‘It’ll get easier,’ said Della.
Maddy exhaled smoke, making a haze of the stars. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘of course it will.’ It wasn’t too hard to believe, not on a night like this, well away from her silent days with Alice in the villa, and with music playing above, children laughing below. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I have it on good authority that it takes at least a year to feel settled in a place.’
‘Whose?’
‘My father’s.’
‘Excellent,’ said Della. ‘Peter would approve.’
Maddy smiled. Then, keen to move the conversation on, said, ‘How was your Christmas?’
‘Ripping,’ said Della, and went on to give an account of the trip she’d convinced Peter not to tell their parents she’d booked for herself – an organised tour of the waterways of Kerala; so many sunsets, visits to bankside villages and freshly caught fish cooked over coals each night. It did all sound quite ripping.
‘You lucky thing,’ said Maddy. ‘Cocktails at the Gymkhana Club was about as adventurous as our Christmas got. Although,’ she said, ‘Cook did curry the turkey for lunch.’
‘How very native,’ said Della.
‘Honestly,’ said Maddy, tapping her cigarette, ‘I think it was more about disguising the taste of the meat.’ No one had had any idea of how long the unfortunate bird had been waiting, plucked and ready at the market. They’d all been poorly afterwards. (‘Par for the course,’ Richard had said over dried crackers and tonic the next day. ‘I’m only ever one of Cook’s curries away from my ideal weight.’ ‘Richard,’ Alice had said, ‘really.’)
‘Did you see much of Guy?’ Della asked.
Maddy groaned. ‘Not this again.’
‘Come on, tell me, do,’ said Della.
‘Della, he’s like my uncle.’
‘A very attentive uncle.’
Maddy made no reply, hoping the look she shot Della would be enough to put her off.
Which of course it wasn’t. ‘I quite like the idea of an older man, you know,’ Della said. ‘And Guy does it so well. Rather heavenly, if you ask me.’
‘No one is asking you.’
‘A surgeon, too. Think what he can do with his—’
Maddy kicked her.
‘Ouch.’ Della laughed, reached for her shin. ‘Fine, I’ll stop.’
‘Thank God.’ Maddy flicked her cigarette out to sea, and looked back, up towards the club, the drifting music of the ragtime band. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked.
‘We probably should,’ said Della. ‘I’m starting to worry Peter might have gone home after all to fetch me.’
Peter hadn’t gone home to fetch her. (‘What a rotter,’ breathed Della.) He was still outside, drinking at one of the round tables with his usual crowd. Maddy recognised nearly all of them from evenings and weekends spent at the city’s various clubs; the Bombay social scene was as small as it was hectic. She’d danced with most of them that night. There was only one there she didn’t know: Peter’s friend. He sat just back from the table, his face hidden from the glow of the flickering lanterns. Unlike all the other men, he wasn’t in evening suit, just trousers and a shirt, a linen jacket. It made Maddy look twice, wonder afresh who he was.
He turned, as though sensing her curiosity. She flushed, feeling caught out, and switched her attention to Peter, who stood as she and Della approached.
‘Della Wilson,’ Peter said. ‘I don’t even want to know that you were just down there smoking.’
‘I—’ began Della.
‘No, I insist you don’t tell me. That way I won’t have to lie again when our mother wires to ask how you’re behaving.’ He shot Maddy a despairing look. ‘I’ve never told so many lies in my life.’
Maddy laughed, a little self-consciously; she had the strongest sense the man in the linen jacket was still looking at her, probably wondering why she’d been staring at him.
‘I was going to say,’ retorted Della, ‘that I can’t believe you just left me at the villa.’
‘I knew you’d be all right.’
‘I might still be there. I could have missed the whole party.’
‘And yet,’ Peter said, ‘here you somehow are. Maddy, come here.’ He reached forward to kiss her still-flushed cheek. ‘You’re very warm,’ he said.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You need champagne,’ he said, and turned to the table in search of a bottle. ‘Any New Year resolutions?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t thought,’ Maddy said.
‘Untrue,’ said Della. ‘You’re going to try and not be homesick.’
‘But that’s no good,’ said Peter, handing them both brimming glasses.
Maddy had to ask. ‘Why not?’
‘Because resolutions never stick,’ he said.
‘That’s rather negative,’ she said, and, from the corner of her eye, caught the turn of the stranger’s head. He was still too far back for her to see him properly; she more felt than saw his smile.
‘Just candid,’ said Peter. ‘They really never do.’
‘Well,’ she said, one eye on his friend (had he smiled?), ‘since it’s not really my resolution, perhaps it will.’
‘That,’ said Della, ‘makes no sense whatsoever.’
‘A truth,’ agreed Peter. ‘However,’ he raised his drink, ‘since it’s New Year, let’s forget Maddy said it, and drink up. Oh, look,’ he said, distracted by a pair of Indian waiters circulating the terrace with trays of kebabs, ‘sustenance. I’ll be back. Be good now … ’
And with that, he was off.
As he went, Della declared that she was keen to go herself, see how things were inside. A couple of the others at the table protested (‘Stay, have more champagne. Don’t leave us here alone’), but Della was unmoved, and Maddy, finding no reason not to, agreed to press on.
‘Break our hearts, why don’t you?’ an officer called after them as they left.
Confident that no one’s heart was in any real jeopardy, Maddy felt not a mite of guilt. And it wasn’t that officer who she found herself glancing back at, on her way across the muggy, dark terrace. It was the stranger in the linen jacket. She wasn’t sure why she did it, and she wished she hadn’t, because, just as before, he turned, his face a shadow above the white of his clothes, making her look away too quickly, and feel foolish all over again.
‘Who was that?’ she asked Della, talking through her embarrassment.
‘Who was who?’
‘That man,’ Maddy said. ‘The one Peter brought from the Taj.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Della, looking over her shoulder. ‘Why? Was he there?’
‘Yes,’ said Maddy, then, before he could see Della trying to spot him, ‘it doesn’t matter.’
It didn’t, of course.
‘Typical of Peter not to make introductions,’ said Della.
‘I suppose,’ said Maddy. Then, as they carried on, back into the humming ballroom, the light, music and laughter, she let the stranger slip once more from her mind.