‘Social butterfly that he is,’ said a puce Della, still on the dance floor.
‘Is he coming back?’ Maddy asked, her voice flat to her own ears.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Della, pressing the heel of her hand to her dripping forehead. ‘He said he’d asked your papa to take me home. Now, are we going to find you someone else to dance with?’
Maddy wasn’t sure she had it in her. Her feet suddenly felt too sore in her tight slippers, the heat oppressive.
When her mother came over not long after, telling her that she was going home, but that Richard would bring Maddy and Della later, Maddy found herself saying that if Alice didn’t mind, she’d go with her now.
‘Really?’ said Alice, visibly surprised.
Maddy could hardly blame her. She was rather surprised herself. She did, after all, normally avoid being alone with her mother whenever possible. Those awful silences …
But, ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m ready, I think.’
She was. And even though one of the usual silences stretched for almost the entire journey home (tense, entirely uncompanionable), for once, the awkwardness didn’t bother her. Or at least, not as much. As the chauffeur drove them through the dark, tree-lined streets of Bombay’s centre, past the sandstone telegraph office, the grand British municipality buildings, the hidden alleyways where families lived ten to a room, jammed together in this city that never stopped and had more people than space, she stared sightlessly into the musty breeze, replaying his wave over and over again.
So lost was she in her reverie, it took her longer than it should have to realise that Alice was looking at her, an expectant expression on her shadowed face.
‘Sorry,’ said Maddy, ‘did you say something?’
‘I asked if Guy found you,’ Alice said.
‘Guy?’ said Maddy stupidly.
‘He was looking for you,’ said Alice.
‘I didn’t speak to him all night.’
‘I think he wanted to dance.’
‘He didn’t say,’ said Maddy.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘A shame,’ said Alice.
‘Yes,’ said Maddy.
So polite, both of them.
There was a short pause.
Maddy, thinking that must be it, turned, ready to resume her vigil of the black streets.
But, ‘Did you enjoy the fireworks?’ Alice asked.
‘I did,’ said Maddy, guarded now. Had Alice seen her, out there on the terrace? Seen him?
If she had, she gave no sign. ‘You used to love them,’ was all she said, ‘when you were little.’
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Maddy. She’d been so young when she left, not even eight; there was so much that was hazy. ‘I remember Bonfire Night, in Christchurch Meadows—’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Alice, cutting her off.
It was her short tone, the look in her blue eyes. Maddy realised too late that it had, of course, been a mistake to mention Oxford. She felt like she should apologise.
But before she could, Alice leant forward, tapped the driver on his shoulder and told him to hurry along.
Another silence followed. Maddy couldn’t ignore this one, or the set of Alice’s slight shoulders beneath her shawl. She tried to think of something to say that might soften the new tension, but when she tentatively reopened the subject of the fireworks, asking, ‘Did we watch them here, in Bombay?’ Alice’s forehead pinched. ‘It really doesn’t matter, Madeline,’ she said.
Maddy was relieved when they finally left the city behind and started the gentle coastal climb to the quieter, leafy roads of Malabar Hill, where so many British lived. Her parents’ own villa – a cream three-storeyed mansion that was as beautiful as it was lonely, with wide verandas, balconies at every window, and palm-fringed lawns – was one of the largest, towards the top of the hill. She rested her head against the window, eyes blurring on the still sea below – invisible, but for the reflection of the moon, the stars – and waited to be back there. It didn’t take long; free of any traffic, they sped past the other lantern-lit villas nestling in the jungle foliage, the odd late-night rickshaw, then slowed, pulling through the villa’s iron gates, along the curved driveway. Alice sighed as they drew to a halt, apparently happy to be home too. Maddy wasn’t sure who, of the two of them, was out of the motor first. Neither of them paused for more than a brief goodnight before taking the candles left in the porch and heading to their rooms.
Maddy closed her door, leant back against it, and exhaled. At last. Crossing over to her bed, she set her candle down, drew back the folds of her mosquito net, and fell on the soft mattress. Outside, the cicadas clacked, the trees shivered. She pressed her hand to her ribcage, feeling the give of her corset, and closed her eyes. The instant she did, she saw him there again, on the promenade, as though he’d been waiting, just beneath the film of her subconscious.
Why had he left like that, so quickly, without a word?
Ridiculous, probably, that she was thinking of him as she was, when he had.
And yet … that wave.
Was he thinking of her too?
Her mind was still whirring when she woke the next morning, a pink dawn breaking through the shutters.
She rolled over, listening to the peacocks call in the garden, the repetitive swoosh of someone sweeping the veranda below. It was early, too early to be awake; she could tell from the muted light, the heaviness in her warm body. She stared through the rose-tinted veil of her mosquito net, considered trying to get back to sleep, then, knowing she’d never be able to, pushed herself up, dressed, and crept quietly downstairs.
Breakfast was already laid out in the shade of the veranda awning: freshly cut fruits beneath a fly net, sliced banana loaf, soft rolls from the local bakery, and bowls of creamy curd, honey and pistachio nuts. Beyond, on the lawn, the peacocks strutted territorially, safe, for the moment, from the gardener’s children who would chase them later, trying to steal feathers from their tails.
Maddy slipped into one of the wicker chairs, poured herself a steaming coffee, and, realising how hungry she was (she’d steered clear of the curry puffs the night before: the Christmas turkey … ), helped herself to the banana loaf, a roll and some honey.
She’d just taken her first mouthful when Ahmed, the same bearer who kept her supplied with cigarettes, appeared through the drawing room doors, dressed in a pristine white tunic, a paper package in his hands.
‘Memsahib,’ he said.
He always called her that, even though she wasn’t married, and had asked him countless times to use her name instead.
She did it again now. ‘It’s Maddy,’ she said, swallowing, ‘please. Honestly, I keep thinking you must be talking to someone else.’
He smiled (as he always did), then said, ‘Memsahib,’ again, and held out the package. ‘This is coming for you.’
‘Me?’
His head wobbled.
She reached for it, assuming it must be from England, although couldn’t think who would have sent it. Aunt Edie, who had very little money left these days, had already posted talc for Christmas; Maddy’s old college friends had clubbed together and sent a care package (fruit cake, custard powder, cocoa and a box of Jacob’s High Class Biscuits). Had Uncle Fitz remembered her? Had he really thought she’d want him to?