Secrets and Sins

Ten minutes later, she popped back into Aman’s room to collect her bag and coat. He was sitting on the edge of his rumpled bed, holding his empty coffee mug. Riva felt a rush of sympathy for the little-boy-lost expression on his face. She bent and kissed him on the cheek. ‘We must do that curry another time,’ she said. Then she grinned, straightening up and waving a forefinger at Aman, ‘No, really a curry, not using euphemisms now!’

‘Shall I walk you back to your hall?’ Aman asked.

‘Don’t be daft, it’s broad daylight now so I think I’m perfectly safe. Typically sweet offer, though, Mr Khan. You’ve obviously been dragged up proper. Not like the boorish lads one usually gets around here…’

Nevertheless, Aman did accompany Riva down the corridor of his hall of residence and she kissed him lightly on the lips before stepping out into the morning sunshine.

He stood at the door, unable to take his eyes off her as the black of her duffle coat disappeared around the corner, feeling his body surging with an odd mixture of hope and disappointment.

Chapter Two

LONDON, 2009

The foursome emerged from the Comedy Store, blinking in the bright lights of Leicester Square. Riva shivered as a cold gust whipped around them and swiftly pressed herself up against the warmth of Ben’s coat, slipping one ungloved hand into his pocket.

‘That was good, wasn’t it? Terrific to see Paul Merton return to form,’ she said, looking over her shoulder as she talked to their friends.

Joe, walking a few paces behind, replied, ‘Good is an understatement. Those guys are so clever. Certainly one of the best uses you can put twenty quid to in London.’

He pulled on an ancient woollen bobble cap, earning an affectionate slap on his behind from his wife.

‘For God’s sake, Dr Joseph Holmes, where do you manage to unearth that ugly bit of headgear every winter!’ Susan said in exasperation. ‘I thought I’d sent it off to Oxfam last spring.’

‘You nearly did. Very sneaky, if you ask me. But no flies on me: I managed to retrieve it in the nick of time,’ Joe retorted, putting both hands to his hat and pretending extreme relief.

Susan rolled her eyes skywards. ‘I’ll soon have to scrape it off your head!’ she muttered, linking her fingers with his and dragging him along to keep pace with Riva and Ben. ‘Fancy a coffee, anyone?’

‘More like a stiff brandy on a night like this, methinks,’ Ben said.

‘Too right,’ Joe grinned. ‘There’s De Hems just around the corner from here. Hopefully the crowd’s thinned out a bit by now.’

‘Or Bar Italia just up Greek Street?’ Susan chipped in.

‘Intent on nudging us in the direction of some cake, ain’t ya, Mrs Holmes?’ Riva said.

‘Oh, you know me so well, Riva,’ Susan responded, laughing.

‘Well, I have got thirty years’ worth of research on your cake-eating habits,’ Riva joked.

‘Is that really how long you two have known each other?’ Ben asked. ‘I thought it was more like twenty.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Ben, we’ve known each other nearly fifteen years now and Sooz and I go back so much further. South Ealing Primary, that centre of academic excellence – remember, Sooz?’ Riva asked, putting her arm around Susan’s waist.

‘Do I remember? Took you a whole week to stop crying for your mum – and then only because I took you under my wing!’ Susan said, squeezing her friend’s arm.

Ben, who had been counting in his head, interrupted them. ‘Fucking hell, Riva, you’re right, it’ll be fifteen years for us next autumn. 1994!’ He turned to Joe. ‘In fact, you guys met the same year too. We should have a joint celebration.’

‘What a lovely idea,’ Susan cried. ‘Not quite a wedding anniversary because you two pipped us to the marital post by three years. But we could have a sort of joint the-day-I-laid-eyes-on-you sort of celebration, couldn’t we? Couldn’t we, Joe?’ Susan repeated, nudging Joe with her elbow, who was now busy examining the interior of De Hems through its misted glass panes.

‘Hmmm, yes, of course, darling,’ he replied distractedly before turning to Ben. ‘What do you think, old chap, too crowded?’

‘Naah, it’s fine,’ Ben dismissed, though the throng inside the pub was overflowing onto the windswept street.

‘Oh, please, I want to go somewhere where we can sit down. I’ve been on my feet all day in the classroom!’ Susan protested.

‘Let’s go to All Bar One on the other side of the square, that’s usually quieter,’ Riva suggested.

‘Good idea,’ Susan said. The women turned and started to walk back to Leicester Square. Their husbands reluctantly brought up the rear, moaning and grumbling loudly. Susan and Riva ignored them as they walked on, arms linked. Riva fished in the pocket of her coat for some change as they passed an old busker playing ‘Moon River’ on a saxophone, for which she received a huge toothless smile.

As they passed the Leicester Square Odeon, Susan gazed up at the posters that were being pasted on for the Friday show changes. She clutched Riva’s arm. ‘Get a look at that,’ she said, jogging Riva’s arm.

Riva looked up and saw a massive poster for a new Hindi film. The words ‘Iske Baad – Afterwards’ were printed above an image of Aman Khan’s handsome face gazing broodingly into the middle distance.

Susan giggled. ‘Goodness, he’s still a bit of a dish, ain’t he?’

Riva cast a glance over her shoulder, but the men were still engrossed in their conversation and had not noticed the poster. She looked up again and felt her heart do its familiar flip. She had seen this film at the London Film Festival but hadn’t Googled Aman’s name for a while, so did not know anything about its wider release. She couldn’t help wondering if Aman might be in London for the press junket. Perhaps he was just around the corner, signing autographs or cutting red ribbons or doing whatever it was that film stars did of an evening…

Riva did not particularly want Ben to see Aman’s poster for a variety of reasons. Luckily Susan seemed to take her cue, and called out in mock exasperation to the two men, ‘Come on, you two, this ain’t exactly a stroll in the park, y’know! Do let’s get moving, chop chop!’

Chapter Three

Two days later, Riva sat in the darkened BAFTA theatre and sneaked another look at the time on her mobile phone, holding it under her pashmina so that its light would not disturb the person sitting next to her. Eight o’clock. Her heart sank. She would need to leave soon as Ben was expecting to meet her by nine at the restaurant.

The film had started half an hour ago, soon after the chairperson of BAFTA had announced that their chief guest was running late, ‘held up by the inclement weather’. Despite her disappointment, Riva had not been able to help smiling at that, remembering what a wimp Aman had been about the English weather when he had first arrived as an overseas student from Mumbai. But surely he didn’t have to worry about the snow in London now, given the fleet of cars and chauffeurs he probably had at his disposal whenever he visited?

The programme on BAFTA’s website had stated that the evening would begin with the Aman Khan interview, followed by the screening of Afterwards – the film that, according to reports on various Bollywood sites, had catapulted him to international recognition, with talk of an Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Film. Riva’s plan had been to watch Aman’s interview before slipping out of the hall to make her restaurant rendezvous with Ben. The little porkie she had told about a drink with her agent and publicist couldn’t really stretch her evening beyond nine. Now it looked like she would have to leave without seeing Aman after all. But it was probably worth waiting just a little while more…after all, the BAFTA man had said Aman was on his way. She frowned again at the screen, trying to concentrate…

Although Riva had enjoyed Afterwards at the London Film Festival, and was quite accustomed to watching some of Aman’s films twice, even three times over, she was finding it hard to focus on the screen today. She cast a glance around the darkened hall, wondering if others in the audience were similarly distracted by the imminent arrival of its lead actor. But all she could see were rows of half-lit faces intent on the screen.

Riva sat back in her chair, trying to settle. Pictures were flickering on the screen – they had come to the part where Aman’s character tells a friend he is leaving for Kerala – but, instead of hearing his dialogue, Riva reflected with amusement on the apology that had been made by the hapless BAFTA bod charged with announcing that the film would be stopped as soon as Mr Khan arrived. He had timorously suggested that it would be best not to delay events any longer as heavy snow had been forecast for later tonight. But the crowd had remained cheery and upbeat, someone even whistling very loudly at the announcement, one of those piercing finger-in-mouth toots that had made people turn around in startled amusement. After that, very unusually for a BAFTA screening, the crowd had sung and clapped in time to the song that played under the opening credits of the film, one already popularised by the Asian TV and radio channels. This was a predominantly Indian crowd that had turned up in full force to see one of their biggest stars. Certainly BAFTA would have never seen a fan event like this before: all these Asian women wearing spangly salwar kameezes under drab winter coats, not to mention the air of general enthusiasm and bonhomie. In the crowd was the usual token sprinkling of white faces, most likely movie buffs trying to educate themselves about what they thought of as world cinema.

Aman Khan’s handsome face was filling the screen now in an extreme close-up and Riva, leaning her head back on the seat, remembered the young Aman with sudden sharp clarity. The years had been kind to him. Although she had observed his onscreen persona filling out in his twenties, an obvious new health regime in his early thirties had made him leaner and brought out interesting shadows on his face. Oh yes, still the old Aman, and – as Susan had observed – still quite, quite gorgeous.

Riva sighed softly, sinking down in her seat and trying once more to concentrate on the movie.

But the next few minutes brought a flurry of activity at the door – Aman Khan must have arrived because a wave of excitement was passing through the front rows of the audience. Riva felt the surging collective exhilaration and suddenly…there he was! The real Aman, being escorted onto the stage by Siddharth Jose, the young British director who was due to interview him. The crowd erupted into a tumult of clapping, some people even leaping to their feet to applaud their favourite star. As the film was halted, the BAFTA chairperson walked over to the lit podium while Aman bowed and waved at the crowd. But the applause kept coming, wave upon wave, and the BAFTA man smiled indulgently, turning to nod again at Aman, who now looked faintly embarrassed.

Finally, when the seemingly interminable ovation had abated slightly, 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.

Chapter Four

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 if she said that she had walked – he was quick to assume these days that her habitual frugalities were due to his being out of work. Every so often he took pains to remind her of the fat payout he had received from the bank when he had been made redundant. In Riva’s view this was quite unnecessary – she hadn’t been financially dependent on Ben for many years as her own account now received regular injections of royalty payments. But it was curious how even a man as liberated as Ben preferred to be seen as the breadwinner rather than an equal partner in the kind of joint endeavour they had always agreed their marriage would be.

Riva stamped her boots outside the entrance and tried to retie her mussed-up hair with a wooden clip. Of course she wasn’t going to confess to Ben that Aman and his film were the reason for her lateness. She had always hidden those little jaunts to the cinema from Ben, assuming that he would be jealous of the unlikely success of their old classmate, particularly as he was also her old flame. It was one of Riva’s more awkward memories when Ben had once spotted a cinema ticket to Feltham Cineworld in her purse, after she had told him she had been to see a Hollywood film starring George Clooney. He had had the good grace to laugh off her white lie, and even jested a little at the memory of Aman’s crush on Riva back at uni. But Riva had, of course, been mortified to have been caught red-handed with the ticket to Ishq in her purse, a feeling akin to the time her father had spotted seven Crunchie bar wrappers in her bin, bought using the change she had pinched from the bowl in the hallway.

Riva thought up her excuses now, rehearsing them as she stepped through the doors of the restaurant and spotted Ben sitting by one of the tables at the window, looking out at the rain. She slipped off her coat and handed it to the waiter before making her way across the crowded room towards him. Her heart melted at sight of his slumped shoulders: everything about him spelt out his depression.

‘Oh, Christ, sorry to be so late, love,’ she said, lightly kissing Ben’s cheek and sinking into the seat facing him. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘What excuse do we have today, huh?’ Ben asked, raising his left arm and waving his watch at her, his voice uncharacteristically peevish.

‘Oh, don’t ask! No cabs to be had for love nor money on a night like this. And the meeting at Gideon’s just dragged on and on. Antonia, the PR girl from the publisher’s was there too, and wanted to discuss the digital media campaign for the new book. You’ll never believe this but they’re talking about a seven-city tour across Europe, which, of course, would be lovely, except…’ Riva realised that Ben was no longer listening, his attention focused quite deliberately on the wine list.

Riva lapsed into silence, glad to have been stopped in her tracks while lying so shamelessly to her husband. It really did make her feel quite hateful. Not that all of her utterances were lies exactly, as Riva had indeed had several conversations with both Gideon and Antonia in the course of the day, but it was certainly not true that she had been in a meeting with them this evening. It suddenly crossed Riva’s mind that Ben may have read something online about Aman Khan being in London to promote his new film. She flushed at the thought – it would not take much for him to put two and two together and guess that she had gone to see him at BAFTA. Nervously, she reached out for Ben’s glass of water and watched him over the rim as she sipped. His face looked more drawn than usual today, his grey-blue eyes bloodshot, and Riva wondered if he had spent all day staring at his computer screen. She sighed and sat back in her chair, feeling an inexplicable surge of sadness overcome her. Riva had always striven not to rub Ben’s nose in the success of her publishing career, conscious of the fact that Ben had been the one with real writing ambitions back in college. Of course, he had greeted Riva’s unexpected book deal with excitement and good grace at first, perhaps anticipating with typical confidence that his own chance would surely follow before long. He had even joked of how they might one day become the ‘golden couple in publishing’, both of them enjoying flourishing literary careers. But, as the years passed with submission after submission of his being turned down, Ben had not been able to help becoming just a tiny bit bitter. Riva had done her best to assist in whatever way she could, but she cringed when she recalled the weary look that would come over her publishers’ faces whenever a husband with writing ambitions was mentioned. The most brutal blow had come when Gideon, Riva’s own literary agent, had returned Ben’s manuscript with a terse and uncomplimentary letter of rejection. Ben had found it astonishing that the man had not even done him the courtesy of a phone call and angrily reminded Riva that it was her sizeable royalties that were keeping Gideon ensconced in his fancy Covent Garden offices. In Riva’s opinion this wasn’t true at all – Gideon had many other successful writers on his list – but Ben had not wanted to hear that, and accused her of taking sides with her agent. They had ended up rowing that day and Riva had subsequently stopped advocating on Ben’s behalf. Recently he had complained again about the stand she had taken, claiming to be writing much better material now that he no longer had his job at the bank distracting him from concentrating on the book, but Riva had held firm, quite sure that he should try his chances like all other aspiring writers did, rather than expecting favours merely because he was married to a published author.