The Torn Prince Read online

  “Roshan beta! Come to Nanima!”

  Her mother descended upon them in a flurry of colourful dupatta—the wide fabric scarf she always wore as a shawl draped over her bosom—and the clink-clink of thick gold bangles at her wrists.

  “Hello to you, too, Ma,” Rio mumbled, knowing it was pointless.

  Pointless to ask to be seen. Pointless to mention, yet again, that her son’s name was Nour and not Roshan, though both names meant the same thing, ‘bright light,’ the former in Urdu and Arabic, the latter in Hindi. Trust her mother to make such distinction obvious.

  Nour tried to scramble away from his Nani’s arms, and Rio could clearly see a bout of crying making its way up. Thankfully, in strolled her father, and Nour slung his whole weight towards his Nanaji and gurgled happily.

  The kid really seemed to dislike the too-effusive faffing that, frankly, rang terribly false and overdone. He must have sensed the hypocrisy the older woman wielded so well yet seemingly unconsciously.

  Her mother pretended she adored the child whenever in his presence. Yet, she would never fail to let her daughter know she’d clearly have preferred a much whiter grandson. Or that Rio should count herself lucky she hadn’t had a daughter instead. Implying the girl’s fate would have been sealed almost like that of an Untouchable back on the Indian sub-continent circa the Partition era.

  “Namaste, Papa,” Rio greeted her dad. She smiled as he dropped a soft kiss on the side of her head and gave her a gentle one-armed hug while holding her son to his other shoulder.

  Nour wasted no time plunging onto her dad’s hanging spectacles and started to chew the chain dangling around his neck. She quickly retrieved him and fished for a teething ring from her bag, stopping the waterworks just in time.

  Sounds came from the staircase on the far side of the room, leading to the second floor where her brother Rajiv and his wife Minnie lived. Her sister-in-law was all smiles as she came down and made a beeline for the baby, who happily lurched in her direction to be swept up in a massive hug and cuddle.

  Rio shook her head. Funny how Nour hated to be held like a baby by her or Oksana but seemed to revel in it when in his Mamee’s arms. Perfect—she could now leave her son in capable hands and attend to the matter that had brought her here.

  Or not.

  Her mother stood before a seated Minnie and Nour with a wad of money in her grip. Her hand moved in concentric clockwise circles in front of the girl’s face, then switched direction as the cadence of the prayer changed, too.

  Next, Hema Mittal wailed and threw her arms up to the sky, begging God to make the child here a conduit of its blessing to finally place a baby in her daughter-in-law’s womb.

  And here we go again.

  Poor Minnie’s fair skin turned pink with embarrassment. She’d been married less than two years, for God’s sake. But of course, she should have already popped out a child—preferably a son for her first-born—nine or, at most, ten months after her wedding night. With her alabaster complexion and crow-black hair, Minnie was considered the ultimate beauty, the perfect bride. Now, if she could only be the perfect broodmare, too.

  “Here.” Her mother waved the wad of money she’d used to remove the evil eye on her daughter-in-law and thrust it into her husband’s hand. “Go give this to Hamid. He could sure use it.”

  Rio’s mouth dropped open, as did Minnie’s across the room.

  “Ma! Don’t you pay him enough as the cook? He won’t take charity, for sure,” she blurted out.

  Her mother tsk-ed. “Those people are always looking for handouts, aren’t they?”

  Rio shook her head with disbelief. When would the woman realise she lived in England now and not Mauritius? How culture and society matters were different here. Just because someone was a Muslim, like their Pakistani chef, didn’t mean they were asking for charity. Even if most people who went house-to-house seeking alms on the tropical island happened to be mainly Muslim women.

  Her father softly shook his head and went downstairs. Flabbergasted, Rio watched him leave. She always thought her mother couldn’t shock her more, but she was proven wrong almost every time she set foot back here.

  Thanks to all the rocking and cuddling, Nour appeared to have fallen asleep.

  Minnie stood up. “I’ll put him to bed upstairs.”

  Rio nodded. “Please, thanks.”

  The other woman made a hasty retreat upstairs, away from her mother-in-law’s scathing tongue. Rio couldn’t begrudge her, though. If she could run, she would, too.

  Her father came back up, and he pulled his hand slightly out of his trouser pocket, giving her a hint of the turquoise bundle of five-pound notes his wife had stuffed in his grip earlier. He gave her a soft wink, then retreated to the study at the back of the house where he could escape his wife.

  Rio stifled a smile. She couldn’t fault him for running away.

  Turning, she trudged into the kitchen, where her mum would thrust the inevitable cup of chai at anyone who set foot inside the house.

  Since her pregnancy, milk added to strong tea made Rio nauseous. Yet, her mother never took note of her aversion or chose to ignore it. Fine, she could nurse a cuppa for the two hours—hopefully, just one hour—she’d be forced to endure here.

  So, she plopped down at the Formica-topped kitchen table and wrapped her hands around the mug, welcoming the warmth despite the central heating docked at twenty-something degrees Celsius on this floor. One could never get enough heat in a British winter.

  Her mother parked herself down across from her, extending a plate of jalebis her way. She shook her head. Another collateral damage of her pregnancy—she couldn’t stand the smell of the grease they used to fry those funnel cakes in before dunking them in thick syrup. Again, her parent hadn’t noticed.

  The plate landed with a thud on the table. Hema Mittal took a deep breath, then closed her eyes and brought her hands up to press her temples.

  Rio’s stomach lurched. Uh-oh.

  “You will not believe what that girl has done,” her mother spat out as she opened her eyes and stared at her all agog.

  She didn’t miss the extra-spit and hiss on the word girl. Of course, they’d be talking about Tanya, her youngest brother Rishabh’s fiancée.

  “What happened?” she asked, more to be polite than anything else.

  “She invited the whole Ismail clan to the reception!”

  Okay, the Ismails were a big family. Grandparents, three sons and their wives, if she weren’t mistaken, and between them, they must have about a dozen children. Still, it didn’t warrant this kind of panic. They were planning an Indian wedding—until the last minute, they would find themselves shoving tables to make room for uninvited guests and even wedding crashers.

  “We can always add more tables,” she voiced out.

  “But what about the food?” her mother shrieked.

  Rio frowned. “What about it?”

  “Well, they’ll want Halal, won’t they?”

  “And?” She didn’t see what the problem was.

  “Well, we don’t do Halal, do we? Vegetarian, yes. But they’ll be expecting their kofta kababs and chicken tikkas, and the goat biryani, of course.”

  Rio had to force herself to remain calm and stay in her seat. The proper thing to do would be to fight her mother to include Halal meat slaughtered as per Muslim rites in their kitchen. Bam, problem solved. Not like it would be hard for them to find Halal meat in Southall, or even London nowadays, for that matter.

  “Do you wish to seat them at the vegetarian tables?” One couldn’t expect devout Muslims to eat meat not slaughtered in the way their religion demanded. Still, they could eat anything meat-free without any issue.

  Her mother gasped, her hand landing flat on her heaving bosom as her eyes grew even bigger in her round face. “And lose face in front of everyone? That girl, I tell you …”

  Anyone listening to her would think Tanya to be the devil’s very own offspring. But her only ‘fault’ was t
hat she was dark-skinned—walnut baklava to Rio’s less-dark toasted coconut if one were to use foundation shades to compare them.

  And where it hurt her mother most was, her precious Rishabh had been born with flawless fair skin. As such, the boy was expected to marry a girl even paler than Minnie—as if it were possible—and not this dusky chit he’d fallen in love with who would surely give him muddy-skinned babies. Oh, the shame and horror … That girl must have hexed him into falling for her, too.

  Footsteps rumbled on the staircase leading to the first floor, and a few seconds later, Rishabh and Tanya appeared in the front room.

  Her mother got up from the kitchen table and all but floated to greet the young couple.

  “Rishabh beta!” She embraced him as if she hadn’t seen him in six months, not just six hours since he’d left the house in the morning, most probably. “Tanya, beti.”

  And that girl got the same treatment, along with a saccharine tone and over-effusive hugs. No one would think the older woman had just been word-bashing her with her daughter barely two minutes earlier.

  Rio didn’t bother to join them yet—the prancing of the mother goose in there would render any movement impossible in the tiny room. So she took the opportunity to dunk her undrunk tea in the sink and waited there with her hip propped against the wood-topped counter.

  The other three people converged into the kitchen, turning the cramped space into the equivalent of a fish-in-oil tin.

  “Hey, sis,” Rishabh greeted.

  She smiled as he kissed her cheeks.

  Tanya came all in for a hug—she’d been expecting it, having figured out the girl operated on only two levels: enthusiastic and over-enthusiastic. Still, she made Rishabh happy, and it was what mattered. Nothing but happiness and love.

  A pang hit her heart when she reckoned how, twice, she’d thought this kind of future lay ahead of her. What a dummy she’d been.

  “Rio, have you seen this?” Tanya tugged her towards the screen of her phone, which displayed a picture of some wedding party. “Isn’t this the bloke who’s terribly smitten with you?”

  She hardly had a minute to peer at the image before her mother snatched it from Tanya’s hand.

  “Oh, look, it’s darling Megha’s wedding. I didn’t know they’d released the pictures,” she cooed.

  Rio grimaced softly and exchanged a loaded glance with her brother.

  ‘Darling Megha’ was Megha Saran, someone they didn’t know from Eve or Saraswati and Lakshmi and Parvati. But the young woman from Surrey was of Indian origin, which almost made her family.

  Plus, in their circles, the fact Megha had snatched one of the most eligible bachelors of Europe, Magnus Trammell—not to mention a White billionaire—put her in the first spot as the example to follow and the goal to aspire to.

  “Oh, yes, it is the pasty-faced boy who’s always at your functions, Riona,” the older woman continued, squinting at the screen then turning the phone towards her.

  Rio bit her lip when she made out the face of Humphrey Prentiss standing next to the groom. As the ninth Earl of Bodenlea and Trammell’s family friend, he would have been invited to the exclusive party.

  “But he’s a bit gay, isn’t he?” her mother continued, then shook her head. “Never mind. You can change him when you’re married.”

  Both Rio and Tanya now had their mouths hanging open, staring aghast at the older woman.

  “Ma, you can’t say things like that,” Rishabh finally blurted out.

  Hema Mittal shrugged and rolled her eyes. “What, it’s true.”

  “No, it’s not,” her brother continued. “If someone is one way, you can’t change them.”

  “Ha! As if that’s the case. A generation of pussies is what it all is now. He’s sweet on you, Riona. Use what God gave you since you’re so intent on it already and get yourself this man as a husband. You already let a good one go.”

  Stunned silence descended on the room.

  Rio didn’t know which one in this tangled yarn of insults she should focus on first. Her mother would never let her forget she’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock and hadn’t born a white man’s child.

  At worst, the older woman hoped Nour’s father was a darker Indian man. God forbid, he was a Black man, especially one of those West Indies or Jamaican types!

  Rio had never enlightened her.

  And as for Gary.

  No one knew what her life had been like with him. He hadn’t cheated at first, and he’d never hit her. Didn’t meant he hadn’t been abusive. Why would he need to use hands, fists, or kicks when his words had always landed the blow harder than blunt force could? Then the infidelities had happened, followed by him demeaning her at every opportunity inside the closed confines of their house, especially their bedroom.

  No one knew. No one except …

  Unable to stand the recriminations, Rio rushed out. She stumbled down the flight of stairs, escaping via the service door into the cold air tinged with reeks of rubbish from the bins a few paces down the alley. Bent double, hands on her knees, she let the blood flow back into her head and forced herself to breathe from her mouth.

  As her heart rate refused to calm down, she finally paused to acknowledge it. The dig about Gary hadn’t hurt. Not really. Not when she knew what she’d escaped from when she’d walked out on him.

  No, it had been something else. Something she hadn’t wanted to look at, let alone contemplate. For all the days since she had woken up in the bed of the guest bedroom of her St Johns Wood house to find it empty, any trace of him gone. Fine, she’d thought—she could, and would, put him behind her.

  Then two weeks later, her regular-as-clockwork period had been late, and she’d known. She was pregnant, and she hadn’t even known the actual name of the man who’d fathered her child. Switz Bagumi, it turned out, was a stage name. No one seemed to know the identity of the man who had simply disappeared off the face of the Earth after spending a night of red-hot passion with her.

  Switz … She had pushed to forget him, to ignore the very thought of him.

  Thank goodness Nour hadn’t taken after him much, and she thus didn’t have to look at his likeness every day. He had waltzed into her life—three times!—and left her reeling every single time. If that didn’t highlight the score where she and men were concerned, she didn’t know what would.

  God, she always sucked with the opposite gender, didn’t she? Or even at life. Here she was, over thirty, a single parent, with a bigot for a mother, and absolutely no prospects.

  At this, she blinked. The last one wasn’t technically true. Humphrey was indeed sweet on her; if she were to give him any hint she’d reciprocate if he made a move, he would be hers. And such a kind, sweet person, too, would be hers in body, heart, and soul. The body part, she didn’t much care for, not with him, not after—

  Do not think of Switz!

  But the heart and soul … If only she could belong with someone … Just once …

  Would it be too much to ask?

  Standing in that stinking back alley, Rio took a deep breath to fortify her resolve and stood up straight. She could still get her life together and make something of her future. For her and Nour.

  Tomorrow, at work, she would speak with Humphrey and tell him she was open to him courting her.

  Chapter Three

  After sneaking in a kiss and cuddle from Nour on Monday morning, Rio escaped back upstairs to the master bedroom suite she occupied on the second floor of her house.

  Oksana would feed the baby his porridge downstairs in the kitchen. A feat which implied all surfaces around the kitchen island and the highchair would be covered in dribbles of baby food. Thank goodness for easily cleanable treated wood floors.

  In her bedroom, she flopped on the edge of the bed, grabbed her phone from the nightstand, and called Kelsey Clegg, her boss who had somehow morphed into her best friend over the past year. The call connected, Kelsey’s sultry voice answering on the second ring.


  “I need your help,” Rio said, not beating around the bush. Neither of them was a fan of such behaviour.

  “Hmm … What can I do for you?”

  Deep breath—here goes. She wouldn’t be able to backtrack after this.

  “The gala on Friday. Is Humphrey attending?”

  “Humphrey Prentiss? No. As far as I know, he declined to attend in his RSVP.”

  Hope swelled in her chest. That was good; it meant he hadn’t been snapped up by another woman.

  “Any reason why?” she asked.

  “Said he didn’t like to come to these things alone.”

  Better and better! “Think he’d agree to come if I asked him?”

  A few seconds of silence stretched from the other end.

  “He’d jump off Tower Bridge if you were to ask him.” Kelsey huffed. “You’re really gonna do this?”

  She knew what the woman meant. Kelsey had seen her in her direst hour after the divorce and then Switz’s desertion, which had brought her to her knees even more than leaving Gary. The two of them hadn’t made a pact or anything of the like, but she had a feeling they’d both committed to living their lives for themselves after having had their hearts trampled.

  But the question really begged her to consider her reply. And she did.

  “I don’t love him, Kel. I’m not in love with him. But I can be good for him.”

  “He’s a good man,” Kelsey concurred.

  “He is.”

  “Call him. Ask him to be yours.”

  Her friend didn’t just mean for the gala—Humphrey seemed to be in for forever, it seemed.

  Precisely the kind of solace and security she needed for hers and Nour’s future. Humphrey already adored the baby, and he wasn’t the kind of man who would tell her to leave her kid behind with her family to be with him.

  “Thanks, Kel,” she muttered. “We should meet up to debrief later.”

  A sigh came from the other end. “No can do. I’m only flying back on Thursday night.”

  She frowned. “Where are you this time?”

  “Shetland. They’re shooting the scenes for the first episode of season three.”