“What, just the two of us?” I asked. “Why do we need to go away together? You can have a break here, sleep in late, don’t take on as many gigs.” I wanted suddenly to start quoting the terms of our contract to him, to point out that nowhere was anything written about romantic excursions.
“Well, I really want to go, and I obviously can’t be seen alone, because then the buzz will be that we’ve split up and all those gay rumors will start flying about again. So if I want to go, you don’t really have a choice but to come with me.”
I didn’t even bother packing, simply pulling out from under my bed the slim silver gray Samsonite I had just returned with after three days in Bermuda for Sports Illustrated. I was certain that everything I needed was in there: swimsuit with the appropriate cover-up, sandals, floppy hat, suntan lotion. In India, I had been to the beach exactly three times, the last being when Nana had taken me horseback riding when I was thirteen. I had fallen off the horse, my foot entangled in the reins, and it had dragged me along, my hair sweeping the sand, the animal’s warm, furry body flexing against my ears as it cantered along the water’s edge. I emerged shaken but safe, and Nana had said he would never again take me back, that beaches were bad luck for me. Ironically, these days, I felt like I was spending almost all my life on them.
I was hoping Felicia would find some excuse to tag along, but even she-who could always somehow dream up reasons to treat herself to a first-class airline ticket on me-couldn’t justify this.
“I have to say, I don’t know why he wants to take you off alone. It’s not like there’s some major event or film festival happening there,” she said. “Maybe he just wants to be alone with you. Maybe he’s, you know, changed, and is falling for you. Would you even know how to recognize the signs, you virgin you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Felicia,” I said, fiddling with the locks on my suitcase. “I think he just really wants to go, and could use the company. Just thought you might want to come along, but of course he doesn’t know that I’m asking you.”
“Sorry, my dear. It will look really odd; you, your alleged boyfriend, and your publicist, all on vacation together. But don’t worry. I hear from his old boyfriend that he’s romantic and attentive,” she said, laughing. “Maybe he just wants to love you up. Enjoy! And if nothing else, you’ll get a decent tan out of it. Oh, and hit him up for some beauty secrets. His skin always looks so great.”
Kai chartered a plane to take us from New York to Providenciales, the main island in Turks and Caicos. Even though I hadn’t been that keen about coming, I had to concede that the place was stunning. A water taxi took us from the airport on the forty-five-minute journey to Parrot Cay, which, from afar, looked unassuming, reminding me fleetingly of a Hyderabadi bungalow. But what was striking was the splendid blue-green of the sea and the blinding whiteness of the sand. There seemed something uniquely untouched about the place, and I began to relax and lose my resentment at being brought here, now looking forward to a few days of nothing to do but read the Harlequin novels I’d thrown in my bag, and listen to old Hindu classics on my iPod.
Kai was thrilled to be recognized as we were checking in, although I told him that it was his orange sequined scarf and purple pointed cowboy boots that gave him away.
“Welcome, Mr. Kai,” the manager said, greeting us warmly. “We’re so thrilled to have you. We’ve reserved one of our best villas.” He glanced over at me, smiled, then added, “We think you will be pleased.”
“Um, how many bedrooms?” I asked as Kai kicked me lightly in the foot.
“Oh, this villa in particular has just the one, miss. I’m assuming that you are together?”
“Yes, yes, we are,” I said hurriedly. “It’s just always nice to have a second room to put things in, stretch out.”
“Miss, our accommodations are spacious. I’m sure you will find plenty of room to do all you need to.”
The view was sumptuous, overlooking the translucent waters outside. There was something pure and uncomplicated about the bedroom, with its canopied four-poster bed covered in spotless white sheets, yards of muslin tied around each pole. For all its simplicity, it was, without a doubt, the centerpiece of the room, as if everything else had been built around it. It looked like it had been designed for genuine lovers, for people to spend all day in, eating off mother-of-pearl-inlaid trays that would be delivered by room service, stopping their caressing only for that.
For Kai and me, it was completely useless.
“You can have that,” I said to him, indicating the bedroom. “There’s plenty of room for me here in the sitting room.” I fully expected him to demur, to insist that now that he had dragged me all the way here, I should have the only bed in the villa.
“Oh, you sure?” he asked, tossing his luggage onto the floor as if to stake out his territory, then pressing a button to call for our private butler. “That’s great. I could really use the rest,” he said, stretching. “Of course, feel free to come in here whenever you want, maybe take a nap in the middle of the day when I’m not using it.”
“Kind of you,” I said, shutting the paneled doors between us.
Kai spent most of his time scuba diving with a young mixed-race instructor named Trey, whose last job had been at the Club Med in Bali. Kai had been raving about his adventures beneath the ocean since the first day, citing for my edification how Jacques Cousteau had described the island as one of the top-ten best scuba spots in the world. He and Trey would frolic for hours beneath the sea, shimmying between strands of seaweed and past hordes of luminous, wriggling fish and coral reefs that Kai said were as intricate as carved Chinese mahogany furniture. Down in those depths, my boyfriend was assured that even the longest lens of the most persistent paparazzo would not be able to find him.
I, as always, spent time alone, reading in our room, swinging on the Balinese hammock on our veranda or walking down a sandy beach by myself, picking seashells as I went, just as I used to do when I was a young girl with my Nana in the Mumbai suburb of Juhu. I looked out over the ocean, blue and clear as far as the eye could see, and wondered if my grandfather ever thought of me, the way I thought of him.
Chapter Twenty-four
It was going to be my first trip back to Paris since I had left for New York, and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it. The city, as magical as it was, represented everything significant that had ever happened in my life. It was my first escape from my family and also my final alienation from them. It was the place where I was discovered and also the one where I discovered that I wasn’t the girl I had always believed myself to be. It was the city where, even if I had never acquired the poise and sophistication I had gone there to seek, I had come closer to it than at any point in my personal history. In an odd sense, it would always feel like home to me.
Shazia was waiting for me in the lobby of the Bristol Hotel, her eyes wide and a big smile stretched across her face as she saw me enter, Kai at my side, two valets with our luggage behind us.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “Just look at you! What the hell?!” she exclaimed, her hands on her hips. “You look fabulous! Like a movie star!”
I shrugged my shoulders, embraced her, and asked how her mother was doing.
“Fit as a fiddle, would you believe?” she said, her eyes fixed on Kai’s exhausted face. “OK, maybe not quite, but she’s in a lot better shape than when you last saw her. I guess the fact that I keep coming back helps.”
She stuck out her hand in Kai’s direction, waiting for him to grab it.
“I’m Shazia, Tanaya’s cousin, almost like sisters really,” she said, glancing over at me again. “It’s so great to meet you, I’m such a fan!”
“Any chum of Tanaya’s is a chum of mine,” Kai said, not very convincingly, shaking Shazia’s hand. “Glad to meet you; hopefully we’ll see you around. Boys, up this way,” he said, beckoning the luggage-bearers to follow him up.
“He’s tired,” I said to Shazia. “We’d better get upstairs.
What are you doing later? I have a show at five; you’re welcome to come and hang around backstage, and maybe we can have dinner afterward?”
Valentino had asked me and some of the other girls to join him for a post-couture show supper, to celebrate what appeared to be the unanimous thumbs-up given to his collection of frothy beaded gowns and smart city suits. I kissed him on the cheek and told him I had other plans.
Shazia rode along in the limousine with Kai and me to the restaurant, chatting about Birmingham, her eager face watching his. We arrived at Le Martel, in a part of town I had never been to, not even in my earliest days when I was poor and adventurous. The surroundings were shabby and dark, but a friend of Kai’s told him that it was absolutely the place to be seen in town, and if there was one thing that was evident about Kai, it was that he loved to be seen.
The place was packed-expected during the couture shows-but we had been given a prime table. The girls were already waiting for us-Juliette and Teresa and Karla-their faces expectant, Mathias cool as ever in their midst. I had never before in my life been so thrilled to see a group of people. I rushed over to them, hugging them all, even Mathias, with whom I had always been reserved. They oohed and aahed over my dress and shoes and metallic clutch bag, and I waved off their gushes of admiration, and introduced Kai. The restaurant, previously clattering with post-show buzz, suddenly turned quiet, its patrons looking our way. Shazia, standing next to me, whispered, “Wow, this must be what it feels like to be J.Lo.” In the dim lighting from the globe lamps overhead, my friends looked radiant. With all the recent chaos of my life, I realized that now, tonight, I could take a deep breath and just relax. We ordered artichoke hearts and pasta and grilled vegetables, and Mathias insisted on getting champagne for the table, saying he was in a celebratory mood. When a frosted bottle of Cristal arrived, he raised his glass and tipped it in my direction.
“To our dear Tanaya, who has returned triumphant, as we knew she would,” he said, his eyes shining in the soft light. “We all miss you, but, chèrie, you have done us proud.” Karla filled a glass for me and pushed it my way. “You have to drink a little now,” she said. “Even just a sip. We are toasting you. We are celebrating all you have accomplished, against all the odds. It is no time for rituals. You are a grown woman now, a woman of the world. Come, join us. Drink.”
I stared at the pale golden liquid, fizzing in its slender vessel, and glanced at the eager, nodding faces around me. There were plenty of Muslims who drank alcohol, I reasoned with myself. And after everything I’d done, was I even considered a Muslim anymore? Did Allah even care about me now? My hand reached across the table; I picked up the glass by its skinny stem and held it up to the light. Then I turned toward Kai, handed him the glass, and told him to enjoy it.
By the end of the meal I was the only one sober, for which I was very grateful, as I had scheduled a breakfast meeting with Dimitri, the man who started all this, the next morning. I had noticed, as the evening wore on, that Kai had become increasingly sullen. For once, everyone in our presence was more interested in me than in him, and Kai didn’t seem very happy about that. While Shazia still wanted to talk to him about recording deals and performing gigs and his adventures on the road, he quickly grew weary of her relentless attention and looked to the others for the same kind of adulation. He didn’t find it. They all wanted to know about me, and me about them, and I could tell that Kai felt left out and disengaged, and the more I tried to draw him into the conversation, the more removed he became. By the end of the night, he was checking e-mails on his cell phone. Mathias looked over repeatedly at Kai, then at me, evidently puzzled. I avoided his questioning stare and, as we were getting back into our waiting car, I deflected Mathias’s questions about whether or not I was happy.
“He seems to be, how you say in America, a chuckle-head,” Mathias said quietly as we said our good-byes. Kai sat next to the window, waiting for me to walk to the other side. Mathias held my hand and kissed me gently on the cheek.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he whispered.
The phone next to my bed woke me up early the next morning, Dimitri’s voice deep and resonant on the other end.
“Just to let you know, I’m on my way,” he said cheerily, commuter noise in the background. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Hope I didn’t wake up Kai.” I looked across the living room at a closed door, behind which Kai was no doubt still fast asleep, and was grateful for two-bedroomed suites.
Dimitri looked smaller and stouter than how I remembered him, but was beaming.
“Such a joy to see you,” he said, kissing my hand as I sat next to him on the couch in the lobby. “You are more beautiful than before. Success becomes you. And I hear you are in quite the love affair,” he said, eyebrows raised, leaving me to wonder if he knew the truth or not.
“My cousin Stavros has, of course, kept me abreast of your many activities and assignments,” he said, his trademark formality rising to the fore. “I am delighted at how well you are doing. Yes, of course, Stavros and I benefit financially from your success, but beyond that, I have always felt that you, more than anyone else I have encountered, deserved to have it. And I can see now that becoming a famous international fashion model has not changed you one little bit. Your family would be proud, if they cared to know,” he said, shaking his head, the smile momentarily disappearing from his face.
“Anyhow, apart from wanting to simply see you and tell you how proud I am of you, an interesting business opportunity has arisen. Stavros called me about it the other day. I think it’s perfect for you. And, if I do say so myself, my instincts as far as you are concerned have not yet been proven wrong.”
In my absence from New York, Stavros had received the call that all modeling agents wait for. It was from a film producer in London who was working on an as-yet-untitled movie project, and who seemed to think that I had the right “look” for it.
“But I’m not a trained actress,” I said to Dimitri when he told me.
“Who is?” he countered, his smile returning. “How many of the really great movie stars today are really properly trained? Many of them worked hard or were discovered. Now that’s happening to you.”
It was being pitched as a romantic comedy about a young, white, preppy, uptight banker who falls in love with a gypsy girl from Morocco with rumored terrorist ties-to be played by me. In the mix was also a dunce of an ex-boyfriend who was trying to extricate himself from the mujahideen.
“It plays into every single silly stereotype,” I told Dimitri after he had finished recounting the plot.
“I agree, which is why it will get made,” he said, smiling. “It is being packaged for the masses, and therefore is a wonderful opportunity for you. Anyway, the reason it is a matter of some urgency is because the financing is coming from Germany, and the producers are doing their final casting in the next few days. They are flying in from Frankfurt tonight and want to see you tomorrow. In principle, the role is yours. It’s just a formality, and to see if they can develop some acting chops in you. I’ve checked the calendar, and you have nothing on after Chanel, so I’ve scheduled a meeting. And please, leave your boyfriend at the hotel.”
Chapter Twenty-five
The drive to Neuilly was shorter than I expected, with less traffic than usual heading out to the Parisian suburb on an otherwise fashion-frenzied afternoon. My hair felt gummy, my eyelashes still clumped together, as I rushed out of the show without bothering to remove any of my makeup, assuming that the casting people would want to see me in my full fashion-model glory anyway. I stepped out of the long gray car and went up a flight of steps that led to a wide podium that flanked the building on all sides. Through the glass double doors and up an elevator were the offices of the law firm that was handling the deal, where the producers were having a meeting that preceded mine, and from where we would be headed to a café down the street to talk. As I rode up in the elevator, I hoped that Dimitri, who was supposed to be meeting me here, had already arrived.<
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The elevator doors opened onto the foyer of the company, and a pretty receptionist told me to take a seat and wait. After a few minutes, two men-one broad-shouldered and with a full head of dense, wavy hair and the other slight and balding-emerged from one of the office suites, smiling as they approached me, their hands outstretched. The larger one introduced himself as Werner, the executive producer of the movie, which was being unofficially christened Honey in the Hamptons, Honey being the name of the girl in question, and a title that sounded like that of a porn film. Werner’s associate was Max, whom Werner introduced as “the brains behind the film.”
“Shall we go and find a quiet place to talk?” Werner suggested as Max led the way.
As we made our way the few feet toward the elevator, a voice sounded out from behind.
“Wait, you left these behind!”
We all turned around, and I stopped breathing. Walking toward us, holding a sheaf of papers, a tiny pair of gold loops pinched through his ears, was Tariq.
My breath finally returned, but my body felt like it had been shoved into a microwave on high. He stared at me, the smile disappearing from his face.
“Oh, thank you,” said Werner, taking the papers out of Tariq’s hand. “We can’t afford to lose these!” he said, sliding them into an attaché case he was carrying. Then, almost as an afterthought, he introduced us. “Tariq Khan, I am pleased to present Miss Tanaya Shah. I am certain you know of her. She is a famous model, and will most likely be starring in the movie we were here discussing with you.” Although Werner was standing right next to me, his words were faint. My eyes were still on Tariq’s face.
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