Dishonored (34 page)

Jimmy reached across the table and lifted her hand up, placing it on the table to stop her fiddling. He looked at her face.
“It’s a very beautiful part of India,” he said, “I’ve got a commission coming up there quite soon, a shoot for a book on Indian
architecture. You say your father
was
from there?”

“Yes, he, erm, they, my parents were killed in a car crash just after I was born.” Indi hated recounting this fact, it always
produced a reaction, pity mainly. “I’ve lived with my grandfather all my life, until I went away to medical school, that is.”

“I see.” The waiter came up with the menus and Jimmy said nothing until he’d gone again. “What about your Indian family? Your
father’s family?”

“I don’t know, I never asked really.” She shrugged. “They were never talked about so I never gave them much thought.” Saying
it now she thought she sounded quite pathetic, but it wasn’t like that; it was an untouched subject, something never referred
to. It would have been difficult, impossible really, as John was strangely closed about it. She knew it upset him.

“Have you ever been to India? To where you were born?”

“No, I, erm…” She smiled. “Sorry, I sound rather dull, don’t I?”

“Not at all!” Jimmy nodded across to the waiter. “Shall we order?”

“Yes, yes please.” Indi looked down at the menu then glanced sidelong at Jimmy. She was relieved that bit was over and she
was pleased he hadn’t said
sorry
, or
how terrible for you
, the way most people did. She liked Jimmy Stone, she decided, choosing moules marinière and Dover sole from the menu, he
was different, unlike anyone she knew, honest, unpretentious…

“Indi?”

She looked up and saw the waiter by the table. “Oh, sorry.” She gave her order and closed the menu, handing it over.

“Wine?”

“No, thanks, I’d prefer fizzy water.”

He ordered a large bottle of Abbey Well and then looked across at her. “You should, you know,” he said.

“Should what?”

“Go to India,” he went on, “see where you were born. You’d like it; you’d probably feel quite at home there.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.” It wasn’t that it hadn’t ever occurred to her, it was more a question of time, of priorities, of hurting
and offending her grandfather. She smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do that. I should be getting my brief through any minute now, I can’t wait to go back.”

“D’you know India quite well, then?”

“Pretty well. I travel a bit, in between assignments, drift really, I suppose.”

“What about your family?”

Jimmy shrugged. “What about them? There’s very little to say, I’m afraid.”

Indi looked down, embarrassed. Jimmy reached for her hand and held it in his own, turning it over and inspecting the palm.

“Very interesting,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “It looks to me like you’re going to meet a charming young man with a J in
his name…” He glanced up at her and grinned. “And that you’re going to have a great deal of fun with this young man.
Something, I think, you haven’t had much of before!”

Indi pulled her hand away but she did laugh. “Singing’s fun!” she protested. “I love medicine, my gardening!”

Jimmy rolled his eyes, then flopped back in the chair, letting his body go limp.

“Jimmy!” He stayed like that, only he let his tongue loll out. “Jimmy!” Indi whispered fiercely. “Jimmy, please!” Several
diners glanced over. “Jimmy?” Indi began to feel uneasy. She leaned across the table and gently poked him. Suddenly he leaped
forward and caught her hand. She screamed.

Jimmy burst out laughing and Indi, after the initial shock, started to laugh as well. “God, you’re horrid!” she cried. “Really
mean!”

He kept hold of her hand and gently put it to his mouth. The kiss was quick, soft and warm, and Indi felt the tremor of it
through her whole body.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He dropped her hand and she took it back, holding the patch of skin under the table where he’d kissed
it.

“Are you always this mad?” she asked.

He nodded. “Always,” he answered. “Life’s too short to take seriously.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely!” The waiter arrived with the drinks, and Jimmy sat back while he poured the water. “Why?” he asked, taking a
sip. “Don’t you like it?”

Indi held her own glass to her lips. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly, “I’m really not quite sure.”

The following morning, Indi lay in bed and listened to the sounds of the coffee grinder down in the kitchen below. It was
a Sunday morning ritual, fresh coffee, croissants, church and the
Sunday Times
, not a word spoken for several hours. She could smell the aroma of the croissants in the oven but she didn’t want to get
up. She wanted to lie in bed and think about last night; she wanted to go over every detail and try to make up her mind about
Jimmy Stone before she talked to her grandfather about him. But Indi could hear John’s movements below, she could hear him
filling the jug for the percolator, opening the oven door, getting out the plates, and she sighed, sitting up and dropping
her legs over the side of the bed. She had never missed a Sunday breakfast with John and she wasn’t about to start now. Pulling
on her dressing-gown, she stood and made her way along to the bathroom.

“Hello, darling.” John had a pair of oven gloves on as Indi walked into the kitchen and, glancing over his shoulder at her,
he smiled, then bent and took a tray of hot croissants out of the oven.

“Hmmmmm, they smell delicious!” she said.

“Home-made.”

“Don’t lie, Gramps!” Indi crossed and kissed him on the cheek, picking the Waitrose wrapper off the side and dropping it in
the bin. She saw John smiling.

“So, how was last night?”

“It was good, a nice evening.”

“Nice?”

“Yes, fun! Different.”

John placed the plate of croissants on the table along with the coffee jug and pulled out a chair. “Sit, and tell me what
different means, Indi.” He sat himself and shook out his napkin, leaning across the table for a croissant.

“I’m not sure really,” Indi said. “To be honest I couldn’t really make up my mind about him. He’s terribly good-looking, funny,
bright. He’s a photographer, he takes pictures for design books, art history books, but he’s not at all arrogant or snotty
about it.” She stopped and looked across at John. “We talked a lot about India, Gramps, he’s going there on a job this summer.”

John continued to eat his croissant, his face impassive but he felt a knot of tension in the pit of his stomach. India, it
was a word he could hardly bear to hear, not since Jane disappeared there, not since that terrible business with Phillip all
those years ago. “So why can’t you make your mind up about him, then,” John asked, “if he’s so good-looking and modest?”

Indi shrugged. “I don’t know. I just get a feeling, that’s all, a sort of sixth sense. It’s probably all imagination but I
somehow can’t quite believe he’s for real.”

John finished eating and poured them both some coffee. “Forget him then,” he said. “There are plenty of young men out there,
Indi, there’s possibly even one for someone as difficult as you!” He smiled as he handed her the milk jug. “Your time is precious,
Indi, don’t waste it on someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

She sipped her coffee and toyed with the croissant on her plate. Jimmy had asked to see her on Monday night and she’d left
it open, said she would ring him. Perhaps Gramps was right, perhaps she shouldn’t bother, perhaps she should just ring and
say no thanks, she wasn’t interested, she had double-booked, and couldn’t make Monday night. Looking up, she saw that John
was watching her and said, “You all right, Gramps?”

He nodded and patted her hand. “Just fine,” he said. Standing, he walked across to the fridge and refilled the milk jug even
though it was still half full. He didn’t want Indi to see this young man again, he didn’t want her head filled with ideas
of India, of her heritage, her ethnic background. He didn’t want Indi hurt, not now, not at the beginning of her life, her
career. She didn’t need to know about Jane, about Phillip, she didn’t need to know any of it, not yet, not until she was settled,
until she had someone who loved her, someone who would help to soften the blow. He turned and looked at the back of her head.
He loved his granddaughter, he loved her so much it hurt at times. He had lied to protect her, he knew that, Caroline had
known it too, and he only hoped to God that one day she would understand that.

He walked across to her and ruffled her hair. “What’s the verdict then? Going to see him again?” He sat down and placed the
milk jug between them.

“What d’you think?” Indi answered, smiling.

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother.” He was sure the young man was perfectly nice but he didn’t want his granddaughter involved in anything
Indian.

“No, maybe not.” Indi poured herself another coffee and offered the pot across. “I think I might just go and ring now,” she
said, “let him know.”

“Now?” John looked up at her as she stood.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said. “Have my croissant, Gramps, I can’t eat it.” And she disappeared out of the door.

Jimmy lay in bed and smoked a cigarette. It had gone well, he was pleased. He should be able to get it done within the month,
if he was smart. Not that it mattered of course; there was no time limit, just a nice fat check on delivery. He smiled as
the phone rang and leaned over the edge of the bed, fumbling around on the floor for it. He picked up the receiver and yanked
the wire so it could reach his ear.

“Hello?” He sat up. “Good morning, Indu, how are you? Good, glad to hear it!” Scratching his armpit, he flicked his cigarette
ash into the remains of last night’s coffee. “What, Monday?” he said, noticing a hesitancy in her voice. “Yes, I did actually!”
he lied. “But I’m not telling you, it’s a surprise.”

He dropped the cigarette stub into the mug and it made a hiss as it went out. He leaned forward, reaching for the paper, thinking
quick. “It’s pretty hard to cancel but I guess I could give the tickets away if I had to.” He scanned the entertainments page.
“Why, don’t you want to come?” He hit on the right ad. “Oh, Indi, really? No, I guess not, but it is a shame, I tried really
hard to get tickets for the Royal Opera House, it’s a complete sellout.” He waited as the other end went silent. He needed
Monday night, it would be impossible to start up again if she dipped out at this stage. “Indi, are you still there?” He let
out a sigh of relief. “It isn’t a problem if you really can’t make it, honestly, I can give the tickets away.” He was sweating.
“I know it would be a terrible shame, I was so looking forward to it.”

He bit his thumbnail. “Can you? The other person won’t mind you canceling at this late stage?” A shot of adrenaline surged
through him. “Oh great! I’m really pleased.”

He reached for his cigarettes and lit another one up. “Shall we meet in Covent Garden? At the Crusting Pipe?” He heard Indi
hesitate again. This was going to be more difficult than he had first thought. “How about the Opera House itself, then, outside
at seven? Good, we’ll do that.” He dropped his feet over the side of the bed and stood. “I’m really glad you can make it,
Indi, really glad.” He bent and picked up the phone, holding the receiver in the crook of his neck and walking naked to the
window. He lifted a slat in the blind and looked out. “OK, Indi, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said. “Yes, take care. Bye!”
He hung up. “Shit!” he said aloud. “Fucking shit!” He left the phone on the win-dowsill and walked through to the sitting-room.
He had rented the flat unfurnished and had a phone, a TV and a bed. In the empty kitchen he opened all the cupboards, hunting
for a Yellow Pages; under the sink he found one. He took it back to the bedroom, looked up booking agents and dialled the
first one on the page.

“Yes, hello,” he said, “I hope you can. I need two tickets for
Madame Butterfly
at the Royal Opera House tomorrow night.” He chewed his thumbnail again. “No, I’m not concerned with price,” he snapped irritably,
“I’ll pay whatever it takes!”

F
OR THE SECOND TWO WEEKS OF
J
UNE, A MASSIVE HIGH
rested over England and the summer weather lived up to all expectations. The sky was a pale azure blue, streaked with feathery
clouds, the sun shone and a faint southeasterly breeze blew in off the coast of Sussex.

Indu Bennet lay in a field on her back under the shade of an old oak tree and stared up at the pattern the leaves made against
the blue of the sky. Her head rested on a cushion, and she wriggled her toes against the soft wool of the rug underneath her.
Reaching to the side, she felt for her wine glass and, finding it, carefully tipped it up to her lips and sipped the champagne.
She closed her eyes and sighed.

“You’re not going to sleep are you, Indi?”

She smiled but kept her eyes closed. “No, I’m just resting from the view.”

Jimmy rolled on to his side and looked at her. She was beautiful, half Indian jasmine, half English rose, a heady combination
of the exotic and the delicate. He traced the line of her face from her brow down to her chin with his fingertip, and she
opened one eye. “Oi!” She grinned. “I’m trying to relax here, Mr. Stone, it was you who told me to chill out in the first
place, remember?”

Jimmy smiled and dropped his hand away. He sat up, taking the bottle of champagne out of the cooler and pouring himself another
glass. Beside them lay the remains of their picnic, ordered and packed by Claridges, the hamper open, their plates, cutlery
and disheveled napkins strewn over the grass. Jimmy took an apple from the fruit basket and bit into it. “Have you given my
idea any more thought, Indi?” he asked, pulling his legs into the lotus position.

Indi opened both eyes and glanced sidelong at him. “No, not really,” she answered. “Why?”

“The briers come through,” he said, “Balisthan, the Mogul Palaces of Balisthan.”

Indi sat up. “Really?” She cuffed him on the leg. “Jimmy! Why didn’t you say so earlier?”