Busted in Bollywood (26 page)

“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 Star
s 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?

Not that he’d said the L-word or anything remotely like it, but we’d been spending all our free time together and I’d never felt so comfortable with a guy.

I loved him. Wish I knew if he returned the sentiment. Not that it should matter. He’d be jetting back to Mumbai tomorrow. End of story.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He quirked a brow at my snarky tone. “Exactly that. Some relationships start out grand love affairs and end up a war zone.”

“Personal experience?”

He shrugged, the action annoying me as much as his studied nonchalance. “More an observation.”

“So now you’re an anthropologist?” I abhorred the latent insecurity making me do this. “As well as jet-setting tycoon, moviemaker, IT specialist, and the rest.”

“What’s with the attitude?” He frowned and laid a steadying hand on my shoulder. “Is this about me leaving tomorrow?”

He’d honed in on the motivation behind my unexpected irritability, and that riled me further. He knew me so well in such a short space of time, we connected on so many levels, and even when I was behaving like a moody cow he stood there, cool and unflappable.

It made me want to slug him. For the simple fact that the best thing to ever happen to me would be walking out of my life and there wasn’t one damn thing I could do about it.

“Not everything’s about you, hotshot.” I hated doing this, my fear of losing him bubbling to the surface at the worst possible time.

“Let’s take this outside.” His fingers dug into my shoulder.

“Just because we’ve slept together a few dozen times doesn’t give you the right to boss me around.”

He recoiled and a part of me broke. I knew what I was doing. Deliberately sabotaging us, giving him an excuse to walk away before I begged him to stay. Or stupidly tossed in my dream job to be with him.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing!”

Where there’d been chatter and laughter and music a second ago, the room quieted into an eerie silence and my back prickled with the daggers of many stares.

Shoving his hand off, I bolted.

Ashamed I’d made a scene at my best friend’s wedding, I didn’t dare make eye contact with anyone, so I stared at the floor as I moved toward the door. I’d almost made it when a phalanx of spangly, bejeweled feet blocked my exit.

A large, bloated pair in lurid gold sandals, the straps biting into swollen flesh.

A slim pair in gaudy sequined wedge flip-flops, passable in a red light district.

A chubby pair squashed into garish red court shoes, which went out with the Ark.

A small pair in dainty, spangled, open-toe espadrilles, gold toe rings adorning each pinkie.

I knew who the musketeers were before I reluctantly raised my eyes: Mama Rama, Diva, Pooh, and Shrew, their appalling taste in footwear the least of my problems.

“How dare you make a scene at my son’s wedding?” Flecks of spit flew from Mama Rama’s mouth as she wobbled with rage and I inched back, eager to put as much distance between her hand and my face as possible. “You’ve brought nothing but disgrace on my family since the moment you set foot in our house. Shame on you.”

“Why don’t we calm—”

“Stay out of this, Mr. Drew.” Mama’s venomous glare swung his way. “This is between the ladies.”

I didn’t see any ladies present.

“Sorry.” I injected subservience into my tone when I wanted to place my thumb on my nose and wiggle my fingers.

Poor Rita. She had to cop what this harridan dished out when she lived in Mumbai for six months every year. Damn, how had my sassy, street-smart friend agreed to that? Sure, Rakesh seemed like a modern guy but he was Indian and Rita had told me when this fiasco started about their mommy’s boy tendencies. Lord help Rita.

“She’s not sorry, Ma. Look at her eyes. Evil.”

I turned my evil eye on Diva, she of the hooker flip-flops, and struggled to keep a straight face. She wasn’t even looking at me when she spoke, her adoring goo-eyes on Drew. Ah… so that’s how it was.

“You shouldn’t have made a scene,” Pooh chimed in, her chastisement losing sting with pastry crumbs from a
samosa
glued around her lipstick-smeared mouth.

“I agree with my sisters and mother.” Shrew’s narrowed eyes swung between her mom and siblings, watching, assessing.

“Leave.” Mama Rama pointed at the door, her black brows drawn together so closely they formed a unibrow. “Now.”

She took a menacing step toward me and I swear I saw her hand clench into a fist. Before I could react Drew edged between us, living up to his dashing hero status and making me feel like a bitch for overreacting a few minutes ago.

Wasn’t his fault I was head over heels and not handling it well.

“Look, I’ve already apologized. Maybe it’s best for the bridal couple if we forget this and enjoy the festivities?” I tried my best suck-up smile.

It didn’t work. Mama Rama’s frown deepened, if anything.

“The mother of the groom must have more important things to worry about than a little altercation between friends.” Drew’s modulated, acquiescent tone would’ve melted a saint. It did little for me, considering he didn’t even stumble over the word ‘friends.’

“Let’s move on, please?” I hated to beg but I did it for Rita. Least I could do after all she’d done for me.

Firing a malevolent glare in my direction, Mama Rama straightened. “Very well. Mr. Drew’s a good friend to Rakesh and for my son’s sake I’ll overlook your behavior. Girls, come.”

She clapped her hands like a queen calling her subjects to heel and the girls followed, Diva casting a final longing look in Drew’s direction, Pooh’s attention already snagged by the buffet, and Shrew shrugging in resignation as she made up the procession’s tail.

“Thanks. Better get back to the party—”

“Not so fast.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me out the door as I frantically searched my brain for some excuse for my behavior back there, one that didn’t involve telling him the truth.

We maneuvered into a small space between the elevators and a huge potted palm, leaving me little room to move. Releasing my hand, he placed his arms on either side of me, boxing me in, blocking my escape. “Start talking.”

“Nice weather we’re having.”

He didn’t smile. “What happened back there? One minute we’re joking around, the next you’re a banshee.”

“Would you believe PMS?”

“No.”

“Worth a shot.” I sagged against the wall, grateful for the support as weariness seeped through me. I was tired of putting on a front, tired of pretending, tired of being the one left holding the bouquet—figuratively.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” I blurted, making it sound like he had an STD.

“Thought that might be it.” He traced my cheek with a fingertip, a slow, tender gesture that almost undid me completely. “This doesn’t have to end.”

My heart leaped before logic slapped it down. I didn’t want to be some guy’s standby anymore. I wanted to be prime and center in his life, wanted a guy like Drew to come home to, to snuggle with, to wake up to every morning.

It’d taken me a while to realize I deserved someone special. Sadly, I was looking straight at him, and he lived on another continent.

Emotionally, ending this relationship sucked. Logically, I had few other options. “I found a job.”

If my slight deviation in topic surprised him he didn’t let on. “That’s great. Doing what?”

“Writing articles for a new travel/foodie magazine.”

“Impressive.” He touched my arm. “Maybe you should do some firsthand research in Mumbai?”

I wished. “Don’t think the mag’s entertainment AMEX extends to overseas jaunts.”

“Too bad.” The warmth in his eyes faded, replaced by caution. A smart guy like him would’ve picked up on my reluctance to joke about this. I couldn’t, not with my heart aching from what I was about to do.

His hand slid up and down my arm, every stroke reinforcing how much I’d miss this contact, how much I’d miss
him
, when he left. “There are ways for us to be together.”

“You want a relationship?” I dared to hope despite the obstacles between us.

Something indefinable flickered in his eyes. Regret? Relief? Damned if I knew.

He nodded. “I’m willing to give it a shot if you are.”

I should’ve run up and down the corridor doing backflips that an amazing guy like Drew wanted to do more than bonk me. Instead, I couldn’t get past the stumbling blocks: the distance, the differences between us, the insecurities I buried deep, the main one being what a guy like him saw in a girl like me.

I might’ve wised up since Tate but I had a way to go before my self-confidence was fully restored. My new job would help, followed by a place of my own. Maybe then I’d feel like I could enter this relationship as semi-equals.

“Long distance sucks.”

He laughed but I saw the tightness around his mouth, the slightly clenched jaw. “You’ve tried it?”

“No, but—”

“I travel a lot. We could spend time together whenever I’m in New York.”

No freaking way.

I’d been at the Toad’s beck and call, waiting for him whenever he had a free afternoon or evening or weekend, taking whatever scraps of time he could give me. I’d sworn I’d never do that again.

Drew was nothing like the Toad but I couldn’t be the part-time girlfriend he wanted. I wouldn’t. I wanted more. I wanted it all.

Commitment, marriage, the works.

But the timing was off.

I’d just landed a fab job, was working toward living in a place of my own rather than a borrowed apartment, and had a vague idea of what I wanted to do with my life. Something a together-guy like him would never understand.

I laid my hand against his cheek, loving the slight rasp of stubble under my palm even though he’d shaved a few hours ago, knowing I’d miss everything about him. “I care about you. A lot. But I’m not ready to jump into a long-distance relationship. I need more than that.”

“Like what?” He reached for me but I held up my hands to ward him off and he flinched at my rejection. “Tell me what you need.”

His deep voice held a hint of desperation and I had a sudden flash of insight of how great it would be to have this guy love me, want me, need me forever.

“I need you to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Me.” I stood on tiptoes and planted a soft, lingering kiss on his mouth, resisting the urge to prolong the sweet contact for as long as possible.