One Indian Girl(32)

‘So they’ll think I made up my boyfriend.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Bye.’

‘So should I come in an hour or not?’

‘Don’t. Drink with your backstabbing colleagues. It’s okay. Bye.’

I hung up. I picked up a glass of champagne and knocked it down bottoms up. Jonathan noticed me.

‘Someone doesn’t like to go slow and savour their French bubbly,’ he said.

‘Hey, Jonathan,’ I said.

‘Craig told me your boyfriend is coming. Is he here? Would love to say hi.’

‘He’s stuck at work, sadly.’

‘Oh, that’s unfortunate. What does he do?’

I don’t know what the fuck he does, I wanted to say in reflex. His not showing up, the four glasses of champagne and my realization I wasn’t as pretty as Amanda had all added to my frustration. I took a deep breath to compose myself.

‘He works in advertising. On Madison Avenue,’ I managed to say.

‘Oh, nice. The creative type.’

‘I guess.’

‘The banker and the creative. Interesting combination.’

‘Yeah. . .where’s your wife?’

He introduced me to Clara, who told me she couldn’t believe how hard we all worked.

Forty-five minutes later the crowd frittered away from Harry’s. In smaller groups, people left for their own respective dinner plans. I had none. I walked out into the freezing cold and tried to find a cab. I couldn’t, given it was Friday night. I walked into the subway and looked at my phone. Debu had not called or messaged. Dizzy with alcohol, I realized I had not eaten anything for a long time. I came out of the train station. On the walk home, I picked up a pizza slice for myself from a small takeaway deli. Even in my incoherent state, I wondered if that idiot Debu had eaten dinner. I packed another slice for him, just in case.

I reached home. Debu was sitting on the sofa, hypnotized by ESPN.

‘What the. . .you are here?’ I said. He stood up and came forward to help take away the pizza boxes and my handbag. I removed my winter coat and placed it on the hanger.

‘I just arrived. Ten minutes ago. Honest,’ he said.

‘You ate dinner?’ I said.

‘No, not really. Just some bar snacks.’

‘Come, let’s eat. I got pizza,’ I said.

‘Thanks, baby.’

‘Don’t “baby” me. Just eat.’

‘What? You upset? Everything okay?’

Is he a moron to ask?

I didn’t respond. We sat facing each other at our small white dining table in the living room. I took out the pizza slices from the boxes and put them on plates. Strings of molten cheese hung from slices.

‘Looks yummy,’ he said.

I looked at the cheesy pizza slice and thought of Amanda. I bet she doesn’t eat this stuff. No wonder she looks like she does. My anger multiplied at the thought of eating this calorie-bomb dinner. I pushed my plate away.

‘What, baby?’ Debu said, mouth stuffed with food.

‘I am not hungry.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t eat this. Too fattening.’

‘You only bought it, baby.’

‘Yeah, because I am stupid. Okay? And stop calling me “baby”.’

Debu put his pizza slice down.

‘Listen, I know you are upset. I didn’t come to your party. But I had a really rough day.’

‘So it is about you now?’ I said.

‘They took me and two of my juniors off the Under Armor account.’

‘What? How?’ I said. ‘That was your account!’

‘I told you. Politics. They called it a reshuffle. However, they stole it from me.’

‘It all happened today?’

‘They announced it today. But they had plotted against me for months. All planned.’

‘Sorry to hear that. You still have other good accounts, right?’

‘I am fucked.’

I didn’t know what to say. He had told me about the politics in his group for months. The initial excitement Debu had had about working in advertising had disappeared. Many in his team often excluded him from client meetings, a worrying sign.

‘What were you doing outside the office then?’ I said.

‘I was with my people. Trying to figure out what happened.’

‘Did you?’

‘They fucked me. What is there to figure out?’

‘So you could have come for my office party instead of a drink with the boys after work.’

‘Radhika, is your office party all you care about?’

‘No. But I am wondering if you care about me at all.’

‘What do you mean? So I didn’t come to a stupid banker thing. Big deal.’

I stood up and slammed my fist on the table.

‘It was not a stupid banker thing. It was my thing. I got a huge bonus this week. This was the celebration. I wanted you to meet my team. I wanted them to meet you. Don’t you get it?’

‘Sit down. Can we eat dinner?’ he said.

‘I don’t want to eat,’ I screamed.

‘Don’t throw a tantrum. Are you drunk?’

‘No,’ I said.