet.

  “Nice jugs,” he called as she headed for the shower. “May I join you?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  He rubbed her back with cheap soap, like dish-washing liquid. With his spindly fingers, he tried to touch her breasts. But Monisha jumped out, and found her clothes and a musty smelling towel.

  Michael Wilton came out and switched on the hall light. There was Monisha, standing under a row of impressionist prints. Fully clothed.

  “What are you doing?”

  She was about to call a cab.

  His boldness withered.

  “Don’t you want to stay?”

  She shook her head and pressed the speed dial.

  “Why? To listen to your godawful stories?”

  For a moment, there was silence. He placed a clammy arm on hers.

  “We’ve all been hurt, ya know. Sorry.”

  She wasn’t falling for it. No.

  A horn tooted outside. Monisha turned and said goodbye. Michael Wilton managed a rueful smile.

  Rain spattered down the windows of the cab. Her stomach rumbled loudly. It was only half past ten. That cheap skate hadn’t even bought her dinner! She’d make herself some toast when she got back. Butter it thick.

  A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts: the cab driver’s.

  “Are you finished for the night or still working… cos if you’re available…”

  Oh God! Oh God!

  “I’m a cancer doctor! I work at University Hospital!”

  In the rear-view mirror, she caught a glimpse of the man’s bushy beard and his bulbous nose. He made a garbled apology.

  Monisha got out, a block before her apartment.

  The ride, he said, was free.

  45

  It was seven o’clock, handover time on Veritas ward. The staff room was brimming with nurses. And, while the day team were itching to get away, the night team were itching for gossip. News was spreading like wildfire. Somebody had spotted Dr Bastikar out in town with Dr Wilton.

  When they got to the last patient, the senior nurse pulled Monisha over and whispered in her ear.

  “Wear a condom… two if you can!”

  Even on the oncology ward, everyone knew Michael Wilton; the stories began pouring in. He was tight with money and liked to stash his cash. He thought women were gold diggers, and that expensive dinners, marriage and kids were a con. He spent his free time on short-lived flings with almost every woman in the hospital: Nurses. Doctors. Waitresses. Janitors. And even the old lady at the gift shop, who had cheeks that sagged worse than a bulldog’s.

  “Two X chromosomes is the only requirement,” said Nina, the chubby African-American deputy, shaking her head. “You can do better than that.”

  Monisha shuddered, while the nurses chuckled amongst themselves.

  “It was one date! Just one date!” she protested, holding up her index finger.

  The double doors flung open. She walked briskly, through the foyer and into the car park, trying to shake the memories out of her head. But, like loose stones, they rattled. And, instead, Michael Wilton’s antics began to fascinate her.

  Because the girls had also said they’d go to him first for any heart problem. He was, quite honestly, the best. Caring too and not just a money grabber. For many patients, he waived his fee. Momentarily, Michael Wilton went up in her estimation. Until she saw his scarlet convertible parked outside her apartment.

  He jumped out, sucking a lollipop, the giant tongue on his Stones t-shirt quivering in the breeze. He pulled out a candy bar from each pocket and handed it to her.

  “I bought you some dinner.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh.

  He opened his car boot.

  “And dessert as well.”

  A tub of Ben and Jerry’s emerged. Chocolate chip.

  Monisha stood motionless on the pavement with the keys in her hand. She folded her arms. What was he trying to do?

  “Could I at least put it in a freezer before it melts, please?”

  That same voice! Dejected. Apologetic. Like he’d sounded when she was ready to leave his house. She nodded, half-heartedly.

  Within a few minutes, they were both inside. He looked around, and noticed the new Roman blinds and polished hardwood floors.

  “Nice place you have here.”

  Then he screwed up his nose.

  “But what’s that smell?”

  It was the vegetable pilaf and chicken curry she’d cooked in the morning, ready for later. Pungent scents of cumin and cardamom permeated the room as she warmed it up. When it was ready, she dished it onto a plate. Without even asking, Michael Wilton began tucking in. Using his spindly fingers, licking his hands, and spilling grease and turmeric over the work top. With the same spoon, he started on the ice cream.

  Monisha watched in shock, arms folded. Furious at how he’d just swooped in.

  Like a prairie falcon.

  She fumbled for the right words, the right phrase, knowing full well that whatever she chose would be awful and unpalatable.

  “Michael… I’m not sure we should take things further.”

  The slurping noises stopped. He looked up from his carton of chocolate chip. His big green eyes shining. Filled with hurt.

  “Why?”

  Because you are an absolute Neanderthal.

  The thought charged through her brain, but she bit her tongue. She told him that she knew his history with women, and that only heartache lay ahead. His eyebrows arched into a giant frown. Anger flashed across his face. His eyes fired up like sparklers.

  Then he spat out the words, punctuating them with droplets of saliva. “A lot of the stuff those gossiping bitches say is not true.”

  Monisha stared at him quietly. Thoughts clouded up in her mind and eventually became dense fog. There he sat, on her dining chair, drowning in an oversized, un-ironed, tongue t-shirt, rocking back and forth. His wispy brown hair fell onto his forehead. He looked at her, imploringly, his face like a little boy’s.

  “Perhaps it’s because I haven’t met the right person.”

  Now she felt completely guilty. He handed her the carton of ice cream; it was half empty – or half full.

  “Could we start again? I’d like to take you somewhere special.”

  She rolled her eyes. He probably said that to all of them! Hunger pangs griped away in her stomach. She dug out a spoonful of ice cream.

  “Just this once.”

  A few minutes later they were soaring through the Killington Twist at breakneck speed, gazing out at Echo Lake, while the Stones blasted through his sunroof.

  And those guys didn’t just sing about sex either. There were mournful songs about women growing old and love gone wrong. There were gospel tunes and Latin beats, even a bluesy number about the Boston Strangler.

  Michael Wilton turned out to be quite a raconteur. He knew about politics, history and every current event. He’d memorised snippets from PBS shows that aired late at night, about civil rights and the Kennedys. The ones no one else watched. In spite of his awkwardness and odd ways, she was learning new things, every minute. More than she had in five years with Shailesh and John.

  Maybe she should see him again. There was nothing to lose.

  Or was there?

  That night she phoned Tina and told her the story of that dreadful date with Michael Wilton. And how she’d tried to end things. Unsuccessfully.

  “Just see where it takes you,” was all Tina said.

  Normally Tina would have teased out every detail, passed comments and made suggestions. But, now that they were trying for a baby, she had other things on her mind. Like when she was ovulating and making sure Justin was around then.

  46

  Outside, the dreary winter clouds drifted across the murky sky. Mon
isha stared into her bedroom mirror. She couldn’t quite believe that the woman looking back was thirty-five years old. With a medical degree, a PhD and a divorce under her belt. While her once boozy and promiscuous best friend was married. Gulp!

  Monisha looked even harder, her nose almost touching the glass. There weren’t any lines on her face or grey hairs. She lifted up her blouse. Yeah, the trips to the gym had kept her body pert enough. But time was slipping away. And, at the rate things were going, she wondered if she would ever marry again.

  What the hell had she done with all those years? Taken a blind leap into the unknown with Shailesh. Then another blind leap when she left him. And what had it got her? One night with Joseph Friedman, and two years with a married man, who’d promised her the earth, then moved interstate and changed personality.

  And now Michael Wilton. Intriguing, infuriating Michael Wilton. Who was so unstable, that she didn’t know where she was from one minute to the next.

  If she texted him or rang, he took a day or two to answer. He’d say he’d been in the cardiac lab and run off his feet. Shortly after replying, he’d turn up on her doorstep with clothes for the next day, then stretch himself out on the couch, snatch the remote and turn on PBS.

  During his stay, he always managed to empty out her fridge. Lasagne. Curries. Casseroles. Everything she’d made from scratch and cooked ahead. Afterwards he’d work his way through the freshly picked peaches, blueberries and cherry tomatoes she’d bought at the farmer’s market. All of it gone in seconds.

  At his own place, he lived on junk food and cola. When he wolfed down crisps and candy, she’d scold him. It seemed a strange diet for a cardiologist.

  He’d shrug his shoulders.

  “Not if you want to die at fifty.”

  If she asked why, he’d say it was because that was when your ‘parts’ stopped working. Then he’d ask her to strip off, so he could check that his parts were still working.

  She would make him shower before they made love. She bought him expensive gels and soaps to eliminate the stench of potato crisps and gym sweat, but he only showered when he wanted to. And, after they made love, he always yanked off the condom and flushed it down the toilet, immediately. Because women were gold diggers. And kids were just a ploy to get at his money.