You're Invited(39)

Luckily for me, the answer presented itself in the form of one of the heavily coiffed, sprayed, and lacquered aunties from this morning.

“Amaya, no? Hello, darling,” she called out from her chair, opening her arms to me.

“Hi, Aunty Josephina, how are you?” I matched her energy as I bent over and gave her an air-kiss.

“This is one of Kaavi’s dear friends,” she explained to the other aunties at the table. Her display of happiness was definitely more for their benefit than mine. “She’s flown down from LA for the wedding,” she said in a mock whisper, raising her eyebrows like it was a juicy secret.

“I was in LA last year,” said one aunty with an over-elocuted British accent that most of the older generation had perfected, having grown up during the overlap of colonial Ceylon. “Didn’t like it at all. Quite the madhouse, I tell you.”

I smiled. “It definite—”

“I much prefer London,” she continued, not caring about my views on LA at all. “It’s a madhouse there, too, but at least I’m used to that particular type of madness.” She looked around at the rest of the table, which was their cue to burst into laughter.

“And you know, no matter what, I just can’t understand what those Americans are saying half the time. They are butchering the English language, I tell you. Absolutely butchering it.” Another round of laughter. Sri Lankan aunties have always been more protective of the queen’s English than the queen herself.

The aunties might be vicious, but they are old. I bet they would snap like twigs in my hands if I could just have a try.

“What’s funny, darling?” Aunty Josephina asked, leaning close to me. Her breath smelled rotten.

“Sorry, Aunty?”

“You were smiling to yourself, just now. Is it Aunty Cynthia and her dry jokes?” She giggled to herself and I joined her. She had a piece of something orange stuck in her teeth.

“But I must tell you, that Spencer, he’s not like the rest of those Americans, you know. He’s such a simple fellow.” It took me a second, but I remembered that we use simple over here to mean humble, not simpleminded. To be known as simple, or humble, or down-to-earth, was one of our highest compliments. Even in a crowd that would bust out a different Louis Vuitton for every occasion.

“You know, he even calls Fiona and Nihal Amma and Thaththa. Can you believe it?”

That was directed at the table, which responded with a series of appreciative oohs and aahs.

“I hear he made a few million dollars from his last business venture. Kaavindi is a lucky girl. Not that she needs the money, of course.”

Another round of laughter. The envelope burned in my handbag, but I couldn’t do it here. It would be far too obvious.

“So, Amaya, what about you? Do you also have a handsome American boyfriend?” Like Kaavi said, no one seems to have caught wind of Spencer’s and my past. It surprised me, come to think about it, because information like that usually spread like wildfire.

“No, Aunty. Still waiting for the right guy.” I smiled sadly, as was fitting for an unmarried Sri Lankan woman in her late twenties.

“A pretty girl like you, that’s surprising!”

“Don’t wait too long, ah. You know there are so many complications after you turn thirty.”

“Yes, yes. My—Kusuma’s daughter got married last year. She was thirty-four or thirty-five, I think. They are still trying to conceive, aiyyo. I feel so sorry for the girl. Imagine waiting so long and not being able to have children?”

“That’s what happens when the parents don’t push, no? Kusuma had this ridiculous hands-off approach. Letting her come and go and get married when she pleased. I told her till my mouth hurt, but see, this is what happens.”

They all launched into a tirade against Kusuma and her poor childless daughter while I wondered if I should abandon this table and try somewhere else. It was exhausting enough being around all this gossip as it was. I gave up on my initial reservations and started checking both my phone and my watch, but I kept missing any combinations that would shake away my sense of dread. I should have known this wouldn’t work.

I was just about to excuse myself when Aunty Josephina reached for my hand.

“My dear, do you know where the washroom is?”

“It’s inside, just to the right of the side door.”

I was turning to give her directions when I noticed her necklace—the pendant was two gold bars, one suspended above the other. A horizontal eleven. Finally.

“Shall I show you the way, Aunty?”

She held on to my arm, her clawlike nails digging into my skin, as I guided her out of her seat. Our whole table murmured about what a sweet, polite, well-brought-up young lady I was. I gave them a bashful smile and said it was no trouble at all.

Aunty Josephina and I made it inside the house, and I led the way to the same washroom I had taken refuge in earlier. There was a small end table on the wall opposite the bathroom door, and I stood next to it while I waited for her.

She took her sweet time, and I pinched my inner arms as hard as I could and prepared myself, hoping no one would notice me shaking like a leaf. The air conditioner was turned on inside, and the cool air that was an immediate relief from the balmy outdoors turned cruel and icy very quickly.

Finally, I heard the toilet flush, the sink run, and she emerged.