Chapter 39

Merlyn lay on her back on the large king-size bed in Steven Lambert's hotel suite, dressed only in in a black lacy slip, and a smile.

The song playing was Cher's "Believe" the lighting was mellow and unobtrusive, the air was cool and smelled faintly of the musky after-perfume of intimate liaisons. It had been a wonderful night with Steven. When he kissed her gently very early in the morning and whispered that he was going down to the hotel gym for a workout, she felt loved and wanted. Something she hadn't felt in a long time. She also felt more relaxed and contented than she had for weeks. She caressed the cool satin sheets, luxuriating in the feel of the fabric. There was a book on the bedside table and out of idle curiosity, she picked it up and glanced at it.

There was a time when she'd lived on books, had kept pace with all the latest reads, nonfiction and fiction, Indian and foreign, when friends had turned to her for suggestions on what to read next.

That was when she'd first crossed the then-venerable 6-figures-per-annum salary mark. When she'd felt like she was queen of the world, that wonderful, magical things lay in store for her in the near future, just around the corner.

That was when she had first met Hemant and had thought this was it, the happiest anyone could ever want to be, so much joy her heart would burst. Now, she couldn't remember when she'd last read a book.

She remembered picking up a copy of The God Of Small Things on a Saturday evening from Strand, and thinking warmly of how she would go straight home and read it straight through the night, the way she had loved to do back in college. But that night Hemant and she had had a fight, one of their first and worst ever. And she had never got around to reading GOST. After that, she had continued to buy books, stacking them neatly on the little Chor Bazaar desk by her bedroom window.

And there they had lain, unread, untouched. Until she had stopped buying them. What was the point? Now, like most other upwardly mobile urban Indians, she read Mumbai Times. If you could call that reading.

But the feel of the book in her hands was wonderful. It was a hardback, beautifully bound in rich, special leather. It looked like an antique, one of those ancient hand-made books, but the paper and print within were fresh and immaculate. Probably a special edition.

It felt exquisite in her hands, bringing back wonderful memories of nights spent as a schoolgirl, reading Jane Austen in her bed till the wee hours, keeping only the bathroom light on, not her bedroom light, to avoid letting her parents know she was still up. She inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma of printer's ink, finely crafted papyrus, leather and gilt.