by Nicola Marsh
Bristling, she nodded. “It’s my job.”
“But you know . . .” He trailed off, his lips compressing into a thin line.
“Know what?”
“He’s my rival, and I need to land that gig.”
Yeah, she knew, but she didn’t need him ramming it down her throat. “I’m a professional. So when a referral comes in, I do my job.”
He glared at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t come up with a polite way to do it.
“Is he any good?”
“I can’t talk to you about this,” she said, shaking her head, hating that he was putting her in this position.
“I need to nail that audition,” he said, through gritted teeth, the muscles in his shoulders bunching with tension. “It’s vital.”
“So you do your best. What’s my working with Benedict got to do with it?”
“Benedict,” he mimicked, with a scowl.
For a moment, she thought he might be jealous, but that was plain crazy. She’d never sleep with a client, which was exactly why she’d referred him on to Pia in the first place.
“We need to stop discussing this.” She held up her hand. “It’s got nothing to do with us.”
“So there’s an us?”
He made it sound like the most outlandish thing in the world, and the tenuous grip she had on her temper snapped.
“Grow up.”
He gaped, and she spun on her heel and stalked back to her office, slamming the door for good measure.
Twenty
After his session with Pia, Rory had felt pretty bloody good about himself. He’d nailed every exercise she’d set as homework, and she’d praised him for his enunciation, which was clearer than last week’s. So it seemed surreal when he’d seen Benedict Dixon coming out of Samira’s office, all smiley and chummy. His momentary surge of jealousy had been stupid, though that hadn’t got him half as riled as the moron’s usual condescension. His good mood had been eradicated as soon as Benedict opened his mouth.
“What are you doing here, Radcliffe?”
Rory had resisted the urge to punch him in the mouth once before when the guy had made fun of his stutter, yet anytime their paths crossed, the urge returned. “Not much.”
The jerk hadn’t bought his blasé act for a second. “I’m getting dialect coaching for a big role.” He smirked. “Not that you’d know anything about big roles.”
“And you do?” Rory barked out a laugh. “Keep telling yourself that, mate.”
Anger made Benedict’s jaw jut. “I host TV shows rather than waste my time doing he-man stunts.”
In the past, Rory wouldn’t bother responding. But as he caught sight of Samira staring at them with curiosity, he had to shut this dickhead up once and for all.
“Some of us aren’t built for stunt work,” he drawled, sending a pointed glare at Benedict’s biceps. The guy obviously worked out—he had to, in order to keep landing hosting gigs—but his muscle definition had nothing on Rory’s. “And from what I hear, the producers of Renegades are looking for someone with an impressive physique.”
This time, when Rory laughed in obvious dismissal of Benedict as a threat, he flushed a furious puce. “Brains will always trump brawn.”
“So I’m guessing my economics degree might come in handy after all?”
Surprise glinted in Benedict’s eyes, before they narrowed with malice. “You’re a smart-ass.”
“And you’re just an ass.”
“Fuck you,” Benedict muttered under his breath, making Rory’s hands curl into fists.
He’d never forgotten their first run-in four years ago, when Rory had plucked up the courage to audition for a speaking part in a local sitcom. He’d avoided speaking roles until then, but Amelia had encouraged him, and not wanting to disappoint her, he’d stepped up.
It had been an unmitigated disaster. His nerves had got the better of him, and every technique Amelia had ever taught him to manage his stutter had flown out the window, leaving him a blathering mess. His humiliation had been witnessed by Benedict, who’d thought it hilarious to mimic him as he’d stridden off the stage, his cheeks burning, his pride shattered.
He’d hated him ever since.
As if nailing the Renegades audition hadn’t been important enough for the housing commission kids, the moment he’d learned Benedict Dixon would be up for the same role, it had become imperative he land it.
Not that he could tell Samira any of that, and he’d stupidly taken his foul mood out on her. The shock of learning she was Benedict Dixon’s dialect coach had shaken him, and he’d behaved like an idiot.
“So there’s an us?” had been the dumbest response, designed to hurt her as much as her cool indifference had hurt him.
But hers had been based in professionalism. What was his excuse?
Yesterday afternoon at her place had been phenomenal, and they’d confirmed they were dating. And what had he done? Flung it back in her face like a jerk. He’d been so tempted to go after her and apologize earlier but had needed time to cool down. Bad enough he had a meeting scheduled with his agent to get the latest update on the Renegades role hot on the heels of running into his rival; he couldn’t afford to show up rattled. So he let her go, giving them both time to cool it before he reached out.
For now, he had to focus and get the lowdown on the biggest role of his career.
He entered the café on South Wharf and spotted Chris, talking on his phone. Chris caught sight of him and waved him over, and as Rory made his way to the table, he wondered how far he could push for information.
He liked Chris, despite them being opposites. Chris was flashy, confident, and garrulous, the perfect pushy agent. He’d intimidated Rory at first, but he’d soon learned in this industry an agent was essential to getting regular work, and he’d appreciated Chris’s enthusiasm and dedication to his clients.
When Rory reached the table, Chris hung up and stuck out his hand. “Hey, mate, how’s it going?”
“Good.”
Rory sat, and a waitress instantly appeared to take their order: a short black for him, a skinny almond latte for Chris. His agent always ordered the weirdest drinks.
“How are the dialect coaching sessions coming along?”
“Great.”
Chris chuckled. “You’re a man of few words. I hope you’re going to say more at the Renegades audition.”
“Of course.”
Rory would recite the alphabet backward a hundred times to guarantee he got the gig.
“You know how I mentioned Benedict Dixon is your biggest rival for the role?”
Rory immediately tensed at the mention. “Yeah.”
“Turns out he’s not so popular with some of the channel executives at the moment. Something to do with chatting up one of their daughters.” He shook his head and wrinkled his nose like he’d smelled something bad. “Anyway, he’s going all out to land this gig as a bit of a comeback for him, so just thought I’d warn you to put in as many hours as you can with the dialect coach to get up to scratch.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
Great, that was all he needed, for the dickhead to be down on his luck courtesy of a screwup and even more determined to land the role.
“The producers are planning on pitching Renegades as a mix between Survivor and The Amazing Race, so if you haven’t seen either of those in a while, it wouldn’t hurt to put in some study hours and watch some reruns.”
“Done.”
Looked like he had a date with his TV for a marathon, considering he hadn’t watched either show in ages.
Chris snapped his fingers. “One more thing. I’ve managed to get a look at the audition short list, and to be honest, the other three guys going for it don’t have the right vibe. So it looks like it’ll be down to you and Benedict, and despite his recent in
discretion, with his track record, he’s going to be hard to beat.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Rory deadpanned, earning a bark of laughter from Chris.
“I wouldn’t have put you up for this role if I didn’t think you’d be perfect for it.” He held up his clenched hand for a fist bump, and Rory obliged, even though he found the gesture as annoying as his agent’s penchant for fancy-schmancy drinks. “You’ve got this.”
Actually, he didn’t, and the thought would keep Rory up nights until the audition.
As much as he wanted to reach out to Samira, maybe he should focus on the audition. Watch the reruns. Practice his dialect exercises. Get in the zone.
It didn’t sit well that she’d think badly of him, so he’d fire off a curt apologetic text, but for now he had to concentrate on nailing this audition, no matter how much he’d like to be curled up with her once they got past their hiccup.
Twenty-One
So much for getting Kushi off her back. Mentioning she’d had coffee with Manny on Monday ensured Samira had fielded phone calls from her mom every day this week. By Friday night, she’d had enough and needed to tell Kushi the truth.
Considering she hadn’t seen or heard from Rory beyond a short text, SORRY FOR BEING A DICK—though he hadn’t written “dick” but had used an eggplant emoji instead—AM BUSY, TALK SOON, since their argument at the center on Tuesday, what exactly was the truth?
She’d thought they were dating, meaning his flyaway jibe “so there’s an us?” hurt more than it should. They’d fallen headlong into a few steamy liaisons courtesy of an unforgettable one-night stand, and all that mushy stuff they’d said about dating had probably been nothing more than pillow talk.
Okay, so maybe she was making light of the situation because he’d really hurt her. And she wouldn’t be hurting unless she hadn’t fallen for him a tad. He’d crept under her skin faster than she could’ve anticipated, and not seeing him since their verbal altercation had left her grouchy all week.
She’d told Kushi she’d stop by after work around seven, but by the time she’d stopped off at the Punjab sweetshop to grab her mom’s favorite besan laddoos, it was almost eight when she pulled into the drive. To find both sides of the street jam-packed with parked cars.
It could be one of the neighbors having a get-together, but the moment she stepped from the car and heard the loud bhangra music coming from her childhood home, she knew her mom had ambushed her again.
If Manny was here, it would be the last straw.
However, as she let herself into the house and followed the raucous laughter coming from the family room at the back, she wondered if that would be such a bad thing. That way, she could show Kushi that Manny was nothing more than a friend and to stop meddling. As long as Manny didn’t mention anything about her seeing someone . . . That would send Kushi’s matchmaking radar into overdrive, and no way in hell would her mom approve of Rory.
She may have given up seeking Kushi’s approval a long time ago, but she didn’t want them to end up fighting over her choice of man, even for a short-term fling, not when they were tentatively reestablishing some kind of relationship.
As she entered the kitchen and spied a roomful of aunties, she breathed a sigh of relief. No Manny. A relief short-lived when Kushi caught sight of her and bustled toward her, her eyes gleaming. Samira knew what that glint meant: Kushi and the aunties were in full matchmaking mode. Though these gossiping women being here was a surprise. What were they doing here, looking like they belonged? Their bags lay strewn over the floor, knitting spilling from some, while those that weren’t squeezed into the sofas were lounging on beanbags they’d struggle to get out of. They looked way too comfortable, and Samira hoped she could encourage her mom to get rid of them ASAP so she could unwind.
“Darling, so glad you came to see your old mother.” Kushi enveloped her in a hug, the familiar aromas of fenugreek and coconut oil clinging to her.
“Mom, I thought it would be just you and me tonight,” she said, handing over the box of sweets. “It’s been a long week, and I want to relax.”
“You work too hard, betee.” Kushi pinched her cheek before opening the box to peek inside. “My favorite. We’ll save these for later.” She placed the box into a nearby cupboard. “Now come. The aunties didn’t have a chance to talk to you at your welcome-home supper. They’re dying to hear all your news.”
From what she could remember, these women had never been her mom’s friends. In fact, Kushi had been an introvert who had preferred cooking for her cosmopolitan neighbors rather than inviting the judgmental Indian aunties around. Samira knew them because they were ever-present at every Indian function, casting their shrewd, beady-eyed glares over everyone, coolly assessing everything from appropriate fashion to potential husbands.
When she’d married Avi, the aunties had been invited, but she’d always wondered why, as they didn’t socialize with them. It made Samira contemplate how her mom had become so close to these dominating women that she’d gathered them here to assist with her matchmaking. Particularly as she’d bet they would’ve alternated between pitying her mom for having such a wayward daughter and gossiping behind her back when Samira had divorced Avi and fled Melbourne.
Mustering a tight smile, Samira entered the family room and made her way along the three sofas, greeting each of the matronly women. Four wedged on each sofa, three sprawled on beanbags, all eyeing her with blatant speculation.
Samira had borne the weight of Indian expectation before. These women had been as delighted as Kushi when she’d agreed to marry Avi all those years ago. None of them were blood related, but each held sway within their large Indian families and beyond. Samira didn’t like how many in the local community deferred to them as being doyens of Indian culture. While they’d celebrated her marriage, they’d shunned her just as quickly after her divorce. Never mind that she was the innocent party and Avi was a lying, cheating scumbag. They’d judged her and found her lacking. Escaping the endless pity and stares had been one of the motivating factors in fleeing Melbourne.
After she’d endured the hugs and cheek pinching, she chose a seat in the farthest corner, wishing she could slink out the front door and not look back. She would’ve loved a glass of wine, but she gratefully accepted a masala chai from her mom, along with a small plate covered in potato bhondas.
“Eat. Drink,” Kushi said, running a hand over her hair. “You look worn-out.”
“That’s why I wanted it to be just us tonight, Mom,” she murmured, leaning over to add, “How soon can we get rid of the battle-axes?”
Kushi covered a snort of laughter with her hand. “Be nice. All their daughters are married, so they have nothing better to do than interfere.”
“Hell,” Samira muttered, flashing a grin when the nearest auntie eyed her suspiciously.
The leader of the aunties, a formidable sixty-something woman called Sushma who’d successfully married off her four daughters to a gastroenterologist, an obstetrician, a chemical engineer, and a barrister, respectively, clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
“On behalf of your aunties, Samira, we would like to say how happy we are to have you back in Melbourne, and how we’re willing to do whatever it takes to see you happily married.”
Hell, indeed.
Sushma picked up her teacup and raised it as if it were the finest champagne. “We know pickings can be slim at your age, but if you’re willing to settle, I’m sure we can come to a beneficial arrangement for both parties, all things considered—”
“Mom, something’s burning.” Samira stood abruptly, almost upending her bhondas in the process and not caring. She couldn’t spend one more minute listening to this drivel. “Excuse me, aunties.”
She marched into the kitchen without a backward glance, feeling the judgmental stares boring into her back and ignoring the disgruntled mutterings. Did
n’t these women have anything better to do? And how could her mom let them interfere in her life when she’d effectively turned her back on all this over a decade ago?
It might’ve been fatigue after a long week at work, it might’ve been the residual aftereffects of her falling-out with Rory, or it might’ve been plain old anger at the busybody biddies in the family room, but tears stung her eyes, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.
She heard a door close before a hand landed on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, betee, you know they can be blunt.”
“Rude, more like it,” she muttered, turning to face her mom, who appeared surprised by the sheen in her eyes but wisely didn’t say anything. “How can you stand it?”
Because Samira knew without a doubt if the aunties had confronted her so soon after not seeing her all these years, they must be constantly giving Kushi grief over her unmarried daughter. Happiness in their community consisted of seeing all their children attend university to gain appropriate degrees before being married off to prosperous partners, followed by becoming grandmothers to equally clever grandchildren.
Samira may be a successful physical therapist and had accumulated a healthy nest egg courtesy of her hard work, but without a man to put a ring on her finger, she was equated with failure. These women had lived in Australia for decades; when would they leave the traditions of the past behind and move into the twenty-first century?
“I tolerate them because I worked hard for their acceptance,” Kushi said with a fatalistic shrug. “They belittled me when I married your father, for going against tradition, and I was effectively ostracized.” She gestured toward the closed door leading to the family room. “When he died, they surprisingly rallied around me when I needed them most.”
A hint of accusation hung unsaid in the air. I needed them because you weren’t around.
In that moment, Samira understood. She’d virtually abandoned her mom not long after her dad’s funeral. Not because she couldn’t cope with the sly stares and gossip mongering but because deep down a small part of her still blamed Kushi for the fiasco that had been her marriage. But in hanging on to her resentment, she’d left Kushi alone at a time her mom needed her most. She should be ashamed of herself. She’d been selfish, fleeing back to LA to nurse her own grief, oblivious to her mom’s.