A Scandalous Secret (5 page)

‘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.

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 on to. Even his cousin, Shashi, was childless.

‘Morning, sweetheart,' Sharat said, his voice cheery as he saw Neha's figure already seated in her customary swing chair that overlooked the blooming flower beds in the garden. He noticed in a glance that she looked exhausted. ‘Still recovering from last night, eh?' he enquired, unfurling a yellow gingham napkin over his lap. When Neha only muttered a response, Sharat looked at her more carefully. She really didn't look very well. At thirty-seven, she was still a very attractive woman, with creamy smooth skin and a trim figure, but this morning her skin was sallow and there were grey shadows under her eyes. It was also unusual to see her still in her dressing gown, rather than in the exercise gear she usually wore for her walk around Lodhi Gardens. ‘It was a fabulous party, thanks in no small measure to you,' Sharat said, leaning over to plant a big wet kiss on Neha's cheek. Helping himself to a cinnamon bagel from the toast rack, he proceeded to spread a generous smear of butter on it, grinning as he saw Neha wince visibly. Neha did enough exercise for both of them, Sharat sometimes said jocularly, content in the knowledge that he was blessed with a naturally thin frame. Of late, however, Neha had been at him to stay off the fatty foods because of the slightly high cholesterol count that had been revealed in his last six-monthly checkup. But Sharat really did love the raisin
and cinnamon bagels that Neha bought for him from the Hyatt bakery, and a bagel without butter was worse than poories without aloo. ‘Carbs and fat, a marriage made in heaven, just like ours,' he sometimes teased.

‘You're unusually quiet, Neh. Are you okay?' Sharat asked, turning in his chair to face his wife as he took a sip of coffee and chewed on his bagel. ‘Didn't you think it all went wonderfully well yesterday?'

Neha finally roused herself, sitting up from her slouching position. She swallowed a mouthful of coffee and put her cup down before speaking. ‘It did go very well. No, I'm fine, Sharat, just a bit tired.'

‘Well, you won't have to do this for another six months,' Sharat said, unscrewing the pot of marmalade. ‘By the way, I'm thinking of going off to Lucknow for a couple of days.'

‘Oh, when?'

‘Well, if I can get on the evening flight, I may even go today. It's important for me to go see the old boy and get his blessing, given what the Home Minister said last night. I may even ask him to contribute to the campaign. Which I think he'll readily do. Want to come?'

Neha thought for a minute before shaking her head. ‘No thanks, Sharat. But I may get away for a couple of days myself.'

‘Anywhere special? You were talking about Damascus and Samarkand the other day, weren't you?' Sharat enquired.

‘Not right now, that'll take some planning. No, I was thinking of a week in Ananda up in the Himalayas, actually. Or any other decent spa within easy reach. I've been longing for some R&R for a while but it's been one thing after another, as you know,' Neha replied.

‘Ananda's a great idea, sweetheart,' Sharat said. ‘You love it there, don't you? I must say I was worried at the thought of you wandering around Samarkand on your own. Let's do that together some other time, yes?'

‘Well, Sandhya went on her own to Samarkand and Tashkent, and said it was fine. But, yes, I'd rather go there with you. There's no hurry …'

‘For now, Ananda will be the best break and do you some good before the winter sets in too. And I'm happy for you to indulge, seeing how little I care for all that alternative yoga-shoga stuff myself! Get Chacko to book it for you today.'

 

Sharat left the house in a flurry of phone calls, still talking into his BlackBerry as he got into the back seat of his Mercedes. As was customary, Neha stood on the step watching his car leave the gates to be swallowed into the morning traffic on Prithviraj Road. If she could only tell Sharat about the letter … Over the years, she had grown used to telling him everything, even the tiniest details collected over the day. But this was different. This was a revelation that would shatter his world … rob him of every last ounce of love and trust he had for her …

Neha turned and returned indoors, her steps lethargic and heavy as she climbed the sweeping stairs up to her bedroom on the first floor. She locked the big teak door behind her and then, almost as though pulled by a magnetic force, made for the cupboard where the letter lay. She had not been able to reread it since it had arrived yesterday but she had thought of virtually nothing else. Her sleep had been broken by strange dreams in which she was wandering through a paediatrics ward full of screaming babies.

Using the big bunch of keys that was almost always tucked into the waistband of her trousers or sari, Neha unlocked the outer doors before opening the safe that housed her jewellery when it was taken out of the bank vault. She had tucked the letter behind a stack of cheque books and could see a corner of the white envelope sticking out from under the large blue velvet case of her antique pearl choker. Holding the letter to her chest, Neha climbed back into bed and pulled the silk
razai
over herself. She read and reread the words, running the tip of her forefinger over the childish writing and the name ‘Sonya', before starting to cry. At first, she cried quietly, sobbing softly into balled fists, the letter lying now in her lap. Then, helplessly, as the tears grew more copious, Neha tried desperately to muffle her moaning and hiccupping by holding a pillow over her face. It was the kind of weeping fit she had not indulged in since she was a child. The floodgates had opened up and Neha – strong and controlled and always in charge – was back to being a frightened and confused teenager all over again.

 

The thin blue line on the home pregnancy kit was unmistakable. Could it be faulty? Please, please, let it be faulty! It had to be wrong! This was not how pregnancies happened, surely. But someone was outside the toilet now, awaiting their turn. Must hurry, get rid of the evidence, stuff it into the bin, cover it up with lots of tissue, pull the flush and get out before anyone realizes something's wrong!

I emerged from the toilet, and my life was changed. I was a child no more because I now had a dark secret. Nothing like the kind of secret children keep. A big and terrible secret that would need to be covered up, like that pregnancy kit in the bin, hastily shoved under soiled tissues and detritus.