A Scandalous Secret - Jaishree Misra

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burst of laughter made Neha sit up straight and square her shoulders. She needed to get back to her guests before her absence was noticed. If someone came in search of her, what would they think to see her sitting by herself on the veranda while her party was in full swing? She needed to ensure everyone had eaten, that the dessert tables were elegantly laid out. Rose petals! Had they remembered the rose petals? Neha had this afternoon asked her chef to ensure that pink rose petals were scattered over the pile of kesar kulfi that should by now be melting to a delicious creaminess. The timing had to be just right, the kulfis removed from their metal moulds exactly fifteen minutes before they were served in order to maximize their texture and flavour. But, suddenly, it all seemed so inconsequential, this ridiculous bid for perfection. What had been the point of all this? These famed parties, this stunning mansion, the dream life that she and Sharat seemingly had … perhaps she had been trying to make things look so perfect because she knew that they were not perfect at all …

      Neha looked around herself in a panic, feeling a terrible surging in her stomach, recalling old terrors she had thought were over. For so many years the fear that she would get found out had followed Neha around, infecting everything she had done. It had even caused her to do deliberately badly in the Foreign Service entrance exams, despite her father’s continuing ambitions on her behalf. She had never been able to tell him, but the truth was that she was terrified of finding herself in the kind of job that would have propelled her into the public eye, thus exposing her to someone who may know her secret. All she had wanted then was to to burrow herself into a hole and disappear from public view. What if she was recognized? What if everyone found out what she had done? It was too horrible to even contemplate. But, slowly, as the years had moved on and those events had receded into the distant past, Neha had almost begun to feel as though that life had belonged to a different girl. After all, she had never put a foot wrong subsequently. And then she had met Sharat and, in his shining goodness, Neha had finally found a kind of forgetfulness.

      ‘You and I are of the same type, Neha darling. Thank God we both enjoy people and have the same genuine urge to help humanity … together we should make a beautiful home where our friends and family and, in fact, all kinds of needy people will always find an open door … I feel so grateful that you have agreed to marry me. Not only do I love you but you are my perfect life companion …’

      Neha now closed her eyes as Sharat’s voice chose that moment to float into the veranda. From inside the room, she heard him say something indistinct and she savoured his loud familiar belly laugh as someone responded with a joke.

      Neha got up resolutely and made for the French windows. She would return to her party; pretend that all was well. And all was well for now. She ought to hang on to that, cherish every moment of what she might soon lose. It was strange to be so out of control but, in all the planning and secrecy, the one thing Neha had never considered was that the baby she had given up would grow up and become an independent young woman in her own right. One who would have a mind of her own. And, regardless of all the careful control exerted by Neha, all the covering up of her tracks, one who would set out one day in search of her.

      Chapter Four

      The eighteenth birthday party was to be held in the grounds of an old flour mill on the outskirts of Orpington. There were no houses around for at least a mile and the place had been favoured as a better party venue than both Sonya’s and Estella’s homes because, being so remote, it was the least likely to lead to neighbourly complaints. The party was going to be big too, with almost all of their classmates from Duke High invited, along with several of their boyfriends and girlfriends who went to other schools. Then, Estella’s large brood of cousins from her Italian side had also wanted to come and so, all in all, about fifty teenagers were expected to descend on the mill this weekend. Both sets of parents had been prevailed upon to stay away, a stipulation they had agreed to only on the condition that Bob, the miller who stayed in a cottage on the premises, would be around to ensure that no illegal activities took place. Estella couldn’t help feeling some relief at the thought that she wasn’t entirely in charge. Curmudgeonly old Bob would ensure no prankster got into the mill to do something stupid like scatter flour everywhere or pee into the water wheel.

      Partially to counter the quiet, rustic surroundings, the invitation had specified fancy dress. It was, after all, the last chance to meet before everyone departed for universities all over the country. Estella had decided in her usual pragmatic fashion – and in the interests of her hostessing duties – to be a British Midland air stewardess, having borrowed a uniform from a cousin who was the same size as her. Sonya’s boyfriend, Tim, was going to be Julius Caesar, complete with a plastic bag hidden on his person that would squirt fake blood if anyone attempted to assassinate him. As for Sonya, after much deliberation and wavering between ‘Indian princess’ and ‘Bollywood heroine’, she had finally decided on the former. Sonya had grown increasingly excited as she had put her costume together, borrowing a beautiful sari from Priyal that was a rich turquoise blue with thousands of tiny sequins sewn on. Priyal’s mum had shown her how to wear it, and even helped take the blouse in as Priyal was at least half a stone bigger than Sonya. Quantities of fake gold jewellery had come from a shop in Tooting and, during a practice run with the sari and jewellery, Priyal had looped a gold chain around Sonya’s head so that the large pendant hung down the middle of her forehead. Priyal had then stepped back to take in the full effect and the expression on her face had given Sonya goosebumps. It was more complimentary than any words would ever be. Priyal, who almost never used any compliment stronger than a rather desultory ‘cool’, had shaken her head and let out a low whistle before muttering, ‘Awesome!’ Then, in more typical fashion, she had added, ‘You look like a bloody maharani, mate.’

      To complete the royal look, Sonya had forsaken her customary ponytail and had this evening been to a beauty parlour in town. The stylist had blow-dried her hair into a silky black curtain that hung to her bare midriff, and had also shown her how to apply eyeshadow to accentuate her dark, sweeping brows and large eyes. Back in her bedroom and now in her full regalia, Sonya examined herself in the full-length mirror. The heavy smoky grey eye make-up did indeed make her look very sophisticated, regal almost, even if she said so herself! She did a delighted little twirl, looking coquettishly at herself over her shoulder and pouting suggestively. Was the look more Bollywood heroine or Indian princess? Sonya couldn’t tell. Then her pleasure wavered momentarily as she felt a sudden clutch of nervousness at what Mum and Dad would say when she appeared downstairs looking as over-the-top ‘Indian’ as this. She never liked to rub their noses in the fact that she wasn’t their biological daughter, and choosing this outfit may well be misunderstood, given how anxious they were feeling about her India trip. It was stupid of her not to have thought of it before.

      Her parents were watching The Weakest Link when Sonya floated silently into the living room, trying to be subtle and unobtrusive. She caught sight of her father cocking a glance in her direction before raising a quizzical brow at his wife. ‘I saw that!’ Sonya warned.

      Richard Shaw had the grace to look sheepish. He got up and kissed his daughter on her forehead before holding her by the shoulders at arm’s length. ‘You look beautiful, darling. It’s just that we don’t usually see you with so much make-up on. It makes you look … well … older. Isn’t that right, Laura darling?’ He turned to his wife with a pleading expression on his face. Sonya realized how studiously he’d avoided mentioning the Indian look, even though she had been talking about her planned Bollywood costume for days and it was now staring them in the face. Laura Shaw smiled briefly at Sonya and nodded in appreciation, but she soon returned her gaze to the television screen. Her rather anxious expression made it seem as though far more interesting events were unfolding in the BBC studio than in her own living room.

      Sonya threw her eyes upwards. ‘C’mon, guys, it’s just a fancy dress party, for God’s sake!’ she cried in exasperation. ‘You’d have thought I’d seriously gone native, the way you’re behaving!’

      ‘Don’t be dramatic, darling,’ Richard said, going across to the sideboard in the hall to search for the car keys. ‘You must admit, though, that it’s quite strange seeing you dressed like that, given everything.’

      ‘Given what?’ Sonya asked, flouncing

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