Secrets and Lies. Jaishree Misra
bedside table. She would not miss it lying there when she returned later tonight from Zurich, where she had gone to shoot a song sequence.
LONDON, 2008
Despite the tumult of painful memories that had been sparked by the arrival of Miss Lamb’s letter, Sam managed to get through the rest of her day maintaining her normal placid demeanour. It was nearly two when she finally managed to speak to Bubbles, but her friend was uncharacteristically reticent about explaining why she hadn’t taken her calls. Bubbles too had received Miss Lamb’s letter, and Sam could tell, from what sounded like a blocked nose, that Bubbles had been crying. Not wanting to discuss it on the phone, Sam merely told Bubbles the time and place that had been agreed with Anita before hanging up.
Luckily it was time to collect Heer from school, and Sam left her house with relief, pulling on a cashmere cardigan as protection against the stubborn chilliness in the air. She looked up at the watery sun as she closed the gate behind her, trying to take pleasure in its rare appearance. What a dismal summer it had been so far, even the daffs that had struggled to emerge in the back garden a month ago had turned brown and soggy and collapsed within days. It was as if life itself was fighting to cope against all odds.
Sam turned as she heard a familiar voice hail her and saw her neighbour emerge from her driveway.
‘Hey, Franci,’ she said pleasantly, although she couldn’t help taking in the sight of Francesca’s trim legs beneath her summer dress with a rush of envy. Francesca had clearly worn such a short dress on a cold day only to show off her tan. She was maniacal about her fitness regime and had certainly earned every inch of her fabulous figure, but it was enviable to Sam, whose battle to curb her burgeoning weight was now taking on epic proportions.
Francesca took Sam’s arm in her usual friendly fashion and they walked down their leafy road together, meeting up with another pair of mums who were also school-bound.
‘Oh goodness, I’ve got to show you something,’ Francesca said as the group reached the school. She fished out her iPhone from a small Purdey shoulder bag. ‘Piccies from our half-term hols,’ she explained, giggling as she clicked through a few photographs. Francesca turned her phone around to show the one she had picked for Sam and the others to see. They peered at a picture of Francesca’s husband, Tom, normally an immaculately clad banker, wearing a pair of baggy swim-shorts and beaming inanely as he struck a ridiculous muscleman stance with a surfboard on a Mustique beach. The women fell about laughing but Francesca said, ‘That’s not the half of it. There’s a real corker here somewhere. Ah, this one.’ The next picture was of Tom standing in the kitchen of their villa, still bare-chested and this time holding a large gleaming cucumber up against the crotch of his swim-shorts. The droll expression on his face made everyone scream with merriment and Sam forced herself to join in, feeling something catch at her heart. How greedily she always gathered up particulars of the kind of relationship Francesca took so much for granted and that would never be hers to have. It wasn’t that Akbar was a bad husband, but they certainly seemed to have a lot less fun than couples like Francesca and Tom did. Sam could not, in fact, recall Akbar ever having done something absurd purely to make her laugh, and had put it down a long time ago to her own taut demeanour; to the fear that lurked deep inside her, always half-expecting things to go wrong if she enjoyed herself too much.
Fortunately the school bell was now ringing and everyone was distracted by the emerging children. Sam didn’t think she could bear looking at more of Francesca’s happy holiday pictures.
They walked back home together, nevertheless, chatting companionably and carrying their load of colourful jackets and bags, the children tumbling ahead of them.
‘Coffee?’ Francesca asked as they reached her gate.
Worrying at the prospect of having to look at more photographs of Francesca’s boisterous family having fun, Sam made a hasty excuse which, thankfully, wasn’t entirely untrue. ‘I’d have loved to, Franci, but I’m going into town a little later to meet a couple of old school friends for a drink.’
‘Those two mates of yours from your school in Delhi?’ Francesca asked, adding, ‘I remember them from Heer’s birthday party, they were the only women there who came without children!’
Sam laughed. ‘That’s them all right. Couldn’t keep them away if I tried! Anita doesn’t have her own kids yet so Heer’s a sort of surrogate daughter for her whenever she gets maternal or broody. Which doesn’t happen very often. And Bubbles’ two are now far too grown-up for kiddie birthday parties!’
‘I’ll tell you what I do remember about your mate Bubbles—the fabulous croc-skin clutch she was carrying. Just gorgeous! Bea Valdez, she said it was. It’s not like me, but I just couldn’t help asking.’
‘Oh, Bubs would never mind anyone asking her anything. Sometimes I wonder how she retains her niceness considering the kind of stratosphere her family moves in,’ Sam replied.
‘Golly, yes, you did say once that they were pally with the likes of Lakshmi Mittal and Tamara Mellon.’
Sam smiled. ‘Lakshmi Mittal’s a family friend of theirs, I think. But Bubbles’ only connection with Tamara Mellon is that their daughters go to the same school. Oh, and that she buys every other Jimmy Choo shoe ever produced!’
‘Seriously?’
‘Absolutely seriously. She must have at least fifty pairs at any one time, dear old Bubbles. I mean, the sales girl at the Chelsea store personally calls her whenever a new design comes in, for heaven’s sake! Oh, and you should see her shoe closet—to die for!’
‘Ohhh,’ Francesca breathed dreamily, opening her gate. ‘Some people do have such dream lives, don’t they?’
Sam recognised the irony of the situation. Here was Francesca—whom Sam had always envied slightly—madly envying Bubbles, who was, all things considered, really just the archetypal poor little rich girl, the fat pimply teenager she once was still lurking just beneath the surface. But Sam would not dream of gossiping with Francesca about Bubbles and so, as Heer was now pulling her away, eager to get home, Sam waved her neighbour a hasty goodbye.
Punching in the numbers to open her electronic gate, Sam allowed her daughter through first, following her down the steps that led to the kitchen door. She unloaded Heer’s schoolbag, jacket and ballet slippers onto the kitchen table before grabbing her daughter, whose hands were already raiding the biscuit jar, giving her a big kiss before she wriggled away. ‘I bought those for me from Konditor and Cook today! Well, no more than one, Heer, if you want to be the world’s best ballerina. And early dinner tonight, okay?’ she called out after the small figure that was already bounding up the stairs to her room brandishing a large wedge of chocolate-chip shortbread in one hand.
Sam exchanged a smile with her maid, who was brewing up some fragrant masala tea. ‘Oh, a cup for me too, Masooma,’ she said, pulling off her trainers. ‘And then we can do the month’s accounts, yes?’ Not that the accounts needed doing as they weren’t into July yet, but Sam knew she had to stay busy and keep herself distracted until she was with Anita and Bubbles. Miss Lamb’s letter had been carefully put away in the bottom of her lingerie drawer where Akbar would never find it. She could never discuss it with him. Only Anita and Bubbles would understand her pain and guilt.
By evening there was a light drizzle falling. Sam pulled up at a parking meter as near to Anita’s Aldwych office as she could manage. The space was tight and it took a couple of shunts before the bulk of her Audi was comfortably contained in its slot. Odd how expertly she could do that, without Akbar’s presence in the car making parallel parking fraught with all kinds of perils. After turning the wipers off, she sat for a few minutes watching raindrops make their journey down the windscreen, some unhesitant and quite certain of their destination, others—like her, she couldn’t help thinking—tentatively stopping and starting before finally rolling reluctantly