Busted in Bollywood

by Nicola Marsh

  I chuckled, the sound of my laughter a welcome surprise. When I’d left Drew’s suite I felt like I’d never laugh again. “If you need anything, let me know.”

  Rita’s smile waned. “There is one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Mama Rama needs a pedicure before the wedding and I told her you’d be perfect for the job.”

  “Bitch.” I grabbed a handful of Doritos and pelted her as we tussled, laughing until our sides ached.

  …

  Drew called.

  Eight times, to be precise.

  Four on the home phone, four on my cell.

  Very even, very precise, very British. His messages ranged from polite and cool to annoyed and deranged, the last one something like this: “Shari. This is insane. You cut out on me because my mother drops in for a visit? I know the battle-axe comes across a bit strong but I thought we had something. Surely you can tolerate her for a little while? Anyway, call me.”

  He thought I should tolerate the old bag? See? Deranged.

  When I didn’t return his calls that night, he arrived around midnight, ringing the buzzer like a man possessed. I could’ve let him up but what would be the point? I hadn’t formulated what I wanted to say, let alone mentally rehearsed it, and I knew the minute I saw him my hormones would go crazy and start ruling my head again.

  I needed space. Space to let my head start talking sense to the rest of my traitorous body and I prayed it made a damn good argument.

  Even if the Amelia engagement farce was a ruse Lady Muck used to get rid of me, Drew had lied to me. He was a Lord. A real, honest-to-goodness, ten-foot-up-himself Lord, and no matter how close we got, how far this relationship went, I couldn’t see Lady Muck welcoming a half-caste Lady Lansford into the family.

  Half-caste.

  Racist old bitch.

  I cringed in the darkness as the buzzer eventually silenced, wondering if Lady Muck told Drew about our fond farewell. Being raised to respect my elders, I wasn’t proud of my departing line. Then again, who said I had to take shit from a stuck-up meow like her?

  I’d take a day or two, marshal my thoughts, set a plan of action, and stick to it.

  Then why the sinking feeling in my belly that going through with this plan might be the hardest thing I’d ever have to do? “Plan” being the operative word as, lying on my bed with the blinds pulled up and moonlight spilling through the sheer chiffon drapes and speckling the ceiling, I had no idea what this so-called grand plan would entail. If Rita was right and the engagement thing wasn’t true, he deserved a chance to explain the title. It’s the least I could do.

  My cell beeped.

  I ignored the text message for two seconds before curiosity got the better of me. Eight calls, a personal visit—which must’ve damaged the buzzer by persistence—and a text. Not bad.

  Rolling over, I grabbed the cell off the bedside table and checked the message.

  U & I NEED 2 TALK.

  PLEZ CALL.

  BB 4 MJ.

  MA.B. 4 EVER?

  I scrolled through the message several times, having no control over my easily pleased heart that leaped at his cuteness. The ‘Bollywood Boy for Miss Jones, maybe forever?’ struck hard.

  Guys didn’t talk about tomorrow, let alone the future, yet here was my lying lord tugging on my heartstrings with inferences about forever.

  What did forever mean to him? I’d be forever available whenever he lobbed into town? I’d be forever waiting for something more, something he couldn’t give? Waiting was for suckers. For women without confidence. For women with low self-esteem and high expectations who ended up middle-aged and still waiting.

  That wasn’t me. Not anymore.

  I should call him.

  Don’t you dare! screamed my voice of reason.

  He’s been pretty persistent.

  So? Let him sweat.

  He’s sweet to be this concerned.

  You think he’s sweet on you? Forget it. He’s after one thing while he’s in town. That forever crap is B.S. Remember when Mom said ‘why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?’

  “Shut the hell up,” I said, tired of arguing with my voice of reason. I rolled onto my side, clutching the cell like a lucky talisman and toying with the touchpad.

  Technically, sending a reply text wouldn’t count as calling.

  Emotionally, what happened to time-out and my grand plan?

  Logically, I owed him some kind of explanation for my lunatic dash, seeing as Mommy Dearest hadn’t enlightened him.

  Mentally, I didn’t have a hope of getting any sleep if I didn’t do something right now to bridge the wide chasm between us, even if it was only to kick him hard and swiftly up the ass.

  Mind made up, I punched in a reply before I chickened out.

  GIVE ME A FEW DAYS.

  C U THEN.

  BTW, 4 EVER 2 LONG.

  Stabbing the send button, the text whizzed through cyberspace—or wherever the bizarre little letters ended up flying through—before crash-landing on Drew’s screen. My message might not have the same punch as his but at least I’d been honest.

  The new and improved Shari had starred in a Bollywood film (starred being a slight exaggeration, but Pravin said I’d struck a very evocative pose in the rear chorus), been stalked for my beauty (so the Lone Ranger needed his eyes checked; nice sentiment all the same), and done the horizontal mambo with Hugh (tragic to fantasize about doing it with a movie star but I swear it only happened once and Drew looked so much like Hugh right at THE moment I couldn’t help myself).

  The new me was a vast improvement on the old Toad-trampled mess I’d been before India.

  The cell buzzed in my hand and I swore this would be the last time I’d check it before switching off. If I didn’t want to talk to Drew, I sure as hell didn’t want to waste time texting him like an adolescent.

  W/OUT U 2 LONG.

  CALL ME.

  I’LL W8.

  Short and sweet.

  I hit the cell’s off button, wondering if he would wait. Did he truly believe forever was too long without me? Or did he want another fix of milk before he dumped the cow and returned to greener pastures?

  I closed my eyes, willing sleep. Nada. Why the heck was Drew talking about forever? Especially when I’d run out on him like a madwoman and refused to take his calls? Could he really feel something for me?

  May be plausible, but the image of Lady Muck’s distaste as she surveyed me from head to foot burned into my retinas. She knew nothing about me but on first appearances, I wasn’t good enough for her lordly son. Judgmental, narrow-minded and bigoted? Hell yeah. But the fact I still hadn’t found a job and was living in a short-term apartment rankled.

  Drew might not care about those things but his mom did, and if we moved past this, what hope did I have for a long-term future without more to offer?

  With an exasperated grunt, I rolled onto my stomach, grabbed my netbook from the bedside table, and flipped it open. I’d bookmarked countless job application sites and had enlisted with several job agencies. The call-backs kept coming, but no offers. Right now, that Subway sandwich artist position looked tempting.

  I giggled at the thought of Lady Muck’s expression if her precious boy dated a bread-butterer, scanning my inbox in the vain hope I’d landed an executive assistant position with Donald Trump. I scrolled down, past spam for million-dollar Nigerian lottery winnings and penis enlargements before spying the subject header JOB APPLICATION. Nothing extraordinary considering I’d emailed a ton of them, but what set this one apart was the sender.

  Viand Magazine. Newly launched glossy travel mag focusing on food and featuring real-life reports from travelers roaming the world. A magazine I’d had a call-back interview for, an interview I�
�d bluffed my way through with countless tales of my Mumbai adventures and Indian recipes I’d cohesively blended together in my first official article.

  My finger cramped over the mouse pad and I flexed it a few times before opening the email.

  Dear Ms. Jones,

  Following your successful interviews and well-formatted article, we’re pleased to offer you a trial position as a contributor to Viand Magazine. We were particularly impressed with the food angle of your piece and would like that to be the focus of your articles during the two-week trial period.

  While this is not an offer of permanent work, we will be happy to reevaluate the situation at the end of your trial with the hope to extend your contract.

  Please present to human resources next Monday, where your trial will be discussed in greater detail.

  All the best,

  Jorg Lundgren, Editor-in-Chief, Viand Magazine

  I reread the email three times before leaping off the bed and doing a hip-swaying, shoulder-shimmying, happy dance.

  I’d done it. Landed a trial at a hip magazine, one I had every intention of nailing. The highlight? It was an occupation out of my comfort zone, away from boring legal dissertations, and encapsulating two of my new favorite things: travel and food.

  I pinched myself, registered pain, and didn’t give a shit.

  I had a potential new career.

  A freaking fantastic potential new profession.

  Might not be much of a step up from Lady Muck’s wannabe starlet but to me it was a giant leap. Today, fledgling magazine contributor, tomorrow J.K. Rowling.

  Okay, so the euphoria had gone to my head but come Monday, my first day on trial, I intended on kicking some serious literary ass. If one considered travel ramblings and recipes literary.

  Regardless, I’d be there. Polishing my prose. Reciting recipes. Kowtowing to the editor-in-chief. Doing whatever it took to get this job and be able to confront Drew with my head held high.

  …

  “Shari, my girl.”

  I staggered back as Anjali, her arms laden with Punjab Sweet Shop boxes, bowled into the apartment two days later, the familiar garlic/curry powder odor hitting me like a blast straight from Mumbai.

  She deposited the boxes on the hallway table and turned to face me with a wide grin. “You’re way too skinny again, like when you first arrived in India. You need flesh on your bones and I have just the thing.”

  She ripped the seal off the top box and offered me a piece of cashew halwa, guaranteed to add a pound or three with the first bite. “I brought ladoos and barfi and gulub jamuns, plus all your favorites.”

  She thrust the box under my nose—which trembled at the decadently sweet smell like a rabbit scenting a juicy carrot—and I took the smallest piece to pacify her. I hadn’t said a word since opening the door but she hadn’t noticed, keeping up a steady stream as always.

  “Isn’t it wonderful news about Amrita and Rakesh? I’m thrilled they flew me out for the wedding. It’s going to be something special.” Her eyes misted as she stuffed a piece of halwa into her mouth, licking crumbs off her fingers.

  I had to agree with her about the wedding. The happy couple had pulled off the coup of the century. They’d convinced their parents the wedding would take place in New York. The wedding would be a small, intimate affair. And soon—much to the horror of Mama Rama, who’d thrown a classic hissy fit before ungraciously capitulating.

  I was thrilled for the lovebirds and looking forward to attending my first Hindu wedding.

  “What about you, Shari dear? Have you and young Drew got it on yet?”

  Anjali grinned like a benevolent god and sat on the couch as I choked on the last bite of halwa, shocked that:

  a) she knew I had a thing for Drew and it had been obvious in Mumbai, and

  b) she knew a phrase like ‘get it on.’

  Tossing the end of her ochre sari over one shoulder, she fired a glare that meant business. “You thought I didn’t notice the way you two looked at each other? I may be old but I’m not blind. I remember that feeling. The spark, the electricity... ”

  I had to interject before I got the unabridged version of Anjali Does Mumbai.

  “Have you been talking to Rita?”

  Her shifty sideways glance was a dead giveaway she’d probably heard the entire sorry tale from my best friend and wanted to voice her opinion. “No.”

  “It’s complicated,” I said, a small part of me admiring Drew’s patience in waiting until I contacted him, impressed he’d respected my wishes. While the rest of me wavered between being downright peeved he hadn’t continued to bombard me with calls and convinced his mom had been correct. About everything.

  “What a load of nonsense. When a handsome young man is chasing you, why hold him at bay? A week is long enough to make him sweat.”

  “How’d you know it was a week?”

  Anjali rolled her eyes. “Maybe some of that charlatan soothsayer’s powers rubbed off on me.”

  “You said he was phony, so how could he have powers?”

  “Stop being so pedantic.” She tsk-tsked. “If this is your attitude, no wonder you’re having problems with Mr. Drew.”

  “Lord Drew,” I corrected, instantly wanting to slice out my tongue as Anjali leaned so far forward she almost toppled off the couch.

  “He’s a Lord? Like Lord Louis Mountbatten?”

  “Louis who?”

  “The royal photographer. Loved India. Amazing man.” Her eyes glazed for a second, lost in a golden memory before clearing and refocusing on me. She clapped her hands, her excitement almost infectious. “You’re going to be a Lady!”

  “Drew and I are friends, and that’s as far as it goes, so quit it. You’re as bad as Rita. And do you actually know the meaning of ‘get it on’?”

  “I’m not some hick from Mumbai.” Anjali tilted her nose in the air as if affronted, and I grinned.

  I’d missed this more than I thought; Anjali’s consistently one-sided chats, her unwavering focus on guys, our banter. We’d connected in India like a real niece and aunt, something I didn’t have, considering both my folks were only kids.

  “Furthermore, you’re going to listen to me.” She took a deep breath, puffing out her chest like the cocky bantam rooster that used to wander into her yard every morning and scratch around for scraps. “You young people of today are clueless. You waste your time pretending not to like each other, trying to get out of relationships as hard as you try to get into them, dancing around the truth, and then complaining when it all falls apart.”

  “That’s not true. Drew and I—”

  “Let me finish.” She made a zipping motion across her lips. Yeah, like that’d shut me up. “In my day, it wasn’t so different. I wasted my one opportunity at true happiness and spent the rest of my life wishing I’d done things differently. Anu might be a bitch but she’s smart, and in matters of the heart being nice gets you nowhere.”

  Confused by her backhanded reference to Anu’s intelligence, I waited for her to elaborate. When she didn’t and popped another piece of halwa into her mouth, I decided to confront the Anu mystery head on.

  “What is it with you and Anu?”

  Anjali’s lips clamped tighter as she chewed.

  Undeterred, I plowed on. “You said she stole from you?”

  Halwa gone, Anjali sighed and nodded. “She stole the man I loved with her conniving lies and I’ll never forgive her for it.”

  Definite grounds for an ongoing vendetta: broken heart, two women fighting over some stud. Another scene straight out of Bollywood.

  “I loved Senthil with all my heart.”

  Senthil? Jeez, Rakesh had been right. Anjali had a thing for his dad. Wow. And I’d thought the flirting and studio visits had been innocent. Looked like I
’d stepped into Act One, Scene Two of another drama. At least it took my mind off my personal production unfolding like a Cannes winner.

  “What happened?”

  Anjali leaned forward and for a second I thought I’d get to hear every last juicy detail. Instead, her lips compressed in a thin, angry line and she shook her head. “That bitch lied, cheated, and wormed her way into Senthil’s family. She knew I loved him but it didn’t matter. She became Mrs. Senthil Rama and I got the booby prize.”

  I’d seen photos of Anjali’s husband hidden behind a plethora of framed pictures of Rita and her folks back at her place in Mumbai and had to agree. The guy had greasy black hair in a comb-over, crooked teeth, and a nose rivaling the Concorde. Poor Anjali. Senthil’s handlebar moustache and expressive eyes would shape up well next to that.

  “I already told you we were incompatible in every way. Then he ups and dies six years into our marriage, leaving me widowed and childless.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Trite but true. Anjali deserved better, but before I could comfort her, she snapped her fingers. “If you love Mr. Drew, go out there, grab him with both hands, and don’t let go. You do love him, don’t you?”

  Did I love him? I had no idea. What was love, apart from some nebulous emotion touted by romance writers and exploited by greeting card companies?

  I’d thought I loved the Toad. I’d been wrong.

  I’d had a few boyfriends, but love would be too strong to describe the attraction-waning-to-like-turning-to-blah of those relationships.

  If love involved stomach-churning desire, losing my appetite, and feeling like part of me was missing when he wasn’t around then yeah, I guess I was partway to being in love with Drew.

  “Well, child? Are you in love with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Anjali wouldn’t settle for blunt honesty. I could tell by the matchmaking gleam in her eyes. “You won’t know if you keep ignoring him. Why don’t you two talk? You’ll see him at the wedding anyway, so the least you can do is clear the air before Amrita’s big day. You never know, maybe a bit of matrimonial happiness might rub off on you.”