by Nicola Marsh
“Hello, Auntie.” Manish stepped forward and took her mom’s hands, squeezing them tight, before releasing. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you, Manish. How is your grandmother?”
“She’s doing well, thanks for asking.”
The overt politeness made Samira grit her teeth as they sat, and an awkward silence descended.
“Samira tells me you two caught up for coffee a couple of weeks ago,” Kushi said, her beady-eyed stare swinging between the two of them, looking for the slightest hint of anything beyond friendship.
Manish nodded. “That’s right. I referred a patient to her, so it was a professional melding of minds.”
“Oh.”
Kushi visibly deflated, and Samira bit back an inane giggle.
“Yet she invited you to lunch today?” Kushi squared her shoulders, preparing for matrimonial battle. “And with her mother, no less.”
“Mom, as we’ve already discussed, Manny is a friend.”
“Manny?” The glint in her mom’s eyes showed she’d plow on undeterred. “You have a sweet nickname for him already?”
“All my friends call me Manny,” he said, and Samira shot him a grateful glance. “Your daughter is lovely, Auntie, and we’re becoming good friends, but that is all.”
Samira almost felt sorry for her mom as the light in her eyes faded. “Friendship can be the start to so much more—”
“Not in this case, Mom.”
“But I don’t understand . . .” Kushi shook her head. “You two make such a great couple.”
As Kushi’s lower lip wobbled, Samira realized this lunch wouldn’t solve anything. Her mom wouldn’t give up until Samira told her the truth. She didn’t want to. It would only make things worse, ramping up her mom’s badgering to monstrous proportions.
But it was wrong to try to involve Manny in this. He was a good guy; just not the guy for her.
“Mom, I’m seeing someone.”
Kushi’s eyebrows shot up. “Who? Do I know him? Does he have a good job? Do I know his family?”
“Oh boy,” Manny muttered, and when Samira met his gaze, they burst out laughing.
“What is so funny?” Kushi tut-tutted. “I am an old woman. You shouldn’t keep secrets from your mother.” She waggled her finger. “Tell me about this man.”
“That’s my cue to leave.” Manish stood and clasped Kushi’s hands again. “Auntie, your daughter is a smart woman. I’m honored to be her friend, but she can make her own decisions when it comes to men.”
Samira wanted to hug Manny as her mom gaped, not used to being chastised by her choice of prospective groom.
“Thanks, Manny,” she said, standing to give him a quick hug. “And I owe you lunch since you won’t get to eat this one.”
“Call me,” he said, with a smile, before mouthing, “Good luck.”
“I’m going to need it,” she said softly, before turning back to find Kushi watching their exchange with a strangely smug expression.
“What, Mom?”
“Protest all you like, but you two are good together.” She added an emphatic nod. “I just know it.”
Sighing, Samira said, “Mom, do you want to come back to my place so we can talk? We can order takeout.”
“Fine,” Kushi said. “Why don’t we take some of those vegetarian focaccias back to your apartment?” She pointed at the glass display. “That way we won’t waste time deciding on food and you can tell me all about this mystery man.”
“Okay.”
As Samira placed their orders and paid, she hoped to God she’d done the right thing in deflecting Kushi’s attention off Manish by bringing up the guy she was sort of dating.
Because she had a feeling her mom wouldn’t understand her infatuation with Rory, not one little bit.
* * *
* * *
You haven’t lost your chai-making skills,” Kushi said, draining her cup before placing it back on its saucer. “Do you drink it often in LA?”
Try never, but Samira would keep that gem to herself. “I’m usually too busy, so I grab takeout coffees.”
Kushi shook her head, her eyes narrowing slightly in judgment. “You young people are in too much of a hurry. Rushing here, rushing there, little wonder you don’t have time for finding a husband—”
“Mom, has it ever occurred to you that my experience with Avi scarred me so badly I may never want to get married again?”
Kushi’s lips compressed in tight disapproval.
Samira sighed, softening her approach. “I haven’t had a serious long-term relationship since Avi. In fact, the longest I’ve lasted is four months, and that’s with a guy I broke up with just before coming home.”
“Four months?”
Samira shouldn’t find her mom’s incredulity funny, but Kushi’s expression was a mix of shock, dismay, and sadness.
“He wanted to move in together, but I didn’t love him, so I ended the relationship. That’s why I’m enjoying my current situation with Rory.”
“Rory?” Predictably, Kushi zeroed in on the one fact hinting at his cultural background. “Rory does not sound Indian.”
“That’s because he’s not,” she said, adding a spoonful of sugar to her chai when she usually didn’t take it; anything to sweeten the mood. “He’s Australian.”
“Aiy, ya, ya.” Kushi gripped the table so tight her knuckles stood out. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Well, I don’t, because he’s sweet and fun to be with and exactly what I need.”
“But there’s no future.” Kushi gave the table a little shake for emphasis, sloshing chai from Samira’s cup into a saucer. “Why waste your time?”
“How do you know there’s no future?”
The moment the question slid from her lips, Samira felt guilty. She shouldn’t raise her mom’s hopes. Of course there could never be a future with Rory. They were too different, the age gap too great, and they lived on opposite continents. But she didn’t like having her choice dismissed so summarily. It wasn’t like her mom’s choice last time had been so great.
Kushi released the table to reach over and clasp Samira’s hands in hers. “Betee, I don’t want you going through the same hardships I did.”
Of all the things her mom could’ve said, she hadn’t expected that.
“What do you mean?”
Kushi’s gaze slid away, furtive, before she shifted in her seat, squaring her shoulders as if coming to a decision. “Why do you think I only considered Indian men for your first marriage and I persist in pushing you in Manish’s direction now?”
Samira had always assumed it had been about tradition, but by her mom’s downcast expression, there was more to this.
“You’re very culturally aware, Mom. Tradition is important to you, so isn’t that why?”
Kushi shook her head, her mouth downturned in sadness. “I loved your father, I truly did, but I often wonder if I made the right choice in defying my parents by marrying him. If I’d known how cast-off I’d be . . .”
Her mom made an odd garbled sound, halfway between a sob and a choke. “I already told you about the aunties, but back then it felt like the entire Indian community shunned me. They judged my choice and found me lacking. And in those days, locals weren’t so welcoming of foreigners, so being cast out of my social circle left me with no friends, no family apart from Sindhu, and treated like a leper by the people I’d come to depend on.”
“That’s why you invited all our neighbors over for meals.” Samira squeezed her mom’s hands, hating the overt pain evident in every crease of her lined face. “I always wondered why you interacted with virtual strangers more than the aunties. And we didn’t socialize with them much beyond the big functions.” Samira hung on tight to her mom’s hands. “I thought you were introverted. I wish I’d been more ob
servant and less self-absorbed.”
“I didn’t want you to see my pain.” Kushi managed a wan smile. “You were my world, and I didn’t want you to suffer their judgment like I did. Love isn’t enough in the face of ostracism like that, and while I adored your dad, I didn’t want that for you. It is easier, culturally, if marriage partners come from the same background, and that’s why it is preferable you have an Indian husband.”
While she understood her mom’s rationale, she didn’t agree with it, because Samira had felt just as isolated as her mom growing up. She’d watched the aunties dote on one another’s children at functions and always wondered why she’d been on the outside. Her school had been multicultural, and she’d craved friends with a mixed Indian background like her, but the aunties’ daughters had virtually ignored her. It all made sense now, but she needed to couch her objections carefully.
“I understand you’re coming from a position of caring, Mom, but things are different now. Intermarrying is common, especially here in Australia and the US.”
Kushi’s eyebrows rose, and shock made her reel back. “You’re thinking of marrying this Australian man you barely know?”
Samira sighed. “No, but I told you about him so you understand once and for all that I won’t bow to expectations again like I did the first time around.”
Kushi’s expression fell further, if that were possible, as she released her hands. “But I thought you were happy with Avi. You seemed so in love.”
“Honestly? I think I was more in love with the concept of being in love rather than any real, deep-seated emotion for Avi.” Samira shrugged, as if how far she’d fallen for Avi meant little when in fact she’d been gutted when their marriage fell apart. “I wanted the Bollywood fairy tale, and I thought I’d got it. But being pushed toward Avi all the time, having you wax lyrical about his many good traits even before I’d met him, built him up in my head so it almost seemed inevitable I’d fall for him.”
“You are still blaming me.” Tears filled Kushi’s eyes, and Samira’s throat tightened with emotion.
“No, though I have to admit I did for a long time, and that’s a major reason why I stayed away for so long. But I understand now. You did it from a place of genuine caring, not wanting me to go through what you did.”
Ironically, she had anyway, as the Indian community had looked down on her for divorcing Avi almost as if it had been her fault. Her new start in LA had a lot to do with feeling alienated within her community, and she hadn’t looked back. So why did her mom think she’d welcome being dragged back into all that traditional expectation rubbish now?
“I hope you understand, Mom, there’s no future with Manish beyond friendship, and you need to let me live my life the way I want to and with whoever I choose to live it with.”
Kushi visibly deflated, her shoulders slumping, her torso appearing to fold in on itself, as if all hope had been driven from her. “I don’t understand, Samira, but I will respect your wishes.”
“Thanks—”
“But you need to know I wasn’t joking earlier when I said love can grow from friendship, so I will continue to hope you see sense and pursue a relationship with that lovely Manish.”
Samira bit back a laugh. Of course her mom wouldn’t give up. But for now, with their revelations and some kind of acceptance, it would have to do.
Twenty-Four
Rory arrived for the audition thirty minutes early. Interesting that the small, nondescript studio tucked away in the back streets of South Melbourne held the key to his future. More to the point, the future of those poor kids.
But he couldn’t think about that now; it would only add to the pressure already building in his chest. He sat in the car, practicing the breathing techniques Pia had shown him, knowing it would be easier to calm his nerves here, alone, rather than inside the studio. Besides, the last thing he needed was to run into Dixon; that would undermine his meager confidence completely.
He’d been riding high after his final session with Pia, then he’d seen Samira, kissed her, and his concentration had been shot to shit. He’d been right to avoid her the last two weeks; she was a major distraction, wrapped up in one very attractive package.
But after this audition, he had every intention of making up for lost time with her.
With five minutes to spare, he strode into the studio, relieved to see the waiting area empty. Chris had warned him both the producer and the director would be at the audition, and he’d have to read from cues. He’d been relieved to hear that. Reading was much easier for him than ad-libbing. Less chance to stumble and screw up.
He’d done everything Chris had asked of him, down to wearing a more casual outfit of jeans and a chambray shirt rolled up at the cuffs—the perfect Renegades host attire, apparently.
It should’ve given him more confidence. It didn’t, because as the studio door opened and a hipster guy with a too-long beard and shaved head beckoned him inside, every single technique he’d learned from Pia over the last few weeks faded into oblivion, leaving him light-headed and unsure.
However, as he entered a small room, with a stage and a cue machine at the front, and only two men in their forties sitting and facing the stage, an odd thing happened.
He didn’t have to perform in here. He didn’t have to try too hard. He had to channel everything he’d learned and just be himself.
“Thanks for coming in, Rory.” The director, a seasoned veteran of a long-running Aussie soap opera, stood and extended his hand. “I’m Sherman Rix, and this is Allan Stuart.”
“Nice to m-meet you.”
Dammit. Rory felt the blood surge to his face at his stumble, but thankfully, neither man reacted, probably putting it down to nerves.
“Take a seat, Rory,” Allan said, shaking his hand too. “We like to have an informal chat first.”
The heat in his cheeks intensified. So much for reading off a cue then getting the hell out of here. He’d been naive to think this audition would be easier without having to learn lines. Or maybe he’d tried to downplay the possibility of curveballs to clamp down on his nerves.
Whatever, he was so screwed.
“You come highly recommended for this part.” Sherman swiped at an electronic tablet, probably skimming his CV. “Chris is a respected agent.”
“We’ve worked together for a few years now,” Rory said. “He’s a good guy.”
Sherman’s impressive bushy brows drew together. “Yet he hasn’t put you forward for any speaking parts before this?”
Shit. Here came that first curveball. So he trotted out his prepared spiel in case he was faced with this very question.
“I’ve preferred stunt work to give me a good grounding in the industry. I’ve always been better at hands-on learning.”
“Admirable,” Allan muttered, eyeing him with speculation. “So why would an economics major who graduated top of his year at university choose to do stunt work instead?”
Another question he’d prepared for, phew. “Because movies are magical, and driving cars at top speed beats sitting behind a PC all day.”
Sherman laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Approval glinted in Allan’s eyes. “I’m an accountant myself but couldn’t stand working a nine-to-five job behind a desk for more than six months.”
“So how did you get into this business?”
Allan grinned. “Shouldn’t we be asking you the questions?”
Rory hesitated, hoping he hadn’t screwed up, but the men laughed again.
“Relax, Rory, we’re just messing with you. Having this kind of informal chat is exactly what we wanted, to see how personable you are, how you’ll come across chatting to the contestants on the show, that kind of thing.”
Trepidation tightened his throat. “So there’ll be a lot of that on the show?”
He’d spent endless hours watch
ing every Survivor rerun he could, taking note of exactly how much talking the host had to do. It had been comforting to see that the bulk of it was left to the contestants, with the host mainly introducing the challenges and asking brief questions at the tribal council. He’d envisaged Renegades being similar.
“You’ll be reading from cues mostly, as we’ve found it’s easier to have scripted reality than a free-for-all,” Sherman said. “But you’ll be filming in the outback for months at a time, so we’d be foolish to choose a host who couldn’t interact with the crew and contestants socially as well.”
“Makes sense.”
Rory grew uncomfortable under the scrutiny as both men continued to study him.
“You certainly have the look we’re after,” Allan said, staring at him with cool, impartial assessment. “Strong. Rugged.”
“Uh, thanks,” he said, as Sherman snapped his fingers.
“Don’t get us wrong, Rory, we’re not going to objectify you, but it doesn’t hurt when the host looks like you and wears tight T-shirts to draw in a greater female audience.”
He tapped his tablet screen. “From our research, this kind of outback reality show tends to attract predominantly male viewers, and we want to broaden our audience.”
Being told to wear tight T-shirts to accentuate his pecs and biceps sure sounded like objectification to him, but if it meant landing this role and a healthy paycheck, the tighter the better.
“It also helps that you have stunt experience,” Sherman said. “Where we’re filming, in far north Queensland, can be a challenging environment, and we want a host who’s . . . how can I say this politely . . . not too precious?”
He must’ve looked confused, because Allan added, “Some industry types, especially in hosting roles, can be all about ego, and we want someone down-to-earth.”
Rory nodded and bit back a smile. They could’ve been describing Benedict Dixon to a tee. He’d been dreading this informal chat at the start of it, but it looked like he’d impressed without trying or having to say too much.
“Do you have any questions for us?”
