Busted in Bollywood

by Nicola Marsh

  We didn’t speak. The air between us crackled with expectation, and when the elevator doors slid open we tumbled out in our haste. My hand shook as I juggled the key, once, twice, before sliding it home. Flinging open the door, we bustled in.

  Drew dropped the bags and boxes on a nearby hall table.

  I dropped my handbag.

  We dropped all pretenses at taking this slow as we reached for each other.

  Hands clawed at clothes. Fingers fumbled with buttons. Bodies strained.

  We stripped in record time, the tearing of expensive cotton and the satisfying pop of buttons not bothering us as he protected himself and slid into me on a long, drawn out moan.

  My back hit the nearest wall and he supported my butt as I hooked my legs around his waist, taking him in deeper, taking him all the way.

  With every thrust my muscles clenched.

  With every caress my skin hummed.

  With every exquisitely torturous grind of his hips against mine, I lost myself in the out-of-control, pinwheeling, escalating eroticism.

  Our mouths found their way to each other, a desperate fusion of lips and tongues, hot, long, wet kisses lasting forever. He shifted a fraction, changing the angle and within three thrusts I shattered, bit down on his shoulder, swept away in the throes of a mind-blowing orgasm.

  He came a moment later, yelling my name, the sweetest, most satisfying sound I’d ever heard. He cradled me, supporting my weight, and in that moment, as heat from our sweat-slicked bodies enveloped us in an intimate cocoon, the soul-destroying realization hit.

  How could I let him walk away?

  …

  Drew walked away the next day.

  Urgent business in Chicago, massive IT deal worth billions.

  Put my trial at the magazine into perspective. Which I still hadn’t told him about for several reasons: I didn’t want to jinx it and I didn’t want to look like a failure if a permanent job didn’t eventuate. Being unemployed was bad enough. Not being good enough to secure a job after a trial? Loser. Hopefully, I could wow him with my new job if/when I impressed Viand enough.

  Stupid thing was, I’d been willing to accept our differences until that run-in with his mom. I may have forgiven her vileness but I couldn’t forget. She’d been right in a way. Dress this relationship up any way I liked but when I stripped away the newness and romance and international glamour of our meeting and consequential hook-up now, Drew and I were worlds apart.

  While I had potential, a work-in-progress the editor-in-chief would say, Drew was the real deal. He’d achieved so much, had done so much, it made my life to date pale in comparison.

  Sure, I may have exciting things to look forward to—my trial ended today and I’d checked my cell every five seconds, beyond nervous I wouldn’t get this job and be back where I started—was that enough to offer him? A city girl finding her feet falling for a worldly guy taking constant giant leaps?

  My cell pinged and my heart stopped. I fumbled it out of my hoodie pocket and glanced at the screen, nerves warring with excitement, almost relieved when Rita’s name popped up above the message.

  Hey S, any news?

  My thumb flew over the tiny alphabetical keys, tapping a quick response.

  No & stop asking me. Will let u know ASAP.

  MM at the ready. Call me!

  I smiled. Any excuse for a Mojito Monday. I typed Gr8, S x and received a super-fast xoxo in response.

  Rita’s support meant a lot but I knew who I’d rather be getting those kisses and hugs from.

  Drew said he’d probably be too busy to call. That didn’t stop me wishing he would.

  Falling in love with a mogul sucked. Especially when he’d be heading back to Mumbai the day after the wedding.

  The front door intercom buzzed and I jumped, the part of me prone to fantasy wishing that was Drew lobbing on my doorstep. Crazy? Hell yeah, but he’d done it once before.

  I jabbed at the button. “Yes?”

  “Delivery for Miss Jones.”

  “Come on up.” I let the guy in downstairs, checked my cell one last time, and gave it a little shake—like that would speed up news of my job.

  The delivery guy knocked and when I opened the door, the first thing to hit me was the smell. A heady, tempting aroma of spices. Cinnamon, cardamom, star anise, turmeric—I could distinguish between each, considering I’d consumed enough of them since my love of Indian food had kicked in, and my mouth watered.

  “Here you go.” He handed me two bulging bags and I placed them on the floor before signing his electronic device and tipping him.

  He saluted. “Freelance couriers usually deliver parcels and flowers.” He pointed at the bags. “First time I’ve ever wanted to eat whatever’s in there before I got here.”

  I smiled and shut the door, grabbing the bags and heading into the lounge. I knew that smell. Could name each individual item sealed in the bags: samosas, bondas, vada, pakoras. My favorites. Known by a certain person.

  I ripped open the first bag and inhaled, the masala blend bringing back instant memories of Mumbai—and Drew. We’d shared these delectable morsels in this very apartment. In bed.

  Heat lit my cheeks at the recollection as I spied a note wedged between Sassoon’s cartons.

  Flowers are passé. I’ve heard Indian is in.

  See you soon.

  Drew x

  Like a love-struck heroine in a rom-com, I clutched the note to my chest, grinning inanely. I loved the fact my guy didn’t do flowers. I loved the fact my guy knew the way to my heart was through my stomach. I loved my guy. Period.

  I popped a potato bonda into my mouth and sighed. Heavenly.

  That’s the moment my cell buzzed with an incoming message and I leapt off the sofa, food forgotten, scrambling to grab it.My palms were so clammy it almost slipped out of my hands but I managed to hold it long enough to read:

  Congrats, Shari. Your last article on beach food vendors in Mumbai blew us away. Your trial at Viand has been a success. We’re thrilled to offer you a permanent position. See you next week.

  No signature. Fairly indicative of my lowly position and paltry salary. Didn’t matter, since I’d inputted Jorg, the editor-in-chief’s number, into my cell the first day we’d met and he’d raved about my ‘highly original take on Indian food.’

  I squealed, threw my arms in the air, and did a wicked hula. Until one of my hips clunked and I fell onto the sofa in a giggling heap, staring at the cell until the letters blurred.

  I’d done it. Impressed them enough to employ me. Hot damn.

  Knowing Rita would be watching her cell as obsessively as I’d been, I quickly tapped a text.

  Got it!

  Her answer came so fast I barely had time to pop a pakora in my mouth.

  Yay! U. Me. MM. Celebr8 big time xx

  I could hardly wait.

  @ 8 2nite, my place. Squeee! x

  My thumb hovered over the keypad. I wanted to send a text to Drew about my job but the teeny part of me deep down that still harbored insecurities wanted to see his reaction when I told him. So I settled for:

  Thx for snacks, u know me well. Don’t work 2 hard. MJ x

  I always signed my texts to him Miss Jones. He seemed to get a kick out of it and it reminded me of our first momentous meeting. I’d toyed with writing miss you before deciding it sounded too needy. And that wasn’t me. Not when I had a kick-ass job. Woo-hoo!

  I might not be the born and bred lady his mom wanted me to be but the way my life was coming together, maybe I had something to offer her son after all.

  …

  I entered Rita’s hotel room, took one look at the bride decked out in her finery, and glanced down at my dress, wondering how I could feel like faded wallpaper in Valentino.


  “You look amazing.” I spoke barely above a whisper, in awe of my beautiful friend, who was doing a fair statue impersonation, unmoving, unblinking.

  Uh-oh. Maybe Mama Rama had slipped something into her chai to prevent this wedding going ahead. Wouldn’t put anything past the domineering cow.

  “I feel sick.” Rita raised stricken eyes, the only sign of movement in her rigid body. “How could you let me do something like this?”

  Smiling, I hugged Rita and air-kissed both cheeks, not wanting to spoil the exquisite makeup job by one of Sarah Jessica Parker’s entourage (a friend of a friend of a work acquaintance at Bergdorf’s came through for Rita in a big way).

  “What’s with the nerves? It’s not like you’re a blushing bride or anything. You and Romeo have been getting it on since his plane touched down at JFK.”

  “Rakesh… ” Rita breathed his name on the softest sigh, her eyes losing focus, lost in a memory. A damn good one by the smug smile lifting the corners of her plumped and glossed mouth.

  “Yeah, Rakesh. The guy you’re marrying. For life. The ball and chain, the anchor around your neck, always looking over your shoulder, forever and ever and ever.”

  I grinned as she slapped my arm.

  In comparison to Mama Rama’s stinging slap when she first caught us out at Central Park? A gentle love tap.

  “You’re right. Nerves are a waste of time.” Rita shook her head in characteristic defiance, setting off a cute melody from the tiny bells dangling from an elaborate head scarf. Combined with the rest of the gold hanging from various parts of her body, she glittered and twinkled like a Christmas bauble.

  “To think, you wanted me to blow him off.”

  She quirked an eyebrow and thrust out a hip, looking every inch a woman who had the love of a good man. “’Til I realized if there’s any blowing to be done, that’ll be done by me and me only, thank you very much.”

  I made barf noises. “Too much information. Now, do a twirl and let me see this amazing outfit.”

  Rita obliged, my fashion-plate partner-in-crime only too happy to show off her bridal splendor. Decked out in a vibrant red sari edged in gold embroidered jeri work, the traditional garb of a Hindu bride, she looked more Indian than I’d ever seen her. Yet somehow it suited her better than all the D&G, Prada, and Gucci she usually favored.

  “Think the folks and out-laws will approve?”

  I nodded, knowing Rita didn’t give a damn what anyone but Rakesh thought, as it should be. “Your mum’ll be fine, and hopefully Mama Rama won’t do a regular rona dhona. For this anyway,” I added as an afterthought, knowing it wouldn’t take much for Mama Rama to throw in a theatrical weeping and wailing scene.

  Rita chuckled. “You really picked up the Bollywood lingo, didn’t you?”

  I studied my French manicure at arm’s length, doing a good impersonation of a bored starlet. “Being the best extra in the business, it pays to listen.”

  “If you’re that good, be careful Pravin doesn’t cast you as the next item girl.”

  I did a little shimmy, shaking my boobs like a true item girl, the hot actress chosen to do the essential song in modern Bollywood films. This actress might not appear in the rest of the film but she always performed the dhak dhak, the dance step I’d seen several times now where jerky, perky, bouncy boobs guaranteed to get the guys titillated.

  As for Mama Rama’s possible theatrics, I could definitely see her throwing a full-on rona dhona and ruining Rita’s big day.

  “Lucky I don’t have to worry about acting anymore, considering my new job.” I fist-pumped the air, stoked I’d stepped out of my comfort zone and landed a job that challenged as well as satisfied.

  “I’m so proud of how you’ve got your shit together since Tate.” Rita grabbed my hands, gripping them so tightly her knuckles stood out. “It’s been one hell of a ride these last few months.”

  Images of Mumbai, the Ramas’ compound, Film City, my room at Anjali’s, The Plaza, Central Park, Drew’s mother, Starbucks, Sassoon’s, my fab new career, and Drew, mostly Drew, flashed through my mind. “Sure has.”

  “You know what you’re doing?”

  I laughed and tried to slip out of Rita’s death grip but she wouldn’t let go. “I’m supposed to be asking you that. Besides, I’m not the one marrying some guy she barely knows.”

  Predictably, Rita wouldn’t accept my brush-off. We hadn’t had a chance to talk much since I’d patched things up with Drew but she knew the basics: I’d accepted his explanations, I’d forgiven Mommy Dearest, and we’d been going at it like two people who’d been celibate for a decade (not true, but a fitting analogy if you took a peek into our boudoir activities).

  “Tell me Drew isn’t going to break your heart.”

  “Drew isn’t going to break my heart,” I said in a flat monotone, managing a cocky grin designed to allay Rita’s concerns while masking my own.

  Of course he’d break my heart, considering I’d served it up to him on a silver platter complete with knife to plunge into it when he jet-setted back to India. I’d accepted the inevitability and was making the most of every moment we had together, storing away the memories to dredge out on freezing winter evenings when I’d be curled indoors, sculling chai and stuffing ladoos in my mouth. I could see many days of comfort eating ahead. Sassoon’s better brace for a heartbroken regular.

  “I worry about you.” Rita tugged on my hands until I had no option but to fall into her Chanel No. 5-infused embrace.

  “Save your worry for when you tell Mama Rama the good news that you’re dragging her golden boy away from Mumbai for six months of the year.”

  Rita stiffened, and I used the opportunity to slip out of her bear hug. Don’t get me wrong, I liked hugging my best friend, but I didn’t need reminding of my upcoming heartache, not today, when I wanted to focus on happiness.

  “Kali forbid. Do you think she’d dare slap her new daughter-in-law?”

  Rubbing my cheek in memory of Mama’s fury, I screwed up my nose. “For your sake, I sure as hell hope not.”

  “Crap. I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

  I didn’t like the quiver in Rita’s whisper or the deep groove between her eyebrows.

  “Listen up. You’re marrying the guy of your dreams, he’s agreed to live half the year in your home city, and vice versa. You’ve made major decisions, you’ve faced your overbearing families, and you’ve planned a life together. Not to mention survived Mama Rama in the flesh. You are doing the right thing. Don’t doubt it for a second.”

  Fear warred with self-belief in Rita’s ebony eyes and, thankfully, self-belief won out.

  “You’re right. Screw these pre-wedding jitters.”

  “Good girl.” I tapped my watch. “We’ve got a ceremony to attend.”

  I fussed around her, smoothing the folds of her stunning silk sari and arranging the fall of her head scarf.

  “Shari?”

  “Yeah?” Satisfied, I stood back to survey my handiwork. Not that I’d done much apart from last-minute tweaks. I couldn’t improve on Rita’s perfection. I’d never seen a more stunning bride.

  “Be happy.”

  “You too,” I said as we air-kissed, fervently hoping we got our wish.

  chapter fifteen

  I’d never been to a Hindu wedding, and the traditions enthralled me: Rita and Rakesh tied together by their scarves and walking seven times around a fire, Rakesh placing a black and gold necklace around Rita’s neck and putting red powder in her hair parting. Intriguing stuff.

  I would’ve enjoyed it more if I’d understood a word of what the priest said, but the hour-long ceremony was conducted in Sanskrit. The enchanting, important mantras went straight over my head. The bride and groom radiated a happy glow; no translation necessary.

  Rakesh made a maroon
kurta, the guy’s version of a salwaar kameez, hot, though the top ended mid-calf and made him look like an elegant Aladdin. After the ceremony Rita changed into a stunning red sharara for the reception, a sexy salwaar kameez edged in gold jeri like her sari. Guess it’d be difficult to party hard wearing yards of fabric with the potential to unravel around your body. Ask Anjali, or the unfortunate Kapil.

  The party couldn’t officially start until Rita’s parents had welcomed Rakesh, Mama Rama, and Senthil at the door by washing their feet and waving a lamp around them to drive away evil spirits. In my opinion, Mama Rama should’ve vanished on the spot if that were the case, but she remained entrenched as the gloating mother of the groom.

  Once the reception started I joined in the festivities with gusto, taking center stage on the parquet floor and dancing the dhak dhak my way. Not pretty, but Drew’s eyes lit up, all the incentive I needed to flaunt.

  After I’d finished my best Bollywood dance impersonations, Anjali managed to grab a dance with Senthil, despite Mama Rama’s evil eye casting a shadow on the surprisingly light-footed pair. I watched with a hint of maudlin creeping through my romantic soul.

  What if Anjali had gotten her man? Would her life have been different?

  I sighed. “Don’t they look cute together?”

  Drew, remarkably debonair in a tux, grabbed champagne from a passing waiter and handed it to me. “Anjali and Senthil? Not sure about cute. Makeover material for Dancing with the Stars maybe?”

  “They’re cute.” I stamped my foot for emphasis, belatedly hoping I hadn’t popped a sequin, my latent acting genes simultaneously bubbling to the surface just like the fizzy bubbles in my Moet-filled flute. “If it hadn’t been for Anu they’d be a couple. It’s sad when true love doesn’t run smoothly.”

  “Sometimes sadder when it does,” he said, dropping a quick peck on my cheek to take the sting out of his cryptic words.

  Was he referring to us? Our ill-fated, soon-to-end love affair?