Page 60 of Rebound
My fears haven’t changed either—he could leave me heartbroken again and while he’s certain he wants to be here for the baby, that could change too. Either way I’m the one getting left behind and it scares the shit out of me.
Dr. Sunita would call it a classic case of abandonment issues and she’s not wrong. In an early session that’s exactly what she said it was and I’ve clung to it like a life preserver. It’s ridiculous to hold these assumptions against Patrick, but it’s all I can do. Dr. Sunita, Vera, Krys and Millie would disagree. But they don’t know what it’s like in my head. Or in my life.
Even with Kabir, I was always afraid he would leave me for someone else or get tired of me. I held on so tight for fear of being left alone and look what happened. He constantly hurt me and I stayed to avoid being abandoned again. The fear of being alone drove me into Patrick’s arms, got me knocked up and living with him. It’s a lot and I don’t know how to navigate any of it.
Now that we’re avoiding each other, it really does feel like I’m doing this alone. The only difference is, someone else makes my tea, breakfast and dinner, cleans up after me and keeps the flat smelling nice. Oh and that’s not all he did. At some point since our last scan, he programmed alerts onto my phone so I remember to take my vitamins. It was annoying at first, but now I’ve gotten into a routine with that too. It still takes me a few minutes to build up the courage to swallow the pills, but I do it.
Damn him for being the best and fuck me for breaking him.
“Pallavi, the AC’s not working again!” I call out as I fan myself with a folder. This has been going on for days and I don’t particularly enjoy it.
“It’s set at eighteen degrees, Miss Chandy.”
My assistant stands in the doorway to my office wearing a thick hoodie. “Are you sure?”
She nods and shows me the remote, all while I’m still fanning myself like I’m in a fucking sauna. I apologise to Pallavi and send her off, because this is not a weather issue. It’s a pregnancy issue and I’m not a fan. I thought with my morning sickness vanishing, I’d be spared other pregnancy-related problems, but I’m not. In fact, sweating is just one of the many ways my body is torturing me.
My IBS? Replaced with constipation and acid reflux. It’s quite uncomfortable and after years of wanting to poop all the time, I’m irritable since I can’t do anything. It’s probably a really good thing Patrick and I’ve been avoiding each other; I would be insufferable right now. I mean, I’m already a pain in his ass. I’d be so much worse at this moment.
On top of all this, I still end every day with my underwear stained with discharge.
When I called Dr. Gopalan and explained all my concerns, she assured me it was normal. I was just getting used to the morning sickness when it ended, now I have to contend with all these other wonderful sensations. I’ve taken to wearing lighter clothes so I’m not hot all the time, but that hasn’t helped either. The unfortunate part is I can’t take meds to make my life easier. I have to suffer through all of this like a big girl.
“Oh, hi,” I mumble when the baby kicks and put my hand against my belly. They kick again and I smile, then it fades when I realise I can’t share this moment with Patrick. Sighing heavily, I keep rubbing my belly and soothing the baby. I even make apologies for the way I’ve treated their father, but I can’t seem to apologise to him.
“Miss Chandy, I have news!”
My hand falls away as Pallavi rushes into my cabin. I know I should tell everyone at work, but I don’t think it’s time yet. I’m not even showing, even if I can see my stomach has expanded, and outside of these annoying side effects, there’s nothing that says I’m pregnant. Besides, I’m worried the minute I tell Aishani, she’ll ask me to work less. I’ve got too many projects going on right now to give them all up. I already handed the DeMello sex room to Pavan since he’s there all the time. I can’t lose another one.
“I got the details for Julia Christopher’s assistant!”
Pallavi often talks in exclamation marks and it’s quite endearing, but today I have to force myself to breathe before I respond.
“Okay. First, I need you to find out what she’s looking for. Then set up an appointment and cross our fingers and hope it all works out.”
Her smile is so wide as she walks out again, leaving me alone with my very fidgety baby. I rub my belly and pull up Julia Christopher’s Instagram page. She started her career in Mumbai when she opened a small hole-in-the-wall bakery in a part of the city nobody ever visited. But it became a hotspot and the neighbourhood built itself around her business. Eventually she became so successful, the name Julia Christopher turned into a brand. Over the last few years she took to social media to increase visibility and spread the word.
She’s in her sixties, but with a lot of botox and probably some plastic surgery, she looks permanently forty. While that’s always been a big point of contention for people, my fascination is with her style. She uses Instagram to make recipe videos and do tours of her gorgeous Mumbai home. I find a lot of celebrity homes are too garish and badly designed. They let some famous architect with an abstract style build their homes only for it to look like Lego pieces stuck in the wrong places. Not Julia Christopher. Like the woman, her home is well put together. It’s warm and inviting and partly why her videos are so exciting to watch.
Two years ago she came to Chennai and opened an exclusive wedding cake boutique. I didn’t think the city was the right place for it, but discovered pretty quickly that she was booked out months in advance. Nobody knows where it is and the address is only shared once your appointment is added to Ms. Christopher’s calendar. It’s the kind of exclusive that makes everyone want a piece. And from what I’ve heard, it’s not too expensive either. It’s just really difficult to get an appointment because people from all over South India want to work with her.
There have been rumours she’s looking to open her signature bakery in Chennai. If this bespoke space is the same thing, then I have to get in on it. I’ve seen pictures of her other spaces and what makes them so special is that none of them look the same. They all have Ms. Christopher’s style, but the design and construction differs from city to city. And if I can build the space for her, it’ll get me in with so many more people. I have enough confidence to know I’ll knock her out of the park with my design sense, but it’s also quite nerve-wracking. Especially when the possible client is the Julia Christopher.
“This is not a room, Miss Chandy,” Joshi, my contractor, mumbles awkwardly gesturing around, “this is a mansion.”
He’s not wrong and I’m not entirely sure we’re going to be able to design and fit this space with everything the client needs in the incredibly short window they’ve given us. My secretive sex room client? He happens to be the son of a famous local politician who spent the majority of his life travelling across Europe, living in America, and is finally being dragged back to the homeland. Not to take over for his father, but to work in the Tamil film industry. And his most important request—nay, demand—is he have a ‘sex dungeon for all his depravity.’ I’m not paraphrasing. The man has zero filters.
I respect that, even if I wish he would not talk to me like I’m his buddy.
The house itself is palatial and the section he’s cordoned off for me is a mansion. It’s an outhouse tucked on the other side of the Olympic-size swimming pool. I’ve never seen so much property being used for nothing in Chennai and it baffles the mind why this single guy wants such an enormous living space. It’s excessive and flashy. The house is gaudy and very badly designed. The interiors are atrocious too. I’m surprised he considers Aishani a friend; she would never let someone live in a house that’s ugly.
But it’s not my place to loudly pass judgement on homes I haven’t touched, so during the house tour, I kept my mouth shut. Joshi struggled to do the same. He asked inane questions just to fill the awkward silences and hummed whenever he thought was appropriate. It was never appropriate.
Now we’re standing in the outhouse, staring at the number of windows, the high ceiling and the garish crown moulding that covers the entirety of the space.
“We’re gonna have to rip all of this out,” I tell Joshi, slowly walking the length of the room. “Windows need to be replaced and soundproofed, not to mention tinted for privacy. What do you think about these doors?”
There are way too many doors leading in and out of this house and I want to seal every single one.
