The Cambridge Curry Club Read Online Free PDF Page B

Those who remained trapped leaped with unapologetic haste after the last prolonged note and scattered, beads of a strung note onto the carpet.
    The guests disbanded at the moment that the Trinity College clock struck midnight over Great Court. Heera surveyed the empty living room with satisfaction. She had already guessed Sarla’s gift by its contours; always the same Indian wrapping paper bought in bulk and the same box of chocolates without an expiry date or manufacturer’s label from a shop in Wembley. Sarah and Brian’s gift was olive marinade.
    Bob was lying on their bed, staring at the ceiling. What was it that ridiculous little man ‘Shakespeare’ had recited about a tide in the affairs of men taken at the flood, and was this such a time, to submit, release the torment and anguish within and allow it to take its course, let it take him to good fortune or to defeat? Or would he regret it forever afterwards, and would the shame be a torment far greater? Would he be forever damned, or should he plunge, surrender?
    This above all: to thine own self be true,
    And it must follow, as the night the day,
    Thou canst not then be false to any man.
    The crumbling sensation in his throat all evening turned to fuzzy warmth as he remembered. The meeting had been in a small conference room. As the executives streamed in, Bob’s secretary hurriedly handed him a copy of the Finance Director’s memo before the heavy oak door closed. Bob nodded to his colleagues, his eyes roaming the room, a swelling bubble of excitement as he recognised the dark, bent head of a man reading by the window. The man turned and looked at Bob, eyes a cool smoky grey that clashed and tumbled into his own, and Bob turned from the flint of the other man’s gaze to take a seat at the table. As the diminutive Finance Director talked, a powdery thirst invaded Bob’s throat, and he reached for a jug of water, staring involuntarily at the golden hair on the wrist of the man beside him. The lights dimmed as they looked at the first chart in the PowerPoint presentation on the wall at the far end of the room.
    Bob felt tingling heat on his thigh as the brushingmovement of a hand left its searing imprint. He continued to stare at the wall. As Adam teased Bob’s ankle with his own, Bob grappled this new, daring reality while tortured angels tumbled and frolicked in a forbidden fountain, resisting banishment. At the end of the meeting, he hurried towards the door. A cool voice behind him asked if he would like to stop by at the pub. Without meeting Adam’s eyes, Bob mumbled that he had to get home. ‘Another time, then,’ Adam had said smoothly, turning away. ‘No, wait!’ flung Bob. It was a strangled, torn sound.

    As Heera entered the bedroom, she knew something was wrong, something far worse than unwrapping stale chocolates from Sarla for the third consecutive year. She had found Bob pacing the room, a half-empty whisky glass in his hand. He never drank upstairs, and usually shared a pot of Chinese green tea with her before retiring . He told her he had something important to say, but that it could wait until she was ready, and she had looked at him, wordlessly taking her perspiration-stained pink nightgown and matching robe from the room, returning drawn and anxious a few minutes later.
    Afterwards, she had asked Bob in the dim bedroom light why he had chosen their anniversary to tell her. All he could say, standing ridiculous and pale in his faded blue striped pyjamas, was that big occasions made his decisions seem smaller. He had finally found the handle to the door of his closet, and he was coming out. He could no longer conceal, only reveal; he would not hide, he would announce with pride – he was a bisexual.
    Then Bob crumpled at the hurt she would feel, thedisgust and repulsion, her accusations of trickery and fraud. He had never meant to deceive or dissemble, he beseeched, he was fragile and frail.
    If he was frail, so was she, Heera thought