TEJRAN - U MIGHT BE A PLAYER BUT IM THE GAME

chapter 5

It's with trepidation that Teju unlocks the door to the apartment with the piano. Her heart sinks when she's met with the unnerving silence of the alarm. The hush means that the confusing, brown-eyed Mister is in residence. He has invaded her dreams ever since she'd seen him sprawled naked on his bed. But during her weekend, in quiet moments, all she'd been able to think about was him. She doesn't understand why, though perhaps it's the brief, penetrating stare he gave her when he towered over her in the hallway or because he's handsome and tall and lean, with dimples on his back, above his muscled, athletic behind-
 
Stop!
 
Her wayward thoughts are out of control.
 
Quietly, she slips off her wet boots and socks, then scampers in her bare feet down the hallway through the kitchen. The counter is littered with beer bottles and takeaway boxes, but teju scuttles into the safety of the laundry room. She props her boots on the radiator along with her socks in the hope they might dry out before she leaves.
 
Peeling off her wet hat and gloves, she hangs them on the hook beside the boiler, then removes the anorak that Magda gave her. She places it on the same hook and frowns as water drips onto the tiled floor. Her jeans are soaked from the torrential rain, too. She shivers as she removes them and struggles into her housecoat, grateful that the plastic bag has kept it dry. The hem falls to below her knees, so that she's not immodest without her jeans. Peeking into the kitchen, she checks that he's not there. He's probably still asleep, so she pops her sodden jeans into the dryer and switches it on. At least they'll be dry when she goes home. Her feet are red and itch with cold, so she grabs a dry towel from the pile of clean laundry and rubs them both vigorously, massaging life back into her toes. Once they're warm, she slips on her sneakers.
 
"tejasswi?"
 
Shit!
 
The Mister is awake! What does he want?
 
As quickly as her chilled fingers will let her, she pulls her scarf from the plastic bag and ties it around her head, conscious that her braided hair is also wet. Taking a deep breath, she exits the laundry room to find him standing in the kitchen. She wraps her arms around herself, trying to find some warmth.
 
"Hi," he says, and smiles.
 
Tejasswi glances at him. His smile is dazzling, lighting up his handsome face and his brown eyes. She looks away, blinded by his good looks and embarrassed by her creeping blush.
 
But she feels a little warmer.
 
He had been so cross the last time she saw him-what has brought about this change of heart?
 
"tejasswi?" he says again.
"Yes, Mister," she answers, keeping her eyes lowered. At least he is dressed this time.
 
"I just wanted to say hi."
 
She peeks up at him but doesn't understand what he wants. His smile isn't as broad this time, and his brow is furrowed.
 
"Hi," she says, uncertain what's expected of her.
 
He nods and shuffles from one foot to the other, hesitant. She thinks he might say something further, but he turns and leaves the kitchen
 
She peeks up at him but doesn't understand what he wants. His smile isn't as broad this time, and his brow is furrowed.
"Hi," she says, uncertain what's expected of her.
 
He nods and shuffles from one foot to the other, hesitant. She thinks he might say something further, but he turns and leaves the kitchen.
 
KARAN KUNDRRA POV
 
What an idiot I am! I mimic "Hi" to myself in ridicule. I've thought of nothing but this girl all weekend, and the best I can come up with is, "I just wanted to say hi?"
 
What the fuck is wrong with me?
 
I wander back to my bedroom and notice a trail of wet footprints on the hallway floor.
Did she walk barefoot in the rain? Surely not!
 
My room is gloomy, and the view across the Thames is drab and uninspiring. The rain is lashing down outside. It had been pelting against the window early this morning and the noise had woken me. Shit. She must have walked through this atrocious weather. Again I wonder where she lives and how far she has to come. I had hoped to engage her in some conversation this morning to find out these details, but I can tell I make her uncomfortable.
 
Is it me or is it men in general?
 
It's a troubling thought. Maybe I'm the one who's uncomfortable. After all, she chased me out of the flat last week and the idea that I fled to avoid her is disconcerting. I resolve not to let it happen again.
 
The fact is, she's inspired me. The whole weekend I've immersed myself in my music. It's provided a distraction from all my newfound and unwanted responsibility and a respite from my grief-or maybe I've found a way to channel my grief...I don't know. I have three pieces completed, sketchy ideas for two more, and I'm tempted to put lyrics to one of them. I've ignored my phone, my e-mail-everyone, and for once in my life I've found solace in my own company. It's been a revelation.
 
Who knew I could be so productive? What I don't understand is why she's affected me like this when we've only exchanged a few words. It doesn't make sense to me, but I don't want to overthink it.
 
I pick up my phone from the bedside table and look down at the bed. The bedding is in complete disarray.
 
Bloody hell, I'm a slob.
 
Hastily, I make the bed. From the pile of clothes discarded on my sofa, I grab a black-hooded sweatshirt and slip it on over my T-shirt. It's chilly. With wet feet she's probably cold, too. In the hallway I stop and turn the thermostat up by a few degrees. I don't like the idea of her feeling the cold.
 
She comes out of the kitchen carrying an empty laundry basket and a plastic caddy full of cleaning fluids and cloths. Head down, she walks right past me toward my bedroom. I regard her retreating figure in the shapeless housecoat: long pale legs, a gentle sway of slim hips...are those bright pink underpants I can see through the nylon? From beneath the headscarf a rich brunette plait snakes down her back to just above the line of her pink underwear, and it swings from side to side as she walks. I know I should look away, but I'm distracted by her underwear. They cover her backside and come up to her waist. They are possibly the largest knickers I've seen on a woman. And my body stirs like I'm a thirteen-year-old boy.
 
Fuck! I groan inwardly, feeling like a pervert, and resist the urge to follow her. Instead I head into the drawing room, where I sit down at my computer to work through my e-mails from Parvez and ignore my lust and my daily, Tejasswi Prakash.
 
* * *
 
Tejasswi is surprised to find that his bed has been made. Every time she's been to his apartment, this room has always been a mess. There is still a pile of clothes on the sofa, but it looks tidier than she's ever seen it. She opens the curtains fully and stares out at the river. "Thames." She whispers the word aloud, her voice wavering a little.
 
It's dark and gray like the naked trees on the opposite bank...not like the Drin. Not like home. Here it's urban and crowded, so crowded. Back at home she was surrounded by fertile countryside and snowcapped mountains. She sweeps away the painful thought of home. She is here to do a job-a job she wants because it comes with the added bonus of the piano. She wonders if he's going to be here all day, and the thought that he might bothers her. His presence will keep her from playing her favorite pieces.
 
But on the plus side, she gets to see him.
The man who's been dominating her dreams.
 
She has to stop thinking about him. Now. With a heavy heart, she begins to hang some of the scattered clothes in his walk-in closet. Those that she thinks need washing she places in the laundry basket.
 
* * *
 
The aroma of evergreen and sandalwood lingers in his bathroom. It's a pleasant, masculine scent. She takes a moment to inhale deeply and savor it like she did before. His striking eyes come to mind...and his broad shoulders...and flat belly. She sprays the bathroom mirror with Windolene and rubs energetically.
 
Stop! Stop! Stop!
 
He's her employer, and he would never be interested in her. After all, she's just his cleaner.
 
Her last job in his bedroom is to empty the trash. To her disbelief she finds the basket empty. There are no used condoms. She places it back beside his nightstand, and for some inexplicable reason the empty basket makes her smile.
 
Gathering up the laundry and her cleaning materials, she gazes for a moment at the two monochrome photographs on the wall. Both are nudes. In one a woman is kneeling, her skin pale and translucent. The soles of her feet, her behind, and the graceful curve of her back are all visible, and she holds her blond hair piled up on her head; a few stray tresses kiss her neck. The model, from this angle anyway, is beautiful. The second photograph is a close-up and shows the contour of a woman's neck, her hair swept aside, and the arch of her spine from the first few vertebrae down to her backside. Her ebony skin is luminous, caressed by the light. She's stunning. Teja sighs. Judging by these photographs, he must like women, and she wonders if he is the photographer. Maybe one day he might take her photograph. She shakes her head at her fanciful thoughts and returns to the kitchen to tackle the chaos of take-away boxes, empty beer bottles, and washing-up.
 
* * *
KARAN KUNDRRA POV
 
I've set aside all the condolence letters and e-mails to answer at a later date-I cannot face them yet. And how the fuck did Omi manage to get his head around farming subsidies and animal husbandry and all the other crap that goes with cultivating and grazing thousands of acres of land? For a fleeting moment, I wish I'd taken farm management or business studies at university, rather than fine art and music.
 
Omi had been reading economics at the LSE when our father died. Ever the dutiful son, he'd dropped out of the LSE and enrolled in the Duchy of Cornwall's university to study farming and estate management. With thirty thousand acres to oversee, I now understand that it was a sensible decision. Omi was always sensible, except when it came to riding his motorbike in the middle of winter through kingk's freezing lanes. I put my head in my hands as I remember his broken body lying in the mortuary.
 
Why, Omi, why? I ask for the thousandth time.
 
The worsening weather through the glass wall reflects my mood. I stand and walk over to look at the view. On the river there are a couple of barges heading in opposite directions, a police launch cruising east, and the river bus heading to Cadogan Pier. I scowl at the scene. During all the time I've lived this close to the pier, I've never taken the river bus. As a child I'd always hoped my mother would take me and Meenu, but it never happened. She was always too busy. Always. And she never instructed our various nannies to take us. That's another grievance I have against Rowena. Of course, omi wasn't with us then-he was already at boarding school.
 
Shaking my head, I walk around the piano and spy the sheet music I've been working on all weekend. The sight of the pages lifts my mood, and to take a break from my computer, I sit down to play.
 
* * *
 
Of the three kitchens Tejasswi cleans, this is her favorite. The wall, base cupboards and worktops are made of pale blue glass that is easy to wipe down. It's sleek and uncluttered-so different from the haphazard rural kitchen of her parents' home. She checks the oven, just in case the Mister has baked something, but she finds it's still pristine. Trja suspects it has never been used.
 
She is drying the last plate when the music begins. She stops, recognizing the melody immediately. It's from the manuscript she's seen so many times on his piano, but the melody goes further than she's read, the notes soft and sad, falling in mournful blues and grays around her.
 
This she has to see.
 
With quiet care she places the plate on the worktop and sneaks out of the kitchen toward the living room. She peers in and sees him at the piano. Eyes closed, he's feeling the music, every note expressed on his face. As she watches him-his brow furrowed, head tilted, lips parted-he takes her breath away.
 
She's captivated.
 
By him.
 
By the music.
 
He's talented.
 
The piece is sad, full of longing and grief, and the notes echo through her head in subtler tones of blue and gray now that she's watching him. He really is
the most handsome man she's ever seen. He's even more handsome than-No!
 
Ice-blue eyes stare at me. Furious.
 
No. Stop thinking about that monstrous man!
 
She halts the memory. It's too painful. And she concentrates on the Mister as the melancholic melody draws to its end. Before he spots her, teju tiptoes back to the kitchen-she doesn't want to make him cross again by being caught peeking and not working.
 
As she finishes washing the worktop, she replays his composition in her head. And now the only room she has left to clean is the living room-where he is.
 
Plucking up her courage, she grabs some polish and a cloth, ready to face him. She hovers at the entrance while he stares at his computer. He glances up and sees her, his face registering pleased surprise.
 
"It is okay, Mister?" she asks, and waves the can of polish in the direction of the room.
"Sure. Come in. Do what you need to do, tejasswi. And my name's Karan."
 
She gives him a quick smile and starts with the sofa, plumping the cushions and sweeping the odd crumb onto the floor with her hand.
 
* * *
KARAN KUNDRRA POV
 
Well, this is distracting....
 
How can I possibly concentrate with her moving about in such close proximity? I pretend to read the revised cost-to-complete for the remodeling of the Mayfair mansion blocks, but really I'm watching her. She moves with such easy, sensuous grace; bending over the sofa, lithe, toned arms reaching out and delicate, long-fingered hands cupping the crumbs from the seat cushions and brushing them off. A frisson runs through me, and my whole body is suddenly humming with a delicious tension, attuned to her presence in the room.
 
Could this be any more illicit? She's so close but so unattainable. She moves to plump the black scatter cushions on the couch, and her housecoat swings forward and stretches out across her backside, betraying the pink underwear beneath.
 
My breathing shallows, and I have to suppress a groan.
 
I'm a fucking pervert.
 
She finishes with the sofa, and her eyes stray toward me. I endeavor to look engrossed in the spreadsheet in my hand while the hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. Taking the can of polish, she sprays some onto the cloth she's holding and heads to the piano. With another quick, anxious glance at me, she begins the slow process of buffing it to a brilliant shine. She stretches across it, the housecoat rising to above the backs of her knees.
 
Oh, God!
 
With a deliberate and even pace, she works her way around the piano, buffing and polishing, her breathing becoming faster and harder with the exertion. It's agonizing. I close my eyes and imagine how I could elicit the same response from her.
Shit. I cross my legs to hide my body's natural reaction. This is getting farcical. She's just cleaning my fucking piano.
 
She continues to dust the keyboard, though the keys make no sound. Her eyes shoot to me again, and I quickly look at the figures on the spreadsheet, which swim on the page, making no sense. When I dare to peer up at her, she's bending down, her face pensive, and she seems to be appraising the manuscript that sits on the music rest. She's looking at my composition, and her brow creases as if she's concentrating hard.
 
Can she read music?
 
Is she reading my score?
 
She looks up and meets my gaze. Her eyes widen with embarrassment, and her tongue escapes from her mouth to lick her upper lip as a rosy flush stains her cheeks.
 
Fuck.
 
Averting her eyes, she bobs down behind the piano, presumably to dust the legs or the stool.
 
I cannot bear it.
 
My phone rings, startling me. It's Parvez.
 
"Hi," I say into the phone, my voice hoarse, and I've never been so grateful for the interruption. I have to get out of the drawing room.
 
Hell, I promised myself that I wouldn't let her chase me out again.
 
"kundrra?"
 
"Yes. Parvez. What is it?"
 
"We have a planning issue which I think is going to need your attention."
 
I stalk into the hallway as Parvez drones on about soffits and load-bearing walls within the Mayfair development.
 
* * *
 
When he leaves the room, it's as if a storm has passed overhead to wreak havoc elsewhere-in the hallway, perhaps. Tejasswi breathes a sigh of relief, grateful that he's gone. She hears him on the phone, his voice deep but melodious. She doesn't think she's ever been so acutely aware of someone else before.
 
She must stop thinking about him and concentrate on cleaning! She finishes dusting the piano, though she can't shake the uncanny feeling that he'd been watching her while she cleaned.
 
No. That's impossible.
 
Why would he be watching me?
 
Maybe he's checking on her cleaning capabilities like Mrs. Kingsbury. Teja smiles at the silly idea and realizes she feels a great deal warmer than she did when she arrived. She isn't sure if the heat is within the room or within herself.
 
Warmed by his presence.
 
Her ludicrous train of thought elicits another smile. As he's out of the room, she seizes the opportunity to run and fetch the vacuum cleaner. The Mister is at the end of the hall leaning against the wall, all long legs and restless foot-tapping. He is talking into the phone in a low tone, but he watches her as she goes into the kitchen. She carries the vacuum cleaner into the living room to find him back at his desk but still talking on the phone. He rises when he sees her. "Hold on a minute, Parvez. Go ahead," he says to her, and he waves in the direction of the room, granting tejasswi permission to vacuum as he leaves once more. He's undone the black hoodie he's wearing. Underneath she sees a gray V-neck T-shirt that has a black winged coronet and LA 1781 written on it. She flushes as she notices a little chest hair peeking through the top of the V. In her mind she hears her mother's voice scolding her in that tone she has: Tejasswi! What are you doing?
 
I am looking at a man, Mama.
 
A man I find attractive.
 
A man who makes my blood run hotter.
 
She imagines her mother's scandalized expression, and it makes her smile.
 
Oh, Mama, it's so different here in England. Men. Women. How they behave. Their interaction.
 
Alessia's mind goes to a darker place. To him.
 
No. Do not think of that man.
 
She's safe now, here in London with the Mister. And she must concentrate on keeping her job.
 
The vacuum cleaner is a make called Henry. Painted on his red cylinder are two big eyes and a smile. Whenever she sees Henry, she can't help but smile. She plugs him into the wall and begins to vacuum the rug and the wooden floor. Fifteen minutes later she's finished.
 
The Mister is not in the hallway as she pulls Henry back to his sleeping place in the laundry room cupboard. Teja gives him a friendly pat before shutting the cupboard door and heading into the kitchen.
 
"Hi," the Mister says as he comes into the kitchen. "I have to go out. Your money is on the console table. You can lock up and set the alarm?"
 
She nods, so blinded by his broad smile that she has to stare down at the floor. But inside her, joy unfurls like a morning glory because he's leaving and she'll be able to play the piano.
 
He hesitates for a moment before holding out a large black umbrella.
 
"You're welcome to borrow this. It's still raining cats and dogs outside."
 
Cats and dogs?
 
Teja is stunned. She glances quickly at his face, and her heart skips a beat at his warm smile and this generous gesture. She takes it from him. "Thank you," she whispers.
 
"You're welcome. Until Wednesday, tejasswi," he says, and he leaves her alone in the kitchen. A few moments later, she hears the front door close.
 
Teju stares at the umbrella. It's old-fashioned, with a wooden handle and a gold collar. It is exactly what she needs. Marveling at the Mister's generosity, she wanders into the living room and sits down at the piano. She props the umbrella up against the end of the keyboard and in honor of the terrible weather begins to play Chopin's "Raindrop" Prelude.
 
* * *
KARAN KUNDRRA POV
 
I bask and glow in the wake of tejasswi 's whispered "Thank you." I am ridiculously pleased with myself. I'm finally able to help her with this small gesture. I'm not accustomed to doing good deeds-though I probably have an ulterior motive for my kindness, a motive I don't want to analyze too deeply right now, as it might confirm I'm the shallow fucking bastard I think I am. Still, I feel good about this gesture, and it's a novel feeling.
 
With renewed energy I bypass the lift and fly down the main staircase to the ground floor. I'm reluctant to leave, but I have a meeting with Parvez and various contractors at the Mayfair development. Glancing down at my clothes, I hope they don't expect me to arrive in a suit. That's just not my style.
 
No. That was omi's thing, and he had a wardrobe full of bespoke Savile Row suits to prove it.
 
Outside, I dodge the raindrops and hail a cab.
 
"I think that went well," says Parvez. I nod as we walk through the new limestone atrium of one of the rebuilt mansion blocks. Workmen in high-vis jackets and yellow hard hats go about their business around us as we make our way to the boarded front of the building. The dust in the air claws at my throat. I need a drink.
 
"You've got a flair for this, King k. I think the contractor liked your suggestions."
 
"Parvez. It's karan. Please use my name. You used to. Before."
 
"Very good, my lord."
 
"For fuck's sake."
 
"Karan." Parvez gives me a brief smile. "We'll need to get an interior designer to source everything for the show apartment, probably within the next month. I've compiled a list of three that omi liked to use."
 
Omi? Omi was omi. Why can't I be karan?
 
"Anusha might be a good idea," I say.
 
"Oh? Lady queen k?"
 
"My mother suggested her."
 
Parvez bristles.
 
Oh? What does Parvez have against Anusha? Or is he bridling against Rowena? She often has that effect on people.
 
"I'll talk to Anusha, but send me the names of the others and some examples of their work," I respond.
 
Parvez nods, and I remove my hard hat and hand it to him.
 
"Until tomorrow," he says, and pushes open the rickety door of the temporary wooden hoarding that hides the façade of the building.
 
The rain has finally stopped, but it's dark. I pull up the collar of my coat and wait for a cab while I decide whether to go to my club or go home.
 
Walking around the baby grand piano, I think about tejasswi stretched across it while she was buffing the ebony to a glossy shine. It gleams under the chandelier. Who would have thought I'd be so attracted to a woman in a nylon housecoat and large pink panties?
 
How could she have worked her way under my skin in such a short time? I know nothing about her, except she's unlike any woman I've ever met. The women in my life are bold and confident and know what they want and how to ask for it. She's not like that. Demure and totally focused on her job, tejasswi seems reluctant to engage with me...almost as if she wants to be invisible. She confounds me. Her shy acceptance of the umbrella comes to mind and makes me smile. She was so surprised and appreciative, and I wonder what her life must be like that she's so grateful for such a simple gesture.
 
I sit on the piano stool and read through my first manuscript, recalling her face as she pored over the score. Perhaps she reads music. Maybe she even plays. And part of me wants to know what she thinks of my composition. But I realize I'm just speculating. My only certainty right now is the dull ache in my groin.
 
Fuck it. Go out and get laid.
 
But instead I stay at the piano, playing each song over and over in turn.
 
* * *
 
Tejasswi lies on the small folding cot that serves as her bed in a tiny room in Mahek's house. Her mind is churning, she has so much to do-but her thoughts return once again to the brown-eyed Mister. She sees him at the piano. His eyes closed, his brow furrowed, and his mouth slack as he feels the music-and later his warm expression as he hands her the umbrella. His hair rumpled and his full lips curved in an inviting smile. She wonders what they would be like to kiss.
 
Her hand moves down her body, over her breast.
 
He could kiss her here.
 
She gasps, embracing her fantasy, and her hand moves farther down, and she imagines that it's his hand on her.
 
Touching her.
 
Here.
 
She starts to caress herself, stifling her moans, mindful of the thin walls of her room.
 
She thinks of him as her body builds.
Climbing.
 
Higher.
 
His face.
 
His back.
 
His long legs.
 
She climbs further.
 
His taut behind.
 
His flat stomach.
 
She groans as she comes, and, exhausted, she falls asleep.
 
Only to dream of him.
 
* * *
KARAN KUNDRRA POV
 
I toss and turn in my sleep.
She stands in the doorway. A vision in blue.
Come in. Lie with me. I want you.
 
But she turns, and she's in my drawing room. Polishing the piano.
 
She's wearing nothing but pink panties.
I reach over to touch her, but she disappears.
 
And I wake.
 
Fuck
 
I'm hard. Painfully so.
 
Hell. I need to get out more.
 
I take quick care of myself.
 
When was the last time I did this? I need to get laid. Tomorrow. That's what I'll do. I turn over and fall into a fitful sleep.
 
The following afternoon Parvez is taking me through the accounts for each of the estates. Our offices are just off Berkeley Square in a Georgian house that was converted into offices during the 1980s by my father. The building is owned by the king k estate and houses two other companies on the upper floors.
 
I'm trying to concentrate on the numbers we're discussing, but I'm conscious that the door to omi's office is ajar. It's distracting. I cannot bring myself to work in there yet. I can almost hear him talking on the phone or laughing at one of my poor jokes or berating Parvez about some transgression. I half expect him to bound in off the street. He was so at ease in this world and in charge of his domain. He made it look effortless.
 
But I know he envied my freedom.
 
It's okay for you fucking your way through London, Spare. Some of us have to work for a living.
 
I stand over omi's lifeless, fractured body with the A&E doctor.
 
Yes. This is him, I confirm.
 
Thank you, Lord king k, she murmurs.
 
It was the first time anyone had used the title....
 
"So I think we can leave things as they are for the next quarter and then review," Parvez says, dragging me back into the present. "Though you should really go and visit the estates."
 
"Yes. I should."
 
At some point...
 
I am only vaguely aware of the recent history of the three estates, but I know that through the good stewardship of my grandfather, my father, and my brother all of them are profitable. Unlike many of our peers, the Trevelyans are not struggling for money.
 
Angwin House, set in the Cotswolds in Oxfordshire, is thriving. Open to the public, it has a vast garden center, a children's jungle gym and petting zoo, a tearoom, and open pastures for the general public to enjoy. Tyok in Northumberland is rented out lock, stock, and barrel to a rich American who fancies himself a lord. Omi and Parvez often speculated as to why he hadn't bought his own stately home, and now I'm wondering the same. Tresyllian Hall in Cornwall, on the other hand, is one of the largest organic farms in the United Kingdom. (Guy imagin kk's father name here as I don't know his name 😅🥺), my father, the eleventh Earl of king k, had pioneered organic farming while all his contemporaries had sneered at his initiative. More recently, to diversify the king k portfolio and increase revenues, omi had conceived and built a development of luxury holiday houses on the edge of the estate. They are in demand, especially in the summer.
 
"Now, we need to discuss how you intend to use the estates going forward and the level of staffing you'll need."
 
"Oh?"
 
My heart sinks, and I struggle to remain engaged as Parvez drones on. My mind wanders. Tomorrow tejasswi will be back. She's the only staff member I'm interested in at the moment, and for all the wrong reasons. This morning's punishing workout in the gym has done little to lessen my fascination with her.
 
I'm enthralled, and I don't even know the girl.
 
My phone buzzes, and I have a text from anusha. As I read her words, my scalp tingles and my throat tightens.
 
I'm not pregnant. :'(
I have nothing of Kit's.
Not even his child.
 
Shit! My grief rises from nowhere, ambushing me.
 
"Parvez, we're going to have to call it a day. Something's come up."
 
"Yes, sir," Parvez responds. "Tomorrow?"
 
"Yeah. Why don't you come to the flat tomorrow, midmorning?"
 
"Will do, my-karan."
 
"Good. Thank you."
 
I type out a reply to anusha.
 
I'm coming over.
 
No. I want to go out.
Let's get drunk.
 
OK. Where?
 
Are you home?
 
No. At the office.
 
Okay. I'll join you in town.
 
Loulou's?
 
No. Soho House.
Greek Street.
I'll know fewer people.
 
I'll see you there.
 
The private members' club is crowded, but I manage to find a table on the second floor near the blazing fire. I prefer the intimacy of 5 Hertford Street, which I consider my club-but I'm a member of Soho House, too-as is anusha. I take a seat, and I don't have to wait long before she appears. She looks tired, and sad, and thin. Her mouth is turned down and her eyes clouded and puffy. Her blond bob is dull and unkempt, and she's dressed in jeans and a sweater. Omi's sweater. This is not the effervescent anusha I know. My heart aches as she approaches. I see my own grief engraved on her face.
 
I stand but say nothing as she walks into my arms, and I hold her close.
 
She sniffles.
 
"Hey," I whisper against her hair.
 
"Life's shit," she murmurs.
 
"I know." I hope my tone is soothing. "Do you want to sit? If you sit facing me, no one will see that you're upset."
 
"Do I look that bad?" She sounds offended, though a little amused. It's a glimpse of the Anusha I know. I kiss her forehead.
 
"Never, darling nushi."
 
She shrugs out of my hold. "You charmer," she grumbles, though I can tell she isn't angry. She sits down in the velvet chair facing me.
 
"What would you like to drink?"
 
"A Soho Mule."
 
"Good choice."
 
I signal the waiter and order.
 
"You've been a recluse this weekend," Anusha says.
 
"I've been busy."
 
"On your own."
 
"Yes," I say, and it feels good not to lie.
 
"What is it, Karan?"
 
"What do you mean?" I give her a level I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-about stare.
 
"Have you met someone?" she asks.
 
What the hell!
 
I blink as an image of tejasswi stretching over my piano and wearing nothing but pink panties comes to mind.
 
"You have!" anusha says, startled.
 
I shift in my seat and shake my head. "No." My denial is emphatic.
 
Anusha raises a brow. "You're lying."
 
Fuck. Not emphatic enough.
 
"How can you tell?" I ask, as ever daunted by her ability to cut through my bullshit.
 
"I couldn't, but you always cave so easily. Tell me."
 
Damn!
 
"There's nothing to tell. I spent the weekend alone."
 
"That speaks volumes in itself."
 
"nushi, we're each dealing with omi's absence in our own way."
 
"And...what are you not telling me?"
 
I sigh. "Do you really want me to talk about this?"
 
"Yes," she says, and I notice the wicked gleam in her eye, reminding me that the real anusha is not far away.
 
"There is someone. But she doesn't know I exist."
 
"Seriously?"
 
"Yes. Seriously. It's nothing. Just a flight of fancy."
 
Anusha frowns. "This is not like you. You're never distracted by one of your, um...conquests."
 
I can't help my hollow laugh. "She's not a conquest-not by any stretch of my imagination."
 
She can barely look at me!
 
The waiter arrives with our drinks.
 
"When did you last eat?" I ask.
 
Anusha shrugs, and I shake my head. "You must be driving Mrs. Blake crazy. Let's eat. May we have the menu?" I ask the waiter, who nods and scuttles away.
 
I raise my glass to hers. "To absent loved ones." I hope we can change the subject.
 
"To omi," she whispers, and we smile sadly at each other, bonded by our love for the same man.
 
It is two o'clock in the morning when we return, inebriated, to my flat. Anusha is reluctant to go home. I don't want to go. It's not home without omi.
 
I cannot argue with her.
 
We both stagger into the hallway, and I enter the code into the alarm, silencing the incessant beeping.
 
"Do you have any blow?" Anusha slurs.
 
"No. Not today."
 
"What have you got to drink?"
 
"I think you've had enough."
 
She gives me a crooked, drunken smile. "Are you taking care of me?"
 
"I'll always take care of you, nushu. You know that."
 
"Then take me to bed, Karan." She throws her arms around my neck, her face raised with blurry expectation and her unfocused eyes intent on my mouth.
 
Fuck. I grab her shoulders to hold her back. "No. I'll put you to bed."
 
"What do you mean?" anusha scowls.
 
"You're intoxicated."
 
"And?"
 
"Anusha. This has to stop." I kiss her forehead.
 
"Why?"
 
"You know why."
 
Her face crumples, and tears well in her eyes as she staggers out of my hold.
 
I groan. "Don't. Please don't cry." I pull her back into my embrace. "We can't do this anymore."
 
Since when have scruples stopped me fucking?
 
I was supposed to go out tonight and find a willing hot woman.
 
"Is this because you've met someone?"
 
"No."
 
Yes.
 
Maybe.
 
I don't know.
 
"Come on, I'll put you to bed." I curl my arm around her shoulders and lead her into my seldom-used spare bedroom.
 
At some point in the night, the mattress dips as anusha climbs in beside me. Relieved that I remembered to put on pajama bottoms, I pull her into my arms.
 
"Karan," she whispers, and I hear the invitation in her voice.
 
"Go to sleep," I grumble, and close my eyes.
 
It doesn't matter to me that she was my brother's wife. She's my best friend and the woman who knows me best. She's also a warm body and a comfort, and I'm grieving, too-but I'm not going to fuck her again.
 
No. That's done.
 
She rests her head on my chest, and I kiss her hair and promptly fall asleep.
 
------------------------------------------------------------------
 
So yeah that's it for now now now let's see what happen on tejrans next meet
 
and also guess who is the blue eye guy think think!!!
 
Xoxo