by Vibha Batra
A speculative look comes into Rekha’s eyes as she looks from me to Akshay.
‘Acha, toh I wanted to ask you to join me for a drink. My friends are over there.’ She points to a table in the distance. ‘But, don’t worry, I won’t crash your—’
‘It’s not a date,’ I put in hurriedly.
Two pairs of eyes turn to gawk at me. My cheeks burn.
‘—Party,’ Rekha finishes, looking highly amused.
Oh god, I want to die! I wish I could pull an Ethan Hunt, go crashing into the glass pane, and jump down sixty floors. I don’t dare look at Akshay.
‘Chalo, enjoy your … party,’ Rekha says suggestively, blowing a kiss at Akshay.
‘Want to get out of here?’ Akshay asks me the second she’s out of earshot.
There’s a booty call if I ever heard one!
I look up at him. There’s an indefinable look in his eyes. My heart starts pounding. My BP skyrockets. My blood circulation goes haywire. And I forget that he’s conveniently forgotten about his fiancée, and that I’m supposed to forget him.
I find myself nodding. His eyes glitter in the dark. He bends down and quickly places a bunch of crisp dirhams on the table. I bend down and quickly drain the contents of my glass. His mouth quirks.
‘Why waste a perfectly good drink,’ I say lamely. Great, now he’s going to think I’m a total bewadi.
He grabs my hand and we make a run for the exit. His touch burns through my skin, melting my insides. I’m so excited, every pore of my being is tingling. We reach the elevator and Akshay turns to look at me and I know there will be a Fifty Shades of Grey kind of hot moment…
‘Mr Agarwal, Mr Agarwal!’ Martin comes bounding out of the bar. Bloody, idiotic, no-time-sense-at-all frickin’ Martin.
‘B-b-bad news,’ he pants, clutching his sides. ‘There’s been a robbery!’ He doubles over.
A confused look comes over Akshay’s face.
‘Your store,’ Martin pants. ‘Your brother-in-law, he’s been trying to reach you … but your cell, it’s off.’
Akshay’s expression goes from spaced-out to shell-shocked. He yanks out his cell phone from his trouser pocket and glares at it.
‘No bloody reception!’ He follows it up with a string of colourful words. Then he remembers there’s a lady next to him. His features soften. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Chill, it’s absolutely okay! I cuss like a drunk sailor too—you should see me when I’m stressed out…’ I break off, realizing a tad belatedly that it’s not the time and place.
A ghost of a smile appears on his face. He whips around to face Martin. ‘Call my driver, you’ve got his number, right? He’ll drop Misha to the hotel. I’ll take one of the rentals.’
Martin looks as if he’s about to click his heels and go ‘Sir, yes, sir!’
Akshay rakes a hand through his hair and throws me an apologetic look. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He pauses for a second and then murmurs, ‘I’m so sorry.’
And this once, I know he isn’t apologizing for the cuss words.
The elevator appears on cue and he disappears in it. And so does the happy bubble that’s been enveloping me all this while.
Martin fishes out his cell and jabs out a number.
‘You know what, that won’t be necessary,’ I protest. ‘I’ll just cab it back.’
‘You heard the man,’ Martin says doggedly.
‘I can find my way, I’m a big girl,’ I yelp.
Martin gives me a withering look. ‘What’s the name of your hotel again?’
‘Um, Radisson? Courtyard? Crown?’ I blink at him in confusion. How am I expected to think straight when I’ve been kissed silly by the man of my dreams?
‘Right,’ he says sarcastically before barking into the phone.
Hey, I’ve got the key card with the hotel’s logo on it. So it’s not as if I have to remember the name. I mean, how many of us remember phone numbers now that our phones save them for us?
‘Thanks, Martin.’
He raises quizzical eyes at me as he waits for the call to go through.
‘For giving me the opportunity to come to Dubai—’
‘Don’t thank me, thank Akshay,’ he says, cutting me off.
I frown. ‘Akshay? Why would I thank him?’
‘He’s the one who asked me to get you on the show.’
OHMYYYYGODDD! It was Akshay’s idea? He engineered the whole thing?
Martin continues completely oblivious to the riptide he’s unleashed inside me. ‘Actually, he asked me where you were working, you know, after Bridal Week…’
So that’s how he showed up at the store! Oh. My. God.
Martin drones on but I stop listening. My heart’s doing a total Usain Bolt. I know I’m kind of—oh who am I kidding—completely bonkers about him. Does this mean he feels the same about me? Gosh. I don’t know what to think.
7
‘And then he said sorry,’ I squeal into the phone, my voice screechy with excitement. ‘What do you suppose that meant?’
I’m tucked into the comfy hotel bed. It’s midnight but sleep is far, far away. My body’s still on Akshay time. And who can blame it?
‘Sorry I couldn’t paw you in the elevator? Sorry I couldn’t dance the naked dance of lust with you? What?’
There’s silence at the other end. It’s not very helpful. I’ve recounted the events of the evening to Poulomi and not a peep out of her. I don’t know why I called her. Because WhatsApp calls are free, I remind myself.
I stare at the phone screen. I’m still connected. ‘Poul, you there?’
‘WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, MISHA?’
I wince and hold the phone away from my ear.
‘I just…’
‘Just listen to me, Missy! The guy’s engaged! Repeat after me! ENGAGED!’
‘ENGAGED,’ I say in a small voice.
‘He’s also rich and spoilt and arrogant.’
That’s so not true. Akshay’s grounded and charming and considerate.
‘God knows how many women he’s led down the garden path! Mr Moneybags thinks he can buy your affections! He thinks he can zip you off to a desert and have his wicked way with you!’
I open my mouth to protest, but technically, Dubai is a desert.
‘How dare he?’ Poulomi rages on. ‘Does he think he’ll snap his fingers and women will go running—’
‘He doesn’t even need to click his fingers,’ I cut in. ‘You should see the way women throw themselves at him, poor thing.’
‘Are you listening to yourself, Mish! Can’t you see the pattern? This has disaster written all over it. Do you really want to go there? Do you want to give your heart to another emotionally unavailable guy and get it trampled upon? Do you want to feel used and abandoned all over again?’
‘No, but…’
‘Remember what you told me after that Rahul incident? That the next time you act so pathetic, I should slap the shit out of you. Well, this is me bitchslapping you over the phone.’
I cringe as she thwacks her phone in quick succession.
‘But this is different,’ I whine.
‘How the fuck is this different? HOW? Because Akshay’s hotter?’
Wayyy hotter.
‘Yes, but, there’s more! He’s makes me laugh, he makes me think, and he makes me feel soooo good about myself.’
‘How good will you feel when he ditches your sorry ass for his fiancée? When he casts you aside like a disposable paper plate? When he tosses you away like a crumpled paper napkin?’
My face crumples.
Then an idea strikes me and I sit up straight. ‘Maybe I should ask him what exactly he’s playing at when he calls me.’
‘Or maybe, you should do yourself a huge favour and FORGET about him!’
Then her voice softens. ‘Listen to me, Mish, I love you. I don’t want you to get hurt. I can’t bear to see you DDGGMM again.’
As in, DullDepressedGlumGloomyMoroseMopey.
‘Yo
u deserve better, Mish. You deserve a guy who loves you and only you. Tell you what, try Sammy’s visualisation technique? See yourself turning your nose up at him, picture yourself giving him cold stares, visualise yourself dashing his hopes.’
‘I don’t know, Poul…’
‘At least try. You’ll do that for me, promise?’
She may sound KKK—KhoonkharKhatarnakKhadoos—but Poulomi does have my best interests at heart. I let out a sigh. ‘I promise.’
I hang up and close my eyes. I imagine myself at the bar, sitting across Akshay. He offers me a flute of champagne. I pretend to smother a yawn. See, I can be bitchy when the occasion demands it. He presses it into my hands. I spring up and fling the drink in his face. Wow, this stuff actually works. I pat myself on the back and continue. I toss him a withering look. His face crumples. He looks like a sad puppy. Sad wet puppy. I push the offending table out of the way, grab him by his collar, and proceed to lick the champagne off his face.
So much for Sammy’s visualisation technique.
I glance at the clock on the bedside and wonder why he hasn’t called me. I know he’s busy doing some heavy duty troubleshooting, but still. I stare and stare at the cell for what seems like an eternity, but you can’t hypnotise a phone into ringing. Or a guy into calling, for that matter.
Next evening, I’m putting my brushes away, when Akshay accosts me backstage. After neglecting to call me last night and all day, he’s finally here. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to take Poulomi’s advice. I’m going to freeze his balls with Arctic vibes. I’m going to…
‘Hi,’ he says, giving me one of those panty-ripping smiles.
I do a quick 180° turn and start packing my kit.
‘Misha?’
‘Akshay,’ I say in a diva-esque voice.
‘The show went okay?’
‘Jhakaas.’ I feel like a jack-arse the moment the word leaves my lips.
‘You look awfully cross for someone whose show was jhakaas.’
‘You look awfully cheerful for someone whose jewellery store’s been robbed,’ I retort.
His mouth twists. ‘The problem is under control. Thanks for asking.’
I flush and continue tossing tubes and jars inside my kit.
‘Is something wrong, Misha?’
‘Nu-uh.’
Du-uh! You kissed me and cast me aside like a wet wipe—or was that a paper plate—and didn’t bother to call me.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ I say breezily.
‘Is it because of last evening? I’m sorry I had to leave like that. So I’ll see you at the party tonight?’
‘No!’ I blurt out.
A bewildered look comes on his face. ‘Why not, Misha?’
‘Because it’s not a party, it’s a masked frickin’ ball. Because until a few minutes ago, no one had bothered to tell me that. And because I don’t have anything to wear!’
Akshay’s eyes dance with ill-concealed mirth. ‘That’s easily fixed,’ he says reassuringly.
‘Some things can never be fixed,’ I pronounce sagely, snapping my kit shut and brushing past him.
‘Misha! Wait!’
I march away without a backward glance. Poulomi would crown me Bitchy Pants Number One, I bet, but I feel like a run-over kitten.
Thanks to the crazy traffic, it takes me an hour to get back to the hotel. I’m starving. But first things first. I call Mom, but her cell is off. I call Dad and Nitin next. Then I hit the minibar. I pull out a miniature bottle of Bacardi, and pour the contents down my throat. Then I pluck the make-up remover (M.A.C.’s Gently Off) out of my vanity case and troop to the washroom. I’ve barely done one side of my face, when the doorbell rings.
I hurry towards the door, wondering how nice it’d be if room service operated on telepathy. I yank it open and my jaw drops. It’s the same guy who’d dropped me home last night. Akshay’s driver. He has a big smile on his face and a big brown paper bag in his hands. The words Roberto Cavalli leap at me.
‘Sir sent this for you.’
For a second, I flatline. Then my brain sparks with agitation. Poulomi’s right, Akshay does think he can buy my affections.
‘You can tell Sir to stuff it up his ass!’
His eyes pop out of his face. ‘Madam!’
I instantly feel sorry for him. Not his fault that his employer’s a Heartless Hunk.
‘I’m saying you can take this back to Sir,’ I say calmly.
I’ve half a mind to slam the door in his face, but a look of pure horror comes into his eyes.
‘Fine, I’ll take it back to him myself.’ I grab my hand bag and march out of the room, bristling with righteous indignation.
The car draws up at the Burj Al Arab. I stare up at the iconic sail-shaped hotel in awe. Instinctively, I point my phone at it. The driver hands me a key card for the elevator and mumbles the room number. That reminds me, I’m not here on a sight frickin’ seeing tour. I go over my little speech as I ride up the elevator. It stops on Akshay’s floor and I stomp all the way to the room. I place my elbow on the bell and refuse to take it off.
Tring! Tring! Tring!
‘COMING!’ He sounds irritated and I feel a purely perverse sense of satisfaction.
The door opens and he sticks his head out. His face is wet and water’s dripping from his hair.
‘Misha?’ His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ He pauses. ‘What’s that … on your face?’
Crap! I must look deranged in my half heavily made-up, half scrubbed clean face.
‘Can—’My voice sounds squeaky, so I clear my throat and try again. ‘Can we talk?’
‘What, now?’
‘No, on Christmas. Of course, NOW!’ I burst out. I’ve half a mind to wedge my foot in the door, like they do in movies.
‘Fine, have it your way,’ he says with a flourish. He steps back and holds the door open. ‘Let’s talk.’
I bustle in, whirl around to face him, and regret my decision instantly. God, he looks like a Adhnanga Adonis. He’s clad in a sab-kuch-dikhta-hai type white towel, which does little to cover his ample assets. His arms are glistening, his chest is gleaming and his flat belly looks positively luminous. My eyes trail lower and a big … paper bag comes into view. I snap out of the trance.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ I ask flinging the bag aside.
He casts me an incredulous look. ‘You dragged me out of the shower to discuss this?’
I place my hands on my hips.
‘It’s a dress, Misha.’
‘I know what it is. Why did you send it to me, Akshay?’
‘You did say you didn’t have anything to wear.’
I narrow my eyes.
He flashes me a wolfish grin. ‘Got your answer? Can I go now?’ He points to his bare, bare and broad, bare and broad and beautiful chest.
Focus, Misha, focus. ‘Not so fast,’ I say breathlessly.
‘What do you want me to say, Misha?’ he says, plonking down on the bed, his brows knitting in bewilderment.
It’s so distracting. Akshay on the big bouncy bed. It conjures up violently vulgar images in my head. Me on Akshay on the bouncy bed.
Akshay’s voice breaks into my unholy thoughts. ‘I felt like a heel leaving you there last evening. I felt so stupid and guilty.’
Guilty, aha!
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because I wanted to be with you, Misha. I wanted to bring you back to my room. I wanted to finish what I’d started. I thought—’
My heart gets on a trampoline and starts, what else, bouncing.
‘You thought you could zip me off to the desert and have your wicked way with me?’ I interject hysterically.
It’s like I’ve been possessed by Poulomi’s aatma.
A devilish gleam comes into his eyes. ‘I got the impression that you wanted me to have my wicked way with you.’
I so did. Till he pulled the damn dress stunt.
�
�You think you can buy me, Akshay?’ I cry out, my chest heaving in indignation.
The mischief vanishes from his eyes and he looks like I’ve punched him in those slither worthy washboard-y abs. ‘It’s just a damn dress, Misha,’ he bites out, his expression affronted. ‘Had I known you’d react like this…’ he trails off, shaking his head. ‘How can you even say such a thing? Throw it away, for all I care, but…’
‘Oh, I’ll do better than that,’ I say impulsively, reaching inside my bag. ‘I’ll compensate you for it…’ I raise my eyebrows and do the ‘How much’ gesture with my thumb and index finger.
‘Two thousand dollars.’
‘… in instalments,’ I improvise, pulling my hand out of the bag. ‘By December, I think, you’ll have the full amount,’ I say in my most dignified voice. ‘Cash okay, I hope?’
He thrusts a hand in his hair before throwing it up in exasperation. ‘What’s wrong with you!’
‘What’s wrong with you? How many women have you led down the garden path? I pity your poor fiancée—’
‘My what?’ The speed with which he jumps up, I’m worried about the precariously low hanging towel. I mean, he could easily go from Adhnanga Adonis to Michaelangelo’s Full Nanga David.
‘Thought you could keep me in the dark? Hah! I know all about you and your, your little phuljadi.’
He strides across the room and the next thing I know, he’s right in front of me. He smells so soap-y and shampoo-y and Akshay-y. He places his hands on my shoulders, tips my chin up, and fastens his mouth on mine.
My eyelids droop. Mmmmm. He tastes as good as he smells, as good as he looks. What the hell am I doing? I bite his lower lip and push at his chest with all my might. He yelps and lets go.
‘You didn’t come to the store to buy cosmetics for your niece!’ I say accusingly.
‘Nope,’ he admits.
‘See, I knew it!’ I say triumphantly. ‘And you asked Martin to call me to Dubai only so that…’ I trail off helplessly.
‘Right,’ Akshay says insouciantly.
‘Don’t you care about your fiancée?’ I cry out.
‘Not one bit—’
‘You’re such a jerk!’
‘—considering I’m not engaged.’