“He did, indeed,” I said. “I saw it myself. Me, I’m scared to death of heights. I would have fallen to a spectacular death, which is a recurring nightmare for me.”

Janice finished her tea and announced that she was packing it in for the week. It was Saturday, after all, and we were both off the next day.

“Plans with Mr. Dreamboat?” I teased.

“As a matter of fact, yes. We’re going to see a film, then we’ll have a late dinner at my place. Perhaps I shouldn’t be sharing such details with you, Mr. Jacobs.”

“Why not? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“If you say so. But if we’re friends, look out or I’ll ask you about that pretty girl you brought to Bombay Gym last week. Did you deliver my gift to her?”

Sushmita was the last person I wanted to discuss just then. But I’d opened the door with my own questions about her gentleman friend, Shirish. The mention of Sushmita’s name took me back several hours to our goodbye at the Lonavala station. Bucking societal norms, she’d leaned over from the driver’s seat—still no seat belt—and kissed me long on the lips. I don’t know if anyone could see us inside the car, but it was a risky move.

She said she’d get a message to me the next day or the day after. She told me not to give up on her. Not to forget that I’d told her I loved her. Of course she’d never returned the favor, I thought, but perhaps for good reason. I was free and she, not quite.

“Mr. Jacobs, you’re not listening to me,” said Janice, pulling me back from the memory. “Did you deliver my gift?”

“Sorry, Miss Spenser. She’s out of town. I’ll get it to her as soon as possible.”

She wished me a pleasant Sunday and was off to her healthy and perfectly uncomplicated friendship with a good man. I envied her the normalcy. The averageness of her romance. I had no idea how passionate the two of them were behind closed doors, but I would have loved to exchange their conventionality for my train wreck of a life.

I spent several hours more in the office. First I phoned Lokhande, who was out, and left a message with my work number. Then I made some calls to my film industry contacts, checking in again with Ravi Om Gopal. He didn’t want to have anything to do with me or my story, but finally agreed to slip me the name of a director who’d been arrested three days before in yet another roundup by Mrs. Gandhi’s police. I had to swear I’d never mention where I’d gotten the name.

“Anonymous source,” I told him. “Don’t worry. You’re safe.”