Can You See Me Now? Read online

  ‘Amazing!’ Noor leaped up. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Just as soon as these posters are done,’ Sabah said, grinning and handing Noor the brush.

  ALIA

  Fifteen years ago

  I wasn’t naive enough to believe I knew everything that was going on. I’d walked in on enough whispered conversations to know that there were things I wasn’t privy to, but I chose to ignore it. I chose to believe that while Noor and Sabah may have had secrets before, now that I was their friend, I knew everything they knew. I chose to look past the hushed giggles, ignored the times they blatantly hung out without me, moved past the anxiety that I was missing out and instead focused on the fact that for the first time in my life I had friends, real friends, the kind of friends who shared secrets and rang each other in the middle of the night.

  I compartmentalized. I saw what I wanted to see, which was that we were just a bunch of teenage girls doing what normal teenage girls do: having fun.

  I had always been one of the good girls in London – I turned my homework in on time, I paid attention in class, I was always polite, always helpful, and that, despite my mediocre grades, made me popular with the teachers and invisible to the cool kids. My group of friends had consisted of three other girls, as ordinary as me, who stuck together simply so we had someone to team up with for group projects. So it seemed fitting that I had somehow made it to fifteen without ever having cheated on a paper, cut class or tasted alcohol. I had once tried to skip Chemistry lab. I’d snuck out of school – not that anyone was keeping watch. I made it as far as the bus stop before turning around. I told the teacher I was late because I’d been sick. She waved me in and I slipped into my seat, test tubes glistening in front of me. I realized that afternoon that it’s easier to be lonely in a crowded classroom than in an empty flat.

  So when Noor asked me to meet her in the girls’ toilets after PE one day, I didn’t know exactly what she was planning but I felt a thrill run up my spine.

  Addi, Saloni and I had already been waiting a few minutes when Noor walked in. Sabah wasn’t coming. She was far too straight-laced to risk being late to class, and she would never endanger her shot at Head Girl.

  ‘What are we doing?’ I asked Noor, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

  ‘You need to have some patience,’ she said, slipping off her hijab to redo her hair. She shook her hair loose, wild curls tumbling around her face. She took her time teasing the ringlets apart with her fingers, scrunching up the ends, before twisting them into a tight bun and wrapping the silky scarf around her head.

  She turned to face us when she was done. She smiled conspiratorially. ‘And courage.’

  She pulled out a handful of miniature bottles of vodka from her backpack and handed them out.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said and I watched all three of them knock the drink back without hesitation.

  I was reminded of my parents, opening a bottle of champagne when their Turkey postings were approved, clinking their heavy whisky glasses after they booked my flight to Delhi, sipping on wine at their farewell dinner in London. A million tiny sips to celebrate one thing: they were finally getting rid of me.

  I raised the little bottle to my lips and took a tentative sip, before following Noor’s lead and knocking it back, feeling the cold liquid burn through my throat all the way down to my stomach. I pictured it entering my bloodstream, veins rippling as the vodka travelled through my body.

  I felt the urge to cough, but I swallowed it down, hoping that the others hadn’t noticed. I could feel them watching me, but no one said anything and the pretence that I was exactly like them continued.

  We waited till another ten minutes had passed, and then halfway through the third period when Noor assured us the corridors would be empty, we slipped out of the toilets one by one and ran across the assembly ground.

  Picturing it now, I am astounded at our idiocy. The assembly ground was spread out along the back of the school and anyone looking out of a window of D or E block could have spotted the four of us running across towards the brick wall outlining the school complex. We were aiming for the metal service gate. Students weren’t allowed to use it and though it was locked, it wasn’t manned like the main gates were.

  Noor ushered us into a corner so we were concealed behind the trees clustered around the assembly ground.

  ‘Now what?’ Saloni whispered, even though there was no one around to hear us.

  Noor pulled out a key from her pocket, that even today, I don’t know how she got. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘we break out of this place.’

  Within moments, we were out, the door locked shut behind us.

  ‘Look sexy, girls,’ Noor said, sticking a thumb out as a few cars approached.

  A Maruti 800 braked to a stop. A middle-aged man looked at us from behind the wheel.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ Noor said, leaning down to talk to him through the window, her voice sweet as honey. ‘We’re on a school trip and we missed the bus. Could you please give us a lift to the Hyatt? We tried to get a rickshaw, but we don’t have enough money.’

  ‘You have a school trip to the Hyatt?’ the man asked, not convinced by four girls standing fifty feet from school claiming they were on a trip to a five-star hotel.

  ‘It’s meant to be a treat for all the class toppers, you know. We were late because my friend,’ she said, pointing to me, ‘was sick and we went to get some water.’

  Noor sounded so sincere even I almost believed her.

  I tried to pull my best ‘sick’ face as the man peered at me, his eyes lingering where my skirt ended and thighs began.

  ‘Please? It’s only a ten-minute drive.’

  ‘Okay, get in, but you should be more careful. Delhi’s not safe, not for pretty girls like you.’

  He went on talking at us throughout the drive, his words getting creepier by the minute. He took a diversion eschewing the main road for a deserted dirt track and I felt Addi’s hand grip mine. In the front seat, Noor’s excited babble slowed down. For a few minutes, I could’ve sworn we all forgot to breathe.

  We burst into laughter as soon as he drove off, because of course, of course, we knew exactly what we were doing. He might have been sleazy, but we were clever.

  We weren’t scared. We were safe.

  We were untouchable.

  ALIA

  I’m aware of the eyes following me as the hostess leads us through the packed restaurant and up the stairs. It’s not that I’m famous exactly, but I have achieved a certain level of recognition over the past year, at least within the upper and middle classes in Delhi. I had been just another face in Delhi’s political circuit until I came out in support of the decriminalization of gay sex two years ago. A controversial stance, but one that had won me a spot on nearly every televised debate and panel discussion in the lead-up to the Supreme Court judgement this summer.

  Upstairs, the room has a distinct element of theatre, a peculiar mix of precision and chaos. The centre of the room is dominated by a handful of live robata grills around which groups of diners are seated bar style. Tables are scattered across the rest of the space, spilling out onto the terrace. Waiters glide around the packed room, trays piled high with fresh fish and sushi, and as I watch them thread their way through the room, I have a morbid sense of being trapped in a car that is about to crash.

  We tail the hostess to the back of the space where I can see Saurav and Arushi already seated at a round table, along with Niv and a young couple who I assume are John and Maya.

  This whole evening has been arranged so Saurav can introduce me to them, a political pimping out that’s going to help him win the deal that will turn him from an heir to an entrepreneur and launch Europe’s largest supermarket chain, which John owns, into the Indian market. It’s usually the kind of thing I abhor, but Saurav is Arjun’s cousin and the request came directly from my mother-in-law.

  I know better than to give up my darling daughter-in-law status over one dinner. My m
arriage is another piece in the complex jigsaw that makes up my life. At first glance, most people would think it unnecessary, un-feminist, but take the piece away and the picture is left wanting.

  Hugs and kisses are exchanged, introductions made, before we settle down around the polished wood table.

  ‘Sake?’ Saurav asks and I watch heads nod in agreement all around the table. ‘Alia?’

  ‘Of course, maybe a junmai?’

  A few years ago I might have asked for champagne, not knowing that even a 2004 Dom Perignon can be deemed vulgar when paired with a platter of delicately sliced sashimi. I’ve had to work hard to learn the subtleties and tells of this world that Arjun so easily inhabits.

  Saurav merely has to tip his head and a waiter appears by his side.

  ‘We’ll have the Shichida junmai, and’ – he takes a moment to look around the table – ‘your signature tasting menu, please.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ The waiter nods his appreciation, before bowing down and disappearing.

  ‘Well done with the human trafficking bill last month, by the way,’ Saurav says, once the sake has been poured and pleasantries exchanged. ‘I know you were a bit worried.’

  I’ve never once discussed the bill or the complexities surrounding it with Saurav or his wife, Arushi. Usually, our conversations centre around family weddings and the inordinate amount of gossip they generate.

  ‘Alia’s spearheaded a bill that completely changes how our justice system deals with the trafficking of women and children,’ he adds, for John and Maya’s benefit. ‘Was it eight children and one woman being trafficked every hour, Alia?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I nod. ‘It’s one of the world’s biggest organized crimes.’

  ‘Sure. But didn’t you already have legislation in place dealing with that?’ John asks, his inflection hinting at a posh north London upbringing.

  ‘Yes, but the laws we’ve got in place only criminalize sexual trafficking, not trafficking for forced labour, slavery, begging or marriage.’ I glance around the table, my words well rehearsed after presenting this bill to countless committees and MPs over the last few months. ‘Effectively, we’re trying to broaden the scope of the law and bring in stricter sentencing.’

  ‘Isn’t that part of the criticism, though? That the scope is so wide, and the provisions so stringent, that it can freeze entire sections of the economy,’ Niv says.

  I try to hide my surprise. It’s a double-edged sword, but one I have spent months wielding.

  ‘Well, do we really want to protect the economy at the expense of teenage girls being shot with drugs so they are more sexually pliable? Or children having their limbs cut off so they have more clout as beggars?’ Arjun chips in. I touch his arm lightly, affectionately.

  I may be off duty, but this is still my gig.

  ‘It’s a simple matter of cost, Niv,’ I say. I place my hands flat on the table and close my eyes, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. ‘How much are we willing to pay to keep our women and children safe? For me, and I think for most of the country, the answer is whatever it takes. Don’t you agree?’

  No one speaks. Saurav gives me a quick nod and I lean back in my chair. After all these years, I still find it fascinating how even the whiff of power can sway people, alter decisions, change lives.

  The waiter appears with our first course and we busy ourselves manoeuvring paper-thin sashimi and finely chopped salad onto our plates with chopsticks.

  ‘Did you say you went to Cambridge?’ Arjun asks Maya, expertly steering us back to lighter topics.

  ‘Trinity, Class of 2009. From gilded corridors straight into the recession,’ she says, smiling ruefully, as if someone like her would ever have had to worry about money. Her family practically owns the hospitality industry in India.

  ‘Niv was at Trinity, class of 2007,’ Arjun says. ‘And Alia and I were 2008, Corpus Christi. That’s how we met actually.’ He places his hand on mine and I find myself smiling at his touch.

  Serendipitous. That’s how Arjun always describes our meeting, and as I hear him recount the story for our new audience, I feel my chest fill with love, the warmth tempered only slightly by guilt as my eyes find Niv’s across the table. I shift my focus back to my husband as he tells everyone how he felt his heart crack open the instant he saw me at Niv’s birthday party nearly thirteen years ago, how he chased me for months before we started dating, how I turned him down twice before finally, finally agreeing to marry him. I let him carry the story until we get to the proposal. That part of the story is mine to tell and I see Arjun’s eyes sparkle as I tell everyone about how he had proposed that third, and final, time, how we had snuck away for a secret ceremony in Bali before the elaborate wedding his parents had insisted on hosting, and how he had surprised me with a honeymoon tent in our back garden when the PM called an emergency parliamentary session, making the pre-booked honeymoon in the Maldives impossible. The story is timeworn and we both play our parts with practised ease, and yet it brings with it all the warmth and the excitement of the early days.

  I lean in as Arjun throws an arm over my shoulder and pulls me close.

  ‘I love you,’ I whisper into his ear, allowing myself a moment before straightening up and turning back to the table.

  I am as much his prize as he is mine.

  ‘Did anyone read that piece in the Sunday Times about the Qureshis, by the way?’ Arushi says, her chopsticks delicately balanced as she picks up a miniscule piece of tuna and dots it with wasabi. ‘I’d forgotten you guys were at Wescott when all that happened.’

  I resist the temptation to roll my eyes and focus instead on my sake glass. Arushi doesn’t forget anything.

  ‘Wescott is basically the Eton of India,’ Maya explains, leaning towards John.

  ‘You must hate that you’re associated with that whole mess,’ Saurav says, nodding at Niv and me. ‘There was a major scandal there when we were growing up,’ Saurav says, turning to John. ‘Three teenage girls, one boy, all from prominent families . . .’ He trails off provocatively.

  I set my chopsticks down and take a slow sip of water. There are times when I love talking about where I went to school, when I jump at the opportunity to prove how far I’ve come, how much I’ve overcome, but tonight is not one of those nights. I feel Arjun’s hand squeeze my knee under the table and I flash him a quick smile.

  ‘It was ages ago—’

  ‘And everyone’s come a long way,’ Niv says, cutting Saurav off, her read on me as sharp as my husband’s.

  ‘True. I mean, Sabah won a BAFTA, for god’s sake,’ Arushi says, rushing to swallow her sake. ‘Does anyone know what her next project is, by the way?’

  ‘Is she an actress?’ Maya asks.

  ‘She’s a film-maker. She made the Netflix documentary about Harriet Clarke,’ Niv says.

  ‘Oh, I watched that,’ Maya says. ‘It was devastating. Can you imagine your little girl being snatched out of your own home?’

  I find myself observing Niv as she leads the conversation into unsolved cases and true crime podcasts and away from the scandal that changed everything.

  Niv and I had barely known each other when it happened. She was a year ahead of us and had always been at odds with Noor and Sabah. But when I reached Cambridge a year later, we had gravitated towards each other, the pull of our shared history too potent to ignore. It was a friendship borne of loneliness and strengthened over happy hour margaritas at the student bar. Niv had married straight out of university and moved to London. The divorce that followed was as messy as it was sudden and when she arrived in Delhi a few years later, I suggested Arjun hire her as his legal consultant. I went out of my way to pencil in regular girls’ nights. But with political success comes a schedule that is almost entirely out of my control. I was pleasantly surprised when Arjun told me he’d invited Niv along tonight. I’ve cancelled on her twice in the last month and the guilt has been gnawing at me.

  I look at the woman sitting in front of me. Sh
e’s had a haircut since I last saw her, a sleek bob that highlights the high cheekbones and delicate bone structure I’ve envied for years. There is something oddly frenetic about her today, a strange energy I haven’t seen in a long time, and I know instinctively that there is a man involved.

  I watch as she throws her head back and laughs at something John says, her skin shimmering golden under the pendant light, and as the collar of her blouse slips, I see it, the pebble-shaped love bite on the side of her neck.

  It takes everything I have not to laugh out loud.

  I’ve been trying to convince Niv to start dating for the best part of the last five years and as happy as I am for her, it irks me that she didn’t tell me about this new romance.

  I catch her eye, hoping she will be able to read the question in it, but she simply shakes her head and looks away.

  I take a small bite of the mochi that’s been placed in front of me, the sickly sweet dessert sticky in my mouth. I force it down with a sip of water and set my cutlery down, my gaze drifting back to Niv.

  I suppose I shouldn’t blame her for keeping secrets.

  After all, I still have mine.

  SABAH

  Something happens to me when I find my way into a good story. A quickening of the pulse. A tingling on the back of my neck. A conviction deep in my bones that I am on to something. A secret. A missing link. A little-known detail that will turn the narrative on its head. The catalyst is always different, but the sensation is exactly the same. It’s how I felt when I wrote the abstract for my dissertation. It’s how I felt when I came across that crucial piece of testimony in the Harriet Clarke documentary. It’s how I haven’t felt in more than two years.

  I edge my chair closer to the desk and read through the dozen or so documents open on my computer. Abandoned pitches, research notes, narrative arcs. At least twenty different ideas for my next documentary. Not one of them even remotely viable.