Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

“But you did,” said Jenny, “so you’ll have to deal with reality. Would you rather try and build a worthwhile relationship with Sebastian, or please your parents by marrying a man you’ve never met?”

“I just wish it was that simple. I tried to explain to Seb last night what it’s like to be brought up in a traditional Hindu household, where heritage, duty—”

“What about love?”

“That can come after marriage. I know it did for my mother and father.”

“But your father’s met Sebastian, so surely he’d understand.”

“The possibility of his daughter marrying a Christian will never even have crossed his mind.”

“He’s an international businessman who sent you to St. Paul’s, and was so proud when you won a place at Cambridge.”

“Yes, and he made it possible for me to achieve those things, and has never asked for anything in return. But when it comes to who I should marry, he’ll be immovable, and I’ll be expected to obey him. I’ve always accepted that. My brother was married to someone he’d never met, and my younger sister is already being prepared to go through the same process. I could face defying my parents if I felt that in time they might come around, but I know they never will.”

“But surely they must accept that there’s a new world order and things have changed?”

“Not for the better, as my mother never tires of telling me.”

Jenny ran across to the stove as the water bubbled over the rim of the saucepan and rescued two very hard-boiled eggs. They both laughed. “So what are you going to do about it?” asked Jenny.

“There’s nothing I can do. I told him we couldn’t see each other again, and I meant it.”

There was a firm rap on the front door.

“I’ll bet that’s him,” said Jenny.

“Then you have to answer it!”

“Sorry. Got another egg to boil, and can’t afford to make the same mistake twice.”

A second rap on the door, even firmer.

“Get on with it,” said Jenny, remaining by the stove.

Priya prepared a little speech as she walked slowly into the hall.

“I’m sorry, but—” she began as she opened the front door to find a young man standing on the doorstep holding a red rose.

“Are you Miss Priya Ghuman?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I was asked to give you this.”

Priya thanked him, closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

“Was it him?” asked Jenny.

“No, but he sent this,” she said, holding up the rose.

“I really must start going to more cricket matches,” said Jenny.

“On the hour, every hour?” asked Clive.

“That’s right,” said Seb.

“And for just how long do you intend to keep sending her a rose on the hour, every hour?” asked Victor.

“For as long as it takes.”

“There’s got to be one very happy florist out there somewhere.”

“Tell me, Vic, do Jewish parents feel as strongly about their children marrying outside their faith?”

“I have to admit,” said Vic, “when my parents invited Ruth to dinner three Fridays in a row, I knew the only thing I was going to be allowed to choose was the vegetables.”

“How can we even begin to understand the pressure Priya must be facing?” said Clive. “I feel for her.”

“On a lighter note, Seb,” said Victor, “does this mean you won’t be taking her to The Merchant of Venice at the National tonight?”

“It seems unlikely, so you may as well have my tickets.” He took out his wallet and handed them to Clive. “Hope you both enjoy it.”

“We could toss a coin,” said Victor, “to decide which one of us goes with you.”

“No, I have other plans for tonight.”

“It’s Miss Jenny Barton on line three, Mr. Clifton.”

“Put her through.”

“Hi, Seb. I was just calling to say hang in there. She’s weakening.”

“But she hasn’t replied to any of my letters, doesn’t answer my calls, won’t acknowledge—”

“Perhaps you should try to see her.”

“I see her every day,” said Seb. “I’m standing outside Hambros when she turns up for work in the morning, and again when she catches her bus in the evening. I’m even there when she gets back to her flat at night. If I try any harder, I could be arrested for stalking.”

“I’m visiting my parents in Norfolk this weekend,” said Jenny, “and I won’t be back until Monday morning. I can’t do much more to help, so get on with it.”

It was raining when Priya left the bank on Friday evening. She put up her umbrella and kept her head down, looking out for puddles as she made her way to the bus stop. Of course he was waiting for her, as he had been every night that week.

“Good evening, Miss Ghuman,” he said, and handed her a rose.

“Thank you,” she replied before joining the queue.

Priya climbed on board the bus and took a seat on the top deck. She glanced out of the window and for a moment thought she spotted Seb hiding in the shadows of a shop doorway. When she got off the bus in Fulham Road, another young man, another rose, another thank you. She ran to the flat as the rain became heavier by the minute. By the time she put her key in the front door she was frozen. She’d decided on a quick supper, a warm bath and early bed, and tonight she would even try and get some sleep.

She was taking a yogurt out of the fridge when the door bell rang. She smiled, and checked her watch: the last rose of the day, which would join all the others in the vase on the hall table. Wondering just how long Seb would keep this up, she walked quickly to the door, not wanting the young man to get drenched. She opened it to find him standing there, an umbrella in one hand, a rose in the other.

Priya slammed the door in his face, sank to the floor and burst into tears. How could she continue to treat him so badly, when she was the one to blame? She sat in the hallway, hunched up against the wall. It was some time before she slowly picked herself up and made her way back to the kitchen. The light was fading, so she walked across to the window and drew the curtains. It was still raining — what the English describe as cats and dogs. And then she saw him, head down, sitting on the curb on the far side of the road, rain cascading off his umbrella into the gutter. She stared at him through the tiny gap in the curtain, but he couldn’t see her. She must tell him to go home before he caught pneumonia. She ran to the door, opened it and shouted, “Sebastian.” He looked up. “Please go home.”

He stood up, and she knew she should have closed the door immediately. He began walking slowly across the road toward her, half expecting the door to be slammed in his face again. But she didn’t close it, so he stepped forward and took her in his arms.

“I don’t want to go on living if I can’t be with you,” he said.

“I feel the same way. But you must realize it’s hopeless.”

“I’ll go and see your father as soon as he comes back from India. I can’t believe he won’t understand.”

“It won’t make any difference.”

“Then we’ll have to do something about it before he returns.”

“The first thing we’re going to have to do is get you out of that suit. You’re soaking.” As she took off his jacket, he leaned forward and began to undo the tiny buttons on her blouse.

“I’m not soaking,” she said.

“I know,” he whispered, as they continued to undress each other. He took her in his arms and kissed her for the first time. They fumbled around like teenagers, discovering each other’s bodies, slowly, gently, so when they finally made love, for Sebastian it was as if it was for the first time. For Priya it was the first time.

For the rest of the weekend they never left each other, even for a moment. They ran together in the park each morning, she cooked while he laid the table, they went to the cinema, not watching much of the film, laughed and cried, and lost count of how many times they made love. The happiest weekend of her life, she told him on Monday morning.