A Scandalous Secret. Jaishree Misra
and Sonya guessed that he was probably already a little drunk. Being a naturally shy sort, he often downed a bottle of beer before leaving for a party. ‘A pint of Dutch courage,’ he had once said while waving a lager glass of Stella Artois in a pub, and Sonya was sure he had meant it. She watched the burly Benedict pull Tim up now and stick him back on his sandaled feet. Benedict, who had gone by the name of Big Ben since Year Seven, twinkled across at Sonya. ‘I know I just said you were a fabulous eyeful tonight, Ms Shaw, but I failed to realize this was the effect you would have on poor old Tim!’
‘Mind you don’t distract him when he’s stood next to the water wheel,’ someone else warned.
‘Too right. Can’t have Julius Caesar die in a drowning accident, for fuck’s sake,’ came another quip.
Cheerfully ignoring them all, Tim wandered across to Sonya for a kiss but received only a perfunctory peck on the cheek. ‘What’s that about?’ he asked; charged up, Sonya was sure, by the beer. He was never aggressive normally. She shrugged and turned away. If she was to be honest, it wasn’t merely the drink. She had been feeling distinctly cooler towards him for days anyway, the only problem being that good old bumbling Tim had completely failed to take the hint so far! Typically, Estella noticed her discomfiture, however, and Sonya saw her shoot a sympathetic look in her direction as Tim leaned in proprietorally to insist on sticking his tongue into her mouth.
Sonya shrugged away from his grasp, cheering up slightly when she saw Chelsea Brigham-Smith walking into the mill, her face almost unrecognisable under layers of luminous green paint and a witch’s hat. She was exactly the person Sonya needed to talk to on the eve of her departure for India, because it was Chelsea who had told her about the Adoption Register at another party a few months ago. She had just been through the procedure of searching for her own birth family at the time, a story that had provided Sonya with the impetus she had perhaps been subconsciously seeking.
‘Hey, Chels,’ Sonya said, waving to catch her attention.
‘Hi, Sonya,’ Chelsea replied, walking over, ‘don’t you look super in your Indian clothes! Sure suits you, all this drapey, shimmery stuff.’
‘Oh thanks. Don’t suppose you want me to return the compliment, given your witch’s garb! This is Tim, by the way,’ Sonya added, mumbling, ‘my boyfriend,’ as an afterthought under her breath. She turned to Tim. ‘Chelsea was my classmate back in primary school before she went off to Cheltenham Ladies’ College,’ she said, waiting while Tim and Chelsea shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Then she grabbed Chelsea’s arm, unable to contain her news any more. ‘You’ll never believe this, Chels. I’ve been meaning to call and say – I did eventually follow up your advice and contact the Registrar General, you know.’
‘You did!? And?’
Sonya took a deep breath, aware that the more people she told, the more she was breaking her promise to Laura. ‘And …’ she paused, unable to resist a bit of drama, ‘And I’ve traced my birth mother too. All the way to India, as it happens.’
‘Cor! I remember you said you were half Indian but, bloody hell, that’s a long way away. Not quite like my little trip around to that council block in Merton I told you about, eh?’
Conscious of Tim standing by, Sonya said, ‘You don’t mind if I put Tim in the picture, do you, Chels?’ She waited until Chelsea nodded before explaining, ‘Chelsea’s an adopted child too, Tim, and, when she turned eighteen recently, she went off in search of her birth parents. I more or less got the idea from her when we met at Tabitha Stott’s birthday party recently.’
‘Was it difficult, your search?’ Tim asked Chelsea.
‘Took all of two weeks,’ Chelsea laughed, ‘and eventually I found the couple who gave birth to me living not more than a mile away from where I grew up in Wimbledon Village!’
‘Wow!’ Tim responded, ‘What was that like?’
‘Terrifying, I can tell you now,’ Chelsea said, her blackened witch’s teeth gleaming as she laughed. ‘I took to waking up in a cold sweat for days after, imagining them trying to break into my parents’ house to get me. And anything else they could find while they were there!’
‘But you’re still glad you did it, yes?’ Sonya asked.
Chelsea nodded. ‘I think I needed to plug a few gaps in my head. Luckily, I had the full support of my parents who helped me every inch of the way. My dad especially. But he was an adopted child himself, you see, so I think he really understood. Are your parents okay about your search?’
Sonya hesitated for a moment, reluctant to say anything disloyal about her parents. ‘Poor Mum and Dad,’ she said. ‘They’re just a bit confused right now. But they’ll come around in the end, I know. They love me far too much.’
‘Well, what have you found out so far?’ Chelsea persisted.
‘Not a great deal. Just that the woman who gave birth to me lives in India. Apparently, she refused to divulge the name of the man who’d fathered me so there’s nothing on him in the records. But, as I’m going to India next week, I may have more to tell you after that.’
‘Going to India? Hey, what an adventure – my trip to Merton does rather pale by comparison! Are you going too?’ Chelsea asked Tim.
‘No,’ Sonya responded swiftly, ‘I’m going with Estella, actually.’
‘Cool,’ Chelsea repeated, although Sonya knew that was not how Tim felt at all.
A couple of hours later, Sonya told herself mournfully that the party wasn’t quite working. Only for her, that is, going by the general whoops of merriment that were audible from the yard outside and the growing mountain of empty beer cans she could see just outside the door. She cast a glance around the mill from her uncomfortable perch on a wooden stool. She was sitting as close as she possibly could to the ovens without singeing her eyebrows because she had found herself freezing to death in her skimpy sari. It was also preventing her from helping Estella, who was at this moment laying out great platters of food on the trestle tables at the far end of the kitchen. This was supposed to have been a joint party, Sonia thought with an annoyed humph. But here she was, stupidly forced into being a guest because she was sure she would trip and snag Priyal’s mum’s beautiful sari if she ventured to undertake domestic chores while wearing it. How on earth did Indian women go to parties and do their household chores wearing these things, she wondered.
Chapter Five
Sharat walked towards the breakfast room, humming a jaunty tune. Last night’s party had been an unqualified success and the icing on the cake had been the Home Minister’s promise as he’d left. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with the PM,’ Vir-ji had said, leaning out of the window of his liveried car. ‘Leave it with me for a few days, Sharat. And keep your fingers crossed – there are many vying for the same seat, you know!’
It had been less than a year ago that Sharat had first voiced his ambition of becoming an MP to a few friends with political connections and, even though he knew what an asset he would be to any party, the haste with which the Congress party had opened its doors had been astonishing. Now, from his very energising conversation with the Home Minister last night, it was clearly only a matter of time before the offer of a safe seat came. One of the South Delhi constituencies would be best, Sharat thought, areas where the educated newly rich were desperate to see the face of politics change for the better. And better he would make it, that he was sure of. It was a natural calling, to be mindful of the welfare of other, less fortunate people. He had insisted on egalitarianism even as a child: persuading his mother to give away his clothes to the cook’s son before he had even outgrown them and preferring to play cricket with the children of their factory workers rather than Scrabble and caroms with Shashi, his sickly and rather snobbish cousin who was Sharat’s only companion in the family home. Most of all, he was fortunate to have money from the cloth mills started by his grandfather and didn’t see the need to waste his time building up more wealth, especially when there were no children to pass it