The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,45
here, looking like they belonged? Their bags lay strewn over the floor, knitting spilling from some, while those that weren’t squeezed into the sofas were lounging on beanbags they’d struggle to get out of. They looked way too comfortable, and Samira hoped she could encourage her mom to get rid of them ASAP so she could unwind.
“Darling, so glad you came to see your old mother.” Kushi enveloped her in a hug, the familiar aromas of fenugreek and coconut oil clinging to her.
“Mom, I thought it would be just you and me tonight,” she said, handing over the box of sweets. “It’s been a long week, and I want to relax.”
“You work too hard, betee.” Kushi pinched her cheek before opening the box to peek inside. “My favorite. We’ll save these for later.” She placed the box into a nearby cupboard. “Now come. The aunties didn’t have a chance to talk to you at your welcome-home supper. They’re dying to hear all your news.”
From what she could remember, these women had never been her mom’s friends. In fact, Kushi had been an introvert who had preferred cooking for her cosmopolitan neighbors rather than inviting the judgmental Indian aunties around. Samira knew them because they were ever-present at every Indian function, casting their shrewd, beady-eyed glares over everyone, coolly assessing everything from appropriate fashion to potential husbands.
When she’d married Avi, the aunties had been invited, but she’d always wondered why, as they didn’t socialize with them. It made Samira contemplate how her mom had become so close to these dominating women that she’d gathered them here to assist with her matchmaking. Particularly as she’d bet they would’ve alternated between pitying her mom for having such a wayward daughter and gossiping behind her back when Samira had divorced Avi and fled Melbourne.
Mustering a tight smile, Samira entered the family room and made her way along the three sofas, greeting each of the matronly women. Four wedged on each sofa, three sprawled on beanbags, all eyeing her with blatant speculation.
Samira had borne the weight of Indian expectation before. These women had been as delighted as Kushi when she’d agreed to marry Avi all those years ago. None of them were blood related, but each held sway within their large Indian families and beyond. Samira didn’t like how many in the local community deferred to them as being doyens of Indian culture. While they’d celebrated her marriage, they’d shunned her just as quickly after her divorce. Never mind that she was the innocent party and Avi was a lying, cheating scumbag. They’d judged her and found her lacking. Escaping the endless pity and stares had been one of the motivating factors in fleeing Melbourne.
After she’d endured the hugs and cheek pinching, she chose a seat in the farthest corner, wishing she could slink out the front door and not look back. She would’ve loved a glass of wine, but she gratefully accepted a masala chai from her mom, along with a small plate covered in potato bhondas.
“Eat. Drink,” Kushi said, running a hand over her hair. “You look worn-out.”
“That’s why I wanted it to be just us tonight, Mom,” she murmured, leaning over to add, “How soon can we get rid of the battle-axes?”
Kushi covered a snort of laughter with her hand. “Be nice. All their daughters are married, so they have nothing better to do than interfere.”
“Hell,” Samira muttered, flashing a grin when the nearest auntie eyed her suspiciously.
The leader of the aunties, a formidable sixty-something woman called Sushma who’d successfully married off her four daughters to a gastroenterologist, an obstetrician, a chemical engineer, and a barrister, respectively, clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
“On behalf of your aunties, Samira, we would like to say how happy we are to have you back in Melbourne, and how we’re willing to do whatever it takes to see you happily married.”
Hell, indeed.
Sushma picked up her teacup and raised it as if it were the finest champagne. “We know pickings can be slim at your age, but if you’re willing to settle, I’m sure we can come to a beneficial arrangement for both parties, all things considered—”
“Mom, something’s burning.” Samira stood abruptly, almost upending her bhondas in the process and not caring. She couldn’t spend one more minute listening to this drivel. “Excuse me, aunties.”
She marched into the kitchen without a backward glance, feeling the judgmental stares boring into her back and ignoring the disgruntled mutterings. Didn’t these women have anything better to do? And how