“Everyone has a boyfriend,” Mr. Das said, no longer listening. “Even your goddamn mother. Sorry, I meant, even your lovely mother. Not just his chest, even his shoulders are broad. Do you think he lifts weights?”
Mr. Das twisted around in his chair to look at his ex-wife and her boyfriend again. He raised his glass at them and smiled, and David waved energetically while Radha nodded gently in his direction. Mr. Das swiveled back around and had a large gulp of prosecco.
“You’re being awfully nice,” Tina said. “Are you seeing a therapist?”
“No therapists for me, Tina. Living with your mother all those years was enough. I’m sure her patients get a lot from her but I personally am sick of being analyzed. That’s for David Smith to deal with now.”
“Then why the sudden generosity, Uncle?” Marianne said.
“Marianne, I like that you call me Uncle. You’re an honorary Indian,” he said.
He pulled at his collar.
“It’s hot in here. Is anyone else hot? This turtleneck is giving me a headache. Do either of you have Tylenol in your purse?”
“It’s so hot in here,” Radha said to David at the opposite end of the lounge, near the big windows. She took off her Eileen Fisher black cardigan under which she was wearing a black, sleeveless tunic top over a pair of black leggings. While planning what to wear for the journey, she had googled “best travel outfits” and scrolled through a slideshow of celebrities in airports. How did women travel in such tight jeans and high heels?
“How do I look?” she asked David. She hadn’t had her arms bare outside a beach or a bedroom in nearly two decades and the skin on her shoulder was wrinkled in a way no models in magazines ever wrinkle but it didn’t matter. Let young people waste time worrying about their bodies, their perfect bodies—she was happy with this one, wrinkles and all, especially sitting here right now drinking a glass of wine with David.
“Beautiful,” David said. “Better than anyone else in this entire airport.”
This was exactly why she could never trust David’s compliments. If she had asked Neel the same question, he would have looked at her, really looked at her, and said, “None of us can compete with the youngsters anymore but you look quite good for your age. I don’t know why you always complain about your upper arms—they’re only slightly big for your body.”
But David always took compliments too far—she knew perfectly well that she didn’t look better than young people, and by saying that she did, he undid the compliment. Never mind. The bare arms were not about him, they were about herself. It was what she told all her clients all the time—needing external validation is risky. She glanced quickly at her husband—ex-husband—sitting there talking to their daughter and her best friend. Why was Neel swinging one arm continuously? She noticed the Fitbit on his wrist. Right, his step count.
David, meanwhile, was flipping through a guidebook on India. On the cover there were three poor children smiling and showing teeth so white you’d think they belonged in Hollywood.
“Let’s go sit with Tina and the others,” Radha said to him.
“May we join you?” she asked as they approached Tina, Marianne, and Neel. How silly to be so formal with her own daughter and ex-husband.
“Of course,” Mr. Das said. “Come, come. Have a seat. Nice to see you, David Smith. Radha, I was just telling the girls here that I am following in your footsteps. I have met someone. Well, I have met someone over email and I am about to meet her in person.”
Tina drained the rest of her drink.
“Meera and Rakesh introduced me to this woman in East Delhi who runs a matchmaking agency for widows,” Mr. Das was saying. He turned to David and added, “Meera and Rakesh are Shefali’s parents, David Smith. Meera is my sister. They’re the ones paying for all of our rooms at the club. Yours as well. You probably know that. Anyway, this Mrs. Ray has clients all over Delhi and even the United States and I think maybe Singapore now. And she introduced me to Mrs. Sethi and we’ve been in touch over email these past few months.”
“I have to use the bathroom,” Tina said, and she got up and walked away from the group.
Now her father was going to start dating. And he was discussing it so openly. She stood near the bar and looked back toward her father, still alternately tugging at the neck of his turtleneck and swinging his arm, speaking to her mother and David.
“You aren’t a widow,” Radha said, slightly more softly, perhaps, than she had intended.
“Widower,” David said. “Male widows are called widowers. But there’s so few nobody even uses the right term for them.”
Mr. Das looked over at David and nodded. Smart man.
“He is correct,” Mr. Das said. He lifted his glass in appreciation and continued.
“And you are correct as well, Radha. I am not a widower; you aren’t dead. But there are so few male widowers that Mrs. Ray also works with male divorcés. Not female ones, though, so, Radha, you’re out of luck.”
“It sounds like a scam,” Radha said. “And I have David; I don’t need some strange matchmaker in East Delhi.”
“Of course,” Mr. Das said. “Anyway, this Mrs. Sethi seems absolutely lovely.”
Even though he was playing it cool now, Mr. Das had also been rather surprised when his sister suggested this. But the world was changing, Mr. Das thought. He had been so embarrassed by the idea of divorce at first, thinking Indians didn’t get divorced unless they were academics or artists, but clearly India had been changing behind his back if a widowed woman was running a matchmaking agency for widows and divorcés in Delhi.
Tina came back to the group with another drink and put her full glass down at the edge of the table that was filled with empty dishes and used cutlery and crumpled napkins. The woman clearing up plates and glasses came over to their group to collect the used dishes. She looked from Marianne to David and back to Marianne again and said, “Gosh, don’t you look just like your father. Lovely.”
“He isn’t my father,” Marianne said.
The woman ignored her, picked up the used plates and glasses, and said, “It’s nice to see families traveling together. You have a nice trip.”
“I suppose I do look a bit like you, David,” Marianne said to break the silence.
“God this turtleneck is tight,” Mr. Das said. “Radha, you were wise to wear a sleeveless top. It looks decent too.”
“I really hope the flight isn’t delayed much longer,” Marianne said. “I’ll go check.”
She got up and walked toward the front desk to check the flight status. Poor Tina was going to have an exhausting week ahead. Marianne called Tom. He didn’t answer. She checked the flight status—there were no further delays—and then tried again. He answered groggily, “What’s wrong?”