The Delhi Deception (6 page)

Carla noticed the fleeting shadow in Elouise’s eyes as she smiled and replied with forced cheerfulness, “Of course, darling. How long will you be away?”

“Not sure. Pack for a week to be safe.” He said this without looking back as he went into the house and headed for his study.

With an apologetic look, Elouise told Carla to continue on to the market and that she would join her later, as soon as she had completed Harry’s packing. She waved awkwardly and hurried into the house. Getting into the car, Carla couldn’t help but think of the confident, independent Elouise at college. This woman being ordered to pack for her husband conflicted so with that image. She decided she would talk to Elouise when an appropriate moment presented itself. Until then she would concentrate on distracting herself from her own heartache by taking in everything India had to offer.

Arriving at Khan Market, Carla’s ideas of an “Indian market” were dealt a brutal blow. Khan Market was more shopping mall than side stall-market, selling international fashion and electronics. But on exploration she found some quaint shops selling local handicrafts and many fabric merchants with a resident tailor in the back of their long, narrow shops.

Carla was relieved when her phone rang and Elouise told her to wait where she was, that she would see her in a minute. She would have a guide to help her find her way in this new environment.

True to her word, Elouise caught up with Carla, who was admiring some ethnic home textiles at Fabindia.

“I must introduce you to Sanjay, my tailor. He can copy any designer item in your wardrobe, beautifully and at one-third of the price.”

“That’s a great idea. I would love to have this Armani dress copied—I’ve had it for years and it’s still my favorite,” Carla enthused.

“Did you pack some party dresses?” Elouise enquired, her eyes laughing.

“Not really. Why, should I have?”

“Absolutely! Delhi is a happening place. I’ve been to more parties since I’ve been here than my whole life in the States. In fact, we’re going to a party tonight at a friend’s house. That’s if you’re up to it?”

“Yes, why not?” Carla wasn’t convinced she would be up to it, but she had to try.

“Good, one of my favorite Indian designers has a shop here. Let’s find you something special.”

Walking through the large glass doors, Carla stared in awe at the beautiful collection. On the one side was a long rail of exquisitely embroidered traditional Indian suits and on the other side, a rail of Indo-Western style evening suits and dresses.

“Oh, wow, this is shopping nirvana.” Carla became aware of excitement building up inside her—a welcome relief to the nausea she had felt since Peshawar. She browsed through the collection and picked out a cream, silk crepe, one-shoulder dress, draped in a flowing Grecian style. Gold, pearl, and Swarovski beading on the left hip completed the classy gown. Feeling like Aphrodite, she admired herself in the floor-length mirror to the delighted approval of Elouise and the shop assistant.

“Yes, you have to have it!” Elouise said and started bargaining with the young salesgirl.

“Nothing like some retail therapy to mend a broken heart.” Carla beamed, sitting at a coffee shop in the center of the market. Elouise looked at her sympathetically, and Carla thought this might be the moment to broach the subject of Elouise’s relationship with Harry.

After ordering their coffees, Carla tried to talk about Harry, but Elouise was evasive. Eventually, with a pained expression, Elouise said, “Please, Carla, can we discuss him another time? He is a busy man, always working on some or other important government project. I think I preferred it when he was a physics lecturer in the States. India has been a big adjustment, and Harry is different here. I guess we all are, in our home environments. The worst part is that we don’t spend much time together, and things are a little tense.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” Carla silently chastised herself; she wouldn’t want people asking her too many questions about Andrew before she was ready to talk about him. She couldn’t even face the subject herself, never mind speak about it with someone else. She swiftly changed the subject, discussing possible travel plans to Rajasthan after she had contacted her father’s advocate.

Elouise insisted on paying the bill. “I’m afraid I’m busy this afternoon with my kids. They have dance classes, but Om Prakash will be with you the whole day. He knows Delhi really well, and I think he quite fancies himself as the ultimate Indian tour guide. So you carry on, OK?”

She gave Carla a hug and said, “We’ll have drinks at eight on the veranda and leave for the party around nine. Have fun. See you later.”

Carla smiled at Elouise, but afraid that her prying had upset her friend, she was about to apologize. Sensing Carla’s discomfort, Elouise said, “I almost forgot; Cook will have lunch ready at two, but if you prefer to stay out, you’ll find a great Caesar salad at the Imperial Hotel. Oh, and you must try Rajah at the Imperial’s beauty parlor— he is great with almond oil head massages.”

Carla knew this was Elouise’s way of letting her know there was nothing to feel bad about. They hugged each other good-bye. Then, glancing at her watch, Elouise smiled at the waitress and rushed out.

The suggested visit to the Imperial Hotel appealed to Carla, so she phoned Om Prakash to bring the car around to the front of the market. As they turned into the king palm–lined driveway to the white colonial hotel, Carla recognized the distinct architecture of Bromfield, Lutyen’s associate in 1931.

A handsome, turbaned Sikh opened Carla’s door with a flourish and welcomed her to the hotel. The lovely sense of luxurious calm was briefly interrupted when Carla was requested to go through a security check. She suddenly realized that this must be in consequence of the terrorist attack in Mumbai in November 2008. Since the attack, hotels all over India had stepped up security measures, vowing to not have another massacre. Carla remembered having to report on the casualty figures: 173 killed; 300 wounded. A tight band of unease gripped her, but she resisted with a determined effort.

As she looked around the plush hotel lobby, her unease began to abate. The cool, jasmine-scented marble interior greeted her like an oasis in the Gobi desert. It was beautifully renovated without any loss to its colonial style. Antique furniture and old black-and-white photos transported her back to an era of gracious indulgence.

A friendly concierge directed Carla to the beauty parlor, where she asked for a head massage. Hesitating for a brief second, she also decided to spoil herself with a manicure and pedicure.
Perhaps I’ll charge it to Andrew’s credit card
. The thought was somehow pleasing.

The vigorous head massage left her surprisingly drowsy, but Carla had a feeling that the therapists were gossiping about her in Hindi. A sweet, round-faced man did her pedicure, and it was the manicurist who eventually asked her where she was from. When she told them her father was Indian and her mother South African, they were incredulous but continued their heated debate in Hindi. Carla had her mother’s features and blond hair, with the exception of large, almond-shaped eyes and golden complexion reminiscent of her father.

After a relaxing foot massage she chose a deep red polish for her toenails and a clear polish for her fingernails. Rajah, the head masseur, asked Carla to sit in front of the mirror while he expertly blow-dried her hair and admiringly brushed it over her shoulders.

Carla tipped them generously and, feeling rejuvenated, headed for the restaurant where she decided to try some local Indian snacks instead of the recommended Caesar salad.

As she relished the snacks, she looked around the restaurant, fascinated by the many guests dining there. Well-heeled tourists and a large table with elegant Indian ladies almost filled the restaurant, which looked out onto a magnificent lawn.

The waiter startled her as he presented her with the bill. She sighed and, feeling slightly depressed, paid and left the restaurant.

As she headed for the exit, she passed the Chanel boutique in the lobby. Impulsively, she went inside and asked for advice on their fragrances. The impeccably dressed sales assistant suggested that she try the limited edition called Maharani, available only in Delhi. She told Carla that the fragrance was especially created for an Indian princess who used no other fragrance until her death five years ago. Chanel had released the last few bottles exclusively in India in keeping with the tradition.

Whether influenced by the romantic tale or by the intoxicating fragrance of delicate oriental spice and jasmine, Carla handed over her American Express card and paid a small fortune for the handmade Christofle crystal bottle wrapped in layers of tissue and satin ribbon. Feeling ridiculously pleased with herself, she called the driver and headed back to the bungalow.

As the car slowed down in front of the house, Carla witnessed an obviously intense argument between Elouise and Harry. Without acknowledging Carla, Harry got into the backseat of his car, said something to his driver, and drove out the gate.

“Everything OK?” Carla asked as she got out of the car.

With a shrug Elouise answered, “Nothing serious, let’s have tea.”

That evening, Carla slipped on her gold-braided high-heeled sandals and sprayed the exquisite fragrance of her Chanel perfume in a lavish cloud around her. She felt every inch the princess poised to make an entrance into a world of glamour, politics, and intrigue. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she shook her head in mild amusement at her overly fertile imagination. If nothing else, she was grateful for this capacity to fantasize— it certainly lifted her spirit, distracting her from the fact that she hadn’t received one phone call from Andrew since she had left Peshawar. She wondered if he even cared that she had caught him with Leila; perhaps he was relieved he no longer had to be with her. Taking a deep breath, Carla fought back the tears that had been threatening all day and smoothed the skirt of her dress. She would have fun tonight; Andrew wouldn’t ruin another moment of her time in India.

When she reached the veranda, she saw that citronella candles and lanterns had been placed in and around the garden. Eastern music drifted its sentimental chords from the drawing room. Kishan saw her and smiled his broad, happy smile.

“Madam care for a drink? I can suggest very good gin fizz; Madam Elouise teach me very well.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Carla replied with real enthusiasm as she seated herself on the rather antique-looking plantation chairs. Alcohol would definitely numb her senses and help her forget.

“What a perfect evening,” Elouise said as she joined Carla on the veranda. “I’m afraid enjoying an evening outside without big air coolers won’t last much longer now—it’s been surprisingly cool this April.”

Kishan returned with the drinks and handed Carla hers on a silver tray.

“Cheers, and it is so good to see you after so many years,” Carla said as she raised her glass to Elouise.

They drank quietly, and then Carla said, “This really is the best gin fizz I’ve ever tasted.”

“It’s the Indian limes and mint. Their flavor is incomparable anywhere in the world.”