I was awkwardly ushered into the spacious downstairs living room. It was decorated with bunches of fresh flowers today, and the large table pushed against the wall was piled with short eats—what we call finger food in Sri Lanka. A professional photographer was snapping pictures of the bite-size delicacies and elaborate table arrangements, while a group of older women in bright floaty blouses and Louis Vuitton handbags were seated primly on the sofas.

“Likes to keep us waiting, no? Trying to make a grand entrance as always,” one of them complained, her heavily painted fuchsia lips in an upside-down U. They were wrapped up in one another and didn’t pay me any attention, which was a relief.

Good, so that meant Mrs. Fonseka wasn’t down yet. Looks like I had crashed one of her charity brunch gatherings. Kaavi wasn’t the only woman in the Fonseka family who ran a charity. Fiona Fonseka hosted her fair share of various women’s brunches and gala dinners to raise awareness and donations for a number of worthy causes, though I’d often heard Kaavi complain that it was just an excuse for the women to sip on Moët and gossip. Again, I wondered how Kaavi had convinced her mother to invite me to the wedding. She’d never really liked me, I don’t think, but the last time I was in this house destroyed any hope I had of being accepted by her. But maybe it hadn’t been as bad as I thought at the time, if she’d changed her mind now.

I took a few steps toward the staircase. I could just go up to Kaavi’s room. It would be better than hanging around out here with the aunties, who would devour me in minutes.

The large marble staircase was in the middle of the ground floor, flanked by sitting areas on either side. While my single-storied house was breezy and sprawling, made in the older colonial style, the Fonsekas’ house was the epitome of ostentatious luxury. Mr. Fonseka oversaw the renovations to his large family home himself, and there was no shortage of marble and the best quality teak wood trimmings, with fittings flown down from Germany and furniture shipped over from Italy. It was always chilly inside, because they always kept the many air conditioners running. I’ve heard people describe it as a palace, but I suppose those are the same people who didn’t know that the Taj Mahal was actually a tomb.

The aunties never gave me a second glance, which surprised me. Usually, the entrance into any home or restaurant or social gathering was accompanied by craning necks and once-over glances where curious observers surmised whether they knew you, whether they knew someone who knew you, and whether you were worth saying hello to. Maybe luck was on my side and their gossip was extra juicy this morning.

I had almost made it to the staircase when Mrs. Fonseka’s voice boomed out, echoing over the cold marble.

“What are you doing here?”