The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(45)

“What?”

“Nothing. I’ve watched a few Rehaan Virani movies.”

“Your . . .” She bit her tongue. Your daughter likes Rehaan Virani, too. Exhaustion and alcohol were not a good mix.

“My what?” He refilled her glass and his own.

“Your place still looks the same.”

“That wasn’t what you were about to say.” He rose and left the room.

Those were his habitual words, too, from long ago when she used to trip up while trying not to talk about the money she was making off Shetty’s assignments. She’d wanted to tell him she could finally save up for acting classes and gym memberships—but was afraid he might interfere.

She had never spoken about herself, not even when he asked. Sundays used to be the one untroubled portion of her life in Mumbai—she had no desire to complicate them. It was dangerous to let people get close to you. It gave them power and Arnav already held all the power in the relationship. She could not hope to scale the many rungs on the social ladder between a policeman and a bar dancer.

She’d spent most of their time together either cleaning up Arnav’s home, tinkering in the kitchen, or in his bed, luxuriating in the way he massaged her shoulders, her sore legs and feet. He didn’t pay her to spend time with him, buying her random gifts instead: clothes and perfume, costume jewelry, magazines. As a bar girl she was supposed to have pushed him for more. She had not.

She remembered preening under his attention, his hands across her stomach as she hovered over him.

“You’re working out?” he’d asked.

He understood muscles, abs, knew the work they took. She’d returned the gesture on his washboard stomach, tickling him into a wide grin, thinking he’d have made a good movie hero. His chin and nose were too sharp, but his gentle smile and square jawline balanced them out. The director would have asked him to shave off his mustache.

“You should try acting.” The words had burst out of her before she could stop them. “You have a nice body.”

He chuckled. “Really?” He’d tweaked her nose. “Pagli.”

She liked these nicknames he gave her. Being called a nerd was better than the other names, like Queen Bee and Honey Baby, that the middle-aged patrons of the Blue Bar yelled at her.

“Come here, Pagli.” The words yanked her out of the past and made her wary. They had way too much history, and he hadn’t forgotten any of it.

He held a steaming towel. She reached for it, but he didn’t hand it over. Laying the towel flat on the sofa, he gestured for her to place her feet on it. When she did, he draped them with the hot towel and massaged them. She bit back a moan. For years, the only person Tara had touched, and been touched by, was Pia. She tried to withdraw, but Arnav held her feet over his thighs and used his thumbs to draw the soreness away. Like a lifetime ago. She let the quietness wash over her. Maybe he cared, maybe he didn’t, but right now, she felt all right. She wouldn’t fight it. He soothed her legs, careful around her swollen ankle, and she did not protest, closing her eyes once more.

“I could help you get out of this. I should have said it a long time ago—but I was a foolish boy then, and didn’t know any better.”

“I’m OK. I promise.” She gazed at his face, but his focus remained on her injured ankle.

“You don’t seem fine to me. Or maybe you’re OK and will vanish again.”

Yes, she would, but it won’t help to share that with him. He had worked to lessen her pain, even if for one night. That was the important thing.

“Let’s not worry about yesterday or tomorrow, Avi. We can just be here.”

“Why did you come with me today?”

“I keep asking myself the same question.”

He let go of her feet and put cushions under them. “Have you eaten?”

“You’re going to cook for me?” She chuckled. Arnav had many talents, but cooking was not one of them.

“I can make instant noodles.”

“Is that what you usually eat?”

“I dine out, or eat at Shinde’s. Sometimes at the dojo. You rest for a while.”

Shinde. So the sleaze was still Arnav’s friend.

“Tara?”

She considered refusing, but saw no point. She said yes. She was safe, and he was offering her noodles. She watched him lope off, return wearing a sweatshirt and gym pants, and enter the kitchen.

She limped into the bedroom to look for body oil. The woman he’d been with at the bar, did he bring her here?

On a shelf, she found an old bottle of moisturizer and smoothed it onto her legs. Relaxed, she leant against the pillows and decided to lie back for a few minutes, till he called her to eat.

He gently shook her awake.

“Here.” He passed her a bowl, and the scent of years long gone wafted up to her: the flavor of those days at Mira Road. The bar girls cooked instant noodles when they were too wrung out to make anything else. She’d not eaten them since. When grocery shopping, she avoided glancing at the noodle packets. Now, as she twisted a fork around the strands and popped them into her mouth, she did not mind. When she dropped a strand on herself, Arnav took over, feeding her and himself. He set the empty bowl aside and kissed her cheek when they’d finished. She didn’t turn away. He kissed her other cheek, her nose, and then her lips. Here he is and here I am. What harm in pretending nothing else exists but this room?