Page 18 of Red Flags and Rishtas
15/5/23 4:51 p.m.
to Aadar
Thanks for ruining my week. I hate you.
Best,
Ananya Kapoor
Events Manager
TheManJournal
Today could’ve been the best Tuesday in the history of Tuesdays. A half-day, a free menu tasting at Le Claude, followed by a date with an undecided but hopefully cute stranger. Instead, I was stuck at work all day, painfully watching the clock tick. It didn’t help that I was battling an excruciating hangover. After work yesterday, I’d fled to V’s place to fill her in about the latest bothersome developments in my life, and we’d decided the only solution was to drink a bottle of wine each and stalk my perpetrator on Instagram.
Aadar had a private profile, so we sent him a request from V’s account. And voila! He accepted within ten minutes. Why wouldn’t he? The don’t-talk-to-strangers rule didn’t apply if the stranger in question was a stunning woman. Men aresopredictable.
We shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble, though. There wasn’t much to see on his profile. He hadn’t posted anything in months, and his grand total of eight posts consisted of album covers, artsy black-and-white snapshots of the city and a few group photos from birthdays and family functions. There was one photo that stood out – a post from 2015. It was a hazyPolaroid of a young girl smiling shyly at the camera. There was no caption.
Vrinda and I went on to drink until 2:00 a.m., debating every possible conspiracy theory about who Aadar Chauhan was and why he was suddenly everywhere. My personal favourite was that he was a con man trying to rob me of my riches like Ranveer Singh inLadies vs Ricky Behl.Of course, I didn’t have any riches to be robbed of.
I rested my forehead on the wooden desk, groaning lightly. My head was throbbing, and the coffee I’d just consumed had made it worse. I desperately wanted this workday to be over, but I was also not looking forward to what lay ahead. I kept refreshing my inbox every few minutes hoping that he’d email me to cancel. But I didn’t hear a peep out of him all day, which is how I found myself staring at my reflection in the glass doors outside Le Claude at 6:05 p.m.
I looked terrible. My hair was dehydrated and extra frizzy, there were dark circles under my eyes and my shoulders were slumped like a seventy-year-old’s. The semi-formal plaid dress I’d thrown on this morning, hoping it’d be my redeeming quality, had acquired a visible coffee stain over the course of the day.
I’m so not prepared for this, I thought as I pushed the door open.
A whiff of cold air hit me as I stepped inside, a welcome escape from the pre-sunset heat. A narrow but long alley led to the main seating area. Yellow lanterns were suspended from the ceiling and symbols from French history hung on the wall. I stopped to examine the area, trying to calculate if it could be converted into a photo booth. Just then, a man in a dark-grey suit turned the corner.
‘Hello. You must be Ananya?’ he asked, stepping forward to greet me. We shook hands as he introduced himself and said, ‘I’m Jerry, the manager here.’
Jerry was barely two inches taller than me, but he had a broad chest and big arms. He must’ve been in his forties, but his smiling eyes took a few years off of him.
‘Ananya from TMJ. It’s a pleasure,’ I said, returning his smile.
‘Come, let me show you the space,’ he said, ushering me towards the entrance. I asked him to give me a minute and took out my phone to take photos of the alley.
‘Could we remove that podium from there?’ I asked, pointing to the hostess stand at the end of the passage.
‘Of course, I’ll get someone to move it right away,’ he said, not asking why.
‘Thanks. I just want to see if we can turn this space into a mini red carpet,’ I explained and took a few photos of the area the podium occupied. We could definitely fit one camera stand in there, I concluded.
The manager led me inside, where a waiter rushed to offer me a rose-tinted welcome drink.
‘Our special cranberry fizz,’ Jerry said, pointing to the shot glass.
I lifted the glass to my lips and sipped, aware of both men’s eager eyes on me.
‘Mmm,’ I said, tilting my head in surprise, ‘it’s not sickly sweet.’
Jerry laughed, delighted by my response. ‘Yes, we don’t add extra sugar or syrup in this. Takes the fun out of the cranberries, if you ask me.’
‘I agree,’ I said, placing the glass back on the tray.
I was relieved to see that the restaurant was as spacious as it had looked in the photos, and it had movable furniture – no booths, thankfully. The white walls with gold detailing stretched out in front of me, giving the space a hall-like look.The baby pink sofas matched the pink tulips at every table, and chandeliers with swooping arms shone brightly above them. The bar was situated right at the entrance, which was not ideal, at least for us. We didn’t want the influencers running off to drink before they had a chance to pose with the car. The Stellar Spirits guys, of course, would be thrilled. Speaking of, where was the man of the hour?
What an ass, I thought. He hadn’t even had the decency to show up on time after changing my entire schedule. I took a few photos of the bar, listening to Jerry talk about the different cocktails they were thinking of curating for the menu.
