Page 51 of Bombshell

I’m too hungry to wonder what she’s looking for, but I can’t help but worry that my best friend knows me too well to keep my secret for long. But I’m not ready to share my secret yet. For now, the baby’s safe.

And hungry.

Landry Court stretches across two hundred acres of Hampshire. It’s the sort of estate where Hollywood films period pieces. I’d seen pictures of it from Poppy’s summers abroad for years. It’s different to be here. The house is down a private lane. Overhead, centuries-old elm trees create a canopy of dappled green light, shading the drive up to the open, wrought-iron gates. When we’re past them, I can’t help feeling like we’re driving into an Austen novel as the estate comes into full view. The house looms from a hill, its stately brick veneer belonging to another place and time. We pass manicured hedges as we wind our way to the front drive where an elegant woman with deep, amber skin and white hair waits. Despite the summer heat, she’s wearing a long silk kaftan, which ripples around her as she moves gracefully toward the car.

Poppy meets her halfway and it's impossible to miss the resemblance. They have the same poise even as they embrace.

“Come meet my grandmum,” Poppy calls to me when I climb out of the backseat.

Her grandmum inspects me for a moment, and I tug nervously at my loose, linen sundress. I probably look like a mess after being in the car for nearly two hours after getting stuck in London traffic on our way out of town.

“This is Adair,” Poppy tells her.

“The friend you’re always speaking of on your visits.” Her accent is heavier than Poppy’s and mixed with more than a tinge of Hindi. She wraps me in a warm hug. “It’s lovely to meet you, Adair.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you, too, Mrs…”

“Aja,” she corrects me. “Everyone calls me Aja.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” I say sincerely.

“It means goat,” she informs me, a familiar sparkle in her eyes. She really looks just like her granddaughter.

“Oh.” I can’t think of anything to say. “It’s still pretty.”

“It’s fitting,” she murmurs. “I’m very stubborn.”

“Like you,” Poppy says meaningfully, laughter in her voice.

“I think that’s a compliment.” I’m not entirely sure though.

“It is,” Aja informs me. “A woman should be stubborn. I’m always telling my priya to be more obstinate.” She wraps an arm around Poppy’s slender shoulders.

“My parents really appreciated it when I was a child.” Poppy leans against her and jealousy stabs me. Aja might be her grandmother, but it’s clear they’re close.

“But Poppy is a lovely lamb not a goat,” Aja says.

“Yes, she is,” I agree.

A man appears from a side door and bows slightly to us before turning to Cyrus who’s circled around to the trunk. “Are your bags in the boot?”

“Yes,” Poppy says, easily translating the British slang when Cyrus stares at him in confusion.

“Allow me,” the man says, brushing past him.

Cyrus leaves him to the bags and joins us. He walks right up to Aja confidently.

“Aja, this is my boyfriend.” Poppy steps away allowing him to move closer.

But Aja doesn’t hug him, instead she extends her arm. He takes it, looking torn between shaking it and kissing it. In the end, he opts for a squeeze, looking uncomfortable. Aja continues to watch him, and I wonder if he’s passing her inspection.

“The Eaton family?” she asks finally.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says, releasing her hand.

She doesn’t correct him or tell him to call her Aja. Next to her Poppy bites her lip.

“They own the Eaton hotels,” she volunteers as though this will warm her grandmother more, but Aja’s demeanor remains chilly.