sari and tugged. She twirled towards him, the train of the white sari diaphanous between them. Her hands pressed against his shoulders, and pushed. Zafar fell back against the grass, laughing. Maheen looked up at the windows again.
âThereâs no one there.â Zafarâs bare feet drummed against her ankles. âCome here, come on.â
âNo, darling, donât be silly. Someone could be watching.â
Zafar lit up a cigarette. He looked like a panther after a rainstorm, with his black turtleneck, catlike eyes, hair slicked down to gleaming, and the assurance with which he reclined on the grass. âWeâre engaged. Weâre allowed to be slightly indiscreet.â
Maheen kicked off her shoes and sat opposite Zafar, her feet pressed against his. âThereâs enough talk about me as it is, jaanoo, so why add impropriety to the list of my failings?â
Zafar raised himself slightly from his supine position. âWhat are you talking about?â
âLast week, at the Sind Club. Rukhsana heard your boss singing your praises. Born to be an ad man, he said. Pity about his fiancée. Number of our clients wonât like working with someone who has a Bengali wife. Still, months to go before the wedding. Maybe heâll see the light by then.â
Zafar pivoted round so that he was sitting beside Maheen. He put an arm around her shoulder, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. âSo, Iâll change jobs.â
âYouâll find that attitude everywhere, Zaf.â
âOK, so Iâll change fiancées.â He laughed and buried his face in her hair. His hand touched her midriff, between sari and skin, and Maheen covered it with her own hand, pressing his fingers to her flesh for a moment before pulling his hand away, and slapping it lightly. He made a sound of mock exasperation, the fingers of his other hand brushing lightly against her neck as he brought his cigarette to her mouth so she could inhale the headrush. âSilly girl. Why do we need the rest of the world?â
Maheen leaned against him. It was this she loved most in him: he could say everything but love was irrelevant, and come so close to making it seem true that when she looked up at the shifting clouds she almost did not see them pulling apart, rending into pieces, wisps of smoke spiralling...
Â
...round the dining table cries of âHappy New Yearâ stilled as Asif stood up, clinking a fork against his glass.
âIâm too drunk,â he said. âAnd Iâve been an appalling host. Plus, Iâm a decadant feudal, as Zafar so eloquently reminded us all last night. I will now pause so that you can all contradict me.â
There was silence from the eleven guests around the table, save for muffled sounds behind hands clamped over lips to prevent laughter.
âWell, if thatâs your attitude, none of you are invited back for New Yearâs Eve next year,â Asif said, grandly, waving one arm in the air and tangling it among the streamers that trailed down from the chandelier. âOh, hell. Zaf, you do the toast.â He fell back into his chair, ripping streamers in two.
Zafar stood up, and held up a glass. âLadies and gentlemen and Laila...â Cheers and catcalls rang from the crowd around the table, and Laila stood up imperiously and blew a raspberry at him.
Zafar winked at her, and continued. âBefore we move on to dessertâââ
âIce cream,â Rukhsana shouted, leaning across Asif to prong a fork into Zafarâs arm. âI want ice cream.â
âIsnât ice cream a sign of sexual frustration?â Laila said.
âNonsense,â Yasmin said expansively. âThatâs just a rumour started by those polygamous diabetics.â
âBastards, the lot of them!â Maheen yelled.
âMaheenâs drunk!â Yasmin said gleefully, putting an arm around her best friendâs
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