Bootie and the Beast

by Falguni Kothari

  The terrace itself was tiny but cleverly outfitted with cushioned wrought-iron furniture where she imagined spending lazy mornings having breakfast and lazier afternoons napping or reading—her main itinerary for the next week or two. On the right was a high brick wall covered in lilac vines. From there, brick-laid steps with wrought-iron rails spiraled downward to a patio on the lower floor, which opened into the woods.

  No two rooms in the quaint little house were on the same level; they twisted and wove together via steps going up or down throughout the space. There were skylights and/or floor-to-ceiling windows in all the rooms—all the ones she’d seen so far—to let the light and the outdoors in. Each window framed a different yet equally naturalistic and enthralling vista. The house truly was a part of the woods.

  Krish joined her on the terrace. “If you go down the steps and turn right, you’ll come to the brook. I can see it from my window,” he said, popping a whole baklava into his mouth.

  She pouted. “I want the room with the brook view.”

  He finished chewing with relish before answering, “Your junk will not fit in my room.”

  Diya narrowed her eyes. “Just what do you have against my things, Beast? They’re just things. Stop obsessing.”

  Krish’s eyebrow quirked up in irony. He’d exchanged the sunglasses for a pair of stylish spectacles with thin metal frames. Through the glass, his brown eyes seemed huge, his lashes long and dense. He was standing way too close to her. She shivered.

  “Because I refuse to deal with your sarcastic eyebrow all week, I’m going to explain something to you. As the face and body of Scheherazade, I must be seen wearing and using only Scheherazade products. I cannot promote any other product or advertise any other label for the two years of my contract—unless my contract with the other brand precedes theirs.”

  His sneer at her supposed obsession with pretty possessions vanished into the woods. “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh. Scheherazade is an extremely popular brand in Asia and Europe, not so much in the US yet. That’s why I’m traveling with everything and the kitchen sink in those trunks. It’s out of necessity, Beast, not choice.”

  She braced for a taunt or two, something along the lines of, If you can’t shop in Dallas, Dee-Dumbs, however will you pass your time when I’m off, making gazillions? To which, she’d reply—

  “What do you want to do first? Unpack, eat, or shower?” Krish asked, poking a hole in her fantasy dialogue.

  To her shock, Krish didn’t make a single snide remark about her explanation or her contractual restrictions.

  Diya shook her head, as much to clear it as to say no. She was beyond tired at this point and functioning on sheer force of will, hence the spontaneous daydreaming. It had been a crazy, busy few months, and the last two days had sort of bled her energy levels dry. If she was indeed the vampire the tabloid twerp had portrayed her as, all she wanted to do was gorge on a blood-filled vein and then snore inside a coffin.

  “I’ll get to the unpacking and showering tomorrow. I’m hungry and sleepy. So, lead me to the kitchen, oh pied piper, and show me where everything is. Then, I’ll let you go. You probably need to get back to your office and resume snarling at disobedient figures—of the numerical and human variety.”

  Krish slanted an undecipherable look her way. “As a matter of fact, I’ve taken the day off.”

  “What? Don’t be silly. You don’t have to babysit me.”

  Krish was a Menon to the hilt—the hardest of taskmasters. He hated losing billable hours and became intolerably grouchy when he did. It was a testament to his regard for her father that he’d taken the afternoon off to fetch her from the airport himself and not sent a taxi. To be fair, he’d sent a taxi only the once to pick up his family during their visit a few years ago due to some emergency at the office. Leesha and Savitri Aunty hadn’t made a big deal about it or complained about his deficient host behavior. Diya wasn’t so forgiving. Family should always come first.

  But she was fair as well. He had fetched her and settled her in; now, he could go.

  She flapped a hand in a shooing motion. “I mean it. Go back to your office. Play with your spreadsheets. Punch some numbers. Do whatever it is you do. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not going back to work today,” he said in clear exasperation. He seemed serious.

  Diya stared at Krish. Then, she checked his forehead, cheek, and throat with the back of her hand.

  “Nope, no fever. You could be delirious from low sugar. Or”—she paused for dramatic effect—“you were kidnapped by a UFO and are now an alien in Krish form.”

  “Smart-ass.” He chucked her under her chin and then began walking away. “Come along, elf … or should I say rat since I’m the piper? Let me introduce you to your domain—the kitchen.”

  She stuck her tongue out at his chauvinist backside but decided not to take umbrage, not when he clearly teased and when it was patently true. It was no secret she loved to cook. Besides, his previous statement trumped all other concerns for her.

  She rushed after him, out the room and into the hallway, her heels clattering against the wooden floor. “I’m confused. Since when do you take days off?”

  The Krish Menon she knew did not play hooky. He worked twelve to sixteen hours a day on most days, sometimes even on Sundays. Work was his religion. Numbers were his mantras. Profits, projections, and spreadsheets were his portals to nirvana. He thrived as a beast of burden.

  And, as if that confession of sloth wasn’t shocking enough, what he mumbled next made Diya trip on the steps leading down to the kitchen and crash into Krish’s back. She could not have heard him right.

  “What?” she gasped, clutching his arms for support when he spun around to steady her.

  Nary a smile or sneer darkened the alien in Krish form. “I said I have dinner plans. You’re welcome to join me if you’re not tired.”

  “What?” Diya repeated. “Dinner plans? Like, for Valentine’s Day?”

  Something flickered in Krish’s brown eyes. It was neither a confirmation nor a denial. To Diya’s frustration, he changed the topic and that was the end of that.

  Chapter 4

  Muffled, rhythmic meows lured Diya back into the land of the conscious.

  She woke slowly, blinking at the cracked creamy-white ceiling that was bare of all light fixtures but enhanced on all four sides by decorative molding. A table lamp glowed across the room, diffusing the night. She always left a light on because she preferred not to wake in the dark—especially in a new place and on a strange bed—and get spooked.

  Outside, thunder and wind whooshed like an angry symphony, rattling the windows and spooking her regardless. The purring grew urgent along with the sound of sharp nails tapping and scratching against glass.

  Eyes half-shut, Diya rolled out of bed to rescue the cats. There were three of them: a black one, a reddish-brown one, and a black-and-white one. They leaped inside the room as soon as she pushed the patio door open, and the first splashes of icy rain plopped on the terrace. She quickly closed the doors and locked them again and then drew the thick curtains over the moaning night.

  With one eye, Diya checked the time on the cuckoo clock—ten after midnight.

  “The witching hour,” she croaked to the cats, her voice rusty with sleep.

  One well-fed feline—the red one—was stretching in a cat pose on the shag rug, no doubt delighted to be out of the brewing storm. The full hailstorm wouldn’t hit for another two hours.

  A chill settled on Diya’s bare limbs, the room suddenly cold by the brief exposure to the elements. Teeth chattering, she shuffled back to the bed, but the black cat had stolen her spot. After a staring match, the cat coiled into a ball and closed its eyes.

  “Fine, you can have the spot,” Diya conceded and detoured to the left side of the bed. Like she had a choice. It was their house, wasn’t it?

  She looked about for the black-and-white cat, hoping it wasn’t on the bed, too. Nope. The cat was enscon
ced on the cushioned armchair in front of the mahogany writing desk.

  There were three more cats in residence—the Peters’ menagerie consisted of six cats and four parakeets. Krish had told her that those three were old and rarely came out of the den, preferring to spend their time sleeping in front of the fireplace.

  The Beast was good with beasts, always had been, and the animals couldn’t have asked for a better caretaker—with the exception of tonight. She wondered who would’ve let the cats in if she wasn’t around.

  She wondered if he was back from his date. Probably not, she thought, sniffling morosely.

  Not even Krish, the workaholic fuddy-duddy, would hurry home from a V-Day date because of a bit of thunder and rain. If he’d gone to the extreme trouble of asking a woman out, he’d make it count. Maybe even score.

  And good for him if he does, she decided firmly.

  A thoroughly unbidden picture of Krish getting a lap dance flashed into her brain.

  Diya collapsed on the bed with a moan, squeezing her eyes shut against the visual. She hugged a pillow, pressing her face into the fluffy softness. A cheap substitute for a warm body, but it was all she had. All she’d ever had.

  It was absurd to feel betrayed by Krish. Absurd to feel utterly alone and rejected.

  She blamed Hasaan for her pathetic mood. His over-the-top parties and weird reading habits—they’d formed a mile-high book club, discussing everything from epic Arabic romances to really smart smut dealing with gender politics, sexuality, bigotry and class—were obviously playing havoc on her wits and emotions, which she always, always kept under tight control whenever the Beast was close.

  Okay, enough! Time to take back that control.

  Krish’s dates and whether they danced on his lap or on his head were none of her business.

  Banishing all indecent images from her brain, Diya rolled to her side and tried to go back to sleep.

  Easier decided than done. She couldn’t help but wonder about the wonder woman who’d scored a date with Krish. Last count, he’d been involved with a corporate headhunter named Aya Ahuja. He’d meant to bring her to his sister’s wedding in London last September, but he’d shown up stag at the last minute and not seen fit to enlighten anyone as to why. They’d all assumed he’d broken up; Krish’s revolving-door relationships were legendary after all. It was another Menon family trait—to run far, far away from personal entanglements. Which begged the question, who was he entangled with tonight?

  Still none of your business …

  Maybe, but her pathetic heart wouldn’t let it go.

  She’d taken her bitter jealousy too far in London, enjoying many a tipsy joke at the absent Aya’s expense. The woman’s name was absurd—Aya meant come in Hindi. It took a better woman than Diya not to make fun of it.

  Aya? Nahi aya. Aya gaya!

  When Krish had overheard her making fun of his missing girlfriend—ex-girlfriend?—at Leesha and Aryan’s combined hen and stag party, he’d lambasted Diya in front of everyone. He’d always been a party pooper.

  She’d proceeded to demonstrate exactly what the opposite of a pooper looked like with the help of a couple of enthusiastic fun lovers—Mann Singh and Harry Colt, Aryan’s friendly and fantastic groomsmen. At some point, she might have asked both Macho Mann and Handsome Harry to marry her—a joke obviously, but Krish had remained unamused. She’d also begged Harry to escort her to her hotel room—more like carry her since she’d been wasted by then. The next thing she remembered was the Beast shaking her awake and snarling at her. They’d proceeded to have the most god-awful fight then.

  Diya winced, remembering the shouting clearly. What was not so clear was the kiss. She had a feeling they’d locked lips, but she wasn’t a hundred percent sure. And she’d die before she asked Krish if they had or not. Besides, it would prove his point if she did. The point being that she took crazy risks in the name of fun. That she was silly and stupid and a disgrace to her family. She’d definitely slapped him at some point that night. Her palm still tingled in memory and remorse even if he’d deserved it.

  And that, dear Diary, was the latest episode in the dramatic lives of Beauty Mathur and the Beast.

  Sighing, Diya rolled onto her side and abruptly came up close and personal with a snoring ball of fur. Jealous as a cat—was that an expression? Were cats jealous? They seemed to be as territorial about their possessions as dogs were and meaner to boot. Diya wondered if it was prudent to fall asleep next to a cat. She didn’t want to end up with scratches on her face because she’d accidentally poached a pillow.

  She’d been scratched by a cat when she was eleven. By Little Kitty, the tiny, motherless kitten Krish had rescued and given to Leesha, only to take his gift back a month later. He’d dumped Little Kitty in the hands of the watchman’s son because he’d been angry and hurting about his parents’ separation. He’d told Leesha that they were better off alone, without love and family. Diya had tried to steal Little Kitty back for her best friend, but Krish had found out and put a stop to it. After that, he never rescued or brought another animal home. He’d changed overnight.

  Krish had assured her that the Peters’ felines were friendly—or as friendly as felines could be—and wouldn’t mind sharing their room with her. Still, it would be best if she confirmed the living arrangements with the boarders themselves.

  “May I share your space?” Diya respectfully asked the cat.

  The feline remained curled up like a dead worm for fifteen minutes before Diya relaxed enough to close her eyes.

  Ten minutes later, Diya rolled onto her back and flipped the pillow from her chest to her face to block out the light and her blighted thoughts. Maybe she was done. She’d slept deeply for a good six hours; exhaustion and a full belly had done the trick. The full glass of Malbec Krish had poured for her also helped.

  He’d made her a sandwich with kale and slices of avocado and tomato, enhancing the flavor with diced jalapeno peppers. He hadn’t joined her for the meal since he was going out for dinner. But he’d kept her company, drinking coffee while she ate and interrogated him, and he hadn’t been able to resist another piece of the baklava. Mellow from the Argentinian wine and from the sheer freedom of not being under the spotlight or the scrutiny of millions, she had quizzed Krish about his date—not that he’d answered her impertinent questions. Eventually, with one hunger sated and the other one inflamed by a one-sided conversation, she’d made her way back to the bedroom where, too tired to change into her nightshirt, she’d simply stripped off her jacket, jewelry, and pants and flopped into bed.

  Diya sat up and reached for the tablet she’d left charging on the nightstand. No point trying to go back to sleep. She was done for the night. She checked her e-mails and messages. She felt a resurgence of panic when she Googled her name and fresh articles popped up. Gossip about the pregnancy had tripled overnight. So had the threats, dire predictions, and moral judgments. Her life was in utter shambles. Again.

  Desperate for a pep talk and/or a shoulder to cry on, Diya called her BFF. With the storm messing up the signals, it took several tries before she connected via video chat. As it was half past ten on a working Friday morning in Mumbai, Leesha’s sleepy brown eyes and disheveled mass of hair stunned Diya.

  “Are you still sleeping?” She gaped at her best friend.

  “Would I have answered your call had I been sleeping?” Leesha scowled. Brother and sister had their scowls and growls down pat—added eccentricities of the distinguished but un-fun-loving Menon gene pool. “I’m lounging about.”

  “In bed?” Diya narrowed her eyes. “Are you sick?”

  “Yes, in bed. And, no, I’m not sick. Do I look sick?” Leesha raised two eyebrows.

  “If you’re not sick … then what the heck is going on with you Menons? Is it the Apocalypse? It must be. The world has to be ending for you and Krish to take a day off and do”—Diya threw her hands up in the air—“nothing!”

  “I don’t know about Krish, but I’ve
spent the whole of Valentine’s Day being very productive … if you know what I mean.”

  Leesha’s smug tone and lewd expression finally rang a bell in Diya’s jet-lagged brain. She forgot about her heartburn-riddled envy over the phantom Aya. She even overlooked the humbling fact that her unromantic best friend had someone to celebrate V-Day with but not her.

  “Ooh!” Diya chortled wickedly. “I hope you tried the positions mentioned in that article I’d sent. The ones that guarantee a baby boy.” She crossed her fingers that the bootie charm was working its magic for her BFF.

  “Puh-lease. I invented my own amazing moves that guarantee a baby girl.” Leesha buffed her nails on what looked like Aryan’s shirt.

  Diya snorted. The sound put Krish, the snorter, back in her head. His lone form metamorphosed into a tableau of him and Aya performing V-Day porno moves.

  O-M-jeez! Delete! Delete! Delete!

  This much mental stimulation with nowhere to spew could not be good for her.

  “Hey! Did you know the Beast no longer has a lair?” she asked, grasping at random straws to distract her brain.

  “What do you mean? Where are you staying then?”

  Diya rubbed her hands together and updated Leesha on everything that had transpired since her arrival, including her suspicions of a sinister UFO abduction and the return of alien Krish. By the end of the gossip session, they were both howling and hiccuping in laughter. The cat, thoroughly miffed at the hullabaloo, jumped off the bed and strutted off to a corner with its tail in the air, triggering more hilarity in Diya.

  Leesha’s humor came under control first. Her eyes moved off-screen and simply lit up with what Diya had labeled the Love-Lust Look. Aryan had come into the bedroom, Diya deduced, feeling happier than happy for her friend’s happily ever after. She would not spoil it by feeling glum for her lack of one.

  “What’s so funny, sunshine? Oh, sorry. You’re on the phone.” The microphone picked up Aryan’s sexy-as-hell British clip clearly.