Chilli Heat Page 2

  She’s holding up her hair now, and pouting at herself in the mirror, then trying out different smiles, and it makes me want to cry to see her. For whose benefit is all this? I wonder. I wish she’d just stop messing around and come to bed. This is driving me nuts.

  I’m just about to sit up and tell her as much when she seems to come to a decision. Turning around she takes her one dress – a flowery affair she bought from M&S just before we left – and slips into it. Her sandals are next, and then she grabs the room swipe, opens the door and, before I can say anything, is gone.

  I sit up and look after her. Where in God’s name has she gone, this late and in a city in which she doesn’t know a soul? I debate inwardly whether to go after her, but reason that she’s a woman in her 40s and doesn’t need her daughter to watch over her. But suddenly I’m wide awake, and I doubt I’ll find sleep until I know she’s back and tucked up in bed.

  4

  I PAUSE IN the doorway of the bar, sure he’ll be able to see my hands trembling, see my pulse throbbing in my throat. The booze is wearing off, and I wish I’d helped myself to a little something from our minibar before leaving the bedroom to steady the nerves. But I didn’t want to disturb Nadia, didn’t want her to know what I was doing. Perhaps I should have left her a note – she’ll worry if she wakes up and I’m not there. But if I go back now I’m worried the fear will overwhelm me and I won’t come back again.

  Charles turns on his bar stool, looks expectantly towards the door, and raises a hand in salute. I walk over to him, as slowly as I can, holding in my tummy. If I’d had my whole wardrobe at my disposal, I’d have come up with something more flattering than this sundress, but I didn’t pack for evenings in glam bars. And this is one glam bar, with its stunning glass dome. I feel like I’m in a film.

  Charles rises to meet me, a cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry I took so long,’ I say, and I wince as I think of myself standing in front of the mirror in my bra and knickers, jiggling my spare flesh in disgust. Not having deviated from the same partner in 25 years made me, I realised as I studied my reflection, largely oblivious to the way time was leaving its traces on my body. And Ravi was so fond of his creamy curries, the calories just piled on over the years.

  But I force myself to stop thinking about all that as I return Charles’s frank gaze. This man is interested in me; either that, or he’s using me to kill time, or to take the edge off his loneliness, at least for an hour or two. I doubt it, though: I may have been out of the loop for a quarter-century, but I remember the look in a man’s eyes when he wants you. A lot of men wanted me, before Ravi. Some of them had me, but then Ravi stole my heart and my days of sexual conquest were over. Until now, perhaps.

  I return Charles’s gaze. Remembering the antics of my late teens has dissolved my nervousness, made me feel brazen, and suddenly I don’t want a drink, don’t want to dull my feelings with alcohol. The pants I’ve just put on are already sodden, and inside them my sex is throbbing a little, beating like a little heart. It’s something I haven’t felt in so long, I can barely contain myself.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ says Charles, not taking his eyes from mine. On his lips there’s a light but ironic smile, as if he knows full well what’s going on in my knickers, what thoughts are playing themselves out in my mind. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to forget the drink, to remind him that we are adults and don’t need to go through this charade, but he’s already turning to the barman, ordering himself another whisky sour.

  ‘And for my companion …’

  ‘I’ll have another martini,’ I say and look round for a discreet corner in which we can tuck ourselves. But Charles is quickly at my shoulder.

  ‘How about outside?’ he says, pointing. I nod and let him lead the way, and he takes me out onto an open-air terrace with heart-stopping views over the ocean.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, and then I remember I’m supposed to be a worldly, well-travelled fashion designer. ‘Is this table OK for you?’ I ask, feigning an urbane disinterest.

  He nods and sits down on one of the deep white sofas, patting the space next to him to indicate where he wants me to sit. A waiter appears beside us with our drinks on a tray. We say nothing as he carries out the ritual of placing the coasters on the table, standing the drinks on top of them, laying out the nibbles and lastly putting down the bill in its sleek black-leather folder. All the while I am aware of Charles’s eyes on me, and I look studiously out to sea, as if lost in my own thoughts, as if oblivious to the desire of this attractive American.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says at last, and I lean forwards, pick up my glass and raise it to him. We drink, holding each other’s gaze, and then Charles sits back, looks at me appraisingly.

  ‘So, you’re in fashion, you say?’

  I nod, wanting to change the subject. I hate lies, the way they spawn still more lies, once you’ve set the chain in motion. I wish I’d simply stuck to the truth – that I’m a tourist. But I was afraid of boring him, by not having a defined role in life, beyond that of mother, of course.

  ‘And you?’ I say to change the subject.

  ‘Software,’ he says. ‘The Indians are leading the field, in many ways, so I decided to ride on their coat-tails, as it were. I started my own business a couple of years back, after leaving Microsoft.’

  I nod again, but I couldn’t be less interested. The martini is making me woozy, and I’ve suddenly remembered that I’ll be prey to the effects of jetlag too. If I don’t act quickly, I’ll find myself passing out before we’ve made it back to his room. I lean forwards, affording Charles an ample view of my cleavage, take the olive from my glass and jab at it with my tongue, not taking my eyes from him.

  That’s all it takes. A moment later I feel his foot against my calf under the table, and I realise that he’s slipped his shoe off. His foot advances in a sock so soft it must be made of cashmere, and I hold my breath as it travels over my bare flesh from my knee to my inner thigh. Then he presses it against my sex, and as he does so he gasps: he must have felt how wet and ready I am for him. I’m swooning back on the sofa now, my sex pulsing as he inches his foot over and, with bent toes, pulls back the fabric of my knickers. I look wildly around, checking that nobody is looking, but we are alone on the terrace now, cooled by the winds coming in off the Arabian Sea.

  Charles has leant forwards now, and is delving under my skirt. Pulling back his leg, he replaces his foot with his hand, then parts my folds with his thumb and index finger, pinning them back like a butterfly’s wings, and shoots his remaining three fingers inside me. He lets out a moan as I open up and swallow him like a mouth. It’s been so long since I’ve wanted something this much, I feel like I might go out of my mind with it.

  Looking up to check that we are still alone, Charles moans and saws his hand in and out of me. Already I can feel the intimations of my climax, like water rising. I tilt my head back, and he leans forwards and covers my exposed neck with kisses. I am grateful to him for that: overwhelmed by my appetite, I had forgotten the social niceties. To have carried out these acts on each other’s bodies without any display of tenderness would have left us feeling cheap, and perhaps a little sordid, afterwards.

  I clutch his shoulder with one hand, raise my head to kiss him on the mouth, and then he leans back a little and I watch as he unzips the trousers of his elegant suit and releases himself. Now he’s tugging at his cock, eyes half closed, more moans escaping from his lips, the rhythm of his left hand obeying that of his right one still inside me. It’s at this moment that we both lose it and, as my orgasm floods up and engulfs me, he increases the pace. Through the contractions inside me I feel the warm jelly of him rain down on me, on my thighs and my pussy. Then he falls forwards on to me, where I lie on the sofa. He’s laughing a little, and I laugh too. He looks down at my face and says, ‘Shall we go somewhere a little more private?’

  We’re in his room – of course, we couldn’t go back to mine, and in fact
I decided to disclose to him in the lift that I’m travelling with my daughter. I’ve only booked us in for tonight, but if we end up staying longer, and if Charles is staying on too, my little factual omissions will definitely come back to haunt me.

  He doesn’t say much – merely remarks that I’m lucky to have a good relationship with my child. He confesses that he barely sees his own, but I sense with that comment he considers that particular conversation closed. In any case, the lift doors are opening, saving him from any prying that I might have been tempted to indulge in, and in a moment he’s swiping his card and pushing open the door, standing back to gesture me in ahead of him.

  ‘What a gent,’ I say with a smile, and then I gaze around his corner suite, which makes our room look positively humdrum. It is not only up a few degrees in luxury, but has a curved wall and incredible views over the ocean. Not that Charles must spend much time appreciating the scenery – a laptop is open on the marble desktop, and in the ashtray beside it I see a half-smoked cigar. Happily, Charles doesn’t seem to notice how impressed I am by it all, striding over to the sideboard to fill a glass for me. He turns back to hand me a large gin and tonic.

  ‘Bath?’ he says, and when I smile and nod, he invites me to sit down again while he calls his butler.

  Ten minutes later, the bath drawn, the butler gone, my g and t finished, Charles leads me into the bathroom, all black marble with cream striations, where a deep tub awaits me, the surface of the water strewn with rose petals. It’s all I can do not to laugh – where, a couple of hours ago, my daughter was trying to check us into a dingy hostel, now I find myself in the bathroom of some swanky suite, in the company of a man so pointlessly rich it makes my head spin.

  Charles has stepped up behind me, is nuzzling my nape with his mouth as he slips my sundress off my shoulders, taking playful little nips of my skin. As my dress falls away from me, I turn, wrap my arms around his neck and pull his face towards mine. At once his hands move down to my breasts, cup them, palpate them. At first he’s gentle, but as I feel his need rising, the crush of his groin against me, he intensifies his grip, and with his thumbs he works at the buds in the centre of my nipples, alternately pressing and then flicking at them. I strain towards him in response, both pushing my pussy to meet the bulge of his cock through his trousers and taking a good handful of his buttock, pulling him towards me. It’s so long since I’ve felt an urgency of this kind.

  He drops to his knees and slides my knickers down over my hips at the same time, then brings his face to my pussy. I sit back on the rim of the bath for support, opening myself to him, willing him in. For a moment his tongue flicks at my clitoris, tantalising, then he clutches my hips with both hands and shoots his tongue inside me without hesitation. I let out an immense moan of pleasure, and my whole body goes rigid with shock. I look down and my knuckles are white where I’m clutching the edge of the bath so hard.

  But Charles has other plans for me. Taking his mouth away from me, he turns me around and bends me over the bathtub, so that I’m down on my knees too, then prises my cheeks apart with his strong hands. For a moment I feel the bulb of his cock snuffling at me, around my back passage and then further forwards, around my pussy lips and my clitoris. I turn my head to one side, towards the wall at the foot of the bath, which is covered by a vast floor-to-ceiling mirror that’s reflecting our antics back at us in all their Technicolor glory. My instinct is to wince, to grimace at my rampant double in embarrassment: what do you think you’re doing, Valerie Kumar? is the first thought that flits through my mind. But then I notice the glitter in my eyes, the healthy pinkness and sheen to my skin, the ‘O’ of my mouth as I ready myself to take Charles inside me, and I think that I haven’t looked so good, so young, so alive in years.

  And then suddenly, as if he can’t hold back any longer, he’s driving himself inside, yelling out as he does so, as if he’ll come again any minute. I close my eyes and feel my hands grasp at the water, helplessly, as if doing so will anchor me to some kind of reality, but all I catch are handfuls of petals, velvety to my touch, blood red. Then Charles reaches round me with one hand and jiggles my clitoris with a sure and sturdy finger, not letting up even as I beg him to stop, afraid that the orgasm I feel building up is going to tear me asunder. I’m surprised that I have the presence of mind, when it hits me, to reach back through my legs and give his balls a firm squeeze, bringing on a climax that both coincides with mine and equals it in its shattering force.

  For a moment we both lay draped over the side of the bath, hands trailing in the water, his on mine. In my ear his breath is loud, ragged; on my neck I feel its heat. His chest hair feels oddly comforting against my back. For a moment I think guiltily of Ravi, wonder again what he’s doing tonight. But then I force myself to cast him from my mind: I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in years, decades even, and that was partly down to Ravi’s failures. I’m not going to let him intrude on this incredible evening, and whatever else it has in store.

  When Charles finally stirs and stands up, he scoops me up in his arms – a bit like a bride it occurs to me – and lowers me into the bath. He asks me if I’m OK for a drink, and I say I’d love another g and t. Then I lie back in the water and look down at my body, amazed at the pleasures it has afforded me after all this time.

  5

  I WAKE UP, and it’s a shock to see that Mum’s bed hasn’t been slept in. I sit up, panic rising in my chest, and then I remember her behaviour of last night, and I know it would be foolish to call down to reception and report her missing. She’s somewhere in the hotel, I tell myself; I just hope she knows what she’s doing. She’s far from worldly wise.

  I’ve slept quite late and, not wishing to miss Mum when she returns, I order a cooked room-service breakfast: she can bloody well foot the bill after all she’s put me through, after leaving me alone without any kind of note as to where she might be and when she’ll be back. If I hadn’t spied on her little performance when she came back to the room, or the shenanigans with the underwear, I’d be more concerned than I am. As it is, I have more than an inkling of what she’s up to.

  While I wait for my food to arrive, I bathe and dress, wondering what the day ahead will bring. We’re not scheduled to stay in Mumbai for long, just a night or two while plotting our next move, so Mum and I ought to get out and see the sights – if she’s in any fit state when she does roll in. I’ve heard so much about this extraordinary place: the designer shopping malls and the chaotic bazaars; the stalls selling bhelpuri on Chowpatty Beach; the cages of the red-light district; and the red double-deckers that go nowhere fast, stuck in the infamous traffic jams.

  Over my breakfast and several cups of strong coffee, I flip open my notebook-cum-diary that I bought especially for my trip. In it are lists and lists of things I want to see and do, divided by city and/or region. OK, I admit it – I’m fairly anal where things like this are concerned. But this trip has been the focus of all my energies for so long, I’m afraid of not making the best of it, of bypassing things and then regretting it later.

  I take a pen from the bureau and put a little asterisk by the sights I consider a priority and the secondary attractions I think I might be able to fit in today. I don’t even begin to consider what Mum might like to do; as far as I’m concerned, if she’s not happy, she can go her own way. Already I’m astonished by her selfishness, by the way she seems to have claimed this trip as her own before it’s begun.

  Chewing the end of my pen, I ponder on this for a moment, wondering if I ought to be more lenient on her given the sacrifices she’s made for us over the years. She’s entitled to let her hair down now she’s got the chance, isn’t she? But even as I tell myself this I feel the niggles worming their way back into my thoughts. If I’d pulled the stunt she’s pulled, she’d be furious with me. And there’s no way I’d vanish like this without letting her know where I was, because I know how lost she’d feel in a city she doesn’t know, a country she doesn’t know, amidst strangers.


  At last I get up, thrust my notebook into my little leather backpack – a present from Dad – and head out of the room. If Mum thinks I’m going to spend any more of this precious, longed-for trip waiting around for her, she’s mistaken.

  Within five minutes, I’m caught in the thick of Mumbai’s notorious traffic, terrified but exhilarated. From the back of the rickshaw I caught on Marine Drive, I watch astounded as old London Routemaster buses crawl around corners, so overloaded that the back step almost scrapes along the ground, to the general unconcern of the passengers, who merely cling on and continue to read their newspapers. Cars and decorated trucks honk their horns to no avail, creating a merciless cacophony, and all the while scooters and bicycles dart between, often transporting not two but three or sometimes even four people – Mum, Dad and a couple of kids.

  Before too long, I realise the pointlessness of sitting here motionless, and I pay my driver, adding a tip that I immediately know is way over the odds by the look on his face. Then I walk the short distance to the Gateway of India. I find the colonial landmark a seething mass of humanity: there to cater to all the camera-wielding tourists are snake charmers, balloon sellers and touts of all kinds, giving the place the atmosphere of a bazaar. I take a few photos with my new digital camera – another present from Dad – then I walk up to the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Museum, a gorgeous domed building with British-Gothic overtones. For a couple of hours I lose myself there, amidst the centuries-old statues of oriental gods, the exquisite miniature paintings, many of them showing erotic scenes, and the stunning decorative objects in jade, ivory and more, from daggers to jewel boxes. Afterwards, I walk up to Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, another Gothic building, more reminiscent of a cathedral or a palace than a station. I’ve no plans to catch a train here, but for an hour or so I just wander around, soaking up the atmosphere, looking at the carvings of monkeys, lions, peacocks and gargoyles.