It was late September, and as Pallavi looked out the window at the changing leaves in the courtyard below, she realized how bored she was. She was desperately, hopelessly bored and absolutely could not show it. Being the dutiful Indian wife to her successful academic husband would drive her mad one day. She feared it might come sooner rather than later. She wandered around the engineering faculty party and engaged in idle talk with a few of the other wives. That's when she heard his voice behind her.
"That's an excellent mask you're wearing to hide your boredom," he said.
She turned, an emerald dress swishing around her knees. She was about to politely, but firmly, correct the voice when she found herself speechless. It was as if the man had walked off a movie set and made his way to their party. She remembered a movie she saw as a child that featured the actor George Clooney. He looked like he could be his brother. The man stood over 6 feet tall with salt and pepper hair and a well-groomed beard. Many men in the room wore suits with disdain or a rumpledness that seemed part of the academic uniform. Someone tailored his suit, which looked expensive. It was a tweed, which made sense as she detected a slight Irish accent.
But that wasn't the main selling point. It was the kind eyes and smile. He wasn't looming over her and being imposing. For a man she'd never seen before, he seemed concerned about her level of boredom.
"I, ah, well, university parties can lose some of their lustre after you've attended dozens of them. Engineering parties, doubly so," Pallavi replied. He was kind enough not to comment on her stumbling or staring at him like she was a star-struck girl.
"Oh, I know. I said it was unnecessary, but the department looks for any excuse to dip into the entertainment budget," he said. "Free alcohol always has an allure in academia."
"You're Dr. Whittaker, the Guest of Honor," she said. Rohan, her husband, had been excited to have his old mentor visit the university for over a week. He described him as older, so Pallavi imaged some wizened, incoherent elderly man. Or an old hippie regaling stories about the early environmental movement. Instead, he was in his early 50s, perhaps mid-50s, if he was taking good care of himself. That gave him a good 20 to 25 years on her.
The age difference didn't matter one little bit. Pallavi preferred older men. Given everything she saw so far, Dr. Whittaker was hitting all the right bells.
"Please, Christopher. Or Chris. And I'm just a guest and hardly an honourable one at that," he said. He had such a roguish smile when he said it; she knew he used that line on any number of facility wives over the years. She would bet it had the same effect on them as it was having on her now. She could feel her body tingling all the way down to her toes.
"My husband speaks highly of you. He said you helped change his life when he was a student," she said, sipping her red wine and making a little face. The facility had splurged on the finest boxed red wine Costco could provide for their guests. Undoubtedly, the Dean had the good stuff stashed away for private consumption later.
Chris noticed her face and smiled.
"I know where the Dean keeps the nicer stuff. He might be an old friend, but he's terrible for hoarding good alcohol. If you want to join me, I'm sure we can find something more to your liking," he said.
Pallavi looked around the room. It was bigger and fancier than other faculty lounges. But the university's engineers designed the building, so they built a lavish lounge for themselves. One wall was nothing but windows looking out over the green space. The large room contained many cozy chairs for people to sit and talk. And at the far end was a bar. Sometimes, there was a conference table as the university used the space for large meetings. But it was absent. Instead, over 100 people - staff and guests - mingled on a Friday night.
She looked to see where her husband was. He stood at the other end of the lounge, talking to the Dean and a few others. It was brazen and foolish, but boredom and this man made her want to do something rash. Pallavi placed the cup on a table and gestured with her hand. He laughed and led the way.
He remained a respectable distance from herβclearly a man who had been to a faculty party or two. People didn't need much of an excuse to gossip. He led her out of the main room, down the hall and into an office she recognized as the one belonging to the Dean. He made sure to leave the door open. It was an office assembled by a man who had seen too many English period dramas of what a Dean's office should look like. Books that still made a cracking noise if you dusted one off and opened it. Dark, with plenty of indirect light. In this case, it added to the tension she felt. It was atmospheric.
Sure enough, there were a couple of lovely reds, along with some scotch. He found a glass and poured a generous amount for her. He reached over and grabbed a bottle of Scotch. She didn't recognize the name, but it said it was 18 years old, so she assumed it was good...and expensive. The Dean always had expensive tastes.
"To Ro," he said, using her husband's nickname and holding up his glass. She tapped it with her wine glass and sipped. If he noticed she had the same smile on her face now as she did in the faculty lounge, he was discreet enough not to say.
"When I spoke to him earlier, he pointed you out across the room. I confess I'm a little shocked to discover that he's married, let alone managing to woo a woman like yourself," he said. "How did he manage that?"
Pallavi stepped back from him, leaning on the Dean's ridiculously ornate desk. Part of it was to give herself some distance because the closer she was to him, the dizzier she got. He wasn't even wearing cologne; being close to him could affect a woman. But also, if Pallavi was honest with herself, she wanted Christopher to look at and appreciate her.
She'd drawn enough stares over the years to know she was attractive. Her skin was the colour of amber honey. Her long, dark, wavy hair went halfway down her back and framed around her face to highlight her eyes. She had lips that made men wonder what it would be like to kiss them. The red silk top and flowing skirt highlighted her curves without being sexual. The only average thing about her was her height. She was glad she'd gone with minimal jewelry this evening. She wore her mother's earrings, a simple gold necklace, some bracelets, and an anklet around her left foot. Pallavi had it slightly before her, and she had already caught him looking at it.
She knew he was interested. But was it something he did to any attractive woman, or was it something more? Would he make a play on his friend's wife? And what would she do if he did?
"It was an arranged marriage," she said. "Our families are old friends."
"Ah, of course," he said, as if it made all the sense in the world now. "When I taught Ro, he rarely had time for anything other than his studies in school. I encouraged him to take a break from them occasionally. His other classmates had girlfriends and boyfriends. But he was never interested in people unless they could teach him something. I guess you must have taught him a few things."
"God, the innuendo," she thought. Yes, she had tried to teach Ro a few things. After four years of marriage, Pallavi still tried to show him how to be intimate. But she was beginning to give up. He wasn't great at sex.
Early on, there had at least been an enthusiasm for her, no matter the lack of skill. An eagerness to at least be in bed with her that she found endearing. She hoped Ro's skill as a lover would develop into the same passion and talent she saw academically.
But the transition never happened. Ro's academic career continued to grow as their sex life withered. Sex only happened once a month and coincided with the most fertile time in her cycle. When she might finally give their parents the grandchild they desperately wanted.
So far, they had no luck. In Indian terms, the clock was not so much ticking as making a sound like a gong. Pallavi's mother wondered what she was doing wrong. She had neither the heart nor the patience to explain the problem wasn't her. It was with the husband they forced on her.
"He continues to be a work in progress," she said diplomatically. "As all men are."
