Most of the Tabloid crew is spread out between the drawing room and the adjacent study. Ed and Sinha—in deep conversation—are seated on a pair of beautiful Rajasthani love seats in the drawing room. They are surrounded by some of the news desk reporters seated straight-backed on the low settees—they look terrified and enthralled at the same time. Every piece of furniture is dark chocolate in colour. The study is markedly different and has floor seating. There are three mattresses with many different sized cushions strewn across them.

There’s very dim lighting in both rooms. While the light in the drawing room comes from two giant rice-paper lamps, the study is lit only by several thick, pillar candles placed around the room. The Features team—I don’t see Comma though—and some of the marketing team are sprawled here. There’s a hookah being passed around that smells of apples and something herby.

Mita seems to be the disc jockey for the evening and is bent over the computer on the study table. The twins Nisha and Rajni are sitting on either side of some guy from the sales department. Actually, it looks like one of them is sitting on his lap and his hand is down her—I quickly look away to avoid staring.

I turn and see Neelima standing in one corner with—Her sari pallu slips off her shoulder, exposing her low-cut blouse as she leans over to whisper to whoever she’s talking to. I can’t make out who he is—his back is towards me—but I see Neelima lean closer to him, her breasts squishing against his arm.

I hastily turn away from them as well and start to walk out of the room—clearly not my kind of place—when I’m stopped by Neelima’s husband who’s walking into the room. His name’s Virat Prabhakar, he’s the head of the photo department and I’ve never really spoken to him.

‘Oops, sorry,’ he says as we narrowly avoid bumping into each other.

‘Not a problem, it’s all right,’ I mumble and try to rush off.

‘Whoa hold on, it’s Polly, right?’ Virat asks smiling.

He is somewhat unstable on his feet and he holds on to the door frame to support himself—effectively blocking my way. He leans closer, smiling, and sniffs me.

It surprises me—I don’t know him well enough for him to be so … so familiar.

‘Yes. As in sorry, yes it’s Polly,’ I say and stare at his arm—mentally willing him to move it.

He leans closer again. My first impulse is to instantly step backwards; but I don’t because it would be very rude. After all, he’s my colleague’s husband, a senior at work and the host of the party.

‘Have you had a drink yet?’ he asks.