Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (17 page)

That evening Dad and I sit with our feet stretched on the coffee table in the living room. I tell him I had a great day with Rani. He seems pleased. “So are you two getting married?” I ask to get his take on it.

He thinks for a moment. “We are dating,” he says. “I like her. We haven’t talked marriage.”

The large windows look out over the ocean. The sun slowly inches toward the horizon. I will miss these sunsets. Some days you can even feel the fine mist in this room.

We have our photo shoot outfits. I wish the rest of this will be as easy. I can tell Dad is jumpy about tomorrow’s interview with
Film World
too. It’s going to be at a brand-new hotel near the airport. The editor feels it will make a great setting for the pictures. “What do you think she’ll want to know?” I ask Dad.

“She’ll probably want to know a few things about you. She’ll ask about your experience being in India and our relationship, I think.” Dad rubs his chin. I’ve noticed he does that when he’s stressed.

“I really don’t know though,” Dad mumbles.

“What if she asks why Mom didn’t tell you sooner?” My voice is soft as I struggle to keep the fear out of my voice.

Dad rubs his chin again. “Abby, if she asks those types of questions, leave them to me. Don’t answer anything you don’t want to. In fact, I would prefer that you don’t tackle those types of issues. It is her job to dig for a sensational story that can sell magazines. I know how to deal with that. Remember, my staff has vetted her. They think she’ll be soft on me because we have been friends and she needs the magazine sales that a breaking story with me on the cover will bring.”

I nod, relieved.

We stare at the rhythm of the waves. The crimson sun finally dips under the water. I can imagine the fish under the sea saying, “Hey, sun, you’re home.”

Grandma Tara is saying her evening prayers in the next room. She rings her small silver bell and I go and sit by her. She’s lit jasmine incense sticks as she does each evening. With a twinkle in her eye, she tells me, “I ring the bell to make sure God is awake and listening to me.”

Then she closes her eyes and prays, her hands together in a namaste. A few minutes later, she looks at me and says, “I pray for you both. Krishna will take care of you.”

Dad yells out from other room, “Is that a promise?”

I go back to the living room and Grandma Tara shuffles off to her room. She returns moments later with a tiny box in her hands that she hands to me. “Abby, these were mine when I was a girl. I want you to wear them tomorrow and maybe to the premiere and to keep them if you like them.”

Overwhelmed, I stare at the little box in my hand. “Open it, Abby.” Dad nudges me.

I open the box. On a bed of royal blue velvet lie the most beautiful tiny drop pearl earrings. My gut feels happy. Grandma Tara wants to give me heirloom earrings!

“If you don’t like them, I will buy you something new that you like,” Grandma Tara hurriedly says.

I’m dumbstruck. “No, no. Wow! Grandma Tara, I’ll wear them tomorrow, but I can’t keep them. They’re too beautiful.” “I insist,” says Grandma Tara. “I have to pass them down

to the next generation. And you are my granddaughter.” Grandma Tara sees me as the next generation. Granted

Dad isn’t married and doesn’t have other kids, but he will for sure. She truly considers me her own. Someone to protect her legacy.

I give her a tight hug. “One day, I will pass them on too.” Dad has been a silent smiling spectator. Now he says,

“Abby, don’t lose them or she’ll be hopping mad.”

Horrified, I look at them both. “I would never, ever, ever lose them.”

Then I realize that Dad is joking! Somehow, we all feel better.

Dad stretches. “Okay, Abby. I have to get back to work.”

I go to my bedroom, lay out my outfit on the bed, take a picture, and post it.

Check it out!
I write. I get a bunch of likes in minutes.

The next morning, Thomas and Salima prep me for the interview as we drive to the hotel. Dad will meet us there.

Salima asks, “Are you nervous? Don’t be.” Easy for her to say.

Thomas hands me a list of dos and don’ts. Seriously? If

this list is supposed to help and make me calm, it doesn’t. Then they go over the list with me.

Greet her with a namaste. Okay.

Think before I answer anything. Don’t answer anything you don’t want to. Could I run?

Don’t volunteer extra information about your mom. Not likely to.

Pretend it’s not a big deal. Really?

Don’t say anything negative about India. As if I would!

Don’t let your guard down and chat. Maya is good at making you feel like she’s your best friend. Got it.

Do not say anything that suggests that you didn’t know Naveen Kumar is your dad and a Bollywood star until recently. OMG!

Thomas’s parting shot is “Don’t let your dad down.” I so didn’t need that reminder.

My hands are clammy. We’re almost there.

The hotel looms like a massive red stone fort transported from another time and place. The car pulls into the entrance. Red turbaned and uniformed security guards and hotel doormen leap to attention. The metal detectors at the entrance remind each person who walks in of the real threat of terrorism.

Dad arrives from the studio and meets me in the grand foyer.

The editor of
Film World
, Maya, sees us and waves. She wears a printed yellow cotton sari. Her black-rimmed glasses are perched on her head, the beaded strings dangle on either side of her face.

Dad and Maya shake hands. Then he introduces us. “Abby, meet Maya, an old friend from my television days.”

“Naveen, I couldn’t be more thrilled that you chose us to tell your story. Really. Especially with your new film, your first home production about to premiere. You must be so excited.” She squeezes Dad’s arm. She turns to me and says, “And you look gorgeous.”

Then she gets down to business. “The lavender color of Abby’s kurta will look stunning out in the courtyard. Naveen, we have some shirts laid out for you to choose from.”

We step outside into the courtyard with the lattice wall with lush bougainvilleas and mosaic fountain gently spilling water. A photographer, his assistant, Dad’s makeup and hair people, and Salima are already out there.

Salima whisks me away to hair and makeup. Ooh la la!

I’m in the land of glamour. I hum to myself as the hair stylist puts goop in my hair and sculpts it into beauty. Could this be any more different from school pictures with the mandatory marble blue-gray background and kids trying to cover their zits and tuck down their hair?

A small voice in my head asks,
But is this world real or fake?

I touch my earrings from Grandma Tara, reassuring myself that they are real.

Chapter 21

Simon says look to your right.

Simon says chin up. Eyes down. Smile. Tilt toward Naveen. I’m a smiling robot.

Thank goodness Dad is there. He’s done hundreds of photo sessions.

He’s a goofball and teases me until I relax and almost forget that we’re posing for pictures. Dad even hoists me onto his shoulders. An hour later we’re done. Maya says she’ll go through the pictures and choose some for Dad’s final approval.

“I’d like a picture for my desk,” he says.

Woo-hoo! I’m out of the closet and on his desk. I borrow Dad’s cell phone and call Shaan. “The photo shoot was all right and crazy and fun and weird,” I tell him.

“Do I get a picture? Of you?”

I blush, glad the conversation is on the phone and he can’t see me.

“Sure,” I say, trying to act as if cute boys ask me for my picture every day.

“What’s next?” he asks.

Huh? Oh! I’m still thinking about Shaan wanting my picture. “The awful interview,” I manage to say. “It feels worse

than ten biology tests.”

Dad, Maya, and I hunker down in one of the hotel’s suites for the interview. An array of pastries and sandwiches sit on the table between us. You’d think it was a party.

Maya sits across from us. The sides are drawn.

She turns on her recorder and places it on the table. The red light blinks at us. My face feels flushed.

“Uh-oh!” says Dad trying to diffuse my nerves. “She’s in reporter mode now.”

Maya laughs and waves away Dad’s comment. “Naveen, tell me about your years as a student in America. You’ve never talked of that time in your life to the press. What were they like? You obviously made some good friends.” Maya’s last comment has an edge as she stresses “good friends.”

I reach for a piece of chocolate cake and a fork to give my hands something to do.

“They were carefree years. I was eighteen when I went abroad,

a child.” Dad leans back and sips his coffee. “I attended university in Dallas. It was a great campus. I’d never met so many different people. I soaked it in. Meredith and I met in my marketing class. I got to know and love America through my friends.”

“You and Meredith were obviously good friends. Were there other good friends?” Maya’s innuendos are making me want to slug her. Instead, I stab my cake.

“Tell us more about Meredith,” Maya says.

I can tell that Dad isn’t happy by the way he tightens his jaw, but he doesn’t let it show. In a calm voice he says, “Meredith is the mother of my child and a wonderful person. But she is a private person, not a celebrity. She deserves her privacy.”

Maya looks taken aback. Go, Dad!

“When did you return to India?” Maya asks.

“I had such a good time that it took me five years to graduate. Back then, I dreamt of being a news anchor and I knew it was time to come home.”

“What was your first job after you came back?”

“I got a job as a junior reporter in the news department in Delhi and moved there. You were a reporter too. Isn’t that when we met? We were all broke and worked round the clock.” He laughs. “I remember an invitation to your parents’ house for dinner being a special treat.”

Maya stretches and turns off the recorder and gets up to pour some tea. They laugh and reminisce about their time in Delhi. Dad’s let down his guard and his feet are up on the coffee table. I lick the last smears of chocolate off my fork.

Maya returns and discreetly turns the recorder on again. “Why have your fans not been introduced to Abby

before? Where have you been hiding Abby?”

If you were a fish swimming along a lazy river, the question would a metal hook coming out of nowhere.

He didn’t know I existed. How could he introduce me to his fans? I open my mouth and Dad shoots me a look that says
I’ll handle this
.

“Abby…” he stops. “I,” he starts over, “I wanted to let Abby have as normal a childhood as possible. I did not want the media involved in her life.”

I gulp. He didn’t tell the truth.

Dad rubs his chin. “I don’t think the harsh glare of the media is appropriate for a child. Her mother raised Abby in Houston. It was easier for her to have a normal childhood.”

Maya smiles. “Great decision. I wondered for a moment if you only recently met each other. Silly me!”

Each pore on my skin crawls. I set my plate on the table.

“Abby and I feel like we have been together forever,” he says, looking at me.

Dad does not outright lie about how involved he’s been in my life, but he answers the questions in a way that it seems like he’s known me forever.

If he tells Maya that he didn’t know about me until a few weeks ago, she’d ask why. Then she’d asked why Mom hid the fact from Dad and it would open a basket of drowsy snakes.

“We know each other better than many dads and daughters who live in the same house. And now that Abby’s older, she plans to visit Mumbai often.”

At that moment, I’m so glad I had the allergic reaction to coconut and it brought me to Mumbai.

“Does your mom plan to visit too?” Maya asks me. “She’d love to visit India,” I say truthfully.

“Abby, what was it like for you to not always have your dad around? Did you miss him?”

I latch onto the last part. I can answer that honestly. I’m terrified of lying and falling into a sinkhole of more lies.

“I always miss him when he isn’t around.” “Have you met Rani?” Maya persists.