It would be folly to share birthday photos with the makeup girls, bilkul stupid to trade tales of school uniforms and tiffin. Such talk was forbidden. Impossible. And how could she connect with anyone when she couldn’t share the purest part of herself?
Each day, she rebuilt the wall around her heart, fortified the stronghold brick by brick. But there were cracks in the façade, weaknesses in the foundation and vulnerabilities with precious names and beautiful faces. And, if she dared allow herself to admit to it, there was also her greatest weakness…with a proud, fierce, look and a body that felt like hot silk under her palms. Rahul. Always Rahul.
Damn him. Damn him for taking what had once been memory and making it the here and now. When she was at last tucked into bed, Priya rolled to her side, cradling her body pillow against her chest like a lover. How many nights had a kol balish taken the place of real, human warmth? She couldn’t give proper count. Too many. Not that she and Rahul had really slept those few precious times they’d been together. But, sometimes, she’d imagined being cocooned in his arms the whole night through. Sometimes she still allowed herself the foolish fantasy…the fantasy she could so easily have brought to life in Premnagar. If only she hadn’t thrust him away, pushed him from her bedroom, her hotel suite, her entire world. He would have held her all night.
The boy was so handsome. No, not a boy…he was already a man, with a beard shadowing his cheeks and the wide shoulders of a footballer. “Hi, I’m Rahul.” He gave her the quick flash of a confident smile, along with his hand for a shake.
“I’m Priya,” was what she meant to say, but when their fingers brushed, the words became stuck in her throat, twisted in a gasp as literal sparks flew between them.
“Wow.” He laughed, pulling his hand back and making a show of checking his fingertips for burns. “You’re dangerous, Miss Pree. Take care that our film reels don’t catch fire.”
“Boka,” she whispered in Bengali. Stupid. She was endlessly idiotic for holding on to the childish ideals of a Priya who no longer existed…and to the memory of a Rahul who’d never been real at all.
Chapter Three
“Excuse me, I’m…”
Lost. She knew how these sentences always ended. Of course, the poor bastard was lost. Sunny frowned at the man who’d interrupted her quiet—and rather liquid—lunch. He wore khaki pants, a loose-fitting linen shirt, and those terribly ugly Birkenstock sandals. That was never a good sign.
“I know what you are,” she dismissed, gaze fixed on her BlackBerry once more. “You’re one of those hippie types who comes to India just to smoke ganja. My ex-husband smoked ganja.” Along with anything else he could get his hands on. “I know the type. So, just turn round, find a taxi to take you to Goa and leave me in peace.”
When it was clear that the hippie had no intention of moving, she glanced upward once more. Seriously, yaar, why did they even let people like this walk around Versova instead of shipping them to the opium dens in bulk? And he was smiling—in that tight, British way that didn’t involve teeth. How he spoke through the crookedly formed wall, she couldn’t even begin to guess. That, too, was an English talent. “I’m afraid you have it all wrong, Ms. Khanna. I’m your lunch meeting. Davey Shaw. Your new producer.”
“What?” She blinked. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. “I’m meeting Devi Shah at twelve. I have it right here.” She called up her address book—Jai had taken great pains to teach her how—and waved the appointment at him.
“Then I’m afraid your secretary scheduled it incorrectly. It’s Davey, short for Davin, and Shaw, like George Bernard.” He helped himself to the empty white wicker chair across from her, keeping the strap of a leather briefcase securely looped across his chest as he made himself otherwise quite comfortable at the café’s small table. “Happens all the time since I’ve been in India. Honest mistake.”
“That’s what all the British invaders say,” she muttered before she could think better of it.
This Davey like-George-Bernard Shaw took immediate offense, his flinty, blue eyes sparking. “I’m Welsh on my mother’s side and Irish on my father’s. I’m a colonizee, not a colonizer. Same as you.”
She was a divorced desi woman of thirty-three with a gay, recovering-addict ex-husband and a teenage son who had entirely too much material for a tell-all book. “You are definitely not the same as me, Mr. Shaw,” she assured, realizing just how easy it was to speak through clenched teeth. “And I don’t need a new producer.”
“Obviously the network feels differently. They thought I could bring a more global feel to the program.”
She knew the international ratings were constantly fluctuating, but Sunny made a habit of never listening to the network boys. If she hadn’t taken a stand against them, her last season would’ve become another Sa Re Ga Ma Pa music competition show with a panel of judges all jockeying for attention. This, surely, was their revenge. This. Him. Tall and patrician, with that sharp, aristocratic nose and fierce, hooded eyes. He was as far from Sam as one could imagine. Her short, ill-tempered, haram kohr of an ex…nearly fifteen years they’d been split up, and still she judged every man by that standard. Boys were different: lovable and kind and teachable. Men, she’d learned the hard way, could not be changed. Just tolerated. She’d tolerate Davey Shaw if she had to.
Sunita Khanna was even more magnificent in person. Not pretty, not beautiful—her features were too broad, the thick slashes of her eyebrows and her mouth too bold—but simply arresting. Her dark eyes snapped with life, her husky voice made even scorn sound sexy. Even her hair was wild, a riotous mass of curls barely tamed by the enormous green sunglasses atop her head. He couldn’t look away, not even to peruse the menu or hail the harried waitress flitting about the outdoor restaurant. It was like watching a four-act play made flesh. This…this was why viewers didn’t turn the channel. His old mate Rahul had been right: she was the perfect match for him, the job he’d been looking for since leaving his post at BBC 3.
He grinned, which only seemed to incense her more. It was like watching a fire being stoked. “What?” she demanded. “What are you looking at, you angrezi ulloo ka patta?”
An English son of an owl, was he? His mother would be so proud to hear that. Davey leaned back in his chair, gesturing for the waiter and taking his sweet time before giving her a reply. When she was fairly twitching in her seat, vibrating with annoyance and ready to repeat her question as though he hadn’t heard it the first time, he finally let her off the hook. “Hummara aanewala kal,” he said in flawless Hindi. “I’m looking at our future.”
To her credit, she didn’t even flinch. The only thing that betrayed her surprise was a slight shake of her hand when she reached for her drink. She took a sip of her mimosa and shrugged. “So you can speak Hindi. So what? Do you want a medal? I still think you’re a hippie and an ulloo.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help himself, throwing his head back and letting the mirth wash over him. God, she really was quite something. “I’m an owl, and you’re a bitch,” he said when he’d got himself under control. “I think we’ll get on very well.”
The glare she gave him was delicious. “Haan, and Hell is freezing this time of year.” She laid her palms flat on the table…in a way that made him wonder what they would feel like pressed against his chest. The idea made him faintly dizzy and most definitely hard. “I don’t plan to get on with you in any way, shape or form,” she was spitting like an angry cat. “I will conduct my show as I see fit.”
When the waiter appeared—an enterprising young lad who clearly recognized Sunny but wisely feared her—Davey ordered a Glenfiddich, neat. Then he told her succinctly, “No, you won’t. In fact, I have a few ideas for the season premiere.”
“Oh, really?” She arched a theatrical brow.
It was his turn to be surprised when she curbed all of that vibrant attitude and actually listened to him. He’d come up with several clip packages and on-the-street components, and as he explained the ins an
d outs, she nodded along, tapping her sculpted red nails in time to a staccato internal rhythm. It was when he got to his suggestions for guests that she hopped off board, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp and slamming the delicate champagne glass back down.
“You’ve got to be bloody joking, Mr. Davey Shaw. Rahul Anand and Priya Roy will never appear on my show together. I’d have a better chance of raising Raj Kapoor’s ghost.”
He smiled—this woman made him want to constantly smile; he could bounce around all of Mumbai like a bloody grinning idiot. “Then I suggest you get out your Ouija board and start contacting the spirits, Ms. Sunita Khanna. Because it’s going to happen. One way or another.”
And, one way or another, he was going to get Sunny Khanna into his bed.
Chapter Four
Two item girl roles and one spicy anti-heroine role. Wow. Priya couldn’t help but look at her upcoming calendar with wonder. Red circles around dates, pencil marks of the times, all for shootings. It looked like a sports playbook when, not so long ago, before The Raj, it had been a blank desert. Signing three pictures after so many years away from the industry was providence. They were blessings she hadn’t worked for but would accept just the same…all while leaving her biggest blessing of all behind in Kolkata.
“You cannot take her with you,” her father had reminded her, his wise dark eyes as kind as they were damning. As if she did not know. As if she didn’t feel that basic denial every moment of her life. “How could you explain? What would everyone say?”
What they always said: “Your baby sister is so pretty.”
Na, Shonali, Shona—her golden child—was beautiful.
“She has grown three centimeters since you left.” Didi liked to tease, and though Priya knew Anita wasn’t serious, each video chat session was spent silently measuring and cataloguing. Had she grown? Was she a little rounder, a little softer?
“Prithu Didi, tumi kothai? Where are you?” Shona constantly asked. “Big sister” from her lips, too. Not ma. Never ma. Five years old, the very picture of a perfect doll—with a less-than-perfect temper—Shona didn’t quite understand what Priya was doing so far away. Couldn’t she be a heroine closer to home? It was a question her parents had asked her as well: Why not make a name for herself in Bengali cinema instead of returning to Mumbai? Why not try her hand at theater? There were countless options in Kolkata that would keep her close to her family. She had no answer, only the certainty that she needed to finish the journey she’d started on. It wasn’t just about acting, just about being in a movie. It was the whole package. Shob kichu. She needed to finish her transformation into a Bollywood heroine…to prove to herself that the rave reviews from her first picture weren’t a fluke. She could do this. It was the only thing she could embrace in full view of the world.
The persona sometimes threatened to slip, and Priya held it tight with both hands. In the bosom of Bollywood, she wasn’t a daughter, a sister or a mother. She was a star. This was what she told herself even as she ended the Skype sessions that tied her back to all of those roles. None more important than that of Shona’s mom…even if she couldn’t give the part that name. I miss you, she constantly told her. Love you so much. But the one thing she hadn’t said—what she could never say— was, “I’ve seen your baba.”
Anita knew, of course. She knew, and only asked when Shonali wasn’t in the room, when their parents weren’t close enough to overhear. How is he looking? Is he still handsome? Are you still mad for him? But to Shona, her father was a photo, a story, a myth. Not someone who’d ever been real. It was a lesson Priya learned by heart before adapting a fairy story for her little one. Shona’s true parents had left her beneath a magical tree in the mountains, Priya told her, and Garuda, Vishnu’s winged guard himself, had brought her to their family for safe keeping. Shona was happier not knowing what Priya knew, not understanding what they had lost. She had her adoptive mother and father, her dear Anita Didi. What did she need some arrogant Mumbai producer for, na?
Priya did not need him either. That she could still feel the phantom of his hands on her body was of no consequence. That she still dreamed of him didn’t matter. The only love affair she dared enter into was with Mumbai…and with success.
“He’s still handsome,” she told Didi, cradling her mobile between her ear and her shoulder as she marked out another appointment on her calendar. “But I’m not still mad for him. I’ll never be mad for him again.”
Sunita commanded the spotlight like an operatic diva. Multiple cameras captured her in brash, living color, and her face taking up all the monitors in the booth was no hardship to bear. Davey was positively enthralled. As was Avinash Kumar, who was sprawled on the sofa, one arm thrown casually across the back.
“…and we just wrapped our shoot for The Raj a few months back,” he was saying, eyes trained on Sunny’s face instead of acknowledging the lens. “I think you’re really going to like it. It’s got a great scope and a fantastic love story. For us boys, thoda dhishum-dhishum bhi hai. There is action, too.”
From what little Rahul had told him about the shoot, Davey knew most of the action had been off-camera. But there was not a drop of that scandal permeating this interview. Sunny allowed herself to be charmed by Avinash’s pitch, and charmed him in return. They bantered like old pros.
“I’ve heard that The Raj takes many liberties with Indian history. What will you say to critics?” Sunny posed the query like a yaar, not an inquisitor.
Avi didn’t look remotely ruffled. No, in fact, he looked rueful. “We have a Beatles item number, Sunny-ji. Anyone looking for accuracy should just toss it out the window and settle in for some drama instead. You will laugh, you will cry, and you will care. Bas. That is our job. Not to be history professors.”
“And how is your wife, Trishna, doing?”
“She’s married to me, na? So, bahut bura. Very bad. Her hair’s gone gray. In her next film, she will be playing the dadima instead of the heroine.”
On cue, an outraged shriek that would’ve made Miss Piggy proud echoed from stage right. Trishna Chaudhury swept onto the set in a flurry of bright silk, eyes flashing with mock insult as Sunny rocked back with laughter.
“Raj chhoro,” she cracked. “Rani aagayee hain.” Forget the kingdom, the queen has arrived.
It was a perfect segment. Full of jokes and noise and manufactured drama…and Trish wasn’t the queen, Sunita was. She effortlessly navigated Trishna and Avinash through a naughty Q&A, taking care not to delve too deeply into their personal life—she was their gossipy friend, not their enemy—and only the trained eye would know that the couple was clearly putting on a show. That they loved each other was obvious…you couldn’t fake that sort of fondness…but something was missing. They sat a few centimeters shy of close; they teased each other like siblings, not spouses. Any other host might remark upon it, might cajole Trish into perching on her husband’s lap, but Sunita just barreled on with her questions like a vivacious freight train, until even the cameramen were chuckling.
“Dial it back a little,” Davey murmured into her earpiece. “You’re overshadowing your guests. Remember, darling, their egos are fragile.”
Ever the professional, she didn’t even bat an eyelash. She drew back verbally, letting Avinash launch into a story of how Harsh Mathur dared him to streak across their hotel in the buff. “I said I’d do it only if he did, too. Let me tell you…there’s nothing that bonds a dosti like running about in your altogether. Harsh and I meet up every week here in Mumbai—clothed, of course.”
“It was horrifying,” giggled Trish, in a way that meant the stunt (whether real or fabricated on the spot) hadn’t been horrifying at all. “We had to pay for all the hotel guests’ eye surgeries afterwards.”
With the focus back on the actors and their film, it was safe to wind up, and Sunita did that, urging her viewers to check out The Raj next year and bill Avinash and Trishna for their eye problems afterwards.
After they counted down
to the break and cut the feed, Davey made his way down from the booth. The air was fairly crackling with the energy of a good show—a more-than-satisfactory season premiere. But it wasn’t success that put fire in Sunny’s eyes. As he approached, she broke off chatting with Trishna and Avi to turn and glare at him. “I am not your darling. Mr. Shaw.”
Oh, yes, you are. It was something he didn’t have to speak aloud, just convey with the smug quirk of an eyebrow. He couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. Even as he shook hands with the talent and introduced himself. It only fueled Sunita’s irritation. With every passing moment, he could see her temper flare just a bit more. She waited twenty minutes—until they were alone, safely ensconced in his office—to let it truly burn.
“I don’t like your tone,” she snapped, hands on her hips like a fishwife just getting good and riled. “I didn’t work my way up to this place, to this status, to have some…some man…talk to me the way you do.”
He settled behind his desk, offering her a guileless blink. “I gather you don’t like being called ‘darling?’ I call everyone ‘darling’, Sunita. It’s hardly a case for harassment when I use the term for my driver, my secretary—who is male, thank you very much—and my star. But if you like, I can switch to something else. Sweetheart? Old thing? Love? Jaan-e-maan?”
She compressed her lips into a fine line, and he could practically see the steam coming out her perfectly adorable ears. It was entirely possible that she was going to exceed Trishna’s Miss Piggy-inspired outrage and karate kick him about his office. God, he hoped she’d try. “I can play this game, too,” she said, the clipped words dripping with annoyance. “How about bastard? Or haram kohr? Or kutey ki aulad?”
“I thought we’d already established I was the son of an owl. Now I’m the child of a dog, too? Come now, Rani Sahiba,” he chided. “Consistency is key.”
Spice and Secrets Page 2