Chapter 40

"What is The Perfumed Garden anyway?" Arif asked.

Lena and he were sitting at the bar of a hotel near the Sahar International Airport. He hadn't realised how ravenous he was until the waiter brought the drinks and snacks Lena had insisted on ordering. Now, he was on his second mug of draught beer in less than twenty minutes and felt like a bottomless pit.

He chewed a tikka of chicken and waited for her to reply.

She released a plume of smoke that swirled around her head. Her bright red top clashed with the sedate leather decor of the executive-styled bar, but in a way that was eye-catching enough to turn the heads of the foreigners around them. She was sipping a Screwdriver made with Bacardi instead of Vodka.

"Do you know anything about erotic power exchange?" she asked. When he shook his head, frowning, she added:

"TES? Power play? Boudoir noir? BDSM?"

He washed the tikka down with a big swallow of beer. It felt wonderful, the cold liquid chasing the hot meat down into his parched and deprived system.

"Sounds like something to do with politics."

She smiled at that. "Everything has something to do with politics. Especially sex."

He slammed the heavy mug down on the table. Peanuts jumped. Heads turned. "Don't start with the sex talk again. I told you. All I want to do is figure out what Sarla's upto. Not get into some kind of mindgame with you about sex groups and stuff."

Lena sipped her drink. She acted as though Arif's outburst hadn't happened. "She left you a note, didn't she?"

His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Her kind always leaves a note."

"Okay, she left a note. So what?"

"So what did she say? That she had had enough and wanted out of the marriage?"

"Something like that. Why?"

"Did she take her things with her?"

Arif looked down. She had struck close with that one. Painfully close. "She took every fucking thing. Cleaned out the house, lock, stock and smoking barrel."

She didn't smile. He glanced up at her sharply, expecting to see a smirk. But her face was as clear as a model in a cold cream commercial.

Even more surprising, she didn't comment either.

He suddenly felt a tinge of curiousity. Had his first impression of Lena Kapoor been wrong? Or was there just more to her than met the eye?

"Let the bitch go, Arif."

She said in the same casual tone with which she'd ordered their drinks. But there was a deeper level of inflection in her tone. Something below the surface of the obvious statement. Neither warm enough to be friendship, nor indifferent enough to be cold advice.

He looked into her eyes and knew suddenly that she had been in this exact same situation before, had felt what he was feeling this very minute, had experienced the same burning rage, felt the dragon-heat of confusion lapping at his senses.

He put up a weak but sincere defense, softening his aggression to match her less belligerent tone. "I told you, Lena, I just want to know what happened. I need to know why my wife left me." Her silence provoked him into another brief burst of pique. "If you can give me some info, fine. Otherwise, I'll find out myself. I never asked you to turn up like this anyway."

She smiled. "You're a bull-headed one, aren't you? If I hadn't turned up, you wouldn't have a clue where she went or why. You should be thanking me instead of giving me attitude."

He shrugged, irritated by her smugness. "What makes you the expert on marital discord? Or are you just better connected with the gossip circuit?"

Her eyes narrowed sharply. He noticed how the corners crinkled like very fine dry paper.