The Boy Toy

by Nicola Marsh

  “Good for you.” Her gaze glowed with admiration. “So tell me why you need dialect coaching.”

  “The short version is, I’m up for an audition to host a new reality show on TV. It’s the kind of part I would never consider, but I need the money.”

  “Okay,” she said, steepling her fingers on her desk like some Freudian analyst. “Have you done many speaking roles before?”

  “None,” he begrudgingly admitted, feeling totally out of his depth and sounding like it. “I’m a stuntman that eschews speaking roles for obvious reasons.”

  “Learning lines can be like singing; you won’t stutter.”

  “It’s a risk I haven’t been willing to take.”

  She pinned him with a curious stare. “Then why now?”

  His gaze skittered away to fix on the framed diploma above her desk. “Already told you, I need the money.”

  Before she could probe further, he said, “So can you help me?”

  After a long pause, she nodded. “Of course. Do you know much about dialect coaching?”

  “Not really.”

  “Technically, the coach helps actors with voice and speech in relation to a specific role. I’ll give you training exercises, instruct you in problem areas, and work on lines with you. But most importantly, I focus on your consistency, clarity, and ensuring you’re credible with the part you’re auditioning for.”

  Rory nodded while his head spun. Did he actually think he could do this?

  As if sensing his wavering confidence, she added, “Basically, it’s about getting your vocal character and delivery right for the role.”

  “Uh-huh,” he managed, feeling his throat tightening already with familiar fear.

  It had been like this every time he started with a new therapist. The fear of appearing a fool, the fear of being incompetent, the fear of trying his hardest to conquer his stutter yet failing regardless.

  As Pia studied him without judgment, he almost balked.

  He could walk out of here and not look back.

  He could ask his father for the money.

  Easier than making an ass of himself in the biggest audition of his life. Or worse, in front of the camera if he actually landed the role.

  But asking his father for money came with a price, which was why he’d avoided it for years. He’d rather eat bland ramen noodles and take any stunt role no matter how dangerous than be indebted to a man who never let him forget his failures.

  “It can be a lot to take in,” Pia said. “Why don’t I give you some preliminary information and do some fact gathering from your agent who referred you as to exactly what’s needed for the audition, and we’ll set up our first official appointment for tomorrow?”

  “Sounds good,” he said, waiting while she printed out a stack of documents and bundled them into a folder, when what he really felt like doing was bolting out of there without looking back.

  He inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. He could do this. Whenever the doubts crept in, and that would be often over the next few weeks, he had to focus on the kids’ project and providing Amelia with the money to get their program up and running.

  He knew how badly those kids needed help. His empathy was what got him started alongside Amelia in the first place, poring over funding applications and rental spaces and the sheer, overpowering number of poor kids with speech problems.

  Rory couldn’t let them down.

  He always paid his dues.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the folder she held out to him. “What time tomorrow?”

  “Does three suit?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  He managed a terse nod as he left her office. Thankfully, Samira wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and as he strode from the flashy building, his funk over the dialect coaching eased as he wondered if she’d actually take him up on that booty call.

  Ten

  You are so busted.” Pia pinched Samira in the same spot she used to when they were kids, between her armpit and her fifth rib, and Samira elbowed her away.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  A total lie, because after she’d fobbed Rory off to Pia yesterday, she’d bolted and hadn’t returned her cousin’s texts or calls since. They had ranged from a slightly curious IS HE THE RORY? to NICE BOY TOY to U BETTER SPILL to a rambling voice message this morning, “Sam, you better tell me everything about Rory Radcliffe, or I’m going to tell your mom you’re screwing a gora when she’s hell-bent on setting you up, and you know what she thinks of Aussie guys for her precious Indian princess. Call me.”

  An idle threat, because Pia wouldn’t rat her out. Not when her mother had invited what seemed like the entire Indian community in Dandenong to an informal supper to welcome her home tonight.

  As Samira glanced around the smallish backyard of her childhood home, crammed with about seventy people dressed in their Indian finest, she hated to think what a formal affair involved.

  The women wore stylish salwar kameez and saris in the most vibrant colors: emerald warred with peacock blue, daffodil with magenta, crimson with chartreuse, in a silk free-for-all that dazzled the eyes.

  She glanced down at her sedate burgundy sheath dress and grimaced. She’d never hear the end of it, even though she’d told her mom years ago she didn’t want to wear Indian garb.

  The men wore suits, but one joker had actually come dressed in a tux. Over-the-top, much? As if sensing her critical gaze, he eyeballed her across the crowd and raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. She had to admit he was good-looking, with thick black wavy hair framing high cheekbones and a strong jaw, but it was his eyes that captured her attention the most: a unique pale gray.

  When she didn’t look away, he smiled, the whiteness of his teeth vivid against his olive skin. Had to be a dentist. And considering his age, which she pegged around late thirties, he could be one of her mother’s setups. The thought alone was enough to send her scuttling for the kitchen on the pretext of helping her mom prepare food.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Pia grabbed her arm, and Samira shrugged it off with a sheepish grin.

  “Mom needs help—”

  “I need to find out about Rory,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “There’s no way you would’ve pushed someone that cute onto me, especially when you’re wanting to expand your dialect coaching expertise, so he has to be the one you screwed. Though what are the odds of him being a client?”

  “A million to one,” Samira muttered, still in shock over seeing Rory yesterday but inherently glad. The way she’d reacted when he’d touched her, when he’d kissed her . . . she’d felt no guilt at all looking up his number from the initial referral and programming it into her cell.

  Not that she’d contact him. She wasn’t the booty call type. But surrounded by prospective dates her mom would painstakingly introduce her to, it felt good to have some kind of safety net, like the blankie she used to clutch as a kid for comfort.

  “He’s incredibly hot.” Pia fanned her face. “Seriously, Sam, when I said you should have a no-strings-attached fling with a boy toy, you couldn’t have picked any better.”

  Of course, that’s the moment her mom bustled out of the kitchen and spotted them.

  “What is this boy toy fling business? Who’s having a fling?” Kushi stared at Samira and wrinkled her nose. “Please tell me you’re not going to cause a scandal at your homecoming supper.”

  Pia sniggered while Samira put on her best demure voice. “No scandal, Mom. Need some help in the kitchen?”

  Kushi nodded and beckoned them, a cloud of besan flour puffing the air as she waved her hands around. “If you girls could take the snacks around, that would be most helpful. Then I can put the sweets on the long table near the veranda, and everyone can help themselves.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Auntie,” Pia sai
d, before leaning over to Samira and whispering, “Don’t think your interrogation is over yet, young lady.”

  Samira rolled her eyes. “You’re younger than me, and this is so over.”

  “Pity you didn’t come into work today. I had an appointment with Rory this afternoon.”

  Samira’s heart leaped even as she mentally chastised herself to know better. “So?”

  “So . . . when you saw him yesterday, did he mention anything about you two hooking up again? Did you discuss it? Are you going to—”

  “Girls, hurry please, our guests are hungry.”

  Samira had never been so happy to obey a summons from her mother, and she headed for the kitchen, after poking out her tongue at Pia, who did the same in return.

  Only two years separated them in age, but they’d been like this since they were kids, closer than sisters. She didn’t know what she would’ve done without Pia’s support when her marriage to Avi imploded. She’d been a mess, and her cousin had got her through the worst of it with copious chick flicks, double chocolate fudge brownies, and margaritas. She may feign indignation at Pia’s teasing, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt if her mom tried to fob off some wealthy Indian snob onto her later, Pia would be there for her.

  The moment she stepped into the kitchen, Samira’s stomach rumbled as the fragrant aromas of mustard oil and onions tickled her nostrils.

  “That smells so good, Auntie.” Pia snaffled a pakora off the nearest platter, earning a slapped wrist from Kushi for her trouble.

  “You two eat later, guests first,” Kushi said, pointing toward the backyard.

  Pia winked, stuffed the fried onion snack into her mouth, and plucked another to hand to Samira, who quickly ate it.

  “Naughty girls,” Kushi said, her voice thick with emotion as she pinched both their cheeks. “It’s good to see you two together again.”

  Samira could only muster a mumbled, “Yeah,” as unexpected emotion clogged her throat. Pia picked up a huge platter of pakoras and headed for the door, but not before Samira glimpsed the sheen of tears.

  As if sensing a blubber-fest in the making, Kushi shooed them away. “Go. Mingle. Feed the crowd.”

  As Samira picked up a large dish piled high with vada, Kushi touched her arm. “Betee, there’s someone I’d like you to meet later—”

  “This platter is heavy, Mom. Got to dash.” But she’d barely made it out of the kitchen when the dork in the tux appeared in the doorway like some misplaced wedding guest who hadn’t got the memo about the smart casual dress code.

  “Ah, Manish, how fortuitous. I was just about to tell my Samira about you.” Kushi beamed as Samira resisted the urge to bury her face in the vada.

  She’d been through this rigmarole before. The less-than-subtle introductions where the guy had been clued in by his parents, the feigning of surprise, the awkwardness of making small talk with a guy she had no interest in, the sleaze of a guy who thought she’d be an easy target, because why else would a woman need a setup?

  Fifteen years ago, she’d been young and naive and eager to please her mom, so she’d allowed herself to get swept along with the unrealistic romance facilitated by Kushi and Avi’s parents. Her dad hadn’t approved, but he’d seen how much it meant to Kushi to see her happily married, so he’d backed down, leaving her mom to propel her headfirst into a relationship she’d neither wanted nor been ready for.

  Back then she’d fallen for Avi because she’d believed in the power of love. She’d craved it, a long-standing yearning that began by sneaking Mills and Boons out of the local library as a teen and encouraged by the clueless girls at her high school who regularly expounded their theories on love and sex.

  Samira had been woefully innocent and stupidly trusting. Thankfully, she was older and wiser now.

  “Nice to meet you, Samira,” Manish said, his voice surprisingly confident and mellifluous for a guy who’d worn a tux to a backyard supper on a Friday night.

  “You too.” She forced a smile under her mother’s watchful eye, rewarded by a slight nod from Kushi.

  “Need a hand?”

  Okay, so Manish had manners. None of the other Indian guys her mom had tried to set her up with before Avi had ever offered to help her with anything.

  “Thanks,” she said, relieved when he took the heavily laden platter from her hands. All the easier to escape. However, she should’ve known her mother wouldn’t make it that easy.

  “Good, now you can take the dipping chutneys for the vada,” Kushi said, thrusting a smaller platter into her hands before she could protest. “Off you go.”

  She shooed them out of the kitchen, and Samira blew out a frustrated breath as they stepped onto the veranda.

  “You don’t have to accompany me, you know,” Manish said, staring at her with that way-too-astute gray gaze. “If the hungry hordes want chutneys, you can put them on the table and they can wander over.”

  Samira struggled to hide her surprise. Another point in his favor. He didn’t expect her to trot alongside him like a subservient maid. And though she’d wanted to escape the potential awkwardness a moment ago, she didn’t mind being polite and offering guests dipping sauces with their snacks.

  “It’s okay. I’ll do one circuit of the yard, and then you’re on your own.”

  He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling into fine lines and adding to his handsomeness. She may have sworn off Indian men a long time ago, but this one was nothing like Avi. She guessed her mom had done her homework this time around.

  “I can live with that.” He waited for her to step past him. “After you.”

  Taking a deep breath, Samira allowed herself to be absorbed into the crowd. She’d expected to face an interrogation of monstrous proportions from the local community and a barrage of matchmaking suggestions. Instead, the worst she copped were a few sidelong glances and some whispers after she passed by.

  Then again, nobody had a chance to say much with Manish greeting almost everyone by name and asking after their children/grandchildren/neighbors as he plied them with vada.

  “Were you a caterer in a previous life?” she asked as they headed back toward the kitchen, platters empty.

  He quirked an eyebrow, just like he had when they’d first laid eyes on each other half an hour ago. This time, it looked less insolent and more charming. “What makes you think I’m not one now?”

  “The tux, for one.”

  His other eyebrow joined the first. “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s overkill.”

  “Maybe I’m heading to a James Bond look-alike party after this?”

  So he had a sense of humor to go with the manners and the looks. She wouldn’t be swayed.

  “Are you?”

  “No, but I wish I was.” He screwed up his nose. “There’s a doctors’ fundraiser in the city after this I couldn’t get out of.”

  Of course Kushi had chosen a doctor. Ding, ding, ding, she could almost hear her mom setting up the wedding chimes.

  “Too bad you’ll be missing out on dessert. Mom makes a killer jalebi.”

  “I’m more a gulab jamun kind of guy.”

  Typical, obsessed with balls. Then again, she was partial to the golden fried dumplings soaked in sugar syrup too. It wasn’t his fault she was a confirmed cynic when it came to Kushi’s fix-ups.

  She made a grand show of looking at her watch. “You don’t want to be late.”

  “Trying to get rid of me?”

  He leaned in close, and for an insane moment, Samira almost wished she’d feel a spark. Not that she wanted to get married again or stay in Melbourne permanently or get caught up in an Indian matchmaking frenzy, but Manish had been nothing but funny and polite, and it would be easier on everyone if she liked him in that way.

  But not a zing or a zap as his breath fanned her cheek, nothing like he
r body’s reaction to Rory.

  “Can I be honest, Manish?”

  He straightened, and she glimpsed the disappointment in his eyes that she didn’t want to flirt. “Sure.”

  “You seem like a really nice guy, but I’m in Melbourne to work for the next six months, and I’m not interested in a relationship.”

  “Too bad,” he said, eyeing her with something akin to hope. “We’re both in the medical field, we’re similar ages, we could’ve been good together.”

  “Good on paper according to our family’s astrologers, you mean?”

  He laughed again. “If your mom’s anything like my grandmother, you know this won’t be the last time we’ll be ‘encouraged’ to meet.”

  “Yeah, I know, but at least we both know where we stand now.”

  “For the record, I won’t hold it against you if you change your mind.” He tugged at his bow tie. “After all, who can resist a doctor in a tux?”

  She made a buzzing sound. “Wrong on so many levels.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shrugged, his grin oddly endearing. “Until we meet again, Samira.”

  Samira watched the not-so-dorky doctor with the killer sense of humor do the rounds saying his goodbyes, while her cell with Rory’s number in it burned a hole in her pocket.

  He was too young for her, he was all wrong for her, yet she couldn’t deny that for the first time in her life she should quit thinking about doing the right thing and do the exact opposite.

  Eleven

  Samira had stuffed the last plastic bag into the trash when the first wave of nausea hit.

  Her stomach churned like she’d drunk week-old lassi, and sweat broke out over her face. The pungent smell of garbage wasn’t helping, and she backed away from the trash can quickly.

  However, a second wave swamped her, more powerful than the first, and she staggered toward the front step of the veranda, grabbing at the balustrading to prevent from falling.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Of course, dashing Dr. Manish had to be leaving at that moment, and she managed a mute nod before slumping toward him.