A Season’s Dinner by Aasiyah Qamar

I am so glad to be here. The 12 Days of Christmas event sounded too good to pass up on, and Sandi has been a total doll with the opportunity to be present with you today. I decided to ask some people to dinner, but now I’m in a pickle – read on to find out more.

Ten minutes before my guests are supposed to arrive, I am a basket case of nerves. You may be wondering why – the reason is that I have had the ‘brilliant’ idea of inviting all my current and future characters to my dinner table.

My name is, well, let’s just say people know me by many names. To some I am Aasiyah Qamar, author of Indo-Mauritian culture-based romantic fiction. To others, I am Nolwynn Ardennes, an author who promises fulfillment in her stories set mostly in England and on the European continent.

As such, I write across diverse genres, and just as diverse people that people these worlds. So, was it a bad idea to bring them all together?

I have no more time to ponder this question because the doorbell rings and my first guest is here. Five minutes early. I have a pretty good idea who it is, and swinging open the front panel, my guess is correct.

Before me stands Neha Kiran. Early thirties, full-figured, flawless pale skin and chin-length, raven-black bob of satiny hair. The epitome of perfection, nothing is out of place on her, even down to the strappy flat sandals complimenting the flowing white dress.

You could say that perfection is the driving motto of her existence. Neha wants to be the perfect homemaker, the perfect mom (to her three teenagers), the perfect daughter. Yet one thing she can no longer be is the perfect wife, having been widowed a little ago. Just as well, in a way. Don’t get me wrong – it pained the life out of me to put her into this situation, but life goes on and this is something Neha will have to accept and embrace.

“I’m not late, am I?” she asks, a note of anxiety in her voice.

There it was – the little streak of very human emotion marring the polish of perfection, the little detail that professed Neha was a woman and not a programmed-like-clockwork doll she wants the world to believe she is. I smile, trying to reassure her, for if there’s one thing Neha is looking for it’s reassurance and validity. “You’re right on the dot,” I reply as I watch her breathe a sigh of relief and step into the house.

“These are for you.” She gently pushes a huge assortment of delicate lilies into my arms.

The perfect guest – why didn’t that surprise me? I admit now she was starting to spook me. Not a domestic goddess by any downgraded description of the word, the idea of such a paragon of household efficiency daunts me, to say the least. God, when will the man who will rock her world upside down, and in the process draw out her humanity, get here?

I am delivered from my uneasiness by a big Toyota Prado stopping in my driveway, a regal couple stepping out. They are both laughing, and the smile remains on their features as they make their way towards me and the opened door.

Lara Reddy and Eric Marivaux. Previously star-crossed lovers from two different cultural and racial worlds. She, tall, svelte, golden-skinned with a curtain of the same raven-black hair as Neha. There is definitely an aura of professionalism about her, obvious in her poised bearing that she is a woman used to being on the higher echelons of corporate power, one who broke through the glass ceiling with ease and aplomb. But for all her composure and success, she is nothing without the man by her side. He, tall, blond, blue-eyed and athletic, a “White” man who descends from original colonizers of Mauritius; a renowned and successful pediatrician, who knew half of him was missing when he didn’t have the only love of his life with him. Lara. In turn, the woman in her never breathed as when she was in Eric’s protective, sheltering embrace. Theirs is a story fraught with heartache, pain, social rejection after divorce, racial prejudice, cultural segregation, and ultimately, an all-encompassing love that would shatter through all the glass ceilings that erected in their way.

“Neha’s not driving you nuts yet, is she?” Lara asks as she folds me in a hug before stepping into the house.

Familiarity and teasing – what a stark contrast from the woman who first came to me when I set pen to paper and decided to write a story. That Lara’s life was bleak, dark, and devoid of any beauty.
“She only got here,” I answer, before greeting Eric with the regulatory kisses on the cheeks. He too pushes a bouquet into my hands. If my guests keep this up, the lobby will look like a florist’s display room by the end of the evening.

I trail behind the couple as they make their way into the living room, where Neha stands up to greet them. My step falters at the sight – Lara and Neha could pass for twins. Their facial features are almost identical, and were it not for the difference in their skin-tone and the fact that Neha still carries her post-pregnancies weight, no one would guess there’s at least five years’ difference between them. Yes, they are sisters. And they have another sister, the youngest, and a hellion by both women’s definitions.

Speaking of the little git, I catch a glimpse of her through the window, trying very hard to slither out of her gigantic Mistubishi Pajero. At barely five-one, Diya Hemant is every mother’s worst nightmare. Never done anything by the book, always stuck to her own rules and regulations. The problem? Diya actually has no rules!
Her sandal-clad feet finally hit the gravel, and she takes a minute to pull down the tight roll of fabric she calls a skirt down her thighs. Then, with a flip of her shoulder-length raven hair, she walks up to the porch with a strut worthy of a catwalk model.

Diya doesn’t ring the bell. I think she knocks, I’m not sure, because the pane swings open and shuts closed with a bang behind her as she all but jumps into the room where we all are. So much for the regal catwalk – the hyperactive little bee in her really does not take well to any kind of restriction, self-imposed or not.

“Hello beautiful people!” she chimes as she flits about the room, kissing everyone on the cheeks.

When she reaches me, she frowns, before her eyes grow wide and she clamps her hands on her mouth.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

She lets her hands drop back to her sides. “I got a box of chocolate for you but I think I forgot it at my flat.” Her shoulders slump, all the sass and buoyant energy seeming to leave her tiny frame, before she suddenly stands upright and dashes towards the door.
“Maybe it’s in the car. Lemme go check!”

With that she’s out of the house like a rocket. I’m reeling by the sudden change in energy in the room, and turning to look at my other guests, I catch the sheepish looks on their faces.

“She’s only twenty-four,” Eric says.

“And single,” Lara adds.

“As well as childless,” Neha points out.

Good observations. Diya is all that, and I wonder if anything can make her change. I have an idea that a specific man might do this trick for her – a widowed, single father of two young boys actually – but time will tell, I suppose. Because for all her bristling dynamism and buoyant effervescence, Diya Hemant wants what her sisters have – a family, and a man who would be head over heels in love with her, providing her the cocoon she needs to find her stability and her place in the chaos she calls life.

She’s back before any of us can talk any further.

“Hey guys, look who I found outside!”

Diya has linked arms with two women – no chocolate box in sight, by the way – and is bringing them to us. The three of them already look like fast friends. I cannot help but smile – that’s the magic of Diya. People feel totally taken by her vibrant persona in the blink of an eye and become fast friends with her. I believe this to be the case here too, with these two ladies.

Jane Smithers and Amelia Jamison. British girls, the former dark-haired and tall, with a no-nonsense, brook-no-argument look on her sharp facial features, yet take one look into her deep brown eyes and you immediately know this is a façade, a screen of protection for the fragile and delicate woman who lives inside her. The latter is petite with short blonde hair, her face an arresting feature thanks to the perfection of her bone structure and the ethereal beauty that is hers.

I stand and walk to them, my hands outstretched. “I’m so glad you could both make it.”

Jane smiles, a movement that immediately brings a shroud of softness on the angular planes of her face. “We couldn’t say no, could we, Amelia?” She turns towards her companion.

Amelia nods, but she doesn’t smile, just pushes another bouquet of carnations my way.

I cannot help but feel for both girls’ situation, and I squeeze their hands in mine, the flowers held under my arm. To hell with propriety. “You’re both feeling well?”

Jane winces. “Could be better, but I’m not complaining.”

Amelia shrugs. “I keep hoping something here will spark off a memory,” she admits quietly, in a broken tone that is so out of tune with the calm, confident woman she appears to be.

“What on earth are you both talking about?” Diya asks, shattering the reflective silence that had dropped into the lobby.

I’d forgotten about her, my heart going out to the two latest arrivals. What do you want me to tell her, the look I shoot the two women accompanying the prying little git asking them.

Jane shakes her head gently and turns towards Diya. “I’m pregnant.”

“Congratulations,” Diya shoots back, before turning to Amelia.

“I…” Amelia pauses, and I know it’s hard for her to admit her condition. She takes a deep breath. “I’ve got amnesia.”

Diya’s eyes grow wide. “You got to be kidding me! You mean, you don’t remember anything from your past?”

Amelia shakes her head.

“Oh bugger, your girls are in such pickles!” she exclaims as she leads them to the front room. “You’ve got to tell us all about it.”

That’s it – they would both be spitting out their life stories within minutes. That’s what Diya Hemant did to people! I pop my head into the living room. “I’ll get the appetizers ready while you all have a chit-chat.”

Heading towards the kitchen, I know I’m not being remiss as a hostess. I’d be back there in a flash, when the real situation of this dinner would be apparent – when the other guests arrived. The men whom each of these women, save Lara, would meet over their course of each of their respective stories.

Pulling the bread from the fridge, I start to butter the slices and place them on the hot griddle, to make the hot pav for the pav bhaji, a vegetable gravy on toast side dish that will be my starter tonight. The door to the kitchen opens, and without turning around I know who it is. “Neha, you’re a guest tonight, so back to the living room.” There’s a smile in my tone and laughter is threatening to burst from my throat. Neha, always the consummate domestic goddess.

“But—”

“No buts. Go back. You. Are. A. Guest. Tonight. Got it?”

One thing about the woman, she knows when to surrender, if only to come to the fore even stronger later. The door swings closed and I continue with preparing my dish. But as I look up, my gaze catches on a sight that stops me right there.

Four men are walking up the alley, four men I have come to know really well over the past months. All strangers to one another, and not the type of men who’d get into bromances or make friends easily – or so I’d thought – yet they all walk with the easy confidence and casual ease of guys who’ve known each other all their lives and who’ve been by each other’s sides through thick and thin.

Logan Warrington, Trent Garrison, Michael Rinaldi, and Gerard Besson.

Logan is big, massive really, a powerhouse of muscle and strength. The only hint of softness on him comes through his short sandy hair, strands that look almost too soft for such a hardened man. His face is all angles and there’s this slight dent apparent on his nose, as it had been broken more than once. Not surprising really, when one knows he was a heavyweight boxing champion barely a decade earlier. Logan is now ‘reconverted’ into media, and heads the Internet TV and radio station where, incidentally, Neha Kiran has applied for a job. Sparks will fly there, I’m sure of that.

Trent Garrison, for his part, is a terribly handsome and attractive man. Tall with broad shoulders, he however seems to carry the weight of the world on said shoulders. There’s also an abyss of agony and darkness in his slate-grey eyes. Watching him, you cannot help but feel your heart go out to him, and all a woman would want to do is bring some light back into his world. All women, that is, to the exception of Diya Hemant. Since the day these two met, they’ve been rubbing each other the wrong way. I’ve had to lie when Trent asked if ‘the spitfire’ would be here tonight. Sigh. Maybe Fate will show these two that sometimes, hate at first sight hides something much, much more powerful… like love…

One who I’m sure will not fall in the ‘trap’ of love is the other dark-haired man in the lineup, Michael Rinaldi. Millionaire corporate lawyer – legal shark would be more appropriate – and a much-sought after bachelor, he believes everything boils down to hard facts and cold logic. No place in his life for emotions, impulse, and feelings. I hope to show him how wrong he is, and strangely, the only woman who can pierce through the hard shell of this handsome man of immense power and charisma is a quiet and reserved personal assistant who never asked to be saddled with such a tycoon. Never mind that Jane Smithers got more than she bargained for in the form of the Rinaldi heir, she never asked for him or anything like him in all her life! But Fate, love, and ultimately the London paparazzi, have other, juicier plans for them.

My gaze travels to the last man to complete this unlikely group. Hard is what I’d use to describe him. From the top-notch physique to the clamped set of the wide jaw, everything about Marseille cop Gerard Besson screams that this is not a man to be crossed. The hinted outline of the gun he is never without is apparent to me under his leather jacket. He’d never hesitate to use it, and one look at his aqua eyes startles you, the surprise of seeing the unusual color obliterating the fact that your death may be written all over his face. Yet, one woman will do all she can to cross his path and remain in his vicinity – Amelia Jamison.

As the butter knife falls from my hands, my heart pounds and hammers in my chest. Have I taken on too much by bringing all these people together?

The doorbell rings, and I’m powerless to move from my position.

“I’ll get it,” Diya hollers.

I hear the exchanged greetings and the presentations being made. Then there is an eerie split second of silence that seems to drag on to an eternity for me.

And then all hell breaks loose when the door to the kitchen flies open and all the women who were in the living room crowd in, all speaking at the same time.

“How could you have asked that oaf over? Don’t you know he’ll just sour everything up with his total-jerk ways?” Diya throws at me.

“What is Logan Warrington, my boss, doing in that room over there?” Neha all but hisses. For once, the veil of calm composure is gone from her countenance, and I see the woman who is trying hard to catch her breath and with an almost hot-and-bothered flush to her pale cheeks. Oh yes, he’d be good for her, my heart tells me – bring out the real, feeling woman stifled under this paragon of virtue she presents to the world.

“Michael Rinaldi? Girl, you’re asking for trouble. If the paparazzi followed him, you’ll have a swarm of reporters at your doorstep before you can say ‘bloody hell’!”

Polished, sophisticated Jane is swearing – Michael must really have her knickers in a twist! But something else nags – is she right when she says a swarm of rabid tabloid reporters will be on my porch shortly?

I look up at the other woman who hasn’t given an outburst yet. With good reason behind that though – she’s as pale as a ghost, her blue eyes wide and swirling with confusion and anxiety.
“That man,” she croaks, “he’s the same one from my dreams, isn’t he?”

Yes, he is. A man from her past, a man she seems to remember in the abyss of the drug-induced oblivion the man who says he is her husband – Peter Jamison – forces her into during her every waking moment. Will Gerard manage to bring her repressed memories to the forefront? Or will he embroil her into more deceit and lies?
Suddenly I don’t know if this dinner is such a good idea. Glancing up, I catch Lara’s dark, even stare. Her eyes seem to say,
“You’ve made your bed, girl. Now sleep in it.”

And I’m so afraid she’s right…

Come find out how each of these couples will work their way out of their predicaments!

Light My World – Diya and Trent’s story – Available now!
Storms in a Shot Glass – Jane and Michael’s story – January 8, 2010
Walking on the Edge – Amelia and Gerard’s story – June 4, 2010
Winds of Change – Neha and Logan’s story – Coming soon!
The Other Side – Lara and Eric’s story – Available now!

Find more about these books on my website.