Secrets and Sins. Jaishree Misra
the man tapped the mic lightly and asked for silence. When the crowd had settled, the star and director took their places on two armchairs that had been hastily brought out from the wings for them. Aman looked very fit indeed, slim and broad-shouldered in a black silk Nehru jacket. He leant over to pour water from the bottle placed on the table before him and Riva watched as he put it to his lips.
Aman looked into the crowd as the house lights brightened and Riva’s heart heaved as she felt his eyes looking into hers. She reddened as his gaze moved on, telling herself to stop being so fanciful. For heaven’s sake, she was sitting about ten rows away from the stage and Aman’s long-distance vision had never been very good anyway. On the other hand, it was entirely possible that he knew that she lived in London now – after all, her own name had made it to the papers when she’d won the Orange Prize; Indian journalists had showed particular interest in her at the time. Aman’s attention was, however, now on the interviewer who was asking his first question.
‘Why London, Aman?’ Siddharth was asking. ‘It’s a city you make it a point to visit every year, I’m told. For someone who lives and works in this grimy old city, I can’t help wondering why anyone would leave balmy Bombay for London, certainly not when it’s in the grip of winter like this!’
Aman laughed and settled back in his chair. ‘I love it here, especially in the grip of winter,’ he said in his familiar deep voice. To Riva it sounded as though the crowd around her was sighing with happiness as Aman continued to speak. ‘Don’t forget how sultry it gets in Bombay – and how unrelenting the heat can be. There’s something very…’ he searched briefly for the right word ‘…very appealing about the changes of season when you live in a place that doesn’t have them. And London’s so full of energy, it’s such a great city. I love being here in any season really, and so does my son apparently. Although I think when he says “London”, it’s the inside of Hamleys he’s thinking of! But a winter trip has always been compulsory anyway, so that my wife can wear her Gucci coat and Prada boots, which otherwise never get the chance to be worn in Bombay.’
He paused as the crowd laughed affectionately. Salma Khan’s shopping penchant had been much written about in the gossip magazines and Aman had hit just the right note of affectionate exasperation in his voice. His English had improved considerably too, Riva noticed, trying to remember whether she’d ever heard him use words like ‘unrelenting’ before. Of course, they had been mere freshers when they had last met and, although Riva knew that Aman had never gone on to complete his graduate studies, such a big star as he would almost certainly have had the advantages of media training.
The audience around her was laughing again and Riva realised with dismay that she had missed something amusing. Aman was looking relaxed and responding to a question he had just been asked about his early life in England.
‘It was only for a year, although it gets mentioned quite a lot – as if I spent all my college years in Oxford or Cambridge or some grand place like that! Actually it was Leeds University and I only spent first year there – in the English Department.’ Siddharth Jose cocked an enquiring brow at Aman who explained. ‘You see, my uncle was working in Leeds and, because my parents were worried that I was just hanging around in Bombay, not doing anything after school, he sponsored me to come here for my studies. Didn’t last! I just wasn’t good enough and so, at the end of that first year, I dropped out of the course and went home.’
‘Ah, but that was what took you to the Film Institute, was it not?’ Siddharth Jose cut in. ‘So, if you had been “good enough”, as you say, for Leeds’ English Department, Bollywood – and all of us – might have missed out on one of our finest actors!’
‘Indeed, who knows – Bollywood’s loss may have been Leeds University’s gain!’ Aman joked, making the audience laugh again.
And mine…maybe, Riva thought, recalling that long ago time up in Leeds. How torn she had been between Aman’s attentions and Ben’s for a few days before she had made her decision. Irrationally now, she tried to will the interviewer to quiz Aman further about the decisions he had made as a young man. Such as, ‘Why, Mr Khan, had you not thought to fight just a little harder for Miss Riva Walia’s affections before upping and leaving Leeds University?’ Annoyingly, however, interviewer and interviewee had already moved on to something else.
Aman was talking about his early career. ‘Well, I took what I got in those days,’ he was saying to Siddharth Jose. ‘Beggars and beginners can’t be choosers, as they say. When I was offered my first role, I did not even stop to ask what type of film it was or even if I was to be a hero or a villain. I just jumped at it and asked all my questions later, once I was signed up and safely on the set.’
His candour and lack of pretension was disarming. Riva could see that he certainly had this audience eating out of the palm of his hand. But now Siddharth Jose was leading him into less personal areas and they talked about his film career for the next half hour.
When the interview ended, Riva used the short break before the film restarted to slip out of her seat. She tugged on her coat and gloves as she hurried through the foyer. It was now a quarter to nine and, even if she took a cab to the restaurant, she would be late. Ben did so hate to be kept waiting, she thought with a sense of slight panic as she ran down the stairs towards the main entrance. She drew in her breath at the sudden cold outside, annoyed with herself for forgetting to carry her umbrella and woollen cap. As had been predicted, snowflakes were now drifting against the tall streetlights of Piccadilly while a brisk wind, bitter with cold, stung the tips of her ears and nose. A small gaggle of people was huddled against the railings outside BAFTA and Riva heard one of them loudly cry out Aman’s name. Unthinkingly, she joined the crowd of fans, momentarily forgetting her lateness and the no-doubt steadily growing impatience of her husband awaiting her in the restaurant.
Standing on tiptoe, Riva saw that Aman had emerged from BAFTA’s main entrance – perhaps he had been just a few steps behind her! He was now getting into a long black limousine along with a couple of other people. As it pulled away from the kerb, the group of fans started waving and blowing kisses at the car. Riva joined them, running a little way down the pavement to where the crowd was thinner. Inside the car, Aman’s head turned to look back as he was driven away. The car disappeared into the distance, leaving Riva with the distinct impression that Aman had spotted her.
It was twenty past nine by the time Riva finally spotted the garish neon sign of Maroush glinting through the curtain of sleet that veiled everything in a thin grey. The normally colourful and welcoming shops of Arab Town had their doors closed against the wretched weather and the windscreen wipers on passing cars were going nineteen-to-the-dozen. Despite the rain, pedestrians were thronging Edgware Road as usual. Who were all these people out shopping and celebrating on a ghastly night like this, Riva wondered, elbowing her way past wet shopping bags and umbrellas. Despite her shortness of breath, she sped up again, imagining Ben’s irritation when she eventually stumbled into the restaurant. He had been in a bad mood for the last couple of days and only the other night he had complained, ‘You’re never ever on time, Riva. Well, not for me anyway. Deadlines for publishers, yes. Appointments with that agent of yours, of course. Lunches and meetings with friends, oh, it goes without saying. You’re on impeccable behaviour for all of them. But the simple matter of being on time for me seems completely out of the question.’ He hadn’t seemed angry when he had said it – merely sort of weary – and Riva had not argued, knowing that the remark had emerged from his present depressed view of the world. She sighed. It wasn’t easy for an ambitious man like Ben to find himself in the unlikely position of househusband.
She ducked under the awning with relief, her head and clothes momentarily lit pink by the flashing neon sign of the restaurant. She knew she must look a right old state, her hair wet and in clumps, her Ugg boots soaked through. She had hopped on a bus at Piccadilly and ended up trotting the half-mile distance from Marble Arch rather than hailing a cab, quite simply because there had not been one with its light on. But it would annoy Ben