Page 98 of A King's Oath

“Bye.”

Samarth pulled out her key from his pocket, deposited it on the counter and grabbed his mobile phone. With one last look back at her, a smile and a nod, he was gone. Her apartment went silent again. As if last night had been a dream.

Except, his half-finished apple and peanut butter cake lay on the plate on the coffee table. He had really been here.

18. Helmet

Van Cleef & Arpels. French high jewellery maison. 20-22 Place Vendôme, Paris.

It was like working in the dream of her dreams.

The classic Parisian facade of traditional limestone, tall windows, and wrought-iron balconies merged seamlessly with the refined luxurious marble, fine wood, and plush textiles of the interiors of her office. Even after growing up in a palace and spending her schooling years in the heritage campus of Saraswati Crest, Avantika found herself starry-eyed in her newest surroundings.

While her first few days went in orienting, acclimatising and learning the ropes of the business, she found a new liberty in living. Not that she had ever been caged. Neither her school, nor her colleges had ever felt closed. The Palace of Gwalior, even with the restrictions and protocols had been the free space of their childhood thanks to Kaka Maharaj.

But this — living in her own apartment, waking up, dressing up with mascara and red lips and no coverage for her mild breakouts, making coffee and sipping it standing in front of the sunny window… taking a taxi to work because she had let her chauffeur-driven car go the day she had been deposited here… getting off a few blocks away from the office and walking the rest of the way like Parisians, stopping for a croissant bag toshare with her new coworkers… taking long lunches with white wines…heaven.

Avantika knew that the novelty factor of this lifestyle would someday wear off. That someday would be soon. But she also knew that she wanted to make a life outside of Gwalior, and preferably outside of India. The future she envisioned for herself would not find fruition there. Rishta, family, marriage awaited her there. She couldn’t outright wage war. But this, slow fragmenting, would build enough ammunition over the years to let her live her life away, alone and awaiting somebody who was never coming.

The thought of the one who was never coming reminded her — it was Wednesday. His polo tournament was starting. She didn’t know if it was a morning match or an evening match. So, in her lunch break, against every instinct, Avantika Googled it up.

Jolly Roger (Sweden) VS Gir Zephyrs (India) — 6.30 pm to 8 pm, Bagatelle Polo Club.

The name of his team made her smile. He indeed was the wind of his Gir.

“Hey, wondering what to do with the rest of your lunch break?” Ivor plopped beside her. He was the Digital Creative Head and in many ways, her copy partner. She would be the design, he would be the words — to put it mildly. One of the few English-speaking employees in this vast office of French speakers. She had been so happy to know that a coworker on her team would talk in something other than French.

“You might be right,” she locked her phone shut, turning towards him. He was in his mid-thirties, completely blonde, with blonde eyelashes and brilliant blue eyes. Avantika had studied with people from all around the world but Ivor put all the exotic-looking guys and girls to shame. He was beautiful, in amanly way. Tall, extremely lean, but making up for that with his ready humour.

“Here’s an idea,” he leaned in, hands spread out. “Let’s run back in, start on the mood boarding and run out of here by 5.”

“Can we?”

He shrugged — “As long as we finish this off. It’s the weekend anyway.”

“Tomorrow is Thursday, the weekend is two days away.”

“You’ll know what I mean when Friday rolls around,” he winked. “So? Are you in?”

“Oh,” Avantika smiled. “I’m in. But I have somewhere else to be.”

“And here I was about to ask you to join me for an evening out.”

“Maybe another time.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Ave.”

————————————————————

Avantika flipped her hair to the side, fluffing her curtain bangs. She was never as grateful for her curling prowess as she was today. And the fact that she had spent a good twenty minutes curling her poker-straight hair into seaside waves that skimmed her shoulders. She pushed her sunglasses up into her crown and ran a hand down the blood-red boyfriend shirt she had chosen to tuck into a pair of light-wash fit-and-flare jeans for work. It wasn’t Polo-chic but it would do.

The tickets had been easily available today, partly due to the early matches in the tournament, partly because both the teams were non-French. Parisians loved their post-work walks in the park and drinks in the bar on a weekday too much to watchhorses run at 30 miles per hour. Even if hot men were riding them.

“Hi,” she found the first Indian-looking man in the small crowd. He wore a blue and white striped T-shirt from Samarth’s Gir Zephyrs. “My name is Avantika, and I am a friend of Samarth’s. I was wondering if you could point me towards his tent?”

“Samarth’s friend?” The man paused. He was well into his fifties, or at least, looked like he was, with his full white beard and handlebar moustache matching silvery hair and round sunglasses. “Well, that’s interesting.”

“Why?” She laughed. “He doesn’t have friends come to his matches?”

---