THE LEGEND OF BEAUTY MATHUR
BY M. DIXIE
POMP ADORE
It has been a decade of unmitigated success, both personal and professional, for the former Indian supermodel and brand ambassador for the House of Scheherazade, Diya Mathur-Menon, known popularly and nostalgically as Beauty Mathur.
She was the first Scheherazade, and through her, Sheikh Hasaan Jabbir launched and shot his fashion house straight to the top of its turf, where it has remained ever since. She announced her retirement from modeling the day her two-year contract elapsed, stating personal reasons for her decision.
Fortunately for us, Beauty Mathur did not fade into the night. She transitioned from the front of the runway to its underbelly by heading Scheherazade’s design division, once again proving the Mathur-Jabbir combination is a win-win for the world of haute couture. As renowned as she is for her grace, beauty, and winsome nature, her eclectic designs and fashion acumen have made her an international legend to be compared with the likes of Coco Chanel.
“There is simply nothing about fashion I do not understand,” she said confidently. And, when asked to comment on her very unusual lifestyle, she did so with a twinkle in her eyes. “My husband and I are like Hades and Persephone. We each get to be doormats for half the year.”
Diya Mathur-Menon and her professor husband, Krish Menon, divide their time equally between their castle in Istanbul and their mansion in Dallas with their two cyber-schooled boys, two widowed mothers, a retired nanny, half a dozen dogs and cats, and an Arabian pony. The ex-supermodel will turn forty this year, looks twenty, and is expecting her third child soon.
Those are some impossible glass shoes to fill, but Beauty Mathur fills them effortlessly. Speaking of shoes, she says to watch out for this year’s Scheherazade Baby collection. The booties will bewitch you.
The End
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About the Author
Falguni Kothari is a USA Today bestselling author of “messy love stories” and kick-ass fantasy tales that are a “good choice for women’s fiction book groups.” Her novels are all flavored by her South Asian heritage and expat experiences, and delve into common, yet unconventional, themes of marriage, romance, friendship, family and parenthood. Her books have been reviewed and praised in a number of podcasts and publications, including The New York Times Book Review, starred reviews in Booklist and Shelf Awareness, Popsugar, Woman’s World magazine and The Times of India. Her essays and short stories have been published in Femina (India), Better Homes and Gardens, Book Riot and Writer’s Digest.
She is also an award-winning Indian Classical, Latin and Ballroom dancer, practices karaoke in her downtime, is an empty-nester, and loathes flying and deadlines.
Find her online at www.FalguniKothari.com
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The Object of Your Affections
Enjoy an excerpt from The Object of Your Affections
* * *
Paris
The things we did for love.
“Did you know that the global wedding industry is worth three hundred billion dollars? The US stake alone is fifty-five billion?” I waved my phone displaying the appalling data in front of my husband’s face.
The stats—horror of horrors—had gotten worse in the two and a half years since our own wedding.
Neal, as usual, didn’t share my outrage at mankind’s follies, so he shrugged as if the matter was of no consequence to him—which it wasn’t—and with infinite patience he brushed my hovering hand away from his face and continue to do unspeakable things to my mouth.
We were attending our fourth wedding of the year. Fourth! And, I’d been invited to half a dozen baby showers over the past ten months—two of which I hadn’t been able to avoid. As if squealing over fake fluffy bunnies wasn’t bad enough, such events were filled with busybodies who wanted to know when I was going to deliver some “good news” of my own. Seriously, the next person who asked me that question was going to end up in the city morgue. On an autopsy table. Exactly what was the correlation between pregnancy and “good” news, I had no clue. As if not being pregnant was “bad” news? Aargh! I could scream.
I’d bet that when Neal and I gave them our special news, they wouldn’t care for it either. Our families were going to go ballistic when they heard that we were considering gestational surrogacy when I was perfectly capable of bearing children.
Well, physically capable. Mentally and emotionally? The jury was still out.
Since Neal had more faith in our mothers than I did, he was welcome to explain it to them when it was time.
“Homo sapiens. Bat-shit crazy lot,” I mumbled from the corner of my mouth, trying to keep my lips from moving as Neal worked on them, while going nearly cross-eyed as I recounted the zeroes that were peppered across the wedding industry article in Reuters. “And never satisfied with their lot in life.” Maybe it wasn’t billions but millions.
Nope. Eleven zeroes tacked behind the cardinal number three. My hope for humanity plummeted to earth. If that didn’t prove beyond reasonable doubt that Man itself was the natural disaster devastating the world, I didn’t know what did. What kind of senseless, overbred animal spends that kind of money on a fantasy ceremony solely created to propagate an even bigger fantasy, that of a perfect union and its glory-ever-after?
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t against the institution of marriage. I fully approved when compatible people tied the proverbial knot or cohabitated in a mutually beneficial fashion. Like my adoptive parents—the second set, as opposed to the first abominable pair—who’d been an excellent example of a square peg in a square hole kind of couple. Mr. and Mrs. Samuel and Lily Kahn had been harmoniously well matched on all fronts until the Judge’s death separated them four years ago.
A second great example was my own marriage, which, though not of the square-peg-square-hole variety, was nothing short of marvelous—on most days. I’d married an amazing man who stroked my brain as vigorously as he stroked my emotions…and other interesting carbon-based assets. I’d absolutely hit the jackpot in the supportive husband sweepstakes. So, it behooved me not to screw things up and tread carefully with the surrogacy plans. Do not dictate. Discuss.
Neal and I had narrowed our list of potential surrogates down to two women and then reached a stalemate. Neal preferred Martha who came highly recommended by his close friends in California. I liked her too—our interviews had gone well—but she lived simply too far away. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the scheduling and travel nightmare for both Neal and I every time we had to make it to a doctor’s appointment. If it were up to me, I’d Skype in for the ultrasounds. But my husband wanted to actively experience the entire gestation since it would be the only one he’d—we’d—have. The other candidate was from Connecticut, just two hours away by car. We could see her every weekend if we wished. However, we hadn’t clicked quite so well with her as we’d done with Martha. Le sigh. It would be so much easier if our surrogate lived in or around New York City, but compensated surrogacy was illegal in New York State thus not an option.
Well, no point in stressing over it right now as we weren’t making any decisions this weekend. Better to put everything away and bask in my husband’s masterful strokes instead.
Neal’s touch was liquid cool on my face, arousing even when he didn’t mean to stimulate, as it moved across my eyes and cheeks, brushed over my chin and throat. Though he didn’t look it, the dear lad was dead on his feet—Who wouldn’t be after a sixteen-hour flight?—hence the one-word responses, grunts and shrugs at my attempts at marital repartee. Or, was he still brooding over our impasse about the surrogates?
Time-out, Counselor. Repetitive.
Either way, m
y husband was simply too sweet for not succumbing to a jet-lagged stupor after his whirlwind business trip to Asia. Instead, he’d rushed home from JFK, dumped his travel suiter, taken a hasty wake-up shower, loaded our wedding weekend bags in our metallic blue Tesla, picked me up from the courthouse only to dodge traffic for the next two hours on the I-87 North until we reached the vineyard in time for my college friend Lavinia’s wedding rehearsal dinner. After all that dashing around, he was still on his feet taking care of my needs. Mind you, I had asked nicely for his help in putting on my war paint. Neal was just so much better at makeup than I was. So, yes, I would recommend the state of wedded bliss—or even unwedded togetherness—to anyone who’d had the good fortune to find herself (or himself) a Neal Singh Fraser.
In summation, I wasn’t against marriage. What I objected to was the hoopla surrounding the ceremony. The wanton waste of time, money and resources in the planning and execution of said hoopla. How could anyone with an ounce of empathy justify spending such garish sums of money on a frivolous party when there were children starving in the world? When scribbling names in front of a marriage registrar in city hall—or the like—worked just as well as an elaborate exchange of vows in front of a priest or officiator? What difference did it make if two souls merged into one entity in front of four people or four hundred? The object of the exercise was to legalize a couple’s commitment to each other, wasn’t it? But no, some people weren’t satisfied until a three-ring circus supplemented their nuptials, even when they knew, deep in their hearts, that sooner or later another even bigger circus would herald their uncoupling. Point in fact were the hundreds of embittered divorces and child custody battles filling up the dockets in family court. I’d been six when I was dragged into one such despicable battle between my first set of adoptive parents, so I knew firsthand what happened when love died and marriages fell apart. It was that kind of wanton waste I objected to. Not that I expected Lavinia and Juan’s upstate New York lovefest to end in divorce. Or my own marriage. I didn’t.
Oy vey. Did I?
Neal sidestepped to the vanity and abruptly I was nose-to-wall with the embossed yellow leaves on the maple-colored tiles. We were inelegantly squashed inside a bathroom that was tinier than my office at One Hogan Place—a space the formerly taciturn Lily Kahn had pronounced to be the size of a matchbox. As the crusaders of justice and the wielders of morality, assistant district attorneys deserved nicer offices, Lily had once emailed Manhattan’s District Attorney, my boss, and cc’d me on it. My adoptive mother had morphed into one opinionated meshugenah since the Judge’s death. It was another thing driving me batty these days—Lily’s battiness.
Her growing obsession with horoscopes, incomprehensible at best, was getting to me. Last week, it had portended a change in my personal and professional life according to Lily. And today, I’d been asked to join a task force that was being set up between the DA’s office and the United States Attorney’s office, jointly, to look into a human rights violation case. That took care of the professional change. The personal shift could either mean a bairn or a divorce trying to procure said bairn. Double oy vey.
After a lightning exchange of brushes, Neal repositioned himself before me. He settled one hand on top of my head to hold it steady, and with his right hand, he began to trace my full, shapeless lips into a discernable form. My mouth molded into a natural goldfish moue that needed special care. Indeed, my mouth and what came out of it warranted close attention. Consider the offer carefully, laddie. Your freedom depends on it, was my daily counsel to the perpetrators of crime. I’d do well to heed my own advice for the decisions I—oops, Neal and I—had to make.
“Quit fidgeting, hen. Nearly done. Close yer mouth. And no, don’t frown so. And don’t press yer lips together just yet,” Neal instructed in his lilting Scottish brogue that never failed to capture my attention. More, the deep commanding baritone demanded immediate compliance.
I froze on the closed toilet seat and tilted my face up to look into my husband’s loch-blue eyes. Fringed with thick sooty lashes, those eyes combined with his voice produced gooseflesh all over my skin even though he didn’t mean to stimulate me. Was it any wonder then that I’d given in to Neal’s mad vision of our own wedding? I still felt ill whenever I recalled—fondly, mostly fondly—the sheer wantonness of our three-day festivities. The truth was that I found it impossible to say no to this man when he was in the mood to charm.
“Now press.”
I pressed my lips together and tasted strawberries as Neal plied his expertise on shaping them. God! But I loved him—all six feet two inches and one eighty-eight pounds of Scottish-Indian stubbornness. I loved being married to him. And yes, I’d loved getting married to him, exchanging vows and rings and kisses under the ballroom chandelier of his family’s residential castle in Scotland. Our wedding might have been a self-indulgent waste of resources but it had come from a place of love and pride, and no one was in debt because of it. We’d made promises to each other in front of all the people who’d mattered to us—correction, everyone except the two people I’d loved and counted on the most in the world back then had blessed our union. My perfect day of joy would be forever tainted due to their absence.
At least, the Judge had had a legitimate excuse for missing my wedding, being dead and all. But my best friend and maid of honor, Naira, had bowed out at the last minute. Her husband’s business had been in trouble. Kaivan the Criminal had gotten his comeuppance the Indian media had claimed, and still Naira had stuck by him like a good little wife. Her choice had broken us for a while—I was a prosecutor, for God’s sake, I couldn’t stand by criminals. And then he’d died.
Things were slightly better between us now. We messaged each other off and on, and I mostly understood her stance, her choices—especially now that I knew just how much I would do or endure for Neal. But I still felt acid well up inside me when I remembered just how awful I’d felt on my wedding day. How desperately alone.
Neal cocked an eyebrow at me, divining my mood dips as expertly as he was reshaping my lips. “Are ye practicing your apology to her in your mind then? Is that why yer nervous?”
My back and shoulders went taut. “Why should I apologize? She’s the one who got all bent out of shape because I pointed out the truth.”
“And I suppose ye would let people get away with bad-mouthing me to yer face, aye?”
“If it was the truth,” I began but stopped when Neal’s second brow joined its twin high on his forehead. Another stalemate. I let my shoulders droop. “Fine. I’ll be…nice.” I didn’t do apologies. Mainly because I didn’t make mistakes or speak out of turn.
Neal was right though. I was nervous about meeting Naira. It had been four years since we’d seen each other in person. Two days ago, I’d received a message from her after weeks of iMessage silence: Hopping on a plane to NY. See you at Lavinia’s wedding.
What the hell kind of message was that?
“Stupid weddings.” I pressed my phone to my stomach, willing the awfulness to abate. I was a mess at weddings—about weddings. I was better at marriage.
* * *
End of Sample
To continue reading, be sure to pick up The Object of Your Affections at your favorite retailer.
Other Books by Falguni Kothari
The Object of Your Affections
My Last Love Story
It’s Your Move, Wordfreak!
Soul Warrior (The Age of Kali Book 1)
Starstruck: Take Two (novella in Once Upon a Wedding anthology)
The Maid and the Gardener (Episode 4 of Royally Yours)
Acknowledgments
Being a writer is a tedious, lonely thing sometimes. At other times, my life is full of wonderful, helpful people and it’s those people I want to that.
Thank you to Jovana Shirley, who helped me edit and proof and polish this book.
Thanks to Kate Tilton, my assistant, for her hands-on availability and ability to find me any and all answers th
at I need.
To some amazing authors and friends, who give me their ears and eyes whenever I wish. Shilpa Suraj, Aarti Raman, Sudesna Ghosh, you are my morning chai.
To my mind, body and soul consultants, Komal, Pallavi and Trupti, my day doesn’t work without you.
To my family, my endless gratitude for taking care of the home front so I can hibernate in my writing cave at any and all odd moments of our life.
Lastly, and always, a huge thank you to my readers. This is all for you.
Love,
Falguni
Bootie and the Beast Page 24
