Meet Me in Bombay Read online

  “Just think,” she said, jaw set at the quirk of fate, and the thought that, for such a large city, Bombay really was impossibly small.

  “I can’t imagine what you were thinking,” Guy went on, “coming out like this.”

  She almost snapped again then. For God’s sake, I am not a child. But she stopped herself, because she wasn’t a child, and because it was Guy she’d be snapping at: kind Guy, who always had bottles of boiled water for her in his trunk, and who was, after all, only doing what he thought right. However grating that might be.

  “Promise me you won’t do anything like this again,” he said.

  “Guy…”

  “Please, otherwise I’ll have to talk to your parents.”

  She turned her head on the seat. “You’ll tell on me?”

  His lips twitched, and she almost wanted to laugh, because she liked that he was able to find it funny, but couldn’t, because she was still a bit cross.

  “Just promise me,” he said.

  “If you like,” she said with a sigh, burying the niggling guilt that she was planning to use him as her alibi to break her word the very next day.

  The very next.

  It’s not so long to wait, she told herself.

  She wished it didn’t feel so very long.

  Or that she had the faintest idea what she was going to do with the rest of the afternoon now that Guy had taken it upon himself to deliver her home so prematurely.

  He made short work of the city streets. Far too soon, the traffic around them thinned, the jungle thickened, and they were back at Malabar Hill. Sunlight sliced through the leaf canopy in shards, reflecting off the palms, the sleepy, silent villas. The occasional Indian servant walked at the side of the road, back from the markets, carrying baskets laden with vegetables and fruit. But for the occasional rickshaw trundling past, theirs was the only vehicle. Maddy, staring through the foliage at the glistening sea below, didn’t attempt conversation; she kept replaying that shout in the marketplace, less and less sure, the more she did, that she’d heard anything at all. Guy, seemingly focused on the road, didn’t talk either.

  It was only when he broke the silence that Maddy realized how long it had been there.

  “I’m sorry you’re annoyed with me,” he said, in a way that suggested he’d been thinking it for some time.

  Remembering again all he’d done for her, Maddy forced herself to find a smile she couldn’t feel. “I’m not annoyed,” she said.

  His smile was equally strained. He knew she was lying.

  “At least you’re home now,” he said, turning through her parents’ gates.

  “Yes,” she said, “there’s that.”

  He didn’t linger at the villa. She stayed on the porch steps to watch him leave, feeling worse than ever, knowing that he, too, now was upset. Such a mess, the whole morning. She waited until his motor had disappeared up the driveway, the sound of his engine dissolving into birdsong, the lazy rustle of the trees, then made her way inside. Tucking her purse and book under her arm, she peeled her gloves from her sweaty hands, and crossed toward the stairs.

  Then she stopped.

  She walked backward, arching her neck, looking across the tiled hallway toward the sunlit drawing room door, the figure who was standing there, all brown curls and beaming smile.

  And, impossible as it would have felt, even seconds before, she felt her own face break into a grin, an ecstatic exclamation bursting from her.

  Della laughed. “Hello, hello,” she said, arms held wide. “I thought you’d never come.”

  * * *

  They’d all arrived on a train much earlier that morning, Della told Maddy. Richard and Peter had had to go straight to the office from the terminus, but she hadn’t been able to wait to come and say hello. “I cheekily accepted your bearer’s offer of lunch,” she said, as they walked to the back veranda, where the table did indeed hold a half-eaten plate of kedgeree. “I was worried I was going to waste away. You’ve been rather a long time.”

  “I might say the same to you,” said Maddy. “Why didn’t you wire you were coming?” She thought of her mother, at her mem-tea. “I don’t think Mama even knows you’re back.”

  “It all happened in rather a rush,” Della said, sitting down. “One minute we were going to be away another week, the next we were all haring back for these meetings.”

  “What meetings?” asked Maddy, reaching for the carafe to pour herself a drink.

  “Something to do with the army,” Della said, waving airily. “Let’s not talk about it; there are far more interesting things. Such as,” she shot Maddy a mischievous look, “was that Guy Bowen’s motor I saw bringing you back just now?”

  “Or,” said Maddy, smiling, “everything you’ve been up to while you’ve been away.”

  Della’s eyes danced. “All right,” she said, “we’ll get to Guy later.”

  “We won’t,” said Maddy, “but don’t ever change.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t worry about that.” Della picked up her knife and fork. “Will you eat as well?”

  “Are you inviting me to lunch in my own house?”

  “I suppose I am,” said Della, with another gurgling laugh. “Did you miss me?”

  “You have no idea,” said Maddy, laughing, too, because she had, and because after the hours that had just been, it felt especially wonderful that she didn’t have to do that anymore. “Can you stay the afternoon?”

  “I need to have a sleep at some point,” said Della. “Those trains. But definitely for an hour or so.”

  She stayed for four.

  Ahmed brought food for Maddy, more drinks. The plates got emptied, the glasses, too, and they didn’t stop talking; the more they spoke, the more there seemed to say, to ask. Della filled in the gaps her letters had left, taunting Maddy with her descriptions of the lake in Udaipur, the palaces she’d visited in the blue city, the pink city, safaris taken on elephant-back. Maddy, conscious that her trips around Bombay paled in comparison, nonetheless spoke more about them, laughing about how terrified she’d been at the start. “Still, no tigers or hunting lodges, I’m afraid.”

  “And you really went all on your own?” asked Della.

  “All on my own,” said Maddy.

  “I’m very proud of you, old thing.”

  “I’m very glad I’ve made you proud.”

  “What made you do it, though?” said Della, folding her napkin. “You never told me when you wrote.”

  “I…” Maddy began, and almost said, finally, about Luke Devereaux. She bit her lip, holding herself short, just as she had in her letters. It still felt too soon, too tenuous to speak of, the entire thing (whatever it was) strangely breakable. She couldn’t bring herself to risk jinxing it. “I decided to stop being homesick,” she said, giving a different version of the truth, not entirely comfortably.

  She felt another kick of guilt as Della clapped her hands happily. “Good for you,” she said. “And your mother never suspected?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How are things there?”

  “Better,” said Maddy, thinking of her painted stone upstairs. “Just a little better.”

  “Clearly I should go away more often,” said Della.

  “Please don’t,” said Maddy.

  Ahmed cleared their plates and brought out sliced fruit, a piece each of Cook’s Victoria sponge.

  “I’m not sure I have the room,” Della said, leaning back, wincing as she pressed at her waist.

  “Eat it,” said Maddy, “please. Or I’ll have to.”

  They left the table only once, then for a cigarette at the end of the garden, both of them skulking behind the beds of agapanthus like naughty schoolchildren in case Alice, who had stayed out much later than usual, should return home.

  In the event, she came just after Della left, and Maddy was on her way up for a bath.

  “Your father surprised me for lunch at the club,” Alice said, with a flush to her skin that suggested
the surprise hadn’t been entirely unwelcome, and which made Maddy wonder what else this strange day might have in store.

  Certainly dinner with Della and Peter, since Alice also told her that Richard had arranged it with Peter.

  “He won’t be back until much later,” Alice said. “Apparently there’s a man from England over, and they’re all tied up with him.”

  Maddy carried on upstairs and didn’t ask more. There were always men over from England meeting with her father. Besides, she was too preoccupied with looking forward to seeing him herself at last, the night ahead, to think about anything else.

  She dressed carefully for dinner, with a bubbling anticipation she hadn’t known in months. She chose one of her favorite gowns, black, with a low back, and beaded cap sleeves, took her time pinning her hair, threading a sequined band through it, then pulled on her gloves. All the while, she kept one ear tuned to her open window, hoping for the sound of a motor, her father’s low voice, more impatient than ever, now that she knew he was on his way, to have him back.

  He still wasn’t by the time the sun had set in its blaze of color, and Peter and Della arrived, Peter strolling languidly up the driveway in the balmy dusk, fair and slight in his tie and tails, Della bouncing along beside him in a scarlet gown.

  Maddy ran out to meet them.

  “Ah, here she is,” said Peter, “a sight for the sorest of eyes. Your father’s on his way,” he continued, before Maddy could ask. “Tying up the most endless afternoon. He was allowed to escape for lunch, so it was my turn for dinner.” He touched his hand to his chest. “A gentleman’s agreement.”

  “Do you think you can come out after dinner?” Della asked Maddy. “We want to whisk you away.”

  “My idea,” said Peter.

  “I like your idea,” said Maddy. “Where are we going? Don’t say the Gymkhana Club.”

  “The Gymkhana Club,” said Peter. “But before you protest, or tell us you’re far too bored of it, and how cross you are at how long you’ve been left,” he pouted apologetically, “have this.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a tissue-wrapped parcel.

  “A gift?” said Maddy, taking it.

  “Not from us, I’m afraid,” said Della. “Do open it, though. Peter won’t tell me what it is.”

  “Really?” said Maddy, smiling curiously at Peter, who suddenly appeared rather pleased with himself.

  “Go on, Maddy darling,” he said.

  She did as she was told, pulling the tissue apart.

  Then she gasped.

  Because the fabric she’d been looking at in the market was inside. Slowly, she pulled it out, the silk spilling over her fingers, her wrist, glowing in the dusk.

  “Oh look at that,” said Della. “How gorgeous. Who’s it from?”

  Maddy didn’t answer. She raised her eyes to Peter. Her heart was beating uncomfortably quickly in her chest.

  “There’s a note,” he said.

  “What note?” said Della.

  “Is there?” said Maddy weakly, suddenly back in that bazaar again, hearing that shout, no longer so certain she’d imagined it. Not certain at all.

  “There is,” he said.

  Fingers trembling, she searched amid the silk, in the tissue. Please, she thought, don’t let me be wrong.

  Then she saw the paper, the hand on it, and her fingers shook even more.

  Because she wasn’t wrong.

  I saw you carrying my guidebook. It made me very happy. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

  And that you’ll come tonight.

  Tomorrow feels like far too long to wait.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Maddy stared at the note, the tissue in her shaking hands, unable to take her eyes from either, only distantly conscious of her own incredulous smile, Della’s questions, Peter telling Della to do just be quiet for a second, Della refusing to do any such thing, their voices blurring, Luke Devereaux’s writing, too, the ink merging the longer Maddy stared.

  He’d been there, really been there.

  Seen her.

  And she was going to see him. Tonight.

  Tomorrow feels like far too long to wait.

  “What’s even happening tomorrow?” Della asked, louder now. “Who is this Luke Devereaux? Maddy? Madeline Bright?” She wrenched the silk from Maddy’s grasp. “Are you listening?”

  “Now I am,” said Maddy, pulling the silk back.

  “Good,” said Della. “So tell all, if you please.”

  “There’s really not that much to tell.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Della.

  “Very astute,” said Peter. “I’d give her something, Maddy; she’s got that dog-with-a-bone look about her.”

  “A most put-out dog with a bone,” said Della, folding her arms with an exaggerated frown. “I don’t like you two having secrets.”

  “It’s not a secret,” said Maddy, realizing as she spoke that a secret was exactly how it seemed, and also that Della looked a little hurt, which was the last thing she wanted. “Really,” she said, “you mustn’t be upset.…”

  “I won’t be if you tell me,” said Della.

  “All right,” said Maddy, “all right,” and, wishing now that she’d done it a deal sooner, she made herself go on, recounting New Year’s, the guidebook and returned matches, all the postcards—“A nice touch,” said Peter, “a very nice touch”—eyes darting back to the silk as she talked, nerves building, rippling through her, because he’d surprised her again, and tomorrow had always been too long to wait, yet tonight was tonight, which couldn’t have felt less like not much at all.

  “It’s the opposite of not much,” said Della. “Why on earth didn’t you write? Or say something at lunch?”

  “I wanted to,” said Maddy. “I did. I’ve just had this … superstition, I suppose.…” She broke off, her nagging fear that it might all turn wrong there, even now.

  Della gave an exasperated sigh. “What about you?” she said to Peter. “You might have said.”

  “None of my business,” Peter replied.

  “But you gave him Maddy’s address?” Della asked.

  “I did,” he confirmed, setting off toward the house. “An uncharacteristic interference for which,” he threw a smile back at Maddy, “you are most welcome. I wouldn’t have done it for a lesser lady, or man.”

  “Wait,” said Maddy, remembering, now that the first wave of shock was passing, everything she’d been so desperate to grill him about. “How do you know one another?”

  “Have done for years,” said Peter, still walking. “Luke used to be based here.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Soldiering, Maddy darling.”

  “He’s an officer?” said Maddy, taken aback. She wasn’t sure why. The warmth of all his messages, perhaps. Or the memory of the way he’d lounged at that candlelit table, so at ease, nothing like the stiff lieutenants and captains she’d encountered from the cantonments.

  “He left,” said Peter, which made more sense. “Or at least, he’s still in the reserves.”

  “The reserves?”

  “Mmm,” said Peter, “same as me. First in line for the call if we trip into a war. Which hopefully we won’t. Anyway, these days he mainly tells General Staff and the rest of us what to do. Can I go now, please? I’m parched. All these questions.”

  With another teasing smile, he jogged up the porch stairs.

  As he went, Della gave Maddy a narrow-eyed look. “For someone so blond,” she said, “you’re an awfully dark horse.”

  Maddy couldn’t deny it. “Will you forgive me?”

  “Eventually,” said Della. “I’ll need a few minutes to sulk,” she held up her hands on the caveat, “but after that I’ll endeavor to let it go.”

  “Thank you.”

  Della leaned over, peering again at the note. “Are you terrified?” she asked.

  “Just a bit,” said Maddy.

  “Of?”

  “Everything.”

  Della laughed,
not unsympathetically.

  “What if I mess it all up, Della?”

  “You won’t do that.”

  “I might start talking too much.…”

  “Not likely, given current form.”

  “Or not enough,” Maddy went on, “and he’ll just stand there looking at me, thinking, what on earth—”

  “Stop,” said Della, cutting her off. “I won’t hear it.”

  Maddy drew a shaky breath.

  “You’re going to be fine,” said Della. “I have a wonderful feeling about it.” She glanced up at the villa, its cream walls shadowy in the twilight. “I suspect this dinner’s going to feel rather endless, though.”

  “I suspect you’re right,” said Maddy.

  It was.

  It didn’t help that her father took another hour to arrive, delaying the start of the meal until well after dusk had given way to night. Or that Alice joined Maddy, Della, and Peter on the veranda while they waited, mosquitoes swarming around burning pots of citronella oil, gin and tonics on ice, quietly questioning Della and Peter on their trip (“I’m afraid Madeline rather wished she were there with you”), obviously making an effort to be sociable, which Maddy wanted to feel grateful for, but couldn’t, because it was torturous to be kept from pressing Peter to tell her more of his friend. Della, not so restrained, kept throwing animated smiles in Maddy’s direction; more than once, Maddy caught her mother looking puzzled, as though wondering what Della could possibly be so fired up about.

  Richard finally appeared at nine, but not even the happy sight of him ducking through the veranda doors, the feel of his vast familiar hug, could distract Maddy from her apprehension. Although she held him tight, telling him how much she’d missed him, too, she was only semi-aware of the relief of his return. As they all progressed into the humid, candlelit dining room, and sat down to eat, her mind kept flitting, moving from the sound of that Miss Bright in the bazaar, up to the silk, hidden in her bedroom, back to the promenade at New Year’s, to the ticking clock, Luke Devereaux waiting in the packed bar at the Gymkhana Club, whether he’d still be there by the time they finally were, what would happen if he was, unable to focus, because the more she thought about the possibility that she might really see him so soon, the less she could believe it, and yet she believed it enough that she felt a little like she might be sick.