Imaginary Men by Anjali Banerjee

Author:Anjali Banerjee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2005-08-25T04:00:00+00:00

Twenty

A silver Lexus waits at the curb. Raja Prasad emerges from the driver’s side and opens the passenger door for me. How can he look so good in everything he wears? Black suit, black shirt, black tie, casual yet elegant and sexy, like a wardrobe from the Alan Truong collection. I instantly imagine him as the bridegroom—what am I thinking?

He says nothing. No you’re beautiful, you look nice. But I feel as though he’s already whispered all kinds of forbidden things in my ear when I slip in beside him, the smell of Lexus mixed with his mysterious spicy cologne.

“Thank you for coming.” He starts the engine and steers into traffic.

I pull the seatbelt across my lap. “Where are we going?”

“Have you heard of Herbert Winton?”

My mouth drops open. “The chef? We’re going to Joie de Vivre?”

“You know of it.” His voice slides over and settles across my shoulders.

“I’ve never been there.”

“Neither have I, but I hear it’s the best restaurant in the city.”

“I’m underdressed.”

“You’re fine.”

Fine, not beautiful. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. “If you say so.”

“I trust you had a productive day?” His right eyebrow rises.

“Quite. Thank you.” I think of the spilled tea.

I should tell him I have a fiancé who shares his first name. No, I shouldn’t. After he parks the car, I do my most businesslike walk into Joie de Vivre and consider my options. Come clean or say nothing.

I work myself up into a tizzy, barely noticing the lavishly decorated restaurant as we enter the main dining area. The room is draped in Chantal fabric in shades of gold and green.

The host seats us at a table near the back. I glance at the other guests, all clad in designer dresses and suits and laden with understated, overpriced jewelry. Only a few silvery threads float between lovers. The scents of expensive floral colognes and sharp aftershave lotions mingle in the air. It’s enough to send my nose into a coma.

Raja resembles a dashing adventurer, even in the suit. “Would you like wine?”

I nod, open the menu, glance at the walls, at the luxurious oil paintings, up at the crystal chandelier. Everything glitters. I need sunglasses.

When the waiter arrives, Raja orders a bottle of chardonnay from the Clos MiMi winery, then fixes his gaze on me.

I open the menu and start babbling. “The French eat a lot of meat, don’t they? Duck, quail, veal. Did you know veal calves are kept in small crates? They can’t turn around. They’re fed nothing but gruel. They’re denied water, so they keep trying to drink the gruel and get fatter and fatter, and then … oh.” I clap a hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure you didn’t want to hear all that.”

“You are disarmingly honest. I neglected to ask whether you’re vegetarian.”

“Uh, it’s okay. There are plenty of vegetarian options on the menu. Are you vegetarian?”

“No, but I don’t eat veal either.”

“Oh, good, then. So. Uh.”

“How about the heirloom tomato feast?”

“‘A colorful sampler.’” I can’t

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